The Second Girl(25)

“That’s good. I gotta run an errand in Maryland in the morning,” I say, referring to taking care of the truck for Claypole. “And I’ll talk to them for you, but that’s it. I’ll give Davidson a call beforehand, though.”

“Thank you. And I don’t even know why I have to say thank you.”

“Well, you already f*cked up the thank you by having to add that.”

She smiles and turns the radio back up. Fucking Pearl Jam this time.

I can’t find parking anywhere near Shelly’s. I circle the block, then decide on an illegal space at the corner of 13th and F.

I grab my police patch outta the center console box and toss it on the dashboard.

“You’re not a cop anymore. You can’t use that,” she says.

I shoot her a brief but hard glare. “Really,” is all I say, and then I step out of the car.





Twenty



Little whirlwinds of smoke are carried up to the ceiling and through the ventilation system. What’s left of the smoke diffuses the light to a warm glow. If you haven’t been here in a while, like Costello, your lungs might have a hard time with all this lingering smoke. She doesn’t complain.

Groups of people are scrunched together on large couches, in overstuffed seats, and around tables.

I spot McGuire first and then Luna sitting across from him, at a good table near the bar, under the mural. The mural depicts what I’ve always imagined a restful, cigar-loving Cuban village would have looked like way back when, before I was born.

Luna sees me, waves us over.

“What’s up, Frankie?” he calls as we approach, then reaches across the table to knock knuckles, in the time-honored tradition. He turns to Costello. “Leslie Costello. This is a surprise. Have you finally come to your senses and decided to come back to our side?”

“Social visits only,” she says.

McGuire’s smoking a fat one. He nods at me, then turns to Costello.

“Good to see you, Leslie,” he says.

“Good to see you, too, Stan.”

We pull out the stools and sit.

Luna’s drinking something “neat,” a light golden color, like vitamin-enriched urine. More than likely bourbon. I enjoy good bourbon on occasion, but for social occasions I prefer a pick-me-up drink, such as rum or vodka.

They both look like they came here straight from work. McGuire’s wearing a long-sleeve mock turtleneck pullover with a zipper at the neck. Looks like he hasn’t shaved in a few days, but that’s the look most of the narcotics guys have. Looks like he needs a haircut, too—probably sooner than later or the back will start looking more and more like a mullet. I can see a few gray hairs starting to come in along his sideburns. Luna’s the opposite—squared away, clean shaven, wearing a casual button-down shirt under a tan sport coat.

“I saved one for you,” Luna says as he hands me a Churchill-style cigar. I examine the label.

“Cuban.”

“I still have a nice little stash in my humidor,” he adds maybe too proudly.

I roll it between my thumb and index finger and smell it. I set it on the large cigar ashtray in the center of the table.

“Appreciate that, Albino. I’ll fire it up with my drink.”

“If I had known you were coming too, Les—”

“No worries, Albino,” she stops him. “I prefer something smaller.”

“So you’re admitting that smaller is better,” McGuire jumps in.

“Don’t go there, old boy,” I say, as if I need to defend her.

“Sounds like you just admitted to something, McGuire,” she says.

Luna barks and coughs his bourbon.

“No worries there, counselor. I can prove it if you want.”

“Okay, stand and show us,” she says.

McGuire puffs out a laugh.

“What the f*ck, McGuire, you should be proud of it,” I say.

“Just give me a warning so I can look the other way,” Luna says.

“You afraid to see your wife naked, Luna?” I ask.

“Fuck you,” McGuire says. “He’s the bitch in this marriage, not me.”

“See what I have to put up with,” Luna says.

The waitress works her way to our table.

“What’ll it be?” She smiles.

I worry about what McGuire might say to that. Luckily, his lips are wrapped around his cigar; no doubt he’s thinking about his dick.

“Belvedere martini, two olives, please.”

“Zacapa 23, neat, and a Corona on the side,” I say.

“Be right back,” she advises, with another smile.

“So you got a good hit outta that house on Kenyon?” I ask them.

Luna glances at Costello, like we shouldn’t be talking shop in front of her. Might not be a good thing with any other defense attorney, or even with Costello if there were a chance she’d be picking up one of the defendants as a client. But there ain’t no chance in hell of that happening. She’d have to recuse herself because she took in the little girl. Besides, I’d like to think she wouldn’t defend animals like them. Costello senses Luna and McGuire’s reluctance, but it doesn’t piss her off.

“I’m going to the ladies’ room,” she says with a mild grin.