We went to the bar across the street. The joint was crawling with reporters, technicians, hangers-on, scandalmongers. We found a relatively quiet spot in the back.
That’s one fucked-up kid, I said.
Sure, said Dorita. And you’d be Mother Teresa on Valium in his situation.
Hey, I’m not judging. He’s got a lot to deal with. But all the same. What’s with this self-mutilation thing?
We all have our means of coping.
I guess.
Just because his is visible.
I suppose you’re right.
Lung and liver lesions.
Not visible.
More deadly.
Can’t argue.
Don’t try.
Won’t.
Okay, what now?
I don’t have a clue.
Give up?
Right. Like you have that bone in your body.
I need two, she said. One for me and one for you.
Don’t worry about me. I got a bone.
I’m not touching that one. Let’s get back to the question.
Let’s get hold of Butch. There was stuff he wasn’t telling us.
Can you get him out of there?
I’ll try.
I paged Butch. I didn’t expect an immediate response. I didn’t get one.
We felt helpless. We ordered another round.
Dorita asked about Steiglitz.
Later, I said.
She insisted.
I gave her the short version.
She wanted more.
Later, I said.
I changed the subject. I talked about basketball. Could the Knicks pick it up? Not just make the playoffs, but go far? Go all the way? That was a bit much to ask. But please, could we have a team that was fun to watch?
My cell phone rang.
Butch? I said.
Yo.
Can you get away?
Give me half an hour.
White Stallion?
I’ll be there.
We’re buying.
You’re all heart.
Dorita put her hand on my knee. I felt electric pulses up my thigh. In spite of all the ruckus, my libido still was operational. Thank the Lord for small mercies.
We made our way to the White Stallion. Butch had beaten us there. He was drinking a beer at the bar. He looked exhausted.
Man, I said, you look exhausted.
What you see is what you get, he said.
Sorry, man. I don’t want to add to your troubles.
Nothing next to yours, he said with his big smile.
Hey. Don’t worry about that. I’m coping.
He looked at Dorita.
I see, he said.
Nice to see you too, Dorita said.
I changed the subject fast.
So Butch. Can you fill us in? What the hell is going on over there?
Chaos. Chaos is going on over there. Nobody’s in charge. FitzGibbon was a big fucking cheese.
I think we knew that.
And now everybody’s pointing fingers. Why didn’t they follow up the Jules thing properly.
They’re making a connection?
They don’t know if there’s a connection. They don’t know anything. Problem is, everybody figured Jules was a lock for this Larry Silver thing. No point in wasting resources on it. But now they don’t know. They’re afraid somebody’s going to find something they missed. The press is all over it like blackflies in North Bay.
North Bay? You been up there?
Nah. Just sounded good.
Good call. Okay. They have anything to make them think there’s a connection?
How should I know?
I thought you were plugged in.
Plugged in to what? The circuits are all shorted out, Rick. The breakers are blown. It’s dark in there.
Jesus, Butch, I never knew you were such a mean man with a metaphor.
I have my moments.
Listen, Butch, I said. Are the twins being held?
Not that I know of. Questioned.
Are they suspects?
Don’t know. Really, I don’t. Like I said, it’s chaos in there.
Can you get us in to see them?
That’s a tall order. That’s a very tall order.
That wasn’t the question.
You’re right. Okay. I’ll see what I can do.
Much obliged, I said, raising my glass.
Hey. I owe you.
I still didn’t know what for.
Butch called minutes later. By the time he’d got back to the station house higher powers had intervened. Shut the place down like the Baghdad Green Zone. We were going to have to wait til the twins got out of there. Try to find a way to get them to talk to us.
I knew enough to leave that part to Dorita.