You’re not pro enough to play it the same, sit there and pout. Or snarl if that makes you feel more top. You said you could do something. Now I want to find out if you can. That’s all this is about. . . all it’s ever gonna be about.”
“Wow! That’s the most I ever heard you talk.”
“Don’t get used to it.” We were on the upper roadway by then, Riverside Drive on the right, the Hudson on the left.
“Where are we going?”
“Someplace where we can talk. Privately.”
“I know better places. And why can’t we just talk now?”
“We can, if you want. I can just cruise around while we talk. Or I can go where I was headed and park. Pick one. But we’re not going anyplace I haven’t been before, case closed.”
“Oh, go ahead,” she said.
We drove in silence until the Cloisters loomed ahead. I pulled over. It’s a kind of Lovers Lane up there. Cops wouldn’t pay much attention to a couple talking outside a car. A sex-sniper would. Or any of the wolfpacks that roam occasionally. But I docked the Plymouth back end in first, and I had something else to even the odds.
“Come on, girl,” I told Pansy, opening the back door. She took off at her usual slow amble, circling, mildly interested in the new turf, but not about to go running off into the woods. Pansy’s a tight-perimeter beast, more comfortable in small circles.
Nadine let herself out, stood next to me as I leaned against the Plymouth’s flank and lit a smoke.
“Those make me sick,” she said. “I don’t see how you could poison your body like that.”
“The doctor prescribed them,” I told her. “There’s a chemical—lecithin—in cigarettes. Improves concentration. My mind kind of wanders sometimes. These help.”
She gave me a wondering look, trying to read my face. Good luck.
“If that’s true, how come the cigarette companies don’t advertise it?” she finally asked.
“You can get it other places besides cigarettes,” I told her. “In stronger doses too. Over-the-counter, any health-food store.”
“So why would you—?”
“These taste better,” I said.
“Oh. So what you really are is a junkie, huh?”
“Nah,” I told her, “I could stop anytime I wanted.”
She folded her arms again and stared hard at me. I wondered if she’d go for it. For me, quitting cigarettes is a sucker bet. I can do it. Done it a bunch of times. It’s just a shuck. There was a girl once. In another town. Another world. Her name was Blossom, and she was a doctor. She bet me I couldn’t stop smoking for a week. I still remember the payoff. And her promise—the one she made when she left. The one I’d never hold her to.
But Nadine wasn’t having any. Or maybe she wasn’t a gambler. “Sure,” is all she said, not leaving the door open enough.
Pansy strolled around, sniffing occasionally just for the fun of it. She knew she couldn’t snarf something off the ground—I’d trained her never to do that—but she liked the smell of discarded fast-food containers anyway.
“So what’s this about?” Nadine asked, once she realized I was just going to relax and have my smoke without saying anything to her until I was done.
“There might be a way you could help,” I told her. “It all depends on whether you’re telling me the truth. And if your pal was telling
you
the truth.”
“What does that mean?”
“And how good a pal he really is,” I continued, like I hadn’t heard her.
“
She’s
a
really
good pal,” Nadine said.
“We’ll see. There’s no risk pulling up a guy’s rap sheet. Even if they check the computer log-on record, she wouldn’t need much of an excuse to explain why she wanted to know more about me. . . especially with this open pattern-killer running. But taking a look at
those
cases themselves. . . “
“What do you mean?”
“Is this pal of yours actually assigned? I mean, is she on the task force they got or whatever?”
“I don’t under—”
“There’s a case running,
“Wow! That’s the most I ever heard you talk.”
“Don’t get used to it.” We were on the upper roadway by then, Riverside Drive on the right, the Hudson on the left.
“Where are we going?”
“Someplace where we can talk. Privately.”
“I know better places. And why can’t we just talk now?”
“We can, if you want. I can just cruise around while we talk. Or I can go where I was headed and park. Pick one. But we’re not going anyplace I haven’t been before, case closed.”
“Oh, go ahead,” she said.
We drove in silence until the Cloisters loomed ahead. I pulled over. It’s a kind of Lovers Lane up there. Cops wouldn’t pay much attention to a couple talking outside a car. A sex-sniper would. Or any of the wolfpacks that roam occasionally. But I docked the Plymouth back end in first, and I had something else to even the odds.
“Come on, girl,” I told Pansy, opening the back door. She took off at her usual slow amble, circling, mildly interested in the new turf, but not about to go running off into the woods. Pansy’s a tight-perimeter beast, more comfortable in small circles.
Nadine let herself out, stood next to me as I leaned against the Plymouth’s flank and lit a smoke.
“Those make me sick,” she said. “I don’t see how you could poison your body like that.”
“The doctor prescribed them,” I told her. “There’s a chemical—lecithin—in cigarettes. Improves concentration. My mind kind of wanders sometimes. These help.”
She gave me a wondering look, trying to read my face. Good luck.
“If that’s true, how come the cigarette companies don’t advertise it?” she finally asked.
“You can get it other places besides cigarettes,” I told her. “In stronger doses too. Over-the-counter, any health-food store.”
“So why would you—?”
“These taste better,” I said.
“Oh. So what you really are is a junkie, huh?”
“Nah,” I told her, “I could stop anytime I wanted.”
She folded her arms again and stared hard at me. I wondered if she’d go for it. For me, quitting cigarettes is a sucker bet. I can do it. Done it a bunch of times. It’s just a shuck. There was a girl once. In another town. Another world. Her name was Blossom, and she was a doctor. She bet me I couldn’t stop smoking for a week. I still remember the payoff. And her promise—the one she made when she left. The one I’d never hold her to.
But Nadine wasn’t having any. Or maybe she wasn’t a gambler. “Sure,” is all she said, not leaving the door open enough.
Pansy strolled around, sniffing occasionally just for the fun of it. She knew she couldn’t snarf something off the ground—I’d trained her never to do that—but she liked the smell of discarded fast-food containers anyway.
“So what’s this about?” Nadine asked, once she realized I was just going to relax and have my smoke without saying anything to her until I was done.
“There might be a way you could help,” I told her. “It all depends on whether you’re telling me the truth. And if your pal was telling
you
the truth.”
“What does that mean?”
“And how good a pal he really is,” I continued, like I hadn’t heard her.
“
She’s
a
really
good pal,” Nadine said.
“We’ll see. There’s no risk pulling up a guy’s rap sheet. Even if they check the computer log-on record, she wouldn’t need much of an excuse to explain why she wanted to know more about me. . . especially with this open pattern-killer running. But taking a look at
those
cases themselves. . . “
“What do you mean?”
“Is this pal of yours actually assigned? I mean, is she on the task force they got or whatever?”
“I don’t under—”
“There’s a case running,
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