More Twisted

about thirty feet behind him. The guy paused for a moment and pretended to look into a store window.
    Schaeffer didn’t recognize the guy. He’d made a lot of enemies over the years. The fact he was a cop gave him some protection—it’s risky to gun down even a crooked one—but there were plenty of nut jobs out there.
    Walking on. The owner of the scraping shoes continued his tail. A glance in the rearview mirror of a car parked nearby told him the man was getting closer, but his hands were at his side, not going for a weapon. Schaeffer pulled out his cell phone and pretended to make a call, to give himself an excuse to slow up and not make the guy suspicious. His other hand slipped inside his jacket and touched the grip of his chrome-plated SIG-Sauer 9mm automatic pistol.
    This time the guy didn’t slow up.
    Schaeffer started to draw.
    Then: “Detective, could you hang up the phone, please?”
    Schaeffer turned, blinked. The pursuer was holding up a gold NYPD shield.
    The fuck is this? Schaeffer thought. He relaxed, but not much. Snapped the phone closed and dropped it into his pocket. Let go of his weapon.
    “Who’re you?”
    The man, eyeing Schaeffer coldly, let him get a look at the ID card next to the shield.
    Schaeffer thought: Fuck me. The guy was from the department’s Internal Affairs Division—the boys that tracked down corrupt cops.
    Still Schaeffer kept on the offensive. “What’re you doing following me?”
    “I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
    “What’s this all about?”
    “An investigation we’re conducting.”
    “Hello,” Schaeffer said sarcastically. “I sort of figured that out. Give me some fucking details.”
    “We’re looking into your connection with certain individuals.”
    “ ‘Certain individuals.’ You know, not all cops have to talk like cops.”
    No response.
    Schaeffer shrugged. “I have ‘connections’ with a lotta people. Maybe you’re thinking of my snitches. I hang with ’em. They feed me good information.”
    “Yeah, well, we’re thinking there might be other things they feed you. Some valuable things.” He glanced at Schaeffer’s hip. “I’m going to ask you for your weapon.”
    “Fuck that.”
    “I’m trying to keep it low key. But you don’t cooperate,I’ll call it in and we’ll take you downtown. Then everything’ll all be public.”
    Finally Schaeffer understood. It was a shakedown—only this time he was on the receiving end. And he was getting scammed by Internal Affairs, no less. This was almost fucking funny, IAD on the take too.
    Schaeffer gave up his gun.
    “Let’s go talk in private.”
    How much was this going to cost him? he wondered.
    The IAD cop nodded toward the Hudson River. “That way.”
    “Talk to me,” Schaeffer said. “I got a right to know what this’s all about. If somebody told you I’m on the take, that’s bullshit. Whoever said it’s working some angle.” He wasn’t as hot as he sounded; this was all part of the negotiating.
    The IAD cop said only, “Keep walking. Up there.” He pulled out a cigarette and lit it. Offered one to Schaeffer. He took it and the guy lit it for him.
    Then Schaeffer froze. He blinked in shock, staring at the matches. The name on them was McDougall’s Tavern. The official name of Mack’s—T.G.’s hangout. He glanced at the guy’s eyes, which went wide at his mistake. Christ, he was no cop. The ID and badge were fake. He was a hit man working for T.G., who was going to clip him and collect the whole hundred fifty Gs from the tourist.
    “Fuck,” the phony cop muttered. He yanked a revolver out of his pocket, then shoved Schaeffer into a nearby alley.
    “Listen, buddy,” Schaeffer whispered, “I’ve got some good bucks. Whatever you’re being paid, I’ll—”
    “Shut up.” In his gloved hands, the guy exchanged his gun for Schaeffer’s own pistol and pushed the big chrome piece into the detective’s neck. Then the fake cop pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket and stuffed it into the detective’s jacket. He leaned forward and whispered, “Here’s the message, asshole: For two years T.G.’s been setting up everything, doing all the work and you take half the money. You’ve fucked with the wrong man.”
    “That’s bullshit,” Schaeffer cried desperately. “He needs me! He couldn’t do it without a cop! Please—”
    “So long—” He lifted the gun to Schaeffer’s temple.
    “Don’t do it! Please, man, no!”
    A scream sounded from