He opened his eyes, squinting as he recognized her. "You . . ."
"Art, we're going to get you home."
"Leave me alone. Leave me the fuck alone."
There was a cut on his forehead and his sleeve was torn from a fall. He'd vomited not long ago.
He snapped, "Haven't you done enough? Haven't you fucking done enough to me?" His eyes bulged. "Go away. I want to be alone. Leave me alone!" He rolled to his knees, tried crawling to the driver's seat. "Go . . . away!"
Sachs pulled him back. He wasn't a small man but the alcohol had weakened him. He tried to stand but fell back on the seat.
"You were doing great." She nodded at a pint bottle on the floor. It was empty.
"What's it to you? What the fuck is it to you?"
"What happened?" she persisted.
"Don't you get it? You happened. You."
"Me?"
"Why did I think it'd keep quiet? There're no fucking secrets in the department. I ask a few questions for you, where's the fucking file, what happened to it . . . next thing, my buddy I was meeting to play pool I told you about? He never shows. And doesn't return my calls . . ." He wiped his mouth on his sleeve. "Then I get a call--this guy was my partner for three years, him and me and our wives were going on a cruise. Guess who can't fucking make it? . . . All because I was asking questions. A retired cop asking questions . . . I should've told you to go fuck yourself the minute you walked through the door."
"Art, I--"
"Oh, don't worry, lady. I didn't mention your name. Didn't mention anything." He groped for the bottle. He saw it was empty. And flung it to the floor.
"Look, I know a good counselor. You can--"
"Counselor? What's he gonna counsel me on? How I fucked up my life?"
She glanced toward the bottle. "You stumbled. Everybody stumbles."
"Not what I'm talking about. This's because I fucked everything up."
"What do you mean, Art?"
"Because I was a cop. I wasted everything. I wasted my life."
She felt a chill; his words echoed her feelings. He was expressing exactly the reason she wanted to leave the force. She said, "Art, how 'bout we get you home?"
"I could've done a hundred other things. My brother's a plumber. My sister went to grad school and works for an ad agency now. She did that butterfly commercial for those feminine things. She's famous. I could've done something."
"You're just feeling--"
"Don't," he snapped, pointing a finger at her. "You don't know me good enough to talk to me that way. You got no right."
Sachs fell silent. True. She didn't have the right.
"Whatever happens 'causa what you're looking into, I'm fucked. Good or bad, I'm fucked."
Her heart chilled to see his anger and pain; she put her arm around him, "Art, listen--"
"Get your hands off me." His head lolled against the window.
Coyle walked up a moment later, directing a Yellow Cab toward the van. Together Coyle and Sachs helped Snyder to the cab and got him inside. She gave the driver Snyder's address, then emptied her wallet, handing him close to fifty dollars and the detective's car keys. "I'll call his wife, let her know he's coming," she told the cabbie. The taxi eased into thick Midtown traffic.
"Thanks," she said to Coyle, who nodded and walked off. She was grateful he didn't ask any questions.