In the Nick of Time (84 page)

“Dayum!”

They broke into laughter as he delicately sat her back onto her feet, made her face him. “You are going to fuck around and make me lose my job when I just got it back!” He checked his watch, an inerasable smile on his face.

She turned away from him for a spell and burst out laughing even harder before facing him once again, pointing like some little kid making fun of the class clown.

“What’s so funny?” he asked in annoyance as he pulled his zipper back up.

“You should see your hat…and your shirt! Oh shit!” she said between uncontrollable giggles.

He looked down, inspected himself.

“Damn it!” His lips turned downward and anger seeped inside of him, regardless of how trivial. “I look like I’ve been rolling around in mud!”

“Okay, calm down,” she said as she made her way over to the counter where she’d set her purse. Yet, she didn’t stop laughing. “Here…”

She handed him two wrapped wet wipes. He snatched them away, irritated with her continued expression of mirth. This only caused her to laugh harder. Tearing the packs open, he went about patting, cleaning, and erasing the proof of their dirty, nasty ways… But it was too late; the shit was inked on his soul. No amount of cleaning would get her scent off him—and he never wished for it to go away in the first damn place.

“I gotta go, baby.” He pulled her close and kissed her nose, then her cheek.

“I’ll see you tonight,” she said as he turned his back to leave. “What do you want for your dinner?”

“Bring carry out, Thigh Bistro.”

When he opened the door, it chimed from an old, dusty bell that swung above his head like the mistletoe at Firststone.

“Thigh Bistro?” she called out.

He smirked as he stepped over the threshold to leave. People moseyed past the place as he straightened his hat, keeping his back turned towards her.

“Yeah, it’s a new joint in town.” With his hand, he traced the brim as he grinned to himself. “When I get off work, I want a window seat between your legs, baby.” He tossed her a look from over his shoulder, then turned back towards the street. “…And make sure you’re on time. I plan to eat for a long while. Wet naps sold separately…”

When a camera flashes, it tells a lie… Photography is the untruth, the living dead. Art is its master, and science is its vice. We only see a portion of the accuracy, the scene, the people, the things… It can’t help but lie, for it is forced to do so. Liars and thieves thrive in a world that is conducive to and feeds their innate desire to deceive. It encourages deception, greed, the need to feed off the success of others. I’ve been lying my entire life…

Yeah, telling beautiful, sweet, seductive lies…

N
ick stood outside
the precinct. The two eggshell colored, cube shaped lamps were mounted into the brick wall; the right one flickered, as if the light were dying right before his eyes. Off to the left hung the police crest, letting the world know who they were…

Police Department

City of New York…

And in big, black bold font right next to it, under the two lights, read the words,

73
^rd
Precinct

He was home away from home…

It had been a long morning. He’d just taken an important test, the kind that his fate hung on. He hoped and prayed no one would circumvent it, make the shit hard, unobtainable. He’d been proving himself, doing right. He wanted this … No, he
needed
it. That day, he recalled what a strange guy named Floyd that used to work there had said during his first year of service. Floyd had been on medical leave almost from the moment he’d stepped foot into the place. The truth was, Captain O’Sullivan was trying to pawn him off onto someone else. Floyd scared easily and how he’d made it through the academy was one of the great mysteries of the world…

“This is the 73
^rd
Precinct, Nick. Do you know what that means?” the scrawny guy asked in his thick West Indian accent as he peered at him from over thick, black-framed bifocal glasses.

“Yeah… it means we’re the 73
^rd
precinct,” Nick retorted, wishing the strange man would go on about his awkward way. He knew the cop wouldn’t last long, for he read into every goddamn thing. Sometimes a robbery was just that, a robbery… It wasn’t the Illuminati, the Devil, or some great universal force at work. Not only that, Floyd was too damn emotional, and emotions killed. Nick knew about that first hand.

“No, it means we’re number one, this precinct. See, seven plus three equals ten and ten in numerology is the number one. That means we are the leaders, Nick. It means we’re in charge, you know? It means we’ll have some of the worst crimes, too. Leaders attract the worst sort, the type other people can’t deal with. It’s not a coincidence, and what I say to you right now is no shim sham! There is a reason as to why Brownsville has such a high crime rate!”

“Got nothin’ to do with joblessness, homelessness, and lack of education, right? Got nothing to do with bored kids, uninvolved parents, huh?” he teased, rather sick of Floyd already. “It’s all because seven plus three equals ten…”

“Well, yeah, I mean… that’s it, but there’s something more powerful at work, something creating all that stuff!”

“Really? Floyd, I think it’s just motherfuckers behaving badly, that’s all. No magic to it…no voodoo or spells. Just people acting fucking crazy, okay?”

“No, Nick, look, you gotta listen to me. You’re the leader of this troop!”

“I’m a police officer just like you, Floyd.” He rolled his eyes. “I’m not the leader of nothin’. You gotta go talk to Sergeant Pirellis, or Captain O’Sullivan, or Lieutenant Walker if you want to talk to some leaders, okay? I have no interest in being a leader, anyway. I just want to do my job, not be holed up in some office all day.”

“Right! I get that, man. You’re a number one though, Nick! Always on the front line.”

“What do you mean on the front line? We all have to be! We get a call, we go. That’s it.”

“No, man, no!” The guy shook his head. “Leaders aren’t always selected, they’re born. Look.” The man looked from right to left as if about to deliver some top-secret news. “Number one people attract that sort of thing, you know… trouble. You’re a number one cop, Nick… You’re a daredevil… Aren’t you an Aries, too? What’s your birthday again, man?”

“Oh man, don’t start! Floyd, we got work to do, okay? Stay away from the caffeine and all that silly hocus pocus shit. Let’s go hit the streets!”

“Hit the streets?” The guy smiled nervously. “Yeah, you not ’fraid of nothing, are you, Nick? But you should be…” His eyes narrowed. “You should be…”

He pushed Floyd’s words away, not certain as to why the old, weathered conversation had jumped out in front of his mind. Oh yeah—he took notice of the 73
^rd
precinct sign outside on the brick wall.

I don’t know anything about numerology. But it’s like today, those numbers mean a little more…

He smirked as he made his way to his new desk, one not covered in manila and green hanging folders. No slip of paper requiring a morning urine sample or hair strand… what a damn relief. Instead, there sat a new computer, his desk nametag, and a packet for him to sign regarding his reinstated obligations. He sat down and contemplated his surroundings, got his bearings. Turning on his computer, he logged in and began his duties. Today, he was assigned to do basic street patrol. He couldn’t wait to slide his ass into that car, smell the leather and old coffee that permeated the thing. He wouldn’t wait for a call to come through before releasing himself like a hound on the prowl, though. First, he’d spend some time reintroducing himself to the people—to let them see him and know he was back. He had a reputation as being a tough motherfucker, and he planned to keep it that way. Many of the residents must have noticed his absence, for it seemed he arrested some of them every damn month. They’d surely question as to why he’d missed their special time together. Regardless, some may know the truth in regard to his unplanned absence, while others would speculate it was just a lousy rumor. Didn’t matter anymore…

He shrugged as his thoughts evaporated, his focus now on Taryn…

I miss you, baby.

She’d left for Paris two afternoons prior with her cute little Louis Vuitton luggage in tow. The house wasn’t the same already. The smell of delicious baked food and her Bond New York perfume no longer floated about the place. She had an important meeting with Jules.

Jules.
He hated that his jealousy had reared its big, bumpy, ugly head. He’d read up on this Mr. Jules Rousseau; not only was the bastard rich and famous, he saw some photos showing the way he eyed his baby, like she was a piece of succulent meat.

He knew that look.

I see you, motherfucker…

Taryn’s new lingerie company under her brand name, ‘Sweet Warrior’, had taken off like his little ass with a handful of stolen goods several lifetimes ago. The press was already rolling in, and he was head over heels proud of her. He’d told her this would happen; he’d known it as soon as he’d flipped through her sketchbooks. Such immense talent and passion the woman had.

Passion… yeah… who else notices my baby’s passion, huh?

He trusted Taryn, knew she’d never cheat on him, but this Jules person was a whole different story. She’d told him she found his new feelings of jealousy ‘cute’, though he didn’t find anything ‘tiny rabbit’ and ‘little chick’ adorable about it. Ms. Popular had become Ms. Popularity; he could barely speak to her on his breaks without her saying, ‘Hold on, someone is trying to call.’

Now, Jules was the primary one… The fucker was blowing her phone up like a suicide bomber—calling her, texting her, saying flirty things disguised as an innocent compliment…

I hate that son of a bitch…

He’d talked himself down many a night, knowing Taryn would never forgive him if he caused a scene and went too far. He wanted to pick up his phone and call the old French, suave fucker and make him a threat he couldn’t refuse. He played it out in his mind, over and over…

Oui Oui, motherfucker! Stop calling my woman all goddamn day! I’d like to jam the Eiffel tower right up your ass!

I gotta stop this shit…

Nick took a deep breath and raked his hands up his face and through his hair, ruffling it so.

“I’ll get some coffee, wake up a bit…” He’d had a hard time sleeping without her, and his crankiness had reached an all time high because of it. He left his damn chair spinning and made for the break area holding his white police mug. As he neared the room, he slowed to a crawl. There, only twenty feet away, hung the crime board, only partially exposed as the door to the little meeting room—the homicide detective den—had been left ajar. That room was the place where plans were made, important meetings conducted, and decisions on what to say to the press were carefully premeditated and orchestrated.