Nightwatcher (Nightwatcher #1)(68)

He grabs the hunk of cake, swallows a dense, fudgy-sweet bite, and it comes back to him: last night, he ate the rest of the cake himself. He stood right here at the counter, tears rolling down his face and Marianne’s words echoing through his head as he shoveled cake into his mouth until he felt sick.

She said she loved him.

That surprised him, because she didn’t act like she loved him when he saw her at her apartment yesterday afternoon. She didn’t even seem to like him very much.

I guess I was wrong about that, Jerry thinks, wetting his finger and running it along the bottom of the foil tray so that the crumbs stick to it. He licks his finger and sticks it into the tray over and over again, until every last morsel of cake is gone.

But it isn’t enough.

“Jamie? Can I please have more cake?”

“Yeah . . . okay.”

“When?”

“Later. I’ll go get you some.”

Jerry considers that. “Can you go get it now?”

Jamie sighs. “Sure, Jerry. I’ll get it now.”

“Vic?”

He sets down his plastic glass of Coke and turns to see Rocky Manzillo standing behind him.

“Well, would you look who’s here.” Vic gets to his feet to greet his friend.

It’s been less than a week since they saw each other, but he notices that Rocky’s aged in that time. The hair he has left is grayer, the lines around his eyes deeper than they were on Saturday night. These aren’t laugh lines, either. Not by a long shot.

Ordinarily, they greet each other with a jovial handshake or a casual clap on the back. Today, though, Vic gives his friend a quick, hard hug, which Rocky returns fervently.

“I didn’t expect you to show,” Vic tells him.

“I was in the neighborhood, headed up the FDR when I called Ange to check in. She told me you left a message that you were here eating, but I thought I might have missed you.”

“You didn’t. I ordered dessert.” He settles back into the booth and gestures at the padded brown vinyl bench opposite him. “Sit down. Got time?”

“I’ll just grab something quick. I’m on a case.”

Rocky sits across from him and Vic looks around the crowded coffee shop for the lone waitress. There she is, taking an order from a pair of weathered-looking streetwalkers.

Following his gaze, Rocky comments, “Nice clientele. How’d you pick this place?” He plucks a cold, mealy French fry from the plate Vic pushed aside a few minutes ago.

“It got a top rating in Zagat’s,” Vic tells him. “Right above Le Cirque.”

“Funny guy.” Rocky takes another fry and eyes the crusty, congealed remains of Vic’s grilled cheese sandwich.

“Actually, this was the first place I saw when I came out of the Midtown Tunnel. First thing I’ve eaten all day and it’s going to be a long night.”

“Yeah, no kidding. So you’ve been over in Queens?”

Vic nods.

“Where, at the airports?”

Vic nods again. He’s spent an exhausting afternoon interviewing airline employees.

“Got any leads?” Rocky reaches for the sticky-looking ketchup bottle on the table and unscrews the cap. Seeing that the top of the bottle is gummy with blackish ketchup goo, he makes a face and takes a napkin from the holder on the table.

“Maybe.” Vic shrugs. “You know I can’t get into details.”

“Yeah, yeah. I know. You guys have a lot of rules.”

You guys. Their friendship has never been entirely immune to the legendary tension between the FBI and local cops, but Vic learned long ago to let comments roll off his back.

He watches Rocky wipe off the neck of the bottle, pour some ketchup onto the plate, and sprinkle a liberal amount of salt over the pool and the cold fries.

“That’s not good for you, Rock . . . you know that, right?”

“What’s not good for me? Salt? French fries? Ketchup?”

“All of the above.”

“What’s wrong with ketchup?”

“That ketchup?” Vic shoots the grungy bottle a dubious look. “I thought you were on a diet.”

“Who told you that?”

“Ange. On Saturday night. She said the doctor wants you to drop thirty, forty pounds.”

“Ketchup isn’t fattening, Vic.”

“Never mind. How did the colonoscopy go?”

“My ass is clean as a whistle. Okay? That what you want to hear?”

“Congratulations, Rock. That’s what everyone wants to hear.”

The waitress, a wizened redhead with nicotine-stained fingers, materializes with a pot of coffee and a slice of pie with rubbery-looking blueberry filling.

“Here you go,” she tells Vic, setting the pie in front of him, turning his cup right-side-up in the saucer, and pouring coffee. She addresses Rocky. “You eating, hon?”

“You bet, hon. What’s quick?”

“Everything’s quick here.”

“Yeah? I’ll have the meatloaf.”

“Trust me . . . you don’t want the meatloaf, hon,” she tells him, taking a pen from behind her ear and an order pad from her pocket.

“No? Then give me the chili.”

“Onions? Sour cream? Cheese?”