Free Necropolis by Michael Dempsey Page A

those people!
    You’ve never had a DUI? How many should you have had, Paul?
    That stops me. Last year, on Van Dam Street, near the Long Island Expressway, I’d been pulled over for going left of center. I’d sweated blood when the officer had approached my car with a breathalyzer kit. Then I’d flashed my detective’s shield. The patrol officer had slowly nodded and stepped back from the door. But when he waved me on, there’d been disgust all over his face.
    Does it even matter whether she’s right, I think? I can’t lose her. So I say:
    What do you want me to do?
    She comes to me in her satin teddy. She straddles me, settled against my chest, wrapping her legs around my hips. I can feel her heart beating. She’s warm from being under the covers. An alcoholic can’t stop on their own. But you’ve never really tried, right?
    I play it out. Ordering a Coke at Lefty’s. The other guys giving me shit. It’s not like it used to be. A lot of guys, the health nuts, don’t drink— Except who am I kidding? No one might say it to my face, but in this tribe, manhood was still measured by holding your liquor. Can I afford to slip in their estimation?
    But that’s not it, is it?  
    I need it. There are times when the only thing that gets me through the day is the promise of that reward. I’ll stand in a bedroom in the projects, flies buzzing around the black blood, see the dead kid, smell the feces and the gun oil, and close my eyes and remind myself that by midnight I’ll be in Lefty’s and everything can go away. It’s all I have on those days when I feel like a janitor instead of a cop, cleaning up the city’s garbage. Our great citizens, the media, they don’t care. To half of them we’re the enemy. So why should I care?  
    What’s so damned wrong about having a little help, a little—
    Crutch?
    No. That’s not— There’s something else. A quieter voice inside whispers. There’s something, something I don’t want to look at, not ever. Something I can’t look at. Something…  
    I wrench myself back to her. I look into her eyes, see deep grief. I cup her face.
    I’ll try, okay?
    And if you can’t?
    I try to smile. Then I guess we’ll know for sure that I’ve got a problem.
    Paul, I have to tell you. I have to say this out loud.
    I know what’s coming.
    If this doesn’t… I can’t… I can’t…  
    I know. I get it, okay?
    She searches my eyes for strength, for character, to see if I have the resources to do what I said.We’re at a crossroad.
    I know you can do it, she says.
    Hey, I say, How about I get two tickets to that opera everybody’s been raving about? This weekend?
    She almost strangles me with her hug. Can we do dinner, too?
    Sure, babe. Wherever you want. I kiss her soft lips and hold her tighter, thinking how I’d do anything, anything, not to lose her—

    ***

    A hand was shaking me. I opened my eyes. Arlene was gazing down at my prone form. There was a mixture of childish amusement and very grown-up lust on her face.
    “Sleeps like the dead.”
    I groaned and sat up on the cot, abdominals cramping. I shook away the disturbing echoes of the dream.  
    Arlene puffed up her chest. “Wanna see how good I am?”
    “Uh…”
    She stuffed a data pebble under my nose. “NYPD Case File 03-1756. Robbery-slash-double homicide.” I bolted up and grabbed at it. Arlene snatched it back, spun triumphantly on her heels and marched back into the main room. I followed.
    “It’s encrypted. It’ll take a day to turn it to English.”
    “Sure you want to get any deeper into this?” I asked.
    “We came this far, didn’t we?”
    “Arlene, I don’t know how to thank you.”
    She slid in close and gave my thigh a squeeze. “Listen, hero. My place is right around the corner.”
    “Tempting. But I’m a little old for you, sweetie.”
    She gave me a toothy smile and snapped a fresh piece of gum. “Old? Honey, I’m a hundred and three.”

    ***

    I trudged up the steps of my building,