“People just read the paper while they drink their morning coffee,” he told her, “then throw it away. Or wrap the garbage in it. Or use it to line the cat box. Then, hi-ho, off to work or aerobics class or luncheon at the club.”
“What else could you do?”
“I’ve never been able to think of anything. And this police beat can’t last forever.”
She got up off the couch and turned on the light. She took off the garters as he watched and handed them to him. Then she began putting on her clothes.
“Get dressed and run me home. I have to get a little sleep, then be down here scrubbed and cheerful to open this place at nine. That’s when the little old ladies like to come in to see if we have any new ‘spicy’ books.”
“ ‘Spicy’?”
“Bodice rippers. Soft-core porn. That’s what pays the rent around here.”
“You’re kidding.”
“I wish I were. I sold three Amy Tans last year and just one Fay Weldon. It’s enough to make you cry.”
“Maybe you need a better location.”
“What I need is to write a sizzling world-class fuck book, one so hot it’ll melt an old maid’s panties.” She eyed him as she buttoned her blouse. “That’s what I’m scribbling on. You want to see it?”
“Sure.”
Tish opened the desk drawer and pulled it out. She had about a hundred pages of manuscript that she had whacked out on the old typewriter on the corner of the desk. He flipped through the pages, scanning.
“The rule is no four-letter words. His cock is always his love member.”
“Looks fine to me,” Yocke said, and handed it back. He bent down to retrieve his trousers.
When he straightened up she was reading carefully. After a moment she tossed the pile of paper back in the drawer. “It’s shit, I know, but that’s what sells. And goddamn, if shit sells, that’s what I’m going to write.”
Twenty minutes later, in front of her apartment building, she said, “Don’t get out. I can make it to the door.”
He bussed her on the cheek.
“Are you going to call me again, or was this just a one-night stand?”
“I’ll call you.”
“Promise?”
“Yeah.”
After he drove away he felt grubby. Oh well, what’s one more lie in a world full of them.
Harrison Ronald — Sammy Z — got off work at five a.m. One of his colleagues dropped him at the apartment house he called home. He went upstairs and made a pot of coffee. Then, at the kitchen table, he tackled the crossword puzzle in the early edition of the Post.
After Tony Anselmo left Freeman, Sammy Z and one of the other lieutenants were sent to a crack lab in a sleazy motel on New York Avenue. There they picked up a bundle, watched the chemists at work, and flirted with a saucy nineteen-year-old with strawberry-sized nipples — and an aversion to brassieres — while they waited for their escort car to arrive. When it did and the three gunmen it contained had leered over the upthrust nipples, the group set out to deliver the crack to street rings at two locations. There the distributors had turned over the night’s receipts, about sixty grand by the looks of it. And Freeman was currently selling at eleven locations in the metro area!
Sammy Z drove the money to Freeman’s brother in a little house he was using for three or four nights. The elder McNally was the treasurer and accountant and payroll man. His office changed regularly and randomly. Freeman always knew, and he gave Sammy the location as he walked out the door.
Delivering dope or money was tricky. The lieutenant rode in the backseat of the car with the Uzi loaded and ready on his lap. The guard car behind always contained two or three men also armed with Uzis and pistols. The lead driver kept the two-car motorcade well within the speed limit, obeyed all the traffic laws, and never sped up to make it through a yellow light. The routes were agreed on in advance and snaked through the city without pattern. The same vehicle was never used two nights in a row.
The whole operation reminded Harrison Ronald of those old black-and-white Untouchables TV shows, with Al Capone and Frank Nitty delivering beer in Chicago and all the hoods packing Thompson submachine guns. Big guns and big bucks. White hoods and white cops — well, maybe things are a little different today.
The sky was graying nicely through the dirty kitchen window when Harrison Ronald finished the crossword puzzle and his third cup of coffee simultaneously. He turned off the coffeepot, got a conservative cloth coat out of the closet, and locked the door behind him.
Right now he was driving a fifteen-year-old, rusted-out Chrysler that belonged to Freeman McNally. It had once been royal blue. Now it was just dirty and dark. The seats were trashed. Damage to the left front fender and hood had been repaired with a sledgehammer by an ignorant enthusiast. The windshield was chipped and cracked. The only feature that might capture the eye of a careful observer was the new Michelin radials, mounted backward to hide the manufacturer’s name on the sidewalls. All in all, the car looked like a typical D.C. heap.
As an observer might suspect, the Chrysler was difficult to start — damn near impossible on cold mornings. This particular December morning Harrison Ronald ground and ground with the starter while he played with the manual choke.
Eventually the engine fired. It strangled when he pushed the choke off too soon. With a sigh he engaged the starter again. Finally, with coaxing, the engine rumbled to life and gave signs of sustained combustion.
Still, she idled rough and spewed a gray haze that was visible in the rear-view mirror. That, however, was because the original six-cylinder mill had been replaced with a huge old V-8 hemi that had been breathed upon by someone who knew exactly what he was about. Under the crinkled hood was a work of art, complete with racing cams, valves, and pistons, hogged-out valve ports, a high-capacity fuel pump, and a four-barrel carb. To handle the extra power the go-fast man had added a four-speed transmission and beefed up the suspension and brakes. This car could lay rubber for two hundred feet.
When the engine had warmed and the idle smoothed somewhat, Harrison Ronald slipped the clutch to get out of the parking place.
He couldn’t resist: he goosed it once on the street and the tires howled and smoked. With a little paint and bodywork, he told himself, this would be a nice car.
He checked his rearview mirrors constantly and darted through lights as they turned red. Finally satisfied that no one was following, he headed for the beltway. Rush-hour traffic was still flowing into the city, so the trip outbound was unimpeded. Once on the beltway, he followed the signs for I-95 south, toward Richmond.
The morning was gray and windy. The rain of a few days ago had soaked into the thirsty earth and settled the dust. Still, as dry as the fall had been, the earth needed more.
He exited the interstate at Fredericksburg. Five minutes later he drove past the office of a motel and went around to the back side, which faced a hill, and parked.
Harrison Ronald stood in the nearly empty lot and stretched. He should have been in bed two hours ago. Get a good job, his grandmother had said, something regular, with a future.
He knocked on the door of room 212.
“Just a minute.”
The door opened. “Come on in.”
The white man was tall and lean, with a prominent Adam’s apple and a nose to match. He grinned and shook Ford’s hand. His name was Thomas F. Hooper. Special Agent Hooper was in charge of the FBI’s drug enforcement division. Hooper had recruited Ford from the Evansville police department. A little temporary undercover work, he said, that will do wonders for your police career. Both lies, he now cheerfully acknowledged.