Manhattan Noir - Lawrence Block [29]
Schaeffer drained the beer. “See you boys then.”
After the detective was gone they watched the game for a few minutes, with T.G. bullying some guys to place bets, even though it was in the fourth quarter and there was no way Chicago could come back. Finally, Ricky said, “I’m going out for a while.”
“What, now I’m your fucking babysitter? You want to go, go.” Though he still made it sound like Ricky was a complete idiot for missing the end of game that only had eight minutes to run.
Just as Ricky got to the door, T.G. called in a loud voice, “Hey, Lime Rickey, my Rolex? Is it gold?”
Just to be a prick.
Bob Schaeffer had walked a beat in his youth. He’d investigated a hundred felonies, he’d run a thousand scams in Manhattan and Brooklyn. All of which meant that he’d learned how to stay alive on the streets.
Now, he sensed a threat.
He was on his way to score some coke from a kid who operated out of a newsstand at Ninth and 55th, and he realized he’d been hearing the same footsteps for the past five or six minutes. A weird scraping. Somebody was tailing him. He paused to light a cigarette in a doorway and checked out the reflection in a storefront window. Sure enough, he saw a man in a cheap gray suit, wearing gloves, about thirty feet behind him. The guy paused for a moment and pretended to look into a store window.
Schaeffer didn’t recognize the guy. He’d made a lot of enemies over the years. The fact he was a cop gave him some protection—it’s risky to gun down even a crooked one—but there were plenty of nuts jobs out there.
Walking on. The owner of the scraping shoes continued his tail. A glance in the rearview mirror of a car parked nearby told him the man was getting closer, but his hands were at his side, not going for a weapon. Schaeffer pulled out his cell phone and pretended to make a call, to give himself an excuse to slow up and not make the guy suspicious. His other hand slipped inside his jacket and touched the grip of his chrome-plated Sig Sauer 9mm automatic pistol.
This time the guy didn’t slow up.
Schaeffer started to draw.
Then: “Detective, could you hang up the phone, please?”
Schaeffer turned, blinked. The pursuer was holding up a gold NYPD shield.
The fuck is this? Schaeffer thought. He relaxed, but not much. Snapped the phone closed and dropped it into his pocket. Let go of his weapon.
“Who’re you?”
The man, eyeing Schaeffer coldly, let him get a look at the ID card next to the shield.
Schaeffer thought: Fuck me. The guy was from the department’s Internal Affairs Division—the boys that tracked down corrupt cops.
Still Schaeffer kept on the offensive. “What’re you doing following me?”
“I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
“What’s this all about?”
“An investigation we’re conducting.”
“Hello,” Schaeffer said sarcastically. “I sort of figured that out. Give me some fucking details.”
“We’re looking into your connection with certain individuals.”
“‘Certain individuals.’ You know, not all cops have to talk like cops.”
No response.
Schaeffer shrugged. “I have ‘connections’ with a lotta people. Maybe you’re thinking of my snitches. I hang with ’em. They feed me good information.”
“Yeah, well, we’re thinking there might be other things they feed you. Some valuable things.” He glanced at Schaeffer’s hip. “I’m going to ask you for your weapon.”
“Fuck that.”
“I’m trying to keep it low key. But you don’t cooperate, I’ll call it in and we’ll take you downtown. Then everything’ll all be public.”
Finally Schaeffer understood. It was a shakedown—only this time he was on the receiving end. And he was getting scammed by Internal Affairs, no less. This was almost fucking funny, IAD on the take too.
Schaeffer gave up his gun.
“Let’s go talk in private.”
How much was this going to cost him? he wondered.
The IAD cop nodded toward the Hudson River. “That way.”
“Talk to me,” Schaeffer said. “I got a right to know