2
Goddamn stupid dog!
Richie Cordova sat in Hurley's and wanted to rip the TV off the wall and boot it through the front window.
He'd stashed the nun's body where no one would find her—at least no human—until she began to stink. He hadn't counted on no runaway dog.
He sat at a corner table and stuffed another donut into his mouth. Hurley's put out coffee and donuts and bagels on Sunday morning. Of course the bar was open too in case you wanted a Bloody Mary or something. But Richie had been feeling so good he didn't need no drink. Not anymore.
Shit, he thought as he washed the donut down with black coffee. This complicated things. The Jack guy she'd told him about already had the advantage of knowing what Richie looked like, while Richie didn't know him from Joe Blow. Richie's one advantage had been surprise—Jacko wouldn't have had a clue someone might be looking for him. But now he'd be on guard. That was, if he connected the nun's death to Richie. If he didn't, well, that would be great, but Richie had to assume the worst.
He'd awakened this morning feeling lots better than last night—over the shakes and actually feeling kind of good. Almost like he'd feel after a night of sex. Kind of peaceful inside. At ease. Like he could go for a Sunday morning drive and not get pissed at the other drivers.
But all that was ruined now. The stink of spilled beer cut through the smell of the coffee and Richie lost his appetite. Hurley's wasn't so inviting no more.
Richie paid up and stepped out into the bright morning sunlight. Now what?
He thought about heading for the Upper West Side and finding this Julio's. The nun had said she'd met Jack there twice, both times in the day, and that the guy had been alone at a table near the back wall.
So why not check out Julio's? Hang out on the street and watch the comers and goers, maybe peek through the window and see who's got a table by the back wall.
Richie liked the idea. Sort of preliminary surveillance. Get to know the lay of the land.
He turned and headed toward the subway.