Tribeca Blues by Fusilli Jim;

Author:Fusilli, Jim;
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Open Road Media
Published: 2018-11-06T16:00:00+00:00

13

Twist didn’t like it, but Addison insisted he go into his office at Midtown North. He insisted by crooking his finger at Twist as I sat next to the young sergeant’s desk in the crowded squad room, my hands still cuffed behind my back.

Surrounded by the buzz of activity and the whirr of an old, ineffective air conditioner on the windowsill, I stayed quiet as I waited to be summoned. No sense in complaining now. Seems silence pays: That guy over there, the tub of muscle who looks like every second-rate strong-arm in low-budget mob movies, he got a free Diet Pepsi. Which didn’t seem to make him any more cooperative: Refusing to answer questions, he shut his eyes, pursed his lips and folded his massive arms in front of his equally massive chest, stretching the fabric of his jacket until it groaned.

The cop called the big guy Tootie.

Twist kept a neat desk, I noticed.

“Yo.”

I turned around.

Twist summoned me in much the way Addison had beckoned him.

“Unhook him,” Addison said as I came into the office.

I’d been in Addison’s boxy space maybe a dozen times in the past five years, but never in handcuffs.

As Twist undid the cuffs, I thought about commenting on the new framed photo Addison had of his wife Giselle on his filing cabinet, but it didn’t seem like the right time. The lieutenant was incensed.

“Tell it,” he said, with steely self-control, as he eased himself into his creaking wooden chair behind his desk. His black jacket hung on the coat tree.

He gestured for me to sit on his old cracked leather sofa.

“This guy grabbed Coceau,” Twist said.

“‘Grabbed’? In what way?”

“He was going at him,” the cop replied. “I told you he would.”

“I see.”

I kept still.

“Then he hit me, so I ran him,” Twist nodded.

Addison folded his hands on his desk and looked at me over a row of file folders stacked in a long bin.

“You hit Sergeant Twist?”

I shrugged.

“And what does that mean, Terry?”

I gestured to Twist’s shirt, which had my palm prints in blood above his collarbones. “I can see why the sergeant thought I tried to hit him,” I replied evenly. “But I wanted to hold him back.”

“Bullshit,” Twist charged

Addison held up his hand. “Why?”

“A misunderstanding,” I said.

Addison frowned.

“I realize now he wanted to get back to Coceau,” I continued. “At the time, I thought he was coming at me.”

Unable to accept the consideration, Twist waved his hand at me in disgust.

Addison sat back, held up a pink WHILE YOU WERE OUT message slip. “I’ve got a call here from a Jose Ramirez, who lives on West End Avenue and 120th. Mr. Ramirez here says he saw the entire episode.” He looked at Twist. “Which one of us calls him, Rey? You or me?”

Twist took the slip. “I’ll handle it.”

“Fine,” Addison said. Then he looked at me. “Go wash up, Terry, and get right back in here.”

I stood and left the office.

I waited outside as Luther Addison dressed down his young sergeant, the pale-green tempered-glass walls rattling as he shouted.

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