Sly Fox: A Dani Fox Novel (17 page)

“That’s one chicken-fried steak, piled with French fries smothered in white cream gravy,” Ellen revealed with delight as she scribbled on a notepad. “And what would you like, dear?”

“Do you serve salads?”

“Only when I have to!” She chuckled.

“They serve food here that sticks to your ribs,” O’Brien said.

“And your arteries,” I replied. “Surely you can fix me some sort of salad in the kitchen.”

Ellen gave me a disappointed look and then waddled away.

“I heard the boys were playing a little rough with you,” O’Brien said. “So when I saw you duck out of the church, I followed you. I’ve already called a tow truck. The driver will pump up your tires and drop off your car at your house. I gave him the address. No harm done.”

“No harm?”

“The boys just let the air out. They didn’t puncture your tires.”

For that I was supposed to feel grateful?

“Where’s Rudy Hitchins?” I asked.

“His girlfriend claims he fled south, which makes us think that he probably headed to Canada. We have contacted U.S. Customs and also the Mounties.”

“I think he’s still here.”

“Oh, so now you’re a detective?”

“The other night in the woods, I saw a man. I couldn’t tell who he was. But he was hurrying through the woods, all alone. I know it wasn’t Pisani and Whitaker.”

“This guy—did you see him right after you left the clearing?”

“Yeah, I did.”

O’Brien grinned. “That was me. I was looking for you. I thought you might get lost. Obviously, you didn’t.”

Ellen brought coffee and a Dr Pepper.

“How do you drink that stuff?” O’Brien asked. But he didn’t wait for me to reply. Instead, he said, “I’m gonna tell you a story. My old man worked as a correctional officer all his life at Attica. Ten of his pals died during the big riot there in nineteen seventy-one.”

“Was he hurt?”

“Naw, he’d retired a month before. But he watched the riot on TV and he wished like hell that he’d been part of it. He was angry as hell that the state lost control to the inmates. A few weeks later, he died unexpectedly.”

“A heart attack?”

“Him? Naw. Not sure he even had a heart. It was retirement that killed him. He wasn’t cut out to sit at home.”

O’Brien didn’t seem too upset about his father’s death.

Ellen arrived with food and the plate she plopped down in front of O’Brien was gigantic. He tucked a paper napkin in his collar and cut into the battered steak. “What you got to understand is that my father didn’t have anything in his life but his job. At Attica, he was a somebody who could crack heads and push people around. After he retired, he was just another retired schmuck.”

He took a sip of coffee and a huge bite. “Now to the point of my story. At Attica, whenever a new hire showed up, the other officers would test him. They’d wait for an inmate to go nuts. When inmates did, most would throw soapy water on the cell floor to make it slippery. They’d rub butter all over themselves for the same reason, and finally they’d break off a mop handle to use as a weapon. They’d scream at the officers, challenging them to come into the cell. That’s how they did it back then.”

“That’s awful.”

“Are you kidding? My old man loved it. Four or five officers would gather outside the cell and they’d talk about how they were going to rush in and tackle the inmate. Meanwhile, the inmate would back as far as he could against the cell’s rear wall and then the officers would pop open that cell door. Only the old-timers would always hesitate to make sure the new guy went through first.”

O’Brien paused to take another bite. “Do you know why they wanted the new guy to go first?”

I shrugged. I wasn’t in the mood for guessing games.

“Because they wanted to see what he was made of. Was he going to hold his mud and fight or was he going to run? The ones who got scared—the older officers would let that inmate whup on him for a while because they knew he was a coward and they wanted him to get injured or scared enough that he’d quit. But the ones who went toe-to-toe with that inmate—as soon as the others saw that, they’d race in and kick the shit out of that prisoner.”

I nodded.

O’Brien said, “What you got to understand, Counselor, is you’re being tested—especially because you’re a skirt.”

He pointed a gravy-smeared fork at me. “There are three types of people. The wolves: people like Hitchins. The sheep: the good, law-abiding folks in our communities who have nine-to-five jobs, nice families, and go to church each Sunday. And the shepherds: the cops, correctional officers, state troopers, deputies, and, yes, even the prosecutors. We’re the only thing standing between the wolves and the sheep.”

“I get it.”

“I’m not sure you do get it, Counselor. When you refused to back up Jones and his buddies outside O’Toole’s, that made you suspect. They don’t know if they can trust you. Now that Hitchins has killed Mary Margaret and her mother, well, some of the guys are blaming you. So they’re testing you to see if you’re going to run back to Whitaker and cry. They’re watching to see if you are going to complain to our chief. Or maybe you’ll even quit.”

“I’m not going to run away because someone let the air out of my tires. But you’ve got to understand. I don’t break rules. Most things are black and white to me. There’s not much gray.”

“How old are you?”

“Why’s that matter? Okay, I’m twenty-five. How old are you?”

“More than double that, but I still remember how I thought I knew everything at your age. I lost that in the streets. You’ll learn. The streets wear you down and pretty soon those black-and-white rules start to bend. After a while, the streets take over your life, just like Attica took over my old man’s life. It begins when you stop feeling like you’re off the clock. No matter what, your mind is on the streets, even when you’re at home with the kids and wife having dinner. Your mind is thinking about that homicide you just saw, thinking about those punks who are beating up some lady for pocket change. Watching television, playing cards with a neighbor, going to church and singing ‘Glory Glory, Hallelujah’—all that normal shit most people do suddenly bores the hell out of you. You become addicted to the adrenaline, the danger. All you think about is the streets. Pretty soon the only friends you got are other cops because they’re the only ones who understand the streets. You got more in common with your partner than your wife. The streets will strip you of your idealism, Counselor. In a few months, you won’t be so black and white. If you last.”

He swallowed a big wad of French fries that he’d stabbed. “Consider these murders your wake-up call.”

“Do you blame me for what happened?”

“Hell no! You did the right thing going after that prick. How were you to know he was going to kill her and her old lady? You can’t go around blaming yourself every time someone else goes crazy.”

“That’s not what Carl Jones thinks.”

“You shouldn’t care what he thinks. If anyone should feel guilty, it’s him. He’s more responsible for Mary Margaret’s death than you.”

I suspected O’Brien was telling me that it was Detective Jones who had gotten Mary Margaret pregnant.

“Anyway,” he continued, “all you can do is learn from this.”

“Learn what?”

“Learn what I just told you. That being black and white don’t always work. Sometimes you got to bend the rules.”

I’d hardly taken a bite from what was supposed to be a salad—a few pieces of lettuce, a tomato, and some mushrooms—but he’d finished the steak and most of the fries. He waved to Ellen to refill his coffee and made no pretense about averting his eyes from her ample posterior when she walked away.

Apparently done with his lecture, he asked, “So how come your parents gave you a boy’s name? I figured your name was Danielle, but I ran a background check on you.”

“You ran a background check on me?”

“Yeah, so,” he responded in a matter-of-fact voice.

“That’s illegal, isn’t it?”

“I’m a cop. I was looking for your address. Don’t be naive.”

“My first name is Dani. It’s not short for anything. My grandparents came from Lebanon. My parents chose it because of its meaning.”

“Oh yeah, what’s that?”

“Judge or judgment.”

“Well, they got that right. You’re definitely judgmental.”

I wasn’t certain he meant it as a compliment.

“How about Fox? Where’s that come from? I thought all they had in Lebanon was camels and sand.”

“No one could pronounce my grandfather’s name when he arrived at Ellis Island. Some immigration official thought it would be funny to change it to Fox.”

I decided to turn the tables. “Since I didn’t run a background check on you, what’s your story? Why did you get divorced—twice?”

“I wasn’t very good at marriage.”

“Let me guess, your wives didn’t understand you. They didn’t understand the streets?” I said mockingly.

“Actually, they
did
understand me. That’s why they left. Both of them realized they’d never be as important to me as the guys who backed me up each day at work. Even a prick like Jones. Every birthday, anniversary, holiday—I was like a caged animal at home. I’m not the type who remembers anniversaries or goes to kids’ school talent shows.”

“You got kids?”

“Yeah, two. Don’t see them.”

“Too busy?”

“They don’t like having me around. One’s in high school and the other is married. Putting me and their mothers in the same room ain’t good.”

O’Brien pushed his plate away, finished his coffee, and inserted a new toothpick between his lips. “What I’m trying to explain to you, Counselor, is that guys like me and Jones, we don’t have nothing much in our lives but this. We don’t have no one but each other. And when someone new comes in and pisses on our turf, it doesn’t go well.”

Continuing, he said, “Speaking of taking a piss, I need to use the little boys’ room. You still owe me ten bucks from our bet, so you pay the check and leave Ellen a good tip. I don’t want her thinking I stiffed her. I’ll meet you at the car. This little talk ain’t done, but the next part needs to be said in private.”

The bill was $5.75. The diner didn’t charge cops for their food, Ellen told me. I left her a ten. I paid my debt.

18

O’Brien was waiting impatiently behind the steering wheel when I got to the cruiser. Pulling into the street, he asked: “You know who Mark Steinberg is, right?”

“I’d better. He’s our chief of staff.”

“But do you know who Kieran McMichael is?”

“No. Don’t have a clue.” I really didn’t like him playing these guessing games. “Look, if you got something to tell me, just spit it out, okay?”

O’Brien slid the toothpick in his mouth from one side to the other, a sign that I assumed meant he was irked. “Kieran McMichael works for a large political consulting firm. Every four weeks, he and Steinberg meet with your boss in the D.A.’s office to discuss the latest polling numbers.”

“It’s spring. The November election is still months away.”

“McMichael does polling year-round. If you know which way a parade is going, it’s easy to jump out front and be the bandleader.”

That was a good one, I thought.

“The reason,” O’Brien said, “these early polls are important is because they’re real polls—ones that truly reflect the attitudes of voters.”