I lay it out in brief strokes. The abduction, the porn studio, my Aunt Evelyn. It’s a good story, so Ronnie listens attentively. She may be a little out there but Ronnie is 100 percent police. She said to me once:
I’m a straight cop, Dan. If you cut me, guess what happens?
Don’t tell me, you bleed blue.
No. I bleed red, you moron, but I will read you your Mirandas before I beat the crap outta you for assaulting an officer.
When I’m finished talking, Ronnie lets it percolate for a minute, getting her questions straight.
“You ain’t bullshitting me?”
“Nope. Straight up.”
“’Cause if you’re bullshitting me. . .”
“I am not bullshitting you. Do I look like a bullshitter?”
“You smell like one.”
“It’s that fecking Hudson. I probably got hepatitis.”
Ronelle lines up the condiments.
“Okay. This woman Costello hires Fortz and Krieger to take you out of the picture?”
“Yeah. I reckon the torture porn was their own little wrinkle in the plan.”
Ronnie knocks over the salt and pepper. “Those guys have been making skin crawl ever since they left the City precinct under a cloud. They’re in the wind now, last seen hobbling away from the scene of an accident out by the Silvercup.”
I am disappointed by this as I had been wishing on a star that Krieger and Fortz had been found dead in their cruiser, having crapped themselves, with their dicks out, wearing mankinis.
Ronnie stands the ketchup and the hot sauce up on the napkin holder. “So your aunt is stuck in the penthouse with the evil stepmom?”
“Is my aunt the ketchup?”
Ronelle scowls. “No. Your aunt is the fucking sauce. What, are you retarded?”
“Sorry. Mayo, right. Yep, that’s about it. My aunt and Edit are up in the napkin holder’s penthouse.”
“You making fun of my diorama?”
“What? God no. It’s very effective.”
“Because this is legitimate policing technique-ing. And if it ain’t swish enough for Mr. Pink Thong, maybe you should find yourself another blue buddy.”
I know Ronelle is playing me but she’s holding all the condiments.
“No. I like the diorama. It crystallizes everything.”
Ronnie is placated by the effort I have put into my verb. “Crystallizes, huh? You really are desperate.”
“Come on, Ronnie, all I need for you to do is badge me into that penthouse. Then Ev can walk out of there of her own free will.”
Ronelle peels the paper from a sugar lump.
“Is that me?” I ask her. “The lump?”
“It’s not all about you, Dan,” she says, and pops the lump into her mouth. On most days, when Ronnie does some tiny unexpected thing like this, it reminds me how singular she is, how striking. This morning I just feel helpless and outplayed.
“The problem is that you’re wanted for questioning,” she says. “I should be escorting you downtown right now.”
I like how this statement is going. Plenty of scope for a but, so I prompt.
“But?”
“But I know how you are about protecting women, in your big-dog, alpha-bullshit, dick-swinging way.”
“So?”
“So if this aunt of yours were to turn up dead, you might cross out one of the Fs in our matching BFF tattoos.”
“Maybe a B too,” I say, playing along.
“So, we’re gonna drive down there ’cause I have probable cause from a reliable source. Kidnapping or some bullshit. Is that enough for you?”
“Plenty, Ronelle. You’re saving a life.”
Ronelle plants her elbows on the table, which in itself is enough to scare off the waitress who was coming over with refills.
“But if you’re setting me up, Dan, then I’m gonna look a little deeper into all the criminal shit that happened in your vicinity last year.”
I am prepared to take any deal at this point. “Okay, Ronnie. I’ll sign whatever confession you want.”
“And you promise me now: no throwing punches, none of your black-ops, wet-work bullshit.”
I am squirming to be off. “No bullshit of any kind.”
“You better believe it, Dan,” says Ronelle, tossing a twenty on the table, even though she didn’t have anything. “I just got the lieutenant’s desk and I want to hang on to it for a while.”
My phone burbles rather than tweets after its time in the river. I can’t help checking it.
Stop waiting for that white knight to come rescue you. You are your own white knight.
I cover the phone with my hand.
Ronelle squints suspiciously. “Got something interesting there, cowboy?”
“Nope,” I say, sliding out of the booth. “Not interesting and not helpful.”
Ronnie slides out her side and suddenly we’re standing very close to each other and I don’t know whether I’m supposed to back away or not. Ronnie steps even closer and puts the flat of her hand on my back. Her eyes are two chocolate drops and her lips when she smiles could belong to a nice person. She’s smiling now.
“Ronnie,” I say, but that’s as far as I get because I don’t know what to say next and also her hand is sliding lower under the band of my jeans.
This is all very public and I don’t really have the time, but I can
’t help thinking back to the night we had together, which was pretty wild.
Something must show on my face, because Ronnie laughs.
“Don’t flatter yourself, McEvoy, I’m just checking something.”
She slips two fingers under the thong strap and snaps it good.
“Still wearing it, huh?”
I nod, hoping that none of the diner’s half dozen early birds are watching this little show.
“It’s been a busy day and I don’t carry spares.”
“That could be a problem,” says Ronnie, wiping the river mud from her hand with a napkin. “You’re never gonna get into the Broadway Park looking like a decrepit old bum.”
There was absolutely no need for old in that sentence.
We swing by a twenty-four-hour Kmart on Broadway to pick up some clothes for me that don’t smell of river sewage. With a little persuasion from Ronelle’s badge, the manager relinquishes the employees’ bathroom key and I spend a few minutes scooping crud out of my cavities and staring at myself in a mirror that seems to have some kind of fungus growing between the glass and aluminium. I look pretty shook up, like the zombie version of myself, and this impression is reinforced by the sound of Michael Jackson’s “Thriller” playing over the store speakers, or maybe that’s what put the idea in my head in the first place. I stand still to listen to the Vincent Price section, which I have always liked, and realize that there is no song playing over the speakers—in fact there are no speakers.
I need to pull myself together pronto.
I stuff most of my wet clothes in the trash apart from the boots and jacket, which I bag.
Outside the restroom there’s an old Asian guy holding a cup so I toss in a five figuring I’ll take whatever karma can be bought and the guy says:
“Screw you, cue ball. I’m waiting to use the facilities.”
Shite. I can’t put a foot right these days.
“Sorry, man. I assumed you were looking for a buck.”
“’Cause I’m Korean, right?”
I am too weary for this and I’m afraid to stand up for myself in case I spark off another conflict.