“I can’t believe it,” he laughed derisively at this reporter who was nothing in life.
“You’re giving me a lecture. Look. I’m not going to sit here and tell you business isn’t suffering. I wouldn’t drive downtown at night right now.” He laughed harder, unstoppable, and drunk with his power.
By six p. m. at happy hour, West and Raines were on their way to being drunk at Jack Straw’s A Tavern of Taste, next to La-dee-da’s and Two Sisters, on East Seventh Street. West had changed out of her uniform, and was casual in jeans, a loose denim shirt, and sandals.
She was drinking Sierra Nevada Stout, the beer of the month, and still in a state of disbelief over the videotape she had watched with Hammer.
“Do you have any idea how this makes me and my investigative division look?” she said for the fourth time.
“Christ. Please tell me this is a nightmare. Please, please. I’m going to wake up, right?”
Raines was drinking Field Stone chardonnay, the wine of the month. In gym shorts, Adidas with no socks, and a tank top, he was turning all heads except for the one across the table from him. What was it with her? All she ever talked about was work and that twit from the paper she rode around with. And Niles, oh yes, let’s not forget that fucking, God-save-the-queen, cat. How many times had that cat ruined a building moment? Niles seemed to know exactly when to cause a distraction. A jump on Raines’s back or head, a bite of a sock-covered toe. How about the time Niles sat on the remote control until the volume of Kenny G sounded like an air raid?
“It’s not your fault,” Raines said again, working on the spinach dip.
West ate another pickle fried in beer batter as Jump Little Children began setting up all their equipment and instruments. This small place with blue plastic table cloths and funky art in screaming colors by someone named Tryke was going to rock tonight, jam, trot out primitive Ids and libidos. Raines hoped he could make West stay at least until the second set. Actually, Raines thought what had happened to her all in a day’s work was hilarious. It was all he could do to look tender and concerned.
He imagined Mungo-Jumbo swinging into the Presto to chow down. He spots a dude with a banana in his pocket who’s the head of the Geezer Grill Cartel. A task force is formed, ending with a videotape of Blondie, the King of Vice and top suspect in the Black Widow serial murders, as he cruises Five Points in his tight black jeans and reporter’s notepad. What wouldn’t Raines have paid to see a videotape of Hammer sitting in her important conference room watching this shit!
Christ! He fought a smile again, and was losing. His face was aching and his stomach hurt.
“What’s wrong with you?” West gave him a look.
“There’s nothing fucking funny about this.”
“There certainly isn’t,” he said weakly as he dissolved into laugher, doubled over in his chair, howling as tears streamed down his face.
This went on as Jump Little Children set up amplifiers, and checked Fender electric guitars. Pearl drums with Zildjian medium crash cymbals, and Yamaha keyboards. They gave each other sly looks, flipping long hair out of the way, earrings glinting in the dim light. This guy was fried. Man, look at him go. Cool. The girlfriend wasn’t digging it, either. Him taking a trip she’s not on.
Kind of weird he’s drinking chardonfucking-nay.
West was so angry she wanted to flip over the table, cowboy style. She wanted to jump on top of Raines, flex-cuff his ankles and feet and just leave his sorry ass in the middle of Jack Straw’s on a hot Thursday night. She halfway believed the only person Mungo was undercover for was Goode. Maybe Goode had gotten to him, and promised him favors if he would set up West, and destroy her credibility, her good relationship with Hammer. Oh God. When they had been sitting at that polished table and the video had flickered on, at first West was certain some mistake had been made. Brazil, big as life, was walking along to the sound of traffic, making notes, for Chrissake! How many serial killers or drug kingpins walk around in the middle of the day making notes?