Fat Tuesday(18)

"It did?"

"Yes. Now cut it out. I'm not into that shit. Ow! I mean it, goddamn it! Stop that!"

"Relax, honey. The best ic vet tr) eame No pun intended."

Raymond Hahn drove himself home from city hall, one eye on the rearview mirror all the way. He was good at his job, mainly because he was scrupulously careful. His cover was a job in a three-man accounting office, but his paycheck originated at the N.O.P.D. Ostensibly calling on clients, he moved facilely through neighborhoods, meeting people and setting up networks of drug users and dealers.

It was dangerous work. He could spend months winning the confidence of a paranoid dealer, constantly putting his ass on the line, and then have all his efforts wasted. A prime example was the snafu at the warehouse where Kev Stuart had been killed.

It didn't take a rocket scientist to deduce that somebody in the division was tipping the dealers of impending raids. But that was an inner-office problem. His problem was to stay alive by seeing that his cover wasn't blown.

He'd been working undercover for three years, which may have been too long. He was tired of continually having to look over his shoulder, tired of being suspicious of everyone, tired of living a double life.

Lately, he'd been toying with the idea of relocating and going into another line of work. There was one major drawback: No other occupation would give him easy access to drugs. That was a bonus to his present job, and no small consideration whenever he thought of leaving it.

After making sure that nobody had followed him home, he unlocked the door of his apartment and slipped inside, then secured all the dead bolts. Every time it was necessary for him to be arrested and jailed, it gave him the shakes. He played his part so well that sometimes even he was fooled into thinking that the make-believe was real.

He and Burke Basile were on the same team. Nevertheless, the guy scared the hell out of him. It was frightening to think what Basile would do if he learned about his habit. He wouldn't want to get on Basile's bad side. The guy was all business. So straight-as-an-arrow, in fact, that he hadn't endeared himself to other cops of the N.O.P.D.

Taking graft was the accepted modus operandi. It was the rule, not the exception. Some cops figured that in a crime-crazy society, it made sense to look away from petty malfeasances, and to get tough only on crimes that were a threat to human life.

Burke Basile saw it differently. A law was a law. It was either right or wrong, legal or illegal, period. He didn't preach. He didn't have to.

His silent reproach was effective enough to make cops on the take mistrustful of him. Now that Kev Stuart was dead, the only other officer Basile could regard as a friend and drinking buddy was Doug Pat.

And being the boss's friend didn't win him any favors among his colleagues, either.

Not that Basile seemed to mind being out of the fraternal loop. In that respect, Hahn thought, he and Basile were somewhat alike. He worked alone, and he liked it that way, just as he suspected Basile did.

He doubted Basile ever cried over his unpopularity.

Hahn undressed in the dark. His girlfriend got pissed if he woke her up after she'd fallen asleep. She resented his staying out late and leaving her alone when he went carousing. She thought he was an accountant and didn't understand his penchant for nightclubbing even on weeknights.

Their schedules often clashed, but, actually, the less they saw of each other, the better they got along. Their relationship was based almost strictly on convenience. When she invited him to move in with her, it was more convenient for him to accept than to come up with a reason to decline. Besides, they liked the same drugs. They bonded best when they got stoned together. The rest of the time, they were more or less compatible, but not what you could call intimate except when they had sex.

He knew his main appeal was the drugs he brought home to her, but that didn't bother him. He even suspected her of cheating on him, but since he had to be out nearly every night, he couldn't really blame her.

He just hoped she didn't contract a sexually transmitted disease.

The public-service announcements on TV warned against relationships such as theirs, but, hell, his odds for getting whacked by a drug dealer he had set up were far greater than his dying of AIDS.

He slid in beside her and was grateful that she didn't stir. He didn't want a scene. Not after everything he'd been through tonight, including a couple hours in jail. What a freaking zoo!

He'd been locked in a cell with two redneck brothers covered in homemade tattoos, who'd opened up a third brother's scalp with a can opener during a family dispute. Their other cell mate was a transvestite who cowered in the corner and wept in fear of the abusive rednecks.

He'd cried so hard over their insults that his fake eyelashes had come unglued, and that had brought on another crying jag, which had prompted more shouted invectives.

Raymond never had been a good sleeper, but tonight he found it particularly difficult to relax and shut off his skittering thoughts.

After a while, he sat up, thinking that a joint might help relax him.

He reached across his sleeping girlfriend and switched on the nightstand lamp.

What he saw barely registered before he sensed movement behind him.

Raymond Hahn died with a silent scream on his lips.

Burke knew something was up the moment he reported for work. The men lurking around the coffee machine mumbled good mornings as he approached, but no one made eye contact, and by the time he had poured his coffee, they had scattered.