Free Necropolis by Michael Dempsey Page B

my mind racing.
    Why had there been no leads? The DA never rested in cop murders. It wasn’t a matter of vengeance—it was self-defense. The world had to know that if you killed a cop, you went down. Period. Otherwise, it’d be open season.  
    So what had happened? Where had my boys been? Bart? The Lieutenant? The case had closed way too fast.
    Shot to death in a Korean grocery.  
    I saw it in my mind. Preceding Elise into the bodega, taking in the place in a quick sweep—the too-narrow aisles, the shrink-wrapped boxes of stock behind the counter, the coolers in the rear.  
    Anything suspicious and my radar would’ve gone off. So instead of stumbling in on a robbery in progress like the article said, it was more likely that our killer had come in after we were already inside.
    I pictured Elise hovering by the door as I went to the counter. Saw myself digging in my overcoat for my wallet, perhaps distracted for a second as it got caught in the pocket…  
    … Then the figure smashing into the store, knocking Elise against a display of fruit pies, gun in his gloved hand, coked-up eyes blazing through a ski mask like twin supernovas…  
    … and I’d be turning, too late, already far too late, and then the sharp cracks, the stink of cordite, the shock on her face as crimson roses blossomed on her chest…  
    I stood shaking in my hallway.
    Arlene was right. A little shut-eye. That’s what I needed.  
    It wasn’t to be. A message from Maggie floated in the air above my couch.
    Meet me at Rick’s , it said.

11
    DONNER / MAGGIE
    O n the way, as I passed the alley, I heard: “Make yourself right with God.”  
    The wino was tucked between two trash cans, a pint of Mad Dog against his thigh. “End of the world, and soon,” he said. “God’s Judgment.” He burst into tears. “Boy, am I fucked.”
    I shook my head. The same old end-of-the-world rant the loonies had intoned in my day.  
    The only difference was, now they had evidence.

    ***

    “Rick’s Place” was writ large in blue neon over a door of beveled glass. Garish. I pushed through the doors of the bar and walked into a movie out of the 1940s.
    Onstage, a swing band was cooking. The band leader waved his baton, lost in sonic reverie, his coat tails flapping. Trombones and clarinets wailed with a wild-energetic pulse. The enthusiasm was pure post-Depression jazz.
    Girls with short skirts and long legs circled, selling vice from their trays. The crowd was a cornucopia of white dinner jackets and two-toned shoes, pompadours and bobs, swing skirts and taffeta. The maitre d’, his hair slick with brilliantine, grinned at me beneath a pencil-thin moustache.
    “Welcome to Rick’s,” he said in a French accent. “Monsieur Rick never drinks with the guests, but I could give him a message…” His voice dropped. “If you have the letters of transit…”
    “Huh?”
    The host curled his lip at this obvious Philistine. His accent disappeared. “Shit, pal, haven’t you ever seen Casablanca ?”
    I pushed past him, headed for the bar. Fuck the ambiance.
    I rested my elbows on the bar’s brass piping. The Chesterfield coat on the stool next to me was huddled over his drink in that protective way favored by veteran alkies. Excellent—no conversation. I waggled a finger at the bartender and got ignored, but good. Chesterfield finally roused himself from his morose life review and glanced at me. Did a double take when he saw my hair and eyes. He vacated his seat in a hurry.  
    I smiled at the bartender. “Scotch rocks.”
    The bartender didn’t stop polishing the shot glass. “We don’t serve your type in here.”
    For the greater good, I put amusement in my voice. “Bet you’ve been waiting your whole life to say that.”
    A nicked baseball bat appeared on the counter. “Maybe you want me to repeat it.”
    Before I could stand, a voice came from behind me. “It’s okay, Mick. He’s with me.”
    Maggie slipped onto the empty stool next to me.