THREE MORE dead days later, they took me down. Right off the street. The Prof spotted them first.
"Rollers on the right," the little man said under his breath.
"Probably behind us too. Call Davidson," I said. I tossed my cigarette into the gutter, slipped my right hand into my coat pocket to make them think I might not go along nicely, and slid away to draw them from the Prof. I quick-stepped it along Forty-fifth Street, heading west toward the river. Feeling the heat. Unmarked cop car running parallel to me in the street. Spotted a gay-porn movie house. Heard car doors slam as I slid my money through the slot for a ticket. They wouldn't want to follow me inside. Two slabs of beef shouldered in on each side, pinning my arms, pulling my hands behind me. Cuffs snapped home. They spun me around. A cop I hadn't seen before sang their song.
"You're under arrest. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in…"
They patted me down before they shoved me into the blue-and-white that pulled to the curb.
Nobody said a word on the ride downtown.
They left me alone in a holding cell for an hour or so. I didn't ask to make a phone call. I did that once, when I was a kid. Just to be doing it- I had nobody to call. Now I knew better. On both counts.
They brought me into the interrogation room. Two detectives I never saw before shouldered in behind me. Street cops. Wash-and-wear suits, bad haircuts, sidewalk shoes. They looked alike. Same size, same weight. Same eyes.
"You want a smoke?" the first one asked.
"How much are they?"
The second one grunted. "On the house," the first guy said.
I nodded. He tossed a pack on the table, pushed a dull metal Zippo across to me. I rolled my thumb carefully across the surface of the lighter, held it up to the light, slid it back to him. The second guy laughed. Threw a book of paper matches at me. I lit a cigarette.
"You want to make a statement?"
"About what?"
"You're busted. Homicide."
I blew smoke at the ceiling.
A knock at the door. The second guy opened it. The new guy was flashier. Younger. Nice suit, silk tie, dimple under the knot. Spent money on his haircut. Mirror shine on his black loafers. Even had tassels on them. The B Team. He took the seat across from me. The street-sweepers stood in the background.
"I'm Detective Lieutenant Swanson. And you're…"
"Under arrest."
One of the street cops snorted. The lieutenant gave me a hard look. "I thought you had more sense than that. What's it gonna get you, pal? You know the score. You don't give up your prints, we can hold you forever. You stand for the prints, your rap sheet falls on you and the judge is gonna remand your ass. You're looking at a few months on Rikers Island even if you beat this."
"I already gave you my prints."
One of the rollers laughed. The lieutenant looked unhappy. "Don't play games, okay? You know how it works. We got some homicides, we got a building blown all to hell in Times Square. We got feds taking fucking bows with their big score. We want ours, okay?"
"What's yours?"
"You tell me, pal. It could be you. It don't have to be. Understand? You got something to trade?"
I ground out my cigarette.
The lieutenant looked at his watch. Two gold bracelets on his wrist. "Last chance," he said.
I lit another smoke.
"Don't you even want to know who you killed?"
I blew smoke in his face.
He pushed his chair back. "Book him," he snapped to the two street cops, walking out the door.
This time all three of us laughed.