Swiftly and with a thin-waisted grace for one so broad and hulkish as himself, Johnny sprang from the car and headed for the Row. He hadn’t eaten since yesterday and this wasn’t the kind of man who took his appetite lightly. There came a point when he had to eat.
Regents Row was dark and cool, was reasonably priced, served magnificent steaks, and catered to the force. Not that you were treated special in there, mind you. You waited your turn for a table no matter who you were. Hizzy ran that place the same way Captain Furgueson ran the station house: no favors for no one, no freebies. And Hizzy never forgot your name. Johnny respected that, too. It showed control.
He slung his jacket over one shoulder and crossed the street, oblivious to the admiring glances of the housewives coming and going from the supermarket and the Homestead Deli. His shin was throbbing like a bastard but he hardly noticed. One more medal from Nam that congratulated him every time rain was expected.
Johnny opened the door and his heart sank. The bar was filled with women, church social women, waiting to be seated for their Rosary Society lunch. Hizzy came right over and extended his plump hand. “How ya been, Johnny?”
Johnny gave him one of his rare, disarming smiles. “Yourself?”
“Hey, I’m fine,” Hizzy pumped his hand, then waved in a broad, all-encompassing sweep. “Sorry about all this. Every month, like a clock. You can’t get ’em seated and then you can’t get ’em to leave.” He squinted at Johnny. “Bad doings up in the park, huh?”
Johnny looked at his feet and said nothing. Hizzy knew better than that. “I gotta go, Hizzy. Good to see ya an all but I gotta get something to eat real quick and then get some sleep.”
“Why doncha come back in the kitchen and I’ll have Irwin fix you up a couple a sandwiches to go … how bout it?”
“That’s okay, Hizzy. Next time. I’ll get something at the pizza place. Short and sweet.” He knew Hizzy was dying to get some inside dope on the murder. So it had spread this far that quick, eh? Terrific. Nice can a worms this was gonna be. He left as fast as he’d come in and walked across the hot white boulevard. Johnny slapped himself in the head. He must be punchy. He’d told Furgueson he’d try and check out that crackpot license number story. Furgueson had said it was probably a waste of time but Johnny had said he’d look into it anyway. It could wait until he’d had some sleep. It was gonna have to.
The pizza place was pretty empty; at least it was cool and shaded under the canopy on the street. He ordered three slices and a large Coke and sat down at one of the little tables outside. Johnny rubbed his eyes with both hands and looked down the street. He wished the weather would make up its mind. One minute dark clouds threatened and the next you thought you should be at the beach. He was tired. Real tired. He’d just been going off duty when this whole mess had started, and this was the first moment he’d had to sit down and think.
A group of young paisan, the criminal sort with nothing much to do with their daylight hours, cavorted like Gay Parisians at the next two tables. Coke spoons dangled from 18 karat gold chains and silk shirts were opened the obligatory four buttons.
Each passing female was graded with uproarious detail. Plans were made for Saturday night’s rent-a-limo. A blond flight attendant’s phone number changed hands.
They didn’t know who Johnny was (what cop drove a 1972 Triumph Stag?) and so they spoke openly, sometimes in Sicilian, among themselves. He understood most of what they said and on another day would have been remarking every word. As it was, he had other things on his mind, some sort of psychopathic, child-molesting monster whose evil he could still see in his mind’s eye and probably always would, and he wasn’t paying them much mind.
The boy came out with his pizza and Johnny inhaled two of them, swallowed his entire Coke, ordered another, then sat back and enjoyed the third slice. God, he loved good pizza. In all his thirty-three years he must have consumed seven thousand pizzas. Nobody cooked for him, that was for sure. Nobody ever had.
Johnny Benedetto had no family to speak of, unless you counted his old friend Red Torneo. He’d had a wife for about four months. She was lucky she was still alive. He’d found her in bed with her hairdresser. Jesus. He’d put all his clothes in one lousy suitcase while the two of them cowered in the bed like the little pieces of shit that they were, and he’d walked out and he’d never gone back. The next time he’s seen her, and the last, had been at the divorce hearing six months ago. That was it.