Free West 47th by Gerald A Browne Page B

eager to have the incriminating swag out of his possession, would curse the inscriptions under his breath and take the buyer’s offer.
    So it would go.
    Mitch looked up.
    There stood Detective Hurley, a Styrofoam cup of coffee in each hand.
    â€œThought about calling but decided to come on up,” he said, placing one of the coffees on a free spot of Mitch’s desk. The pressure of his grip caused a puff of steam to come from the hole in the cup’s lid. “You ought to keep your door locked,” he advised.
    â€œThought it was.”
    â€œIt wasn’t,” Hurley said. “What you working on?”
    â€œRobbery over in Jersey, out of your jurisdiction.”
    â€œI got a call to help out on one over in Jersey.” Hurley held his cup away from him as he snapped off its lid, so any spill would go on the carpet rather than him. He was wearing a tan summer suit fresh from the cleaners, a cotton and mostly polyester kind of suit. The jacket wasn’t buttoned because Hurley had gained weight since the previous summer. He was thickly built to begin with and on him six gained pounds looked like a dozen. The tie he had on was an obviously old wide one, not a new wide one, and he hadn’t tied it evenly. The narrow end was longer by a good four inches. He seldom got his tie even, and Mitch sometimes kidded him about that, told him: “Make a mark on the inside of your ties so you’ll know where to start the knot. They have ties for teenagers like that.”
    â€œWho gives a fuck about a tie,” was Hurley’s attitude.
    Now, as Mitch could have predicted, Hurley’s attention went to the three framed photographs of Maddie hung on the far wall. He went up close to them, took in each for a long moment, seeming to draw from them, then nodded, evidently concurring with his private thoughts. “Some piece of work,” he said. Nearly every time Hurley came to Mitch’s office he paid the same homage and made such an observation. “You’re a lucky bastard, Mitch,” he said.
    Mitch agreed.
    Hurley grinned and took another lighthearted shot. “If Maddie could see how ugly you are she’d run.” He blew on his coffee, gulped it and recoiled from the cup. “I apologize,” he said, “not for insulting you but for bringing you this shit for coffee. To make it up to you I’m going to buy you breakfast.”
    Mitch gathered up the Kalali file, slipped it into a leather folio case and brought it along.
    Hurley’s city-provided Plymouth was parked at the curb with its engine idling, as though hoping to be stolen. With its black finish oxidized to gray and the numerous city scars on its body it looked like anything but a souped-up police car.
    Hurley drove them up to Wolf’s Deli on 57th. They took a table by the window. From there it was easy to imagine the outside was the inside confined by glass, and that they were outsiders, spectators of everything that passed. Sort of aquarium-like.
    Hurley knew what he wanted for breakfast, quickly ordered a pastrami four-egg omelet and home fries. Mitch took longer, considered several such heavy entrees, but retreated to a bowl of oatmeal.
    During the waiting period Hurley inquired: “How’s your brother?”
    â€œHe’s up in the Adirondacks somewhere with Doris. She has a place up there. I think it’s near Canoga Lake. Ever been up there?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œNice this time of year.”
    â€œA real jewelry junkie that Doris.”
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œShe really so loaded?”
    â€œI guess.”
    â€œFrom what I hear she married well and divorced better.”
    â€œSomething like that.”
    â€œShe’s known around as the holdout’s best friend.”
    â€œI’ve heard,” Mitch said, not wanting to hear it.
    â€œMust be a sickness, not being able to look at a piece of pretty jewelry without wanting to own it. Think it’s a