I?â Youngblood winced, holding his scalp. âAnd why would I deliberately kill my best earner?â
âLetâs see, that was around twenty years ago,â Sergeant Bernie replied, âLily wouldâve been near forty now. Sheâd probably have two kids and a husband somewhere in Elmhurst.â
âIâm not the only one here who wasted someone,â Youngblood answered, loud enough for the few bystanders to hear.
Crazed, Sergeant Farrell pulled the guy backwards over his knee, knocking him to the ground again, then he bent his knee on the guyâs chest. He leaned slowly on Youngbloodâs turkey gobbler with his other knee. A crowd started forming.
âLily told me she wanted a little boy and girl, so thatâs two other people you killed.â He smacked the old guy in the face. At that point I heard someone in the crowd mutter, âpolice brutality.â
âCome on Bernie, weâve got an audience,â I nudged.
âTake a fucking look at a killer,â Bernie yelled to me, but really to the surrounding crowd. âhe used to beat up on innocent white girls for a living.â
âThe AIDS wouldâve killed her by now anyway.â Old Youngblood mumbled, squeezing out from under him and struggling to his feet. âIt got them all in the end.â
Bernie made a pained expression, then smacked the former pimp upside his skull, knocking a small flesh-colored wedge out of the old manâs head.
âI know what you did in Bushwick,â the ex-con squealed. âYou wasted Tyrone saying it was a holdup, but we both know he never woulda drawn on you!â
When a pair of Port Authority cops came out of the bus station, I showed them my badge and explained that a drunk and disorderly situation had turned into resisting arrest. Bernie backed off, and the ex-con spat bloody saliva on the icy sidewalk. With the PA cops and the crowd watching, we couldnât just let the guy walk, so I pushed Youngblood against a wall and read him his rights.
As I cuffed him, I saw Bernie pick up the thing that had fallen out of Youngbloodâs head.
âGive it here,â I said, before he could stomp on it. He tossed me a waxy hearing aid.
Somehow I sensed that I was now doing his old partnerâs jobâreining Bernie in. After a minute, when most of the people had dispersed, I uncuffed Youngblood and handed him the hearing aid. The former pimp grabbed the one shopping bag that wasnât ripped apart and scooped up a handful of the bagged socks. Several packages had disappeared into the black slush in the gutter. Then he hurried off down the block.
âIsnât this the kind of shit that got you assigned to desk duty in the first place?â I said to Bernie.
Silently he led us back to the car. As we were heading downtown, his cell phone rang and he answered it, even though he was driving. From the awkwardness of his tone, I figured he was talking with his estranged wife. In a clear, somber tone, he started talking about his failures as a husband. I quickly pulled out my cell and called my brother.
Seeing my name on his display, without even letting me say hello, Carl began: âI know that sometimes I get a little manic, and youâre always the first to warn me, but this time itâs you. You went from one extreme to the other with this scorpion guy.â
âStop calling him that, asshole!â I shouted. Bernie looked over and abruptly ended his conversation.
âAll right, Iâm sorry,â my brother replied. âI just worry about you. Are you still in that weird cult?â
When Iâd told Carl about Kundalini and its alleged psychic properties, he insisted that it was dangerous and said I should stop attending immediately.
âItâs just yoga,â I said, and told him I had to go.
âAnnie discovered our Jane Doe is one Nelly Linquist,â Bernie said. Apparently it wasnât his wife but his fellow