do-rag.
“What’s the problem,” Johnson said again, “can’t find the hang—”
“Yeah, he heard ya the first time, genius,” Ott said to Johnson, “go get yourself another beer, huh. You sober up, something intelligent might flop outta your piehole.”
“You’re a real funny fuck,” Johnson said, leaning closer to Ott. “How is it anyway, being sidekick to the greatest cop in New York history?”
“A great honor,” Ott said, straight-faced, shoving his chair back to get away from Johnson’s beery breath.
Johnson glanced over at Do-rag, then back at Ott.
“Your partner give you pointers and shit?” Johnson asked.
“Yeah,” Ott said, tilting his chair back farther, “watch out for assholes in bad T-shirts.”
“Good one,” Johnson said, swaying. “Mort.”
Johnson let loose with a long, guttural burp, like he could do it on demand.
“Ott, right?” Johnson said.
Ott didn’t answer.
“Well, I gotta tell ya, Mort Ott . . . that’s the lamest fuckin’ name I ever heard.”
Do-rag beat on his thigh like Johnson was Letterman.
“I got a question for ya, the fuck is an ‘Ott’ anyway . . . a midget otter or something?”
Ott looked at Crawford and shook his head.
“You done?” Ott asked. “ ’Cause we’re working something here. How ’bout taking your butt boy and getting the fuck outta here.”
Ott turned away from Johnson. Crawford watched Johnson out of the corner of his eye. Just in case.
He and Do-Rag shuffled off toward the bar.
Crawford thought about slapping Ott five.
“I had the same question,” he said instead.
“About what?” Ott asked.
“What the hell is an Ott anyway?”
“Funny,” Ott said, standing up and pointing at his empty beer.
“You ready?”
Crawford nodded.
“Watch out for the knuckle draggers.”
Crawford’s eyes followed Ott as he headed to the bar, remembering when Rutledge first introduced him to Ott.
“C RAWFORD , This is Mort Ott,” Rutledge had said it fast, like it was one syllable.
Crawford looked Ott over.
“That it?”
“What?” Ott asked.
“Your whole name?”
“Yep, short and strong . . . just like me.”
J OHNSON and Do-rag were at the bar, as Ott approached, huddled conspiratorially.
“Two more,” Ott said to Jack Scarsiola.
Johnson heard Ott’s voice and swung around.
“Hey, lemme ask you a serious question,” Johnson slurred. “You ever seen that reality show? Those cops in Memphis?”
Ott didn’t answer.
“The dumb fat one,” Johnson said, “dead ringer for you.”
Ott took the two beers from Scarsiola and rolled his eyes.
“You been working on that all this time?” he said. Then, “Fucking Neanderthal.”
He walked away from the bar and back to Crawford.
“Didn’t take my advice, did you?” asked Crawford.
Crawford caught a glimpse of Sonny Johnson and Dorag push off from the bar and start toward them.
A few seconds later they were a couple feet away.
Johnson stared down at Ott.
“What did you say, you fat fuck?”
Crawford looked up at Johnson.
“Go drool on someone else, will ya?” he said.
For a drunk guy, Johnson had a quick right.
Crawford didn’t see it coming until Johnson’s fist was a foot from his face. He turned and it thudded into the side of his head, almost knocking Crawford out of his chair. Ott exploded out of his seat like he was blasting off a launch pad. He crashed into Johnson, knocked him backward like a blocking dummy, then took him down to the floor.
Crawford got up, unsteady, then Do-rag threw a punch at him. Crawford ducked it and swung back at him. He connected more with the guy’s ear than jaw, but it did the trick and Do-rag flipped backward onto a table where three guys were sitting.
Crawford glanced over at Ott. He and Johnson were writhing around on the floor like a pair of mud wrestlers. He saw Ott get off a straight right, his arm like a cobra strike.
Then Do-rag got up. He seemed to have a quick debate with himself about
“What’s the problem,” Johnson said again, “can’t find the hang—”
“Yeah, he heard ya the first time, genius,” Ott said to Johnson, “go get yourself another beer, huh. You sober up, something intelligent might flop outta your piehole.”
“You’re a real funny fuck,” Johnson said, leaning closer to Ott. “How is it anyway, being sidekick to the greatest cop in New York history?”
“A great honor,” Ott said, straight-faced, shoving his chair back to get away from Johnson’s beery breath.
Johnson glanced over at Do-rag, then back at Ott.
“Your partner give you pointers and shit?” Johnson asked.
“Yeah,” Ott said, tilting his chair back farther, “watch out for assholes in bad T-shirts.”
“Good one,” Johnson said, swaying. “Mort.”
Johnson let loose with a long, guttural burp, like he could do it on demand.
“Ott, right?” Johnson said.
Ott didn’t answer.
“Well, I gotta tell ya, Mort Ott . . . that’s the lamest fuckin’ name I ever heard.”
Do-rag beat on his thigh like Johnson was Letterman.
“I got a question for ya, the fuck is an ‘Ott’ anyway . . . a midget otter or something?”
Ott looked at Crawford and shook his head.
“You done?” Ott asked. “ ’Cause we’re working something here. How ’bout taking your butt boy and getting the fuck outta here.”
Ott turned away from Johnson. Crawford watched Johnson out of the corner of his eye. Just in case.
He and Do-Rag shuffled off toward the bar.
Crawford thought about slapping Ott five.
“I had the same question,” he said instead.
“About what?” Ott asked.
“What the hell is an Ott anyway?”
“Funny,” Ott said, standing up and pointing at his empty beer.
“You ready?”
Crawford nodded.
“Watch out for the knuckle draggers.”
Crawford’s eyes followed Ott as he headed to the bar, remembering when Rutledge first introduced him to Ott.
“C RAWFORD , This is Mort Ott,” Rutledge had said it fast, like it was one syllable.
Crawford looked Ott over.
“That it?”
“What?” Ott asked.
“Your whole name?”
“Yep, short and strong . . . just like me.”
J OHNSON and Do-rag were at the bar, as Ott approached, huddled conspiratorially.
“Two more,” Ott said to Jack Scarsiola.
Johnson heard Ott’s voice and swung around.
“Hey, lemme ask you a serious question,” Johnson slurred. “You ever seen that reality show? Those cops in Memphis?”
Ott didn’t answer.
“The dumb fat one,” Johnson said, “dead ringer for you.”
Ott took the two beers from Scarsiola and rolled his eyes.
“You been working on that all this time?” he said. Then, “Fucking Neanderthal.”
He walked away from the bar and back to Crawford.
“Didn’t take my advice, did you?” asked Crawford.
Crawford caught a glimpse of Sonny Johnson and Dorag push off from the bar and start toward them.
A few seconds later they were a couple feet away.
Johnson stared down at Ott.
“What did you say, you fat fuck?”
Crawford looked up at Johnson.
“Go drool on someone else, will ya?” he said.
For a drunk guy, Johnson had a quick right.
Crawford didn’t see it coming until Johnson’s fist was a foot from his face. He turned and it thudded into the side of his head, almost knocking Crawford out of his chair. Ott exploded out of his seat like he was blasting off a launch pad. He crashed into Johnson, knocked him backward like a blocking dummy, then took him down to the floor.
Crawford got up, unsteady, then Do-rag threw a punch at him. Crawford ducked it and swung back at him. He connected more with the guy’s ear than jaw, but it did the trick and Do-rag flipped backward onto a table where three guys were sitting.
Crawford glanced over at Ott. He and Johnson were writhing around on the floor like a pair of mud wrestlers. He saw Ott get off a straight right, his arm like a cobra strike.
Then Do-rag got up. He seemed to have a quick debate with himself about
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