Tick Tock (Michael Bennett 4)

I should have been cautious then. I knew a violent criminal mobster asshole when I saw one. But I guess I was through giving a shit for the day.

“You Flaherty?” I said.

“Yeah. Who the fuck are you?”

“My name’s Bennett. You have a kid?”

“I got five of ’em. At least. Which one we talkin’ about here?”

“Fat, freckles, about fourteen. Did I say fat?”

“You talking about my Seany? What’s up?”

“Yeah, well, your Seany split my eleven-year-old’s chin open today is what’s up,” I said, staring into Flaherty’s soulless doll’s eyes. “He had to go to the hospital.”

“That can’t be right,” the man said, stone-faced. He smiled coldly. “We went fishing today. All day. It was sweet. Got some blues. Hey, Billy, remember when Sean caught that blowfish today?”

“Oh, yeah,” the thug behind him said with a guffaw. “Blowfish. That was the puffy balloon thing, right? That shit was funny.”

“See. Guess you made a mistake,” Flaherty senior said. “Wait a second. Bennett. I know you. You got all those rainbow-coalition crumb crunchers, right? You’re a cop, too. Look, Billy. It’s the Octo-cop in the flesh.”

“I do have a gun,” I said with a grin. “You want me to show it to you?”

I really did feel like showing it to him. In fact, I actually felt like giving him a taste of my Glock.

“I know what they look like, but thanks, anyway,” Flaherty said, cold as ice. “If you don’t mind, though, I’d like to get back to the ballgame. Mets might even wi

n one for a change. Have a nice night, Officer.”

That’s when he slammed the door in my face. I felt like kicking it in. The pit was in a frenzy. So was I. But even in my stress-induced hysteria, I knew that wasn’t a good idea. I chose to retreat.

An empty Miller High Life can landed beside me as I was coming down the steps.

Young Flaherty himself waved to me from the rattletrap’s second-story window.

“Gee, Officer, I apologize. Must have slipped out of my hand.”

Even over the dog’s apoplexy, I heard raucous laughter from inside.

Death all day and ridicule for dessert. What a day. I crushed the can and hit the stairs before I could take my gun out.

Chapter 25

RETURNING TO THE HOUSE with a full head of steam, I decided I needed some alone time. Wanting to make it both relaxing and constructive, I opted for doing what any angry, overworked cop in my situation would do. Inside the garage, I tossed down some old newspaper on a workbench and began field-stripping my Glock 21.

For half an hour, I went to town, cleaning the barrel and slide until everything was ship shape and shining like a brand-new penny. I’m not proud to admit that as I went through the motions meticulously, some un-Christian thoughts went through my mind concerning certain Breezy Point residents. As I reloaded the semiauto’s magazine and slapped it home with a well-oiled snick, I made a mental note to set up a confession the next time I saw Seamus.

I discovered a bottle of Johnnie Walker Black Label on a shelf behind a bolt-filled coffee can as I was cleaning up. One of my cousins must have left it there after his own Clark W. Griswold family vacation fiasco, no doubt. I drummed my fingers on the workbench as I eyed the half-full bottle.

Why not just get drunk and let the world go straight to hell? I certainly had a good excuse. Several, in fact.

As I stood there weakly and wearily pondering the Scotch bottle, beyond the front door of the garage I heard steps on the porch and the doorbell ring.

“Hey, is Juliana around?” a voice called out.

The voice belonged to Joe Somebody-or-other, some tall, friendly nonpsychotic high-school kid from up the block who kept coming around because he had a crush on Juliana.

“Hey, Joe,” I overheard Juliana say a second later.