Nightwatcher (Nightwatcher #1)(87)
“Want anything?”
“Pack of Newports.”
“I meant food.”
“Eggplant parm hero, and don’t forget the Newports. Here—” She pulls a twenty out of her pocket.
“It’s on me.”
“You hate cigarettes. You don’t have to support my habit.”
“It’s okay. This time. You can owe me one.”
“What’s yours?”
“My what?”
“Your habit?”
“Food, Brandewyne, but I need to lose weight, remember?”
“Besides food.”
“Whiskey.”
“I’ll buy you one, Manzillo. Johnnie Walker Blue, if we solve this case.”
“I won’t hold my breath for that.”
“For me to buy you expensive whiskey, or for us to solve the case?”
“Either one.”
Rocky leaves her on the sidewalk with her cigarette, a faint grin playing at his mouth. She’s not Murph, but she’s growing on him.
Inside, he’s pleased to see his friend Richie D—short for Di Bernarducci—behind the counter, a clean white apron over his Yankees pinstripe jersey. He likes to break Rocky’s chops about the Red Sox the second Rocky walks in the door, but today, he greets him with a warm handshake.
“Hey, Detective Manzillo, it’s good to see you. I been worried about you. Where’s Detective Murphy?”
“On the pile. His brother’s missing.”
“Jesus. Everybody’s got somebody missing.” Richie’s triple chins jiggle as he shakes his head. “My nephew Vince, he’s with the PAPD, but he was off duty when it hit. He’s pretty broken up about it, though.”
“I’m sure he is.” Rocky heard that the Port Authority Police Department is missing at least three dozen officers.
Every time it hits him again—the staggering crisis in this city, his city—he’s stunned all over again.
He’s always pretty good at compartmentalization; you have to be, if you’re going to do what he does. But on this day, tragedy seeps into every corner of his world, blurring boundaries, permeating every line of thought, every conversational thread.
“I didn’t know if the bridges or tunnels were even open the last few days, so I didn’t bother trying to get in here till now,” Richie tells him.
“Where do you live, Jersey?”
“Nah, out on the Island.”
Rocky is about to lighten the mood by teasing that Richie’s probably the only Yankees fan living out there in Mets territory, but then he sees the somber expression on Richie’s face.
“There are a bunch of firemen missing from my town, and a bunch of brokers, too. Guys—women, too. They got up in the morning and went to work and they’re never coming back. Who would have thought this could happen?”
Rocky remembers talking about the Island—Long Island—with great disdain when he was younger, twenty-five, thirty years ago. Some of his old friends were picking up and moving away from the Bronx, moving out to the Island or up to Westchester. They wanted to settle down and raise their families where it was safe, they said.
Rocky thought they were a bunch of pansies and told them so. He informed them that they could try all they wanted to shield themselves from the bad stuff, but the bad stuff would find them if that was their fate.
“I hate to break it to you,” he said, “but the bad stuff can still walk right through your fancy front door if it wants to.”
Yeah, the bad stuff will get you, no matter what, if your number is up. Rocky truly believed that. Still does. Happens all the time.
He thinks of Kristina and Marianne, probably convinced they were safe in their own apartments, and of all those people who died because they went to work on a Tuesday morning.
Jesus. If he were a different kind of guy—the kind who lets things bother him—he’d be so depressed right now he’d want to crawl into bed and stay there for a year.
But that’s not me. I gotta do something. Whatever I can.
He’ll leave the terrorist hunting up to Vic, but he’s going to find this Nightwatcher son of a bitch and put him away for a good long time.
“I need an eggplant parm hero for my friend out there,” he tells Richie, “and what’ve you got for me?”
“Whatever you want. You’re my first customer since I reopened. Where the hell is everybody?”
“Give ’em time, Richie. They’ll come back. People are rattled.”
“You been down on the pile?” Richie asks, turning away to pour Rocky an extra large cup of coffee without asking.
“I was, but then I got pulled off for a case.”
“You mean a homicide?” Richie shakes his head. “You gotta be kidding me.”
Rocky shrugs. “Life goes on.”
“You mean death goes on.”
Rocky accepts the coffee and takes out his wallet.
“Put that away. It’s on me,” Richie tells him. “Sandwiches, too. What’ll it be, besides the eggplant?”
Rocky thinks of the stuffed pork chop dinner Ange has waiting back at home. God only knows when he’ll be able to eat it.
“Thanks, Richie. I’ll take a Sicilian.”