the same seat at the bar, down at the far end and he’s probably alone.”
“Down under the TV?” O’Shea said.
I looked at him.
“I know the layout.”
“I figured,” I said, still watching him. “Just hang at that end and leave the seat open. See if he comes in,” I said.
“You want me to hit him up for some coke or ecstasy or what?”
“Like someone’s going to buy first time from you, O’Shea.”
“Hey, I could have been all right undercover,” he said defensively.
I let that comment sit.
“Just the photo, all right?” I said and took fifty dollars out of my shirt pocket. “Stay till eleven or so and meet me back out here.” He took the cash without a word, got out and walked, unhurried, toward Kim’s.
I refilled my cup from the thermos, took a sip and when I looked over the rim I realized that all during our conversation I had been unconsciously staring out at a patrol car. The guy hadn’t moved for nearly an hour. Nice work if you can get it, I thought. But I had to admit there had been some slow rainy nights on the Charlie shift when I’d huddled in the dry stairwell of the First Pennsylvania Bank entrance to the Broad Street Subway and lost myself in a paperback when I was supposed to be walking a downtown beat. But this guy’s head had never even turned around to scan the rest of the lot. He was awake. I watched him put what now I was sure was a cell phone to his ear several times. But he seemed to only be focused on the side window of Kim’s. For a paranoid minute I thought maybe I’d sent O’Shea into the middle of some kind of sting operation. Then I saw the cop snap his hand away from his ear. His brake lights flashed as he started the engine and he jerked the patrol car out of the space in reverse. His headlights popped on but not the blue light bar and he dropped the transmission into drive and pulled a screeching hole shot out of the lot. He gunned it past Kim’s and a couple coming out of the Thai place had to jump back between two cars to keep from getting hit.
“Christ,” I said out loud to myself. “I hope that B&E is real important, pal.” And I reflexively memorized the number of his car that was stenciled on the left rear corner of the trunk.
I took another sip of coffee and checked my rear mirrors all around. It could be the only excitement of the night.
This time the rap of O’Shea’s knuckles on my truck woke me out of a half-sleep. My eyes may even have been open, but I could not recall what I was looking at other than the pale glow of neon and lamplight out in front of me. I unlocked the door and checked my watch as he got in. Twelve fifteen.
“Sleeping on the job will get you a write-up, Freeman.”
I let the comment pass. O’Shea settled into the seat, letting his body relax and deflate as if he had just done a hard shift down on the docks of the Delaware. He’d dragged in the odor of cigarette smoke and the sweet smell of whiskey came off his breath when he spoke. But his eyes were still clear and he would have convinced a highway patrolman that he was just tired. Some guys just had that capacity.
“Nobody that fits your mark in there tonight,” he said, taking the cell phone out of his pocket. “Few old regulars, a couple I recognized from before. Some kids that I eavesdropped on who were from some alternative newspaper staff and your typical football experts blattin’ on about how they would run the Dolphins’ offense like they were on fuckin’ talk radio. Bartender is new, though.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Marci.”
“Good-looking little blonde. Marci,” he said, looking away from me out into the night.
“But if she’s running drugs, it’s over the phone, ’cause she was on the damn thing every fifteen. Speaking of.”
He held the cell out to me.
“Keep it,” I said. “I want you to go back in tomorrow. Maybe stay till closing. It’s a Saturday night and maybe something will be different.”
He shrugged and pocketed the phone.
“You say so, boss,” he said and sat silent, making no move to get out.
“You want me to drop you someplace?”
“No, I’m good. I’m just wondering, Freeman, if it’s such a great idea for