Love or Honor by Joan; Barthel Page A

were notoriously unreliable, likely to go off at any time, so if he’d had to use it, he’d have had to take time to load the chamber. Still, it was better than nothing. After so many years as a cop, carrying his weapon everywhere he went, he felt insecure without it, as most cops did. When his partner Phil got married, after only a year and a half on the force, he’d worn his gun under his tuxedo.
    Chris hadn’t anticipated a time when he’d want to pull his gun and not be able to. Still, the incident wasn’t terribly serious—the girl had only a superficial wound. But Chris couldn’t help thinking that the episode illustrated the widening gap between his regular life and instincts, and his undercover life. Perhaps because the gap was growing, he tried hard to maintain both lives as fully as possible. On nights when he stayed in Astoria, he tended to stay all night, both at the Grotto and at other neighborhood bars and clubs, when the mothers with toddlers and the fragile white-haired old women of daylight were replaced with what Chris termed “night crawlers.” Many of them were Greek, but there was a sizable smattering of Italians, too. Chris met an Italian, Jimmy, whom he didn’t like, but who became a good source. Sometimes Chris would end up at Jimmy’s joint, help him close the place, then go out to breakfast with him, usually with Jimmy’s gofer, Dominic, tagging along.
    Then, on other nights, Chris would try to get home to Forest Hills reasonably early, to be able to spend at least part of the night in a normal way. He was wary of calling friends, who were sure to ask what he was doing. But if anybody called him, he almost always got on the phone and chatted, just to stay in touch.
    When an old friend called him at home one night and asked him to drop by—he and his wife wanted some advice about adopting a child—Chris said sure, he’d drive out to Great Neck the next night. He spent part of that night at the Grotto with Gene and some other people, then drove out to visit his friends. When he got into their neighborhood, he stopped at an all-night diner to say he was running late but he was nearly there, did they want him to bring over some sandwiches, or a chunk of pie? He reached their house about midnight, and stayed about two hours before driving home to Forest Hills.
    He saw Gene the next night, and the next. Then he took another night off. He and Liz were stretched out on their bed, watching a movie, eating popcorn, when the phone in the den rang.
    â€œI need to see you,” Gene said abruptly. “I’m in your neighborhood. C’mon over and meet me at the diner.”
    Chris stalled. “Well, where exactly are you?” he asked.
    â€œI told you, out by your place,” Gene said impatiently. “I’m calling from the diner on Little Neck Parkway. I was going to just come by your house, but I’m hungry, so I came here. Hey, I need to talk, Curley, c’mon over.”
    Chris made up the best excuse he could think of, instantly—he had a girl with him, they were drinking, having a good time—“You know how it is, pal? I just can’t get away now, you know?” Gene laughed knowingly and accepted it. But when Chris hung up the phone, he was chilly with sweat. Thank God the night they followed me wasn’t the night I went straight home, he thought. When he’d gone inside his friends’ house, and hadn’t come out right away, they’d apparently been satisfied that he lived there. He wasn’t sorry that they thought so; it worked to his advantage that they thought he lived so far from his real place. But it scared him. What if Gene hadn’t been hungry, and had just turned up on the doorstep?
    â€œI need another place,” he told Harry. “I’m jeopardizing my wife, and myself, and my friends, and this whole operation, by living at home.” Harry was dubious.