Free JL02 - Night Vision by Paul Levine Page A

now, she was three inches shorter, but no friendlier. She had silently prowled back to the counter from her position as gatekeeper of erotica and her ebony eyes glared at me.
    I gave her a daffy grin. “Just a lonely guy—”
    “Get your jollies somewhere else!” she ordered, pointing toward the door.
    “With a grand-jury subpoena,” I added, pulling a blue-backed paper out of my back pocket and sliding it across the counter. Max stared at it a moment, then picked it up as if afraid to leave prints. Bobbie looked straight at me with those long-lashed eyes, the sanguine complexion a tone redder. “Flatfoot faggot,” she hissed. “ Your preference?” I politely inquired.
     
     
     

CHAPTER 7
     

Ladyfingers
     
    Alejandro Rodriguez sat in the upholstered chair, a Smith & Wesson .38 in one hand, a Glock nine-millimeter in the other. He put down the .38, fondled the Glock, and sniffed at its oily barrel with his squashed policeman’s nose. Then he picked up the .38 and did the same thing. He shifted the gun hand to hand and repeated the ritual with the Glock.
    He wore black oxfords with rubber soles, khaki pants, a blue shirt unbuttoned at the neck, and a polyester blue blazer. A paunch from too much desk riding hung over his belt. Even a nearsighted three-time loser could spot him as a cop.
    Rodriguez hefted both guns, then put down the .38 again. He pushed a magazine into the plastic grip of the Glock and pulled back the spring-loaded slide, smiling at the reassuring click.
    “¡Caramba! Seventeen rounds instead of six. High-velocity steel jackets. Only eight pounds of pull. When the hell’s Metro gonna get us these babies?”
    Nick Fox sat at his polished mahogany desk, head down, eyes scanning a file. “Just what I need. One of your rookies pumping an innocent bystander with seventeen slugs instead of six.”
    I cleared my throat.
    Nick Fox kept reading.
    Five minutes later he put down the file. By then I was impressed with what an important guy he was, just as I was supposed to be. “Hey, Jake, here’s one for you downtown mouthpieces,” he said, winking at Rodriguez. “A man asks a lawyer his fee, and the lawyer says a hundred bucks for three questions. ‘Isn’t that awfully steep?’ the man asks. ‘Sure is,’ the lawyer says, ‘now what’s your final question?’”
    I laughed and stored that away for the next partners’ meeting. Rodriguez pointed the black plastic gun at the wall where a color photo showed Vice-President Quayle shaking Nick Fox’s hand. “Miami’s had the Glock two years already,” the detective whined.
    The county cops hate it when the city boys get something first. Doesn’t matter what. Sharper uniforms, faster cars, or looser women.
    “Glock, schlock,” Fox said. “Stop worrying about your firepower and solve a few crimes.” He swung his chair toward me. “That’s all the cops want these days, technology. Computers and helicopters and automatic weapons. I could get a dozen more prosecutors with what they spend for one armored vehicle.”
    I nodded agreeably, still waiting.
    “Of course, you high-rise lawyers don’t have those worries, eh, Jake?” Fox asked.
    I was used to this. Little darts to remind me I was no longer a player in the criminal-justice game. Two hundred pending criminal cases, a trial every morning, sometimes another in the afternoon. You meet your witnesses five minutes before they testify by shouting their names in the corridor. The pay is lousy, the office drab, but there’s a camaraderie among foxhole buddies slogging through the mud. When you leave and your pals and adversaries stay behind, they stick it to you. Hey, nice suit, life’s okay downtown, huh? Some of them never leave the grimy catacombs because they can’t cut it on the outside. Others, like Nick Fox, could write their own tickets downtown but choose to stay. They feel vaguely superior to those who escape to cushy partnerships in skyscrapers with luncheon clubs and ocean