Red Alert(NYPD Red #5)(75)

“The funny thing is that Shelley cares less about getting the money back than you do.”

“I’ve got more skin in the game than Shelley does,” Reitzfeld said.

We nursed our beers and kept our eyes on the people coming and going. At 10:55, Jessup and Jewel walked through the front door and looked around. It was definitely not their world. More frat party than bar scene, and while there were black faces in the crowd, it was more East Hampton than South Bronx.

I dialed Jessup’s number and watched him answer.

“On the right side,” I said. “There are numbers painted on the wall over the light fixtures. I’m at the far end of the table under number nine.”

“Are you sure you want to do this here?” he said.

“It’s the only place I’ll do it,” I said. “If you don’t like it, you’re free to go back the way you came.”

He hung up, and I watched him launch into an animated conversation with Jewel. Then they made their way cautiously to our table—actually, my table: by now Reitzfeld was standing off to the side.

“Thanks for coming,” I said, filling two clean glasses.

They sat down. Jewel took a swig of the brew, but Jessup wasn’t in a drinking mood.

“I counted maybe six brothers from the front door to here,” he said. “Did we have to be so conspicuous?”

“First of all, none of the white people took a second look at you, and if you remember, I was in the minority last night at Rattlesnake. Suck it up. Now where’s your inside man?”

Jessup looked at his Apple Watch. “It’s four minutes shy of eleven, Fly Boy. I don’t suppose that’s enough time for the three of us to get in a round of darts with Biff and Chad over there?”

The joke caught Jewel middrink, and he did a spit take into his beer glass.

“Fun and games are over, fellas,” I said. “It’s time to get serious. Now listen carefully, and whatever you do, don’t get up or even think about going for your piece, because there are four—count ’em, four—cops behind you.”

There weren’t four cops. Just one retiree who worked security at Silvercup Studios. But from where they were sitting, imaginary cops were as menacing as real ones.

“What the fuck?” Jessup said.

“And there’s one cop in front of you,” I said.

“Shit. I knew you were a cop,” Jessup said.

“No you didn’t, or you wouldn’t have showed up. But here’s the good news. Our beef isn’t with you. As soon as C.J. sits down, and you finger him for the Mark hotel robbery, you both win a Get Out of Jail Free card. Just walk out the door. No questions asked.”

“Who’s C.J.?” Jewel said.

“Don’t be stupid, Garvey,” I said. “All you have to do is point out your inside man at the poker game, and you’re free to go.”

“Happy to do it, officer,” Jessup said, “but he didn’t say his name was C.J.”

“Fair enough. And my name isn’t Fly Boy.”

Jessup’s phone rang. He looked at me. “He’s here.”

“Tell him where to find you, then stand up and wave. If you warn him and he bolts, you’re in cuffs.”

Jessup followed orders, and I stood off to the side with Reitzfeld until a man in a black Windbreaker and a black baseball cap walked over to the table and shook hands with his partners in crime.

Only it wasn’t C. J. Berringer.





CHAPTER 72



“This is the dude who planned the whole operation,” Tariq Jessup said, pointing at the newcomer. “He kept seven hundred thousand, and we got fifty thou apiece, which is not the kind of payday that fosters allegiance to your employer. So, I repeat, he did it. Do we get to go now, Officer Fly Boy?”

Reitzfeld stepped into the picture. “Don’t move until I tell you,” he said.

Jessup and Jewel recognized him immediately. “Dude,” Jessup said, “sorry about the chloroform and tying you up and shit, but that was his idea, too. We were just the help.”

Reitzfeld wasn’t interested in them. He was focused on the man in the black cap. “Why’d you do it, Rick?” he said.

Rick Button, the stand-up comic, who until seconds ago had been one of the victims, shrugged. “Ah, the age-old question: why did the comedian steal the eight-hundred-thousand-dollar poker pot?” he said. “It was better than spending a year in a body cast, gumming my food, and shitting into a bag, which is what would have happened, compliments of a pair of Russian Neanderthals who work for the Bratva in Brighton Beach.”

“Excuse us again, officers,” Jessup said. “But Garvey and I break out in hives when we’re in the presence of this many happy white people. You said we could go. Are you or are you not men of your word?”

Reitzfeld didn’t look at me. It had to be his call. “Get lost,” he said. “And if I were you, I wouldn’t be telling tales about this evening around the hood, or it will come back to bite you in the ass.”

“Have no fear,” Jessup said. “We got played by a cop. It’s not exactly something we plan to be tweeting about.” He turned to Button. “I’m updating my résumé, boss. Can I count on you for a reference?”