hour. Tonight was her television night so she was in, they were upstairs, and he could work without letting his mind wander as to what they might be doing. He had a ton of paperwork to do, never mind if he caught any new cases that night. He opened the door to the main area and the stench of the building—a cross between old gym socks and decaying leaves—hit him and ruined his joie de vivre immediately. He walked behind a gray-carpeted partition and toward his desk.
“Hey, Mr. Best Man!”
Crawford looked at him, confused.
“Fred tells me you’re the best man for the big day,” Champy said, pulling at the waistband of his pants. “Nice going. Lots of responsibility with that role. You know, taking care of the bridesmaids and everything.” He wiggled his substantial brows lasciviously.
“Hey, Champy.” He pulled out his desk chair and sat down, clearing a space on his desk for the cup of coffee that he had bought at the deli. “What’s going on?”
Champy, about the same age as Crawford, but red faced and old looking after a lifetime of bad food and excessive drinking, stood up behind his desk. His given name was Arthur Moran, but he had gotten the nickname of “Champy” some years before. As a uniformed rookie, he and his partner had been sent on a call to a Lower East Side gay strip club—“Champy’s”—to break up a fight between a dozen or more drag queens; when everything was sorted out, he ended up with the unfortunate responsibility of escorting one Dusty Rhodes out of the bar in handcuffs. Dusty was a six-foot-seven drag queen with a blond beehive of hair and a thing for cops. As they exited the bar, a photographer for the Daily News snapped their picture, Dusty’s lips plastered to Champy’s baby face. His reputation, and nickname, was solidified on that day. Forevermore, he was “Champy”—a name he wore a little too proudly. He smoothed down his blue and yellow tie, about three inches shorter than it should have been, given his height. “We’re catching together today.”
Crawford looked around and saw that they were the only two detectives in the squad and groaned internally; Fred never worked nights and that meant a new partner for the shift. He was hoping that at least one other detective was in the rotation but Champy was alone in the squad room. A day with Champy was not on his list of “things I really love,” but more akin to a colonoscopy, an IRS audit, or having his fingernails ripped off one by one. Although he was one of the best detectives in the squad when it came to clearing cases—perps usually gave it up as quickly as possible in order to get away from him as quickly as possible—his style was different from Crawford’s. Whereas Crawford liked to follow the rules as closely as he could (within reason), Champy worked a fringe detail where nothing really mattered besides solving the case. Civil liberties? Never heard of them. Innocent? Champy would make you believe you were guilty if it meant getting out of work earlier. And he never met a perp he didn’t like for a crime. Crawford steeled himself for a very long day.
“Don’t look so happy, Bobby,” Champy said, a bit dejected as he sat back down at his desk.
Crawford felt instantly guilty. “I’m thrilled, Champy. You and I don’t get to spend enough quality time together.” He went through the stack of folders on his desk. “Anything happening?”
“Not too much. Casey and Mariano are working the double from Kingsbridge.”
Two people had been killed in an apartment in the Kingsbridge section of the Bronx the week before and Casey and Mariano were still working the canvass of the neighborhood and following a couple of leads. The original theory was that it was drug-related, but they weren’t sure. “Anything from Alex?” Crawford asked.
Champy shook his head, annoyed. “That guy is less of an informant than a fucking pain in the ass. I told him to keep his ear to the ground, gave him another twenty, but he hasn’t given me shit.”
If it had to do with drugs, Alex would know. Crawford had had more meals with Alex than he cared to admit, but every once in a while, he got something valuable. “Maybe he’ll come through.”
Champy snorted. “Yeah, and maybe my wife will give me a blow job.”
Crawford looked up from the file he was reading.
“In other words, my friend, it’ll never