Free Fanatics by Richard Hilary Weber

who realized it was fatal to offend your superiors, refuse an order, miss a chance to wipe a bottom higher up, and who never really learned it could be just as disastrous to step on underlings, like police detectives who might one day discover an opportunity to pay you back for your thoughtless favors.
    Cecil King raised his hands an inch or two and let them fall flat down on the table again. “Well, Jimmy, we don’t have to tell you how genuinely pleased we are that you’re taking over right from the get-go. You’re the luckiest man I know. We got that high-profile murder and it’ll need everything a DA can give. The victim was such a giant in the world of culture. Your world, not mine. So we’re delighted you’re our main man now. Me, I’m history.”
    Cecil glanced at Flo and Frank, neither of whom appeared in the least bit delighted at this prospect.
    The new DA looked quizzical. “A high-profile murder…”
    “High as it gets,” Cecil said. “In Brooklyn anyway. Welcome home, Jimmy.”
    “You mean Ballz Busta?” said Jimmy Padino.
    “A.k.a. Owen Smith,” said Cecil.
    “The rap guy.”
    “Mister Music himself. Our modern Mozart, our own Brooklyn Beethoven is your first celebrity murder victim. I envy you, Jimmy, it’ll be a hell of a scalp on your belt when you convict his killer. You’ll be famous coast to coast. From now on, everybody but everybody will be watching Jimmy Padino. Real close. Sure as God made little green apples, they’ll make an HBO movie about you…after you nail the perp. But first there’s a district attorney’s press conference scheduled bright and early tomorrow morning. I was going to do it, but now it’s all yours, my friend.”
    Jimmy Padino lost his smirk. “Who’ll brief me?”
    “The officers in charge.” Cecil nodded at both homicide detectives.
    They in turn eyed the new district attorney with stone-cold stares.
    “They’re keeping me alive,” Cecil said.
    An assignment for which Flo viewed the new DA in pretty much the same light as she did his patron, the mayor, as more obstacle than ally. Padino belonged in that dark closet full of people to be avoided whenever possible.
    6:01 P.M.
    The private dining room at the Montauk Club, a late-nineteenth-century members-only establishment, looked out over a panoramic vista of the Soldiers’ and Sailors’ Memorial Arch in Grand Army Plaza, the crowning glory of the northwest corner of Prospect Park, towering in the middle of a circle of steady traffic converging from three avenues.
    But Senator-elect Cecil King, a club member, and his supper guests, Flo Ott and Frank Murphy, couldn’t enjoy the view or hear the traffic, seated as they were—by their own choice—in the corner farthest away from the windows.
    A safe spot in its prime location, the Montauk Club was a ten-minute walk from Cecil’s family apartment on Eastern Parkway.
    Twenty minutes from Flo’s house.
    Twenty-two minutes from Ballz Busta’s cobblestone courtyard murder scene.
    And a short stroll from the Smith family mansion on Montgomery Place.
    “My jogging days are over,” Cecil said. “At least for a while. My dog’s not happy about this. But my kids think it’s cool having a cop at the door. Even if our neighbors are less than enthusiastic. As soon as we move to Washington, they’ll all be throwing a big party in our building. You can join them.”
    He smiled at his guests and tucked into his crab Louis salad.
    Flo was having the house Cobb salad and Frank went for the pumpkin-and-ricotta ravioli. “These are terrific” was gourmand Frank’s judgment. “Almost as good as Ann-Marie’s homemade.”
    “Then they’re wonderful,” Flo said. “You’ve got to try his wife’s cooking, Senator, it’s Brooklyn’s best.”
    “That’s saying something. I’d love to try, if I get the invite. But I promise at least one thing’s sure, no restaurants between now and New Year’s. Which has an upside, if I lose weight.” He patted a