Free The Informant by Marc Olden Page A

ass.
    Lydia continued. “My cousin’s the one who took me to the Palace, you know, where I see Kelly? He say a lot of money is changing hands for this deal. Gotta be millions. He say the money has to be up front and everybody has to pay.”
    Neil said, “He say who’s collecting?”
    Lydia nodded. “A priest. He say some priest is collecting the money.”
    “A priest?” Katey frowned, snorting. “Jesus, I’ve heard of putting something in the collection plate, but a few million? You sure about that? A priest?”
    “That’s what my cousin said. He said a priest is collecting. No name, but maybe I find out.”
    Neil said, “Appreciate it if you could, Lydia. That would help us a whole lot. Maybe it’s a nickname, some kind of alias.”
    Lydia said, “What if it’s a real priest?”
    Neil raised both eyebrows, nodding. “Never can tell. Okay, it’s late, and you’ve got to get home to Olga. Katey, grab a cab, will you?”
    Lydia sat in the back seat of the waiting cab, door open. “Uh, tonight. Does this mean I have to—” she dropped her voice, lifting her shoulders, pleading with her eyes—“ go into court ?”
    Neil looked at Katey. “I think we can keep you out. We made contact, we got us some more names. We might hit Bad Red again, but we can work it to keep you out, right?” Neil looked at Katey.
    “Yeah, sure.” Katey wanted a drink, wanted someplace warm, away from cold weather. He hated cold weather.
    He said, “Something else I’d sure like to keep quiet.” He looked at Neil, at Lydia.
    She said, “I understand.” A man had his pride, and a cop was even worse. If that story about Katey and the drag queen ever got out, if anybody ever heard about him and Charisse …
    The two men stood watching the taxi’s red taillights move away, seeing the cab roll off Sixth Avenue and into the darkness of Central Park.
    “She’s working, rolling over just fine.” Neil blew into his cupped hands, pleased with himself, with Lydia, with the buy. “So far, no turkey. We ain’t copped nothing bad yet.”
    Katey turned, started walking down Sixth Avenue toward Radio City. Could have been worse. He could have gone off with Charisse, and God knows what would come out of that. He shivered, and not just from the cold. You think you’ve been around, you think you know what’s going down, and then something like this happens and you’re back to feeling like a candy-ass rookie tripping over his nightstick.
    Katey needed some booze. He needed to be with somebody normal. A woman. Margaret. But it was late, past one in the morning, and Margaret was probably sleeping.
    Neil said, “I’m serious about keeping Lydia out of this one. You might have to talk to your people, okay? Explain that she—”
    “No sweat. She did me one tonight. Give her that much.” Katey wiped his dripping nose with the back of his hand. Goddamn cold weather. Shrivels your balls to the size of cornflakes and your cock down to a jelly bean.
    He stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, looked at Neil a long time before speaking. “Tits. Charisse had tits. Imagine that.”
    “Hormone shots, probably. I seem to recall he … she wasn’t wearing a bra.”
    “Yeah, well, it’s some kind of world when you can’t believe in tits anymore.” He shuddered. “Jesus, I really do need a drink. Let’s find someplace before I fucking go bananas.”
    “I won’t sleep with you, you know.” Margaret Soames, in a blue-and-white floor-length nightgown, sat on the faded yellow couch hugging herself. “Not when you come here like this.” It was almost three o’clock in the morning, and Katey, drunk and grinning, sat across from her in a dark wooden chair her grandfather had hand-carved in Ireland.
    “Had to come. Had. To. Come.” Katey was sleepy, dizzy, and maybe not as horny as he had been hour ago. He giggled. “Joke. Heard a joke—”
    “Edward, please. ” Margaret Soames wanted him to leave, not to bother her anymore tonight. She