by Bill Stanton
“Hey, Frankenstein. Can I call you Frankenstein even though you’re black? I mean, I’m not violating some politically correct race thing if I do that, am I? I can’t think of any black monsters. Does Blacula count? Sorry, I meant Count Blacula,” Bishop said, laughing at his own lame joke. “I don’t think there were any actual black monsters, were there? Whatever. Anyway, we’re going for a little ride? Are you kidding me with this bull—”
“Shut the FUCK up!” the guy screamed, cutting him off. “That’s your last warning. You either shut up and listen or you can kiss your pistol license and your PI license good-bye. Am I clear?”
Bishop didn’t say anything, just sat back and tried to place the guy. Who in the NYPD would be able to take a precinct sector car off-line and use it at will, like his personal vehicle? No detective he knew could do that. And the guy’s suit was way too nice for a detective. Maybe he was a chief? But Bishop was pretty sure he knew all the chiefs. One thing was clear as they got on the expressway—they were headed to Manhattan.
Traffic was very light and in no time they were in midtown. Bishop still had no idea what was going on. They pulled over on Fifty-Third Street and Broadway, to a side entrance of the Sheraton. The guy helped Bishop out of the car and—finally!—took the cuffs off. “Remember,” he said as they headed into the hotel, “behave.” Once they were inside the Sheraton’s blue and beige lobby, it was clear that some event was about to start, as hundreds of expensively dressed people were funneling into the main ballroom. Security personnel were everywhere. People in and out of uniform acknowledged the big guy and Bishop. Some of them were talking into their wrist, and Bishop wondered if they were Secret Service or part of the NYPD’s Intelligence Division. Almost everyone, guests and security alike, was in black tie.
“Hey, Frankenstein,” Bishop said quietly as they got into a side elevator, “if you’d given me a heads-up I would’ve had my tux ready. I own three, in case you were wondering. One’s a Hugo Boss, six-button double-breasted model with peaked lapels. Another is a shawl collar—”
“Shut up,” the big guy said, cutting Bishop off, and Bishop could see by the look on his face he was serious.
The elevator stopped on the fifteenth floor, where there was a security guy waiting, and the three of them headed to the corner suite. The double doors swung open and revealed a huge living area done in subtle beige tones, with lots of marble, an oak dining table, a plush leather couch, and a flat-screen TV. Standing by the floor-to-ceiling windows that looked south on Times Square was A. J. Ross. A bored-looking female security agent stood by the dining table.
Bishop looked at A. J. and with a shrug of his shoulders said, “What the fuck? What is this, the NYPD’s rendition program?”
“Cute,” A. J. said, obviously annoyed. “Guys,” he said, looking at his watch and turning to the security agents, “I’ve been here a long time. I know he’s doing me a favor, but I gotta tell you, if he doesn’t show in the next five or ten minutes, I’m outta here. My time is valuable as well.”
Almost on cue, the female agent, with her head cocked and her index finger pressed to her IFB wireless earpiece, said into her wrist: “Affirmative, both subjects are here awaiting the Eagle, ten-four.” Looking at A. J., she said, “He’s in the elevator and on the way up.”
“Hey,” Bishop said, “is anybody gonna tell me what the fuck is going on?”
“No,” A. J. responded. “Just shut up.”
Before Bishop could fire back, the doors swung open, there was a flurry of activity, and moving like a fighter surrounded by his entourage on his way to the ring, Lawrence Brock made his entrance. Wearing a tuxedo and holding an unlit cigar the size of an electric toothbrush in his left hand, Brock was all smiles. While the people around him all seemed to be talking on their cell phones, the commissioner shook hands with A. J. and Bishop.
“Let’s step in the other room so we can have some privacy,” he told them. “I apologize that I’m a little pressed for time, but I’ve got to get downstairs shortly and introduce the mayor. It’s a fund-raising dinner.”
“Commissioner,” one of his aides said, “please remember we need to go over your speech again.”
“I know, I know,” he said, raising his cigar-laden hand. “Give me five minutes with no interruptions.” The aide looked at her watch, smiled curtly, took out her cell, and began dialing.
The commissioner ushered A. J. and Bishop into the other room of the suite and closed the door behind them. Lighting his cigar, Brock said behind a big puff of smoke, “Guys, before I ask how the two of you know each other, I’ve got a more important question. What the fuck are you doing?”
Both men were dumbfounded. They stared at him not knowing what to say. “Really, boys,” Brock began again, as if he were talking to two mischievous children. “What are you doing? The entire city is kissing my ass. They want me canonized, and you morons are out in Brooklyn turning over rocks to try and find some fuckin’ Muslim to piss on me and the department. I don’t get it. Bishop, if it wasn’t for A. J. here calling me, you’d be down at Central Booking right now getting your picture taken. A. J., I thought you keep better company than this. You can kiss your exclusive good-bye if this is who you’re gonna run around with.”
Brock paused for a moment, checked his watch, and took a long drag on his cigar. Exhaling, he said, “We can all get what we want here. A. J., call my office tomorrow and let’s schedule dinner. Bishop, if you stop chasing ambulances and trying to make me look like an asshole, I could probably even throw you a bone.”
“Hey, Commish,” Bishop said, “I was just wonderin’. Who’s the Frankenstein-looking assbag who drove me here?”
Brock smiled. “You’re a piece of fuckin’ work. That’s Chester, he’s part of my detail. Think you could take him? I’d like to see that.”
Bishop didn’t say anything. “All right, guys,” Brock said finally, “I gotta get going. I assume we’re clear on this. I’d invite you to the dinner downstairs, but you both look like you’re in desperate need of a shower. Not to mention a tailor.”
With that, Brock walked past Bishop without acknowledging him and enthusiastically shook A. J.’s hand. “Call my office to set up the dinner.” Then, from the other room: “And don’t forget you owe me now, A. J.”
As Brock went out the door, everyone else followed. In an instant, the suite was empty except for A. J. and Bishop. For a moment they just stood there staring at each other.
“Shit,” Bishop said suddenly through a half-cracked smile. “My fucking car is still in Brooklyn.”
10
LUCY WAS AT her desk at the New York offices, which was right outside A. J.’s office. Her cubicle was small but comfortable and had the cluttered look of someone who was not just busy, but busy working on a variety of different projects simultaneously. There were stacks of press releases and invitations on her desk, a growing tower of newspapers on the floor, and dozens of Post-it notes with instructions from A. J. stuck all over the place like random yellow decorations. There were no personal items except for one small photo of Lucy and her father taken at his sixtieth-birthday party.
She was on the phone with a news producer at a local TV station, hoping to track down footage of the Kevin Anderson murder-suicide scene in the Hamptons. As she was wrapping up the call, she saw Frank Bishop approaching her cubicle. She recognized him from his TV appearances. “Hi,” she said, “can I help you?”
“Ah, I’m sure you could,” he responded lecherously, with a big snow-white, bleached-teeth grin. “But right now I’m looking for A. J. Ross.”
Lucy ignored the lame attempt at . . . what, charm? Flattery? Wit? She wasn’t sure what it was. She felt like it was just one of those days when every guy she dealt with seemed more immature than the last.
“He’s not in the office,” she said with just a hint of edge in her voice. “I’m his assistant.”
“My name is Frank Bishop. I’m a private investigator,” he said completely strai
ght, having noted Lucy’s icy reaction to his opening line.
“Yes, A. J. told me about you.”
“Okay, given how this is going so far, I can guess what he said. Anyway, I need to talk to him.”
“Don’t you have his cell—”
“It’s Lucy, right?” Bishop asked, cutting her off. “I do,” he lied, “but I really need a face-to-face. It’s important.”
“Well, he won’t be back this afternoon. He coaches his daughter’s softball team and they have practice today.”
“I don’t suppose there’s any chance I can get you to—”
“What? Tell you where they practice? I’ll make you a deal, Mr. Bishop. I have to drop off some papers for him. If you promise you’ll tell him you forced me at gunpoint, I’ll let you drive me out there.”
Twenty minutes later, Bishop and Lucy were on the West Side Highway heading toward the George Washington Bridge. The decision to take the bridge and not the Lincoln Tunnel was made only after a brief argument. Lucy pushed for the tunnel because it was more direct. But it was a beautiful afternoon and Bishop, predictably, wanted to put the top down on his Porsche and enjoy the ride. Once the small talk began, it made Lucy wish they were still arguing about the route.
“So,” Bishop asked with a smirk on his face, “what’s a nice girl like you doing working for an elitist, liberal douchebag like Ross?”
Normally, Lucy would’ve gone nuts over a remark like that, but she was certain Bishop was intentionally baiting her, crudely probing to get some idea of who she was. “Does this technique work with all the women you try to fuck? Or fuck with?” Lucy asked, deciding to dive straight in.
“Ooooooh, I love it when you talk dirty. But I don’t know what you mean.”
“Whatever,” Lucy replied, rolling her eyes and shrugging her shoulders.
After a few minutes of quiet, they filled the rest of the forty-five-minute ride into New Jersey with meaningless chatter about politics. They agreed on practically nothing but managed to keep the conversation pleasant. Bishop was amazed that someone so hot could be so smart—and not be jaded. Lucy was optimistic in a way he hadn’t seen in a long time.
At Lucy’s direction, they pulled off the highway at a very expensive, upscale suburban town and drove to a large, meticulously kept municipal park. In the front area where you drove in, there was a gleaming public pool, basketball courts, a roller-hockey rink, and eight tennis courts. “Keep going past the last tennis court,” Lucy told Bishop. “The fields are in the back.” There were three baseball diamonds and two softball fields, all of them buzzing with activity. Bishop drove out to the farthest field, where A. J. was standing at home plate and hitting grounders to the infielders. As he and Lucy got out of the car and walked toward the field, they could hear him giving instructions to the girls. He was direct but encouraging, demanding but with a deft touch. It was easy to see he cared about the girls and they hung on his every word.
“Ash,” he said to a girl playing third base, “make sure you stay down on the ball and look it all the way into your glove. And remember, on a hard-hit ball like that you’ve got plenty of time to make the throw.”
A. J. saw Lucy and Bishop walking toward the field, but he didn’t acknowledge them for more than fifteen minutes. His focus was on the girls. Finally, he told the team to take a couple of laps and then get some water. Only after the girls started running did he walk over and say hello. He looked at his watch and then at Lucy.
“Weren’t you supposed to call me?” he asked her. Lucy began to stammer. “And what time were you supposed to meet me?”
“You said six fifteen at your house,” Lucy responded haltingly.
“And where are we now and what time is it?”
Bishop tried to interject. Without even looking at him, A. J. held up his hand and said, “Am I cross-eyed? I didn’t think so. I’m talking to Lucy, not you.”
Bishop laughed it off, but Lucy, who usually had all the self-assurance and poise of someone with twice her experience, suddenly looked like one of the teenage girls on the field trying to please the coach.
“I’m sorry, A. J., it’s my fault,” she said.
“Okay,” he said. “I just wanted to make sure there was no confusion about my instructions. Let’s move forward.”
A. J. was wearing warm-up pants and a Brooklyn Half Finisher T-shirt from the previous year’s race. He looked warm, dusty, and sweaty. He went over to the dugout and picked up a water bottle.
“We need to talk,” Bishop said.
“Okay. Lucy, do me a favor and hang here till the girls are done running. When they finish, tell them to get a drink, take a little breather, and then do the over-under drill. They’ll understand. I’ll be back before they’re done. Bishop, let’s take a walk.”
A. J. and Bishop headed toward the other field. Bishop was amazed by how many girls were out practicing on a Tuesday afternoon. And they all looked like ballplayers. They threw hard, they hit screaming line drives, they dove for grounders, and the pitching was downright frightening. He couldn’t believe how fast they threw. He knew girls played, but not like this.
“They’re pretty good, aren’t they?” A. J. said. “People who’ve never seen athletic teenage girls play softball are always amazed. You play ball in school?”
“Me?” Bishop said. “No. I was awful. I had to play ball in shoes when I was younger. My father said I was so bad it was a waste of money to buy me sneakers. My brother was the athlete and he got all the equipment. It’s one of the reasons I started working out.”
“Listen,” A. J. said after an awkward pause. “You didn’t have to come all the way out here to apologize. A phone call would’ve been sufficient.”
“That’s funny,” Bishop said without a smile. “This is a nice life you’ve got here. I never would’ve taken you for a girls’ softball coach.”
“Why would you assume anything about me? You’re an investigator, but you have no clue who I am. You don’t know anything about me.”
“You lived in the Bronx until you were five,” Bishop countered. “Then you moved to a modest two-family house in Queens, which your parents could only afford to buy by renting half of it. Your father had a nondescript office job with the city and making ends meet was always a struggle. Your intellectual gifts were recognized early and you skipped fourth grade. You also skipped eighth grade. You went to Stuyvesant High School, which meant you commuted by subway for an hour and fifteen minutes each way. You were basically a lazy student, bored probably, who got by on natural ability. You went to City College, lived at home, and mostly skipped classes and hung out with your friends. You dropped out after your sophomore year and worked at odd jobs for a while before talking your way into a bottom-rung job at the Daily News. That lasted about four years—”
“Okay, okay, I get the point,” A. J. said, cutting him off. Now it was his turn to be surprised. “You know how to use Google and did some homework. I stand corrected.”
“Not exactly the preppy, Ivy League, top-tier background people probably assume the buttoned-up, accomplished journalist A. J. Ross would have, right?”
“Are you gonna continue with this?” A. J. said, starting to get a little annoyed. “Besides, people who live in half–Puerto Rican, half-Polish houses shouldn’t throw stones.”
Bishop laughed. “Good comeback,” he said. “Let’s call it a draw. Besides, I didn’t come out here to talk about you. Or me, believe it or not. I came to talk about the case. I appreciate what you did in Brooklyn, calling in the cops. You didn’t have to help me. Especially after the way I treated you. I gave you no intel at all and I’m sure you figured I was just winging it. But my guys did some legwork in the neighborhood—they ran Jafaari’s phone bill and his credit cards—so the places I went and the people I talked to weren’t random. I had a plan. Not a very good one, I’ll admit, but it was a plan. I went out there intending to shake things up a little. I just left the blender on too long.”
“Way too lo
ng,” A. J. said.
“I shouldn’t have gotten you in the middle of it. Anyway, I’m here to tell you that even though I’m under orders to work with you, I want to voluntarily cooperate on this.”
A. J. was watching the action on the field while he listened. He didn’t say anything for a few minutes after Bishop finished. Bishop thought maybe he was still pissed. Then he stood up and stepped off the bleachers. “You see that girl at shortstop?” A. J. asked, stretching his legs. “Watch how she gets ready on every pitch. Her knees are bent, she’s on the balls of her feet, and both of her hands are low to the ground and a little out in front of her. She’s balanced, focused, and ready to move. When a ball’s hit to her, there’s no excess motion, no showy maneuvers. On a hard grounder she doesn’t have to waste time getting her hands down to where the ball is and then bringing them back up to throw. They’re already in position and the only direction they go is up, when she brings the ball into her body after she catches it. She hasn’t missed a ball since we’ve been here. It’s all about fundamentals. Doing the little things right. You want to be a real player, that’s how you build your game.”
“So, is that an ‘Okay, Frank, good, I want to cooperate on this too’?” Bishop asked, aware of what A. J. was saying.
“I guess,” A. J. responded without much enthusiasm as he started walking back to the other field. “But no more bullshit.”
“Okay,” Bishop agreed.
“Something’s not right about this case. I’m not even talking about the fact that Brock participated in the raid. I mean, the police commissioner has us both brought to the Sheraton, where he’s introducing Mayor Domenico at a major fund-raiser, just so he can tell us to back off? What the hell was that?”
“There’s more,” Bishop said. “When I held that fat guy’s head to the fire in the hookah bar—”
“The expression,” A. J. interrupted, “is to hold someone’s feet to the fire.”