Long Bright River(57)

—Mickey, says Ahearn. He puts his hands to his temples and rubs them. He looks as if he’s deciding whether or not to continue. Then he says, Look, Mickey. Say you’re some lowlife with no money. Say you’re out on the Ave, say you’re looking for action. What’s one way you might get some for free?

I hesitate, just for an instant.

Ahearn is nodding.

—You get it? he says. You say you’re a cop.

I say nothing. I look away. It is possible, I concede, that this might happen from time to time. But Paula is smart. I can’t picture her being duped in this way.

—Anyways, says Ahearn. Listen. I’ll relay the accusation to Nguyen and Internal Affairs if it will make you feel better. Who made it?

—She won’t go on record, I say.

—Between you and me, then, says Ahearn. I can’t go to IA with an anonymous accusation. They’ll laugh me out of the room.

Again, I hesitate.

—Or I don’t have to say anything, says Ahearn. Your call.

—Off the record? I say.

—Off the record.

—Paula Mulroney, I say.

The definition of utilitarian ethics, as it was relayed to us by Ms. Powell, is the greatest good for the greatest number. This is what crosses my mind as I give up Paula.

Sergeant Ahearn nods. I know the name, he says. We’ve brought her in a time or two, haven’t we?

—Or three, I say. Or four.

Ahearn rises, still holding his coffee. He puts the lid back on. He stretches leisurely, letting me know the meeting is now over.

—I’ll pass on the message, he says.

—Thank you, I say.

—And, Mickey, he says, looking me in the eye. Just focus on your job, okay? You’re in the 24th District. You don’t have time to do much else.





Back in my car, I radio to Dispatch that I’m done with lunch. Then I sit in my car, fuming.

If I disliked Sergeant Ahearn before, now I revile him. The way he spoke to me was uncalled for. The way he sat there, imperiously, nodding as if he knew it all already. I think of every possible retort I could have made. Then, feeling impotent, I check my phone.

One voicemail from Truman Dawes.

I listen.

—Mick, he says. Call me as soon as you can.

My hands begin shaking. I call him back. As I wait for him to pick up, I head for the Avenue.

—Answer, I whisper. Answer. Answer.

He doesn’t. I call him again.

On the last ring, he picks up.

—Mickey, he says. Where are you?

—Front and Coral, I say. Heading north on Front.

—I’ll meet you at Emerald and Cumberland, he says.

I’ve already almost missed the turnoff for Emerald, and I swerve dangerously to make it. I briefly turn on my bubble gums, causing two cars nearby to screech to a halt.

I hardly recognize myself these days.

—Is she all right, I say to Truman.

—I don’t know, says Truman.





He’s changed when I pick him up. The only thing I recognize is the backpack he is holding, which now, I presume, contains his undercover attire. He’s back in his jeans, his knee brace now visible; he’s lost the scarf and the sunglasses and even the down jacket.

He gets in, lowering himself painfully into the passenger’s seat. He glances around as he closes the door.

—Why don’t we get out of this neighborhood, he says.

Probably a good idea. I drive southeast again, toward Fishtown.

—What happened? I say.

—I bought a syringe off him, Truman begins. I told him I was in from Bucks. I asked if he could tell me where to score.

I nod. This is the beginning of a familiar story: it’s how half the overdoses in the district happen. People venture in from the suburbs, looking for a fix, and getting more than they or their bodies bargained for in the process. Potent, deadly fentanyl has found its way into most of the heroin for sale around here, and it’s killing even the most experienced users of the drug.

—Follow me, he said, says Truman. He started walking north along the Ave.

—Was he talking to you? I ask him. Did he say anything about himself?

—He said, You’re not a cop, are you? says Truman. I told him, Fuck that, I hate cops. He didn’t say anything else.

Truman clears his throat and glances at me. Continues.



* * *



—

—He took me down an alley off a little street called Madison. You can get in through the back doors of a couple abandos there. So no one else is around now, and Dock starts talking about what he’s got, starts telling me it’s the purest stuff I’ll ever shoot. Asks me how much I want, what I have to spend. Tells me he’s the doctor, he’ll shoot me up if I pay him for it. That’s all right, I say.

He looks at me kind of hard. Says, You sure? You can do it inside here if you want.

I’m getting nervous at this point, thinking about ways out. Thinking he knows I’m a cop. When I was on Vice, I’d have a backup team, I’d be wired, I’d have an exit plan.

I’m good, I say.

So I give him some money and he takes it. Tells me to wait there. You’re not gonna run off with that, right? I say to him.

Nah, he tells me. I’d be out of business in a minute if I did that. So he goes inside, pushes aside a piece of plywood that’s covering the door and disappears.