"We're listening," Sheryl said, and glanced at Eileen.
"Fifty for the both of you," Reilly said. "Around the world."
"You talking fifty foreach of us?" Sheryl said.
"I saidboth of you. Twenty-five each."
"No way," Sheryl said at once.
"Okay, make itthirty each. And you throw in a little entertainment."
"What kinda entertainment?" Sheryl asked.
"I wanna see you go down on the redhead here."
Sheryl looked at Eileen appraisingly.
"I hardly know her," she said.
"So? You'll get to know her."
Sheryl thought it over.
"Make it fifty apiece, we'll give you a good show," she said.
"That's too much," he said.
"Then fuck off," Sheryl said. "You're wasting our time here."
"I'll tell you what," Reilly said. "I'll make it forty apiece, how's that?"
"What are you?" Sheryl said. "A Lebanese rug merchant?"
Reilly laughed again.
"Forty-five," he said. "For each of you. And a ten-dollar bonus for whoever brings me off first."
"Count me out," Eileen said.
"What's the matter?" Reilly asked, looking offended. "That's a fair and honest deal."
"It really is, you know," Sheryl said.
"Sheryl can show you a good time all by herself," Eileen said, doing a fast tap dance. "I don't work doubles."
"Then what the fuck were we talking about here?" Reilly asked.
"You were doing all the talking," Eileen said. "I was only listening."
Reilly dismissed her at once.
"You got any other girlfriends in here?" he asked Sheryl.
"How about the frizzied brunette over there?" she said.
Reilly looked over to where the brunette was still in conversation with one of the other Shanahan possibilities.
"That's Gloria," Sheryl said. "I worked with her before."
"Is she a muff-diver?" Reilly said. "Or is she like your friend here?"
"Sheloves pussy," Sheryl said, lying. "You want me to talk to her?"
"Yeah, go talk to her."
"That's forty-five apiece," Sheryl said, cementing the deal, and a ten-buck bonus." She was figuring they'd do a little show, and take turns blowing him, and share the extra ten for fifty each. Which wouldn't be bad for an hour's work. Maybe less than an hour if he'd been at sea as long as he'd said. "A hundred in all, right?"
"A hundred is what I said, ain't it?"
"It's just I have to tell Gloria," Sheryl said, and got up, long leg and thigh flashing in the slit skirt. "Don't go away, honey," she said, and walked over to the other table.
"You're in the wrong business," Reilly said to Eileen.
Maybe I am, Eileen thought.
There were four liquor stores on Culver Avenue between the last one hit on Twentieth, and the eastern edge of the precinct territory on Thirty-Fifth. After that, it was the neighboring precinct's problem, and welcome to it. They drove up Culver to the last store, and then doubled back to the one on Twenty-Third. The digital dashboard clock read 10:32 p.m.
The store was empty except for a man behind the counter who was slitting open a carton of Jack Daniels sour mash. He looked up when the bell over the door sounded, saw a burly bald-headed guy and another big guy with him, and immediately placed his hand on the stock of the shotgun under the counter.
"What'll it be, gents?" he asked.
Hand still on the shotgun stock, finger inside the trigger guard now.
Meyer flashed the potsy.
"Police," he said.
The hand under the counter relaxed.
"Detective Meyer," he said. "Detective Carella. Eighty-Seventh Squad."
"What's the problem?" the man said.
He was in his early fifties, not quite as bald as Meyer, but getting there. Brown eyes, slight build, wearing a gray cotton work jacket with the words ALAN'S WHISKIES stitched in red on the breast pocket.
"Who are we talking to, sir?" Meyer asked.
"I'm Alan Zuckerman."
"Is this your store, sir?"
"It is."
"Mr. Zuckerman," Carella said, "there've been three liquor-store holdups on Culver Avenue tonight. Starting on Ninth and working uptown. If there's a pattern mdash;and there may not be mdash;your store's next in line."
"I'm closing in half an hour," Zuckerman said, and turned to look at the clock on the wall behind the counter.