Slide by Jason Starr Ken Bruen Page B

on his way to A.C. to—rumor had it—screw some bimbo he had down there. And this with a wife, eight months pregnant, home in his apartment in the Bronx. Nice guy, huh? What was left of Ortiz they shoveled back to some small town in Santa Domingo.
    Joe kept an eye on Max, hoping to get some closure for Ken. Yeah, it had become personal to Joe. There was sure some weird karma around that Fisher fuck, like everyone round him got wiped and he just kept on keeping on.
    Then Fisher went off the radar. Joe heard he’d fallen on hard times, gone broke somehow, was drinking his ass off, got into a couple of bar fights. Did Joe shed any tears? Like fuck he did. He was secretly hoping that Max would piss the wrong guy off at some bar, get his ass nailed to the wall.
    A couple months went by and Joe didn’t hear much of anything. Then imagine how surprised he was when he heard that Fisher was back and, word was, he was dealing. You fucking believe it?
    Joe put a tag on Max. Yeah, he could’ve nailed him for a couple of small-time crack deals, could have at least slapped him with Possession with Intent. But the DA wanted the whole deal and didn’t want Joe to move in too quick. So Joe got a hold of a new snitch—a stripper-slash-prostitute named Felicia Howard. No surprise there—Fisher was as smarmy as they came and he had a thing for busty broads. Fisher’s old flame, Angela Petrakos, had also been built.
    Felicia was promising—Joe had scared her and good. He had her on prostitution charges for taking money from the clients she danced for and was hanging three-to-five, no parole, over her head. He could tell she was probably sick of Fisher herself. There was no way in hell she’d go down for that jackass.
    The early stages with a snitch were always tricky. He had to build up trust, or if not trust, at least a relationship. He never had any problem with paying his informants. Some cops, they used intimidation, bullied the poor fucks into giving up information but Joe knew, that way you only got half the story. First thing Joe did, always, was slip them a few bucks and it worked every time. Nothing like cash money to loosen up somebody’s lips. And paying hookers for info usually worked out really well. If they’d give away their bodies for some green, why wouldn’t they give up info?’
    But Joe had been working with Felicia for over a week now and he was getting impatient. He felt like she was stalling.
    He arranged to meet her at the Green Kitchen diner on Seventy-seventh and First. They did some mean meatloaf there, not a bad rice pudding either. When Joe was seated at a booth toward the back he spotted a dog-eared paperback with a torn cover that somebody had left on the cushion. He could barely read the title—was it Cockfighter?
    Whatever, he thought, and shoved it aside.
    Felicia arrived. It was hard not to notice her in the short skirt and with all the cleavage. Practically every male head in the diner turned to watch her pass. A few women too. When she sat across from Joe, he smiled. He gave great smile. Ask anybody.
    He gave Felicia that look, then went, “You need anything?” and took out his wallet, showing her the corner of a twenty sticking out. Figuring he’d whet her appetite right off the bat.
    “Why you so good to me, Detective Miscali?” Felicia said. “I ain’t used to kindness.”
    He knew she was full of shit, went, “You’re full of shit.” And yeah, here was his handkerchief, all sympathy and bull, and he said, “Felicia, I’m your friend, I’m gonna get those minor charges wiped but you gotta give me something on Fisher, you know, keep my bosses happy. And call me Joe, okay?”
    She nodded, wiping daintily at her eyes, and said, hesitantly, “Maybe I do got something for you...Joe.”
    He was all focus now, cop antennae on full alert. Asked, “What is it?”
    “Hold up,” she said. “What am I gonna get?”
    “You get not to go to jail.”
    “I mean what am I gonna get’s