Red Alert(NYPD Red #5)(74)

“So that’s a short plane ride. Me and Garvey will go with you.”

“Not happening, bro. This is not a traveling circus. I’m a one-man show. I pick up local talent wherever I go. You were my Jersey boys, but I can’t walk into that room, so the deal is off. Lose my phone number after I hang up.”

“Wait a minute, Fly Boy,” Jessup said. “Think this through before you bail. You already got the game lined up. You got the muscle in place. So if you can’t sit in, all you need is someone who can.”

“Don’t you think I thought of that? I have a friend who I would trust to sit in for me, but he’s in Europe for a few months making lonely wealthy widows a little less lonely…and a lot less wealthy.”

“What if I can help?” Jessup said.

“No. You’d look like you were crashing the party.”

“You saying I don’t fit in because I’m black?”

“Hell, no,” I said. “Black, white, brown, yellow—if your money’s green, nobody gives a shit. But nobody sits down at that table unless they’re a regular high-stakes player. That’s not you, Tariq.”

“What if I told you I got a guy who buys into six-figure games all the time? This dude would fit right in.”

Cheryl looked at me, her eyes wide, her mouth open. The fish was nibbling at the hook.

“Do you trust this guy?” I asked.

“Hell, yeah. He was the inside man on the hotel job, and that went down like silk. He’s going to want his cut, but with that much money on the table, I’m sure we can come to terms.”

“I don’t know, Tariq.”

“Come on, Fly Boy. At least meet him.”

“All right. Tonight at eleven. Houston Hall.”

“Never heard of it.”

“It’s in the Village on West Houston Street, just off Varick. It’s big, it’s noisy, it’s crowded, and I never have to worry about running into anyone who’s ever played in a poker game where the limit was more than twenty bucks. You and Jewel bring your boy. If I like him, I’ll stake him to the hundred and fifty grand, and then we’ll move on to the next plateau. I’ll see you at eleven.”

I hung up. “And that, Dr. Robinson, is how it’s done,” I said.

“That was brilliant, Zach. You’re a born con man. What happens when they show up?”

“Jessup and Jewel are small fish. Reitzfeld will toss them back into the pond and give C.J. a chance to pay back the money and get out of town. The guy’s a poker player. He’ll know that’s the best hand he’s going to be dealt.”

“How do you feel about all this?” she asked.

“Pretty shitty. I feel good about cracking a case, but I hate sneaking around on my partner. I just hope she never finds out.”

“Aren’t you going to ask how I feel?”

“Cheryl, I know how you feel. You don’t trust my motives, and you don’t approve. You told me that this morning.”

“I changed my mind. At your core, you’re a cop. I think your motives may be a little purer than I gave you credit for. Also…”

“Also what?”

“Watching you manipulate that guy into doing exactly what you want him to do was a bit of a turn-on.”

“You’re kidding.”

She got off the sofa, took me by the hand, and started walking me to the bedroom. “Come on, Fly Boy. I’ll show you if I’m kidding or not.”





CHAPTER 71



Houston Hall is lower Manhattan’s go-to watering hole for the under-thirty crowd. The cavernous building still has the exposed rafters, weathered brick walls, and nuts-and-guts architectural charm of the parking garage it was in a past life.

On weekends, the line to get in is around the block, but on a Wednesday at 10:00 p.m., Reitzfeld and I were able to walk right in and circulate among the raucous crowd of revelers who were hoisting steins of craft beer and munching on traditional fare like wings and sliders, as well as on the less predictable pastrami Reuben spring rolls and spicy sashimi tuna tacos.

“Christ,” Reitzfeld said. “There must be five hundred people in here, and I’m old enough to be their father—every last one of them.”

“I know,” I said. “Did you see the red sign that flashed when you walked through the door? It said GEEZER ALERT.”

“Kiss my ass, rookie. But thanks for doing this. Not everybody at the PD would go this far out on a limb for a retired cop.”

“Then they’re myopic,” I said. “Eventually we’re all retired cops, and sooner or later we’re going to need help from the inside. Let’s get a couple of beers so we look like we fit in.”

The vast wide-open beer hall had row after row of massive mead-hall tables and benches. I ordered two pitchers of lager and five glasses from the bar, and we found a spot that was midroom with a clear sight line to the front door.

The plan was simple. As soon as Jessup and Jewel identified C.J. as the mastermind behind the robbery, we’d let them go. Then I’d leave, and Reitzfeld could take it from there.

“You definitely can’t be around when I ask for the money back,” Reitzfeld said. “It’s one thing for you to help me track down a couple of perps, but if you’re in the room when I try to collect the eight hundred grand, IA will nail you for being a bagman.”