French Kiss

Chapter 6

What’s the one question that’s guaranteed to piss off any New York City detective or cop?

“Don’t you guys have anything better to do with your time?”

If you’re a cop who’s ever ticketed someone for running a red light; if you’re a detective who’s ever asked a mother why her child wasn’t in school that day, then you’ve heard it.

I enter the Brioni store, at 57 East 57th Street. My ego is bruised, and my mood is lousy. Frankly, I am usually in Brioni as a customer, not a policeman. Plus, is there nothing more humiliating than an eager detective sent to investigate a shoplifting crime?

I’m in an even lousier mood when the first thing I’m asked is, “Don’t you guys have anything better to do with your time?” The suspect doesn’t ask this question. No. It comes from one of the arresting officers, a skinny young African American guy who is at the moment cuffing a young African American kid. The minor has been nabbed by store security. He was trying to lift three cashmere sweaters, and now the kid is scared as shit.

“You should know better than to ask that question,” I say to the cop. “Meanwhile, take the cuffs off the kid.”

The cop does as he’s told, but he clearly does not know when to shut up. So he speaks.

“Sorry, Detective. I just meant that it’s pretty unusual to send a detective out on an arrest that’s so…so…”

He is searching for a word, and I supply it. “Unimportant.”

“Yeah, that’s it,” the young officer says. “Unimportant.”

The officer now realizes that the subject is closed. He gives me some details. The kid, age twelve, was brought in for petty robbery this past February. But I’m only half listening. I’m pissed off, and I’m pissed off because the cop is right-it’s unimportant. This case is incredibly unimportant, laughably unimportant. It’s ridiculous to be sent on such a stupid little errand. Other NYPD detectives are unraveling terrorist plots, going undercover to frame mob bosses. Me, I’m overseeing the arrest of a little kid who stole three cashmere sweaters.

As Maria Martinez has often said to me, “Someone with your handsome face and your expensive suit shouldn’t be sent on anything but the most important assignments.” Then she’d laugh, and I would stare at her in stony silence…until I also laughed.

“We have the merch all bagged,” says the other officer. The name Callahan is on his nameplate. Callahan is a guy with very pink cheeks and an even pinker nose. He looks maybe thirty-five or forty…or whatever age a cop is when he’s smart enough not to ask “Don’t you have anything better to do with your time?”

“Thanks,” I say.

But what I’m really thinking about is: Who the hell gave me this nauseatingly petite assignment?

I’m sure it’s not Elliott. Ah, oui, the inspector and I aren’t exactly what they call best buds, but he’s grown used to me. He thinks he’s being funny when he calls me Pretty Boy, but he also trusts me, and, like almost everyone else, he’s very pleased with the bust I (almost single-handedly) helped pull off at Taylor Antiquities.

I know that my partner, Maria Martinez, puts out good press on me. As I’ve said, she and I are simpatico, to say the least. I like her. She likes me. Case closed.

Beyond that, anyone higher than Elliott doesn’t know I exist. So I can’t assume that one of the assistant commissioners or one of the ADAs is out to get me.

“There’s a squad car outside to bring him in,” Callahan says.

“Hold on a minute. I want to talk to the kid,” I say.

I walk over to the boy. He wears jeans cut off at midcalf, very clean white high-top sneakers, and an equally clean white T-shirt. It’s a look I could live without.

“Why’d you try to steal three sweaters? It’s the goddamn middle of summer, and you’re stealing sweaters. Are you stupid?”

I can tell that if he starts talking he’s going to cry.

No answer. He looks away. At the ceiling. At the floor. At the young cop and Callahan.

“How old are you?” I ask.

“Sixteen,” he says. My instinct was right. He does start to cry. He squints hard, trying to stem the flow of tears.

“You’re a lousy liar and a lousy thief. You’re twelve. You’re in the system. Don’t you think the officers checked? You were picked up five months ago. You and a friend tried to hold up a liquor store on East Tremont. They got you then, too. You are stupid.”

The kid shouts at me. No tears now.

“I ain’t stupid. I kinda thought they’d have a buzzer or some shit in the liquor store. And I kinda felt that fat-ass guy here with the ugly-mother brown shoes was a security guy. But I don’t know. Both times I decided to try it. I decided…I’m not sure why.”

“Listen. Good advice number one. Kids who are assholes turn into grown-ups who are assholes.

“Good advice number two. If you’ve got smart instincts, follow them. You know what? Forget good advice. You’ve got a feeling? Go with it.”

He sort of nods in agreement. So I keep talking.

“Look, asshole. This advice is life advice. I’m not trying to teach you how to be a better thief. I’m just trying to…oh, shit…I don’t know what I’m trying to teach you.”

A pause. The kid looks down at the floor so intensely that I have to look down there myself. Nothing’s there but gray carpet squares.

Then the kid looks at me. He speaks.

“I get you, man,” he says.

“Good.” A pause. “Now go home. You’ve got a home?”

“I got a home. I got a grandma.”

“Then go.”

“What the fu-?”

“Just go.”

He runs to the door.

The young officer looks at me. Then he says, “That’s just great. They send a detective to the scene. And he lets the suspect go.”

I don’t smile. I don’t answer. I walk to a nearby table where beautiful silk ties and pocket squares are laid out in groups according to color. I focus on the yellow section-yellow with blue stripes, yellow with tiny red dots, yellow paisley, yellow…

My cell phone pings. The message on the screen is big and bold and simple. CD. Cop Down.

No details. Just an address: 655 Park Avenue. Right now.