“I dunno,” says Pellegrini sheepishly. “What happened?”
“You solved the motherfucker.”
“I did?”
“Stop fuckin’ with me,” says Requer, turning back to an audience of CID detectives. “He went out and solved the motherfucker on his own. That’s when I knew Tom was going to work out.”
Pellegrini says nothing, embarrassed.
Requer gives a quick glance over his shoulder and realizes that even with half a drink on, the younger detective isn’t buying any of it.
“No, seriously, Tom, seriously.”
“Seriously?”
“Seriously. Listen to me.”
Pellegrini sips his beer.
“Fuck it, I’m not sayin’ this ’cause you’re here, bunk. I’m sayin’ it for the truth. When you came up, I thought you were gonna be bad, I mean no good at all. But you’ve done a helluva job. Really.”
Pellegrini smiles and hails Nicky for one last one, pushing his empty across the bar and pointing to the shot glass in front of Requer. The other detectives turn to another conversation.
“I wouldn’t say the same thing about Fred,” says Requer quietly enough so that the comment goes no farther than Pellegrini. “I wouldn’t.”
Pellegrini nods, but he is suddenly uncomfortable. He and Fred Ceruti had transferred into Landsman’s squad together, filling vacancies that occurred within weeks of each other. Like Requer, Ceruti is black, but unlike Requer-who had six years’ seasoning in narcotics before the transfer to homicide-Ceruti is fresh from the Eastern District with only four years on the force. He has been pushed up to the sixth floor of headquarters by the captain, who saw him do good plainclothes work at the district level. But to Requer, those credentials aren’t enough.
“I mean I like Fred. I really do,” says Requer. “But he isn’t ready for homicide. We’ve walked him through cases and shown him what needs to be done but it doesn’t get through. He’s not ready yet.”
Pellegrini says nothing, aware that Requer is the veteran investigator in his squad and one of the most tenured black detectives in the homicide unit; he made his way up to CID at a time when black officers were still hearing racial jokes in the district roll call rooms. Pellegrini knows for a guy like that to sit here and punch the Italian kid’s dance card while letting Ceruti pass is not an easy thing.
“I’ll tell you this,” Requer tells the other CID men at the bar. “If someone in my family got killed, if I got killed, I’d want Tom to work it.” A detective’s compliment.
“You really must be drunk,” says Pellegrini.
“No, bunk.”
“Well, Rick,” says Pellegrini, “thank you for that vote of confidence. I might not solve your murder, but I’d definitely make some overtime on it.”
Requer laughs, then calls for Nicky. The bartender pours one last shot, on the house, and the detective sends the Scotch sailing down his throat in one fluid, practiced motion.
The two men leave the bar, walking through the restaurant and out the double doors on the Water Street side. In three months, the Market Bar and Seafood Restaurant will become Dominique’s, a French restaurant of considerable means. The clientele will be dressed better, the food more expensive, the menu a little less comprehensible to the average homicide detective. Nicky will be gone, the price of a drink will climb into the four-dollar range and the departmental crowd that frequents the bar will be told that their patronage no longer suits the restaurant’s image. But for now, the Market Bar is as much BPD territory as Kavanaugh’s or the FOP lodge.
Pellegrini and Requer turn on Frederick Street and saunter down the same stretch of pavement where Bob Bowman made his legendary midnight ride. No homicide detective can pass the spot without smiling at the thought of a drunken Bowman, borrowing a mounted man’s horse long enough to parade back and forth in front of the Market Bar’s plate glass windows, through which a half-dozen other detectives could be seen losing control. On a good day, Bo was five-foot-six. Perched on that stallion, he looked like a cross between Napoleon Bonaparte and Willie Shoemaker.
“You all right to drive?” asks Pellegrini.
“Yeah, bunk, I’m good.”
“You sure?”
“Fuck yes.”
“Okay then.”
“Hey, Tom,” says Requer before crossing to the Hamilton Street lot, “if the case is gonna go, then it’s gonna go. Don’t let it get you down.”
Pellegrini smiles.
“I mean that,” says Requer.
“Okay, Rick.”
“Really.”
Pellegrini smiles again, but with the look of a drowning man no longer willing to fight against the current.
“Really, bunk. You do what you can do and that’s it. If the evidence ain’t there, you know, it ain’t there. You do what you can…”
Requer hits the younger detective’s shoulder with an open hand, then fishes in a pants pocket for his car keys. “You know what I mean, bunk.”
Pellegrini nods, smiles, then nods again. But he keeps his silence.
“Brown, you piece of shit.”
“Sir?”
“I called you a piece of shit.”
Dave Brown looks up from the current issue of Rolling Stone and sighs. Donald Worden is on a tear, and nothing good can come from that.
“Gimme a quarter,” says Worden, palm open.
“Let me understand this,” says Brown. “I’m here at my desk reading a magazine-”
“One of them art school magazines,” Worden interjects.
Brown shakes his head wearily. Although his most recent creations have been limited to renderings of dead stickmen in his crime scene sketches, David John Brown is indeed the product of the Maryland Institute of Art. In Worden’s mind, this fact alone makes suspect his credentials as a homicide detective.
“Reading a magazine of rock ’n’ roll and popular culture,” Brown continues, “interfering with no one, and you walk through the door and address me as fecal matter.”
“Fecal matter. What the hell is that? I didn’t go to college. I’m just a poor dumb white boy from Hampden.”
Brown rolls his eyes.
“Gimme a quarter, bitch.”
This has been going on ever since Dave Brown arrived in homicide. Time and time again, Worden demands 25-cent pieces from younger detectives, then simply pockets the money. No trip to the Macke machines downstairs, no donation to the coffee fund-the money is taken as tribute, plain and simple. Brown digs in his pocket, then tosses a quarter at the older detective.
“What a piece of shit,” Worden repeats, catching the coin. “Why don’t you start handling some calls, Brown?”
“I just handled a murder.”
“Yeah?” says Worden, strutting over to Brown’s desk. “Well, handle this.”
The Big Man leans over Brown’s chair, his crotch even with the younger detective’s mouth. Brown screams in mock hysteria, bringing Terry McLarney into the room.
“Sergeant McLarney, sir,” shouts Brown, with Worden now almost on top of him. “Detective Worden is forcing me to engage in sexual acts prohibited by law. As my immediate supervisor, I appeal to your…”
McLarney smiles, salutes, then turns on his heel. “Carry on, men,” he says, walking back into the main office.
“Get off me, goddammit,” yells Brown, tiring of the joke. “Leave me alone, you polar-bear-looking bitch.”
“Oooooooo,” says Worden, backing off. “Now I know what you really think of me.”
Brown says nothing, trying hard to return to the magazine.
The Big Man won’t let him. “Piece… of…”
Brown glares at the older detective, his right hand making a furtive move toward a shoulder holster burdened by the long barrel.38. “Careful,” says Brown. “I brought the big gun today.”
Worden shakes his head, then walks to the coat rack, looking for his cigars. “What the hell are you doing with that magazine, Brown?” he says, lighting up. “Why aren’t you out there working on Rodney Tripps?”