Dead Red by Tim O'Mara Page A

hustle up some more beers for the guys and see if the grills are ready.”
    I spent the next ten minutes opening beers, working the taps, and putting together a few mixed drinks. I really did need to check on those grills, but I couldn’t leave the bar unmanned. As if reading my mind, Mikey—the only full-time bartender at The LineUp—walked through the front door.
    “What the hell, Ray?” he said, stepping behind the bar. “Mrs. Mac told me three o’clock. I thought I’d get here early and set up…” He looked around at the growing crowd. “… But Christ on a motorcycle.”
    “Most of these guys had the day off. They didn’t feel like waiting around. Some went to the church to pay their respects, but most just came right here.”
    “Beat the traffic on the LIE and the tunnels,” he said, referring to the fact that a good number of the NYPD live out on Long Island or in Jersey.
    “Let me check the back and get a start on the food.”
    He slapped me on the back. “G’head, man. I got it back here.”
    On my way to the outside area, I got stopped and spun around by someone grabbing my belt. I felt a bit dizzy and was all ready to get pissed off when I saw it was Billy Morris. One can never get pissed off at Billy Morris. Just ask him.
    He pulled me into a hug. “Thanks for doing this, Ray. I feel like I’m usually the social director for these fucks.”
    Billy was referring to his annual barbecue, which he threw at his house out in the Sheepshead Bay neighborhood on the other side of Brooklyn. A few years back, he had The Q here at The LineUp because his house was being worked on. That was the first time we’d seen each other since my accident, and then he ended up playing a major part in getting my student Frankie Rivas home.
    “You can thank Mrs. Mac for that, Billy.” We broke the hug. “As soon as she heard what it was for, she was all in.”
    “That’s her, Ray. How you doing, by the way? I heard you was—”
    “Good,” I said for what must have been the hundredth time since the shooting. “Let me check the back and we’ll have a beer, okay?”
    He grabbed my shoulders and shook me. “You better believe we’ll have a beer, son. Quite possibly many.”
    I stepped over to the rear door, which was open, and walked into the small backyard. The two Freddies were stoking the coals of the two grills Mrs. Mac had put out for barbecuing. Basically they were an oil drum cut in half, sitting atop metal frames. Fill ’em with charcoal, light ’em up, and about thirty minutes later you were good to go. Normally, the food at The LineUp came out of the kitchen, but for certain events—Fourth of July, Memorial Day, farewells to cops and vets—Mrs. Mac opened the back area and threw a barbecue. I tapped my watch.
    The Freddy on the left said, “Five minute, we ready.” The one on the right nodded in agreement.
    I gave them the thumbs-up. “Just go ahead and start cooking when you think you’re good. Thanks, guys.”
    Good. The food was taken care of, and Mikey was doing what he did best behind the bar. Debbie, the new waitress who was an NYU undergrad and the cousin of one of The LineUp’s cop regulars, was putting on her apron as I stepped back inside.
    “Big crowd today,” she said in her usual cheerful voice.
    “Yeah,” I said. “Let’s not forget what they’re here for, though, okay?”
    That took the cheer away. “Sorry.”
    Shit. “No. Do what you normally do. Just be mindful that these guys are here to commiserate and say good-bye to a fellow cop.” I put my hand on her shoulder. “They’re all gonna get various degrees of drunk. If it gets a little stupid, let me know. You can always step outside and take a break.”
    The smile slowly came back. “Thanks, Ray. My cousin’s told me a few stories about things like this. I’ll be good.”
    “No doubt.”
    I watched as she bounced over to a booth of six guys, cleared the empties, took their order, and laughed at one of their