Free Where It Hurts by Reed Farrel Coleman Page A

little hurt. Al Roussis and I had been friends a long time. It was different than with Pete McCann. Like I said, Pete was always a guy with his own agenda, an ambitious man who wanted anything anyone else had. I’d always known that about him. So although I didn’t understand his warning me off Delcamino, I just figured there had to be something init for him. Brownie points with the brass? Who knows? But that wasn’t Al Roussis, at least it wasn’t who he used to be. Yet there he was, questioning my motives, warning me away from Delcamino.
    I didn’t get it. I mean, Christ, Tommy D. had just had his brains blown out the back of his head and his son was four months in the grave. So why warn me off a murdered man and a case that was as cold as tomorrow’s forecast? I didn’t know the answer and I wasn’t going to work it out, not tonight. Things weren’t what they seemed. They never are. Any cop will tell you that. Any schmuck with eyes in his head can tell you as much. The official story is just that, a story, a convenient narrative in which the facts played only a supporting role. The thing Al Roussis neglected to comprehend was that my getting shot made it personal. Bullets will do that, make it personal. Still, without Tommy Delcamino around to help me out, to tell me what those guys who shot him and me were looking for, I was at a dead end. Literally.
    I’m not sure how long I stayed in the car. I think I must’ve dozed off for a little while. Then there was a rapping at my window and a fresh rush of adrenaline snapped me out of whatever daze I’d settled into. It was Slava, the night doorman, smiling his gapped and gold-toothed smile at me. After getting my heart out of my throat, I rolled down the window.
    “I was worrying for you,” Slava said in his broken English. “I see your car is pulling up here maybe forty minutes and you don’t come.”
    “Thanks for caring.” I pushed my door open. “Slava, what time is it?”
    He lifted his wrist up to his smiling face. “Is eleven ten.”
    I don’t even know why I asked him. The time was flashing right in front of me on the dashboard.
    “Good. I’ll be right in,” I said.
    The smile slid off his face. It was a warm face, but not a handsome one. One like a favorite ugly uncle’s. He had a bulbous red nose that had been broken a few times, a big blunted jaw, and chapped, scarred lips.
    “What is it, Slava?”
    “For you in the lobby is waiting a strange little man.”
    “Strange?”
    Slava waved one of his huge, meaty hands in front of his face. “He has . . . in English, how do you say this . . . ?” Then Slava rubbed his thick right index finger over his top lip. “Funny lip . . . like . . . animal, like rabbit.”
    “Harelip.”
    Slava clapped his hands together. “Yes, but also something else. You will see.”
    “Does he look like trouble?”
    Slava went blank for a moment, trying to make sense of the idiom I had laughed at Felix for using about Tommy D. Then he smiled, shaking his hands. “No, no trouble. Is nervous little man. Scared, I think, not dangerous. No gun.”
    I wanted to ask Slava how he knew that about the gun, then decided against it. We all had our secrets at the Paragon and I didn’t want to intrude on his.
    I thanked him again and stepped out of my car. Slava’s eyes got big at the sight of me. He pointed at my left leg. The dried blood on my jeans shone bright under the parking lot light and the blood on my running shoe was pretty obvious. So was the slit the EMT had cut from the hem up to the top of my calf.
    “Dog bite,” I said.
    He snorted in disbelief, but didn’t push. The clicking of the courtesy van’s diesel engine interrupted our conversation.
    “I must go now, Gus, to help Fredo. He has been picking up big party at airport.”
    “Go ahead, Slava. I’ll be okay.”
    He gave me a long, unsure look, but hustled to meet the van. He moved very athletically for such a barrel-chested and bellied