Class Act

3

Stone settled into his desk chair and contemplated the stack of papers next to his keyboard.

His secretary, Joan, contemplated Stone. “Dino scanned and e-mailed that to you. I printed it out, since I know how you hate reading screens.”

“That’s thoughtful of you,” Stone replied. “It would have been even more thoughtful of you if you had printed half the stack.”

“Which half?” Joan asked.

“Oh, all right, I’ll read it.”

“It appears to be police files on one Michael Xavier O’Brien,” Joan said. “A retired police officer.”

“Have you read the whole thing?” Stone asked. “Because if you have, you can just give me the gist and save me a lot of time.”

“Well, maybe not the whole thing,” Joan said. “A lot of it, though.”

“How much?” Stone asked.

Joan inserted a fingernail about three-quarters of the way down the stack. “About to here,” she said.

“And you remember all of what you read?”

“Pretty much.”

“Okay,” Stone said, handing her the whole stack, “finish it, then brief me.”

“Okay,” Joan replied cheerfully. She picked up the stack and trotted back to her office.

Stone’s phone buzzed. “Yes?”

“Dino, on one.”

Stone pressed the button. “Good morning.”

“Why?” Dino asked. “Aren’t you reading the file?”

“Joan is reading it. She’s already three-quarters through.”

“I couldn’t even print it that fast.”

“I seem to remember that she took a speed-reading course a while back, but I haven’t seen the results until now.”

“She’ll never be able to retain it long enough to pass it on to you.”

“I heard that,” Joan said over the speaker.

“You weren’t supposed to,” Stone said. “You were supposed to be reading the rest of the file.”

“I’ve read the rest of the file,” she said.

“I don’t believe you.”

“Ask me something about Michael X. O’Brien.”

“How old is he?”

“Fifty.”

“Where does he live?”

“In Brooklyn, in his mother’s house.”

“What was his mother’s maiden name?”

“O’Brien.”

“No, that was her married name.”

“She married her third cousin, O’Brien. He got her the job at his brother’s restaurant.”

“And the brother’s name was, of course, O’Brien.”

“Correct.”

“So her full name is...”

“Louise O’Brien O’Brien.”

“And the name of the restaurant was...?”

“O’Brien’s.”

“Of course, it was.

“Why did Mike retire?”

“At his own request. I’m surprised the department didn’t request it. The guy is a real little shit.”

“He was allowed to turn in his papers. His rabbi kept him safe,” Dino said.

“No, he’s Irish Catholic,” Joan replied.

“She doesn’t know what a rabbi is,” Stone said.

“A rabbi,” Dino said, “is like a mentor. If a cop has a good enough rabbi, he’s more likely to be kept out of trouble.”

“Who was his rabbi?” Stone asked.

“Captain James P. Moran,” Dino replied. “If you’d had Moran as a rabbi, you’d be in my job by now.”

“No rabbi is that good.”

“What I don’t understand,” Joan said, “is why he had such a great rabbi. Why did the guy take him on and keep him out of trouble for, what, thirty years since the academy?”

“I’ll tell you,” Dino said. “Moran was schtupping O’Brien’s mother for all that time.”

“How’s your Yiddish, Joan?” Stone asked.

“Good enough to cover schtupping.”

“Does that explain everything?”

“They were next-door neighbors in Brooklyn Heights,” Dino said.

“Heights?” Stone asked. “How could a widow afford that neighborhood?”

“By marrying her boss,” Dino replied. “She was the bookkeeper for a very good restaurant. And it’s my bet she was schtupping the boss, too, because he married her, then had the good grace to die a couple of years later. She inherited the restaurant, then sold it to the employees and now lives the life of a rich widow, which is how O’Brien affords his relationship with the ponies.”

“What sort of gambler is he?” Stone asked.

“Degenerate,” Dino replied.

“It doesn’t say that in his file,” Joan pointed out.

“That’s why it pays to have a rabbi who’s schtupping his mother,” Dino said. “Moran did a little laundering where O’Brien’s file is concerned.”

“In that case,” Joan said, “all the good stuff is missing from his file.”

“You might say that,” Dino said.

“Why don’t you fill us in with what you know, Dino?” Stone asked. “It will save Joan a lot of reading.”

“I’m done reading,” Joan said.

“Speak, Dino.”

“All right, he’s a degenerate gambler, which means he’s eternally in search of a rigged horse race, so he can make a killing and pay off his bookie. Except his mother always pays off his bookie.”

“She’s an indulgent sort, isn’t she?” Stone said.

“I’ll say she is,” Joan cut in. “She indulged her boss and the rabbi, too. She must have been a looker.”

“I saw her once, years ago,” Dino said. “She had the kind of breasts that couldn’t be bought, in those days.”

“Okay,” Joan said. “I think I’ve heard enough about the widow O’Brien. Let me know if there’s anything else you need to know about her son.” She hung up.

“Is she gone?” Dino asked.

“Yeah.”

“Well, just between you and me, the widow O’Brien had more going for her than great tits; she had a very fine ass, too. I met her at a party that Moran threw, and she was the talk of the station house for months. She was even pretty, in that Irish lass sort of way — you know, the creamy skin.”

“I’m happy for her,” Stone said.

“We never knew why O’Brien was so ugly.”

“And let’s not start guessing,” Stone said.

“Oh, that could be it. She could have been schtupping somebody less handsome than her husband or Moran.”

“Let me know when you find out,” Stone said, and hung up.