More Twisted

more palms.” Schaeffer shrugged. “Or you can find yourself another cop to work with.”
    As if the Yellow Pages had a section, “Cops, Corrupt.”
    The detective added, “Give it a few months, after things calm down, I can go up a few more points then.”
    “To forty?”
    “Yeah, to forty.”
    The little man asked, “Can I have the Rolex?”
    “The guy’s? Tonight?”
    “Yeah.”
    “You really want it?”
    “Yeah.”
    “Okay, it’s yours.”
    Ricky looked out over the river. It seemed to Schaeffer that a faint smile crossed his face.
    They stood in silence for a few minutes and, right on time, the tourist, Shelby, showed up. He was looking terrified and hurt and angry, which is a fucking tricky combination to get into your face all at one time.
    “I’ve got it,” he whispered. There was nothing in his hands—no briefcase or bag—but Schaeffer had been taking kickbacks and bribes for so long that he knew a lot of money can fit into a very small envelope.
    Which is just what Shelby now produced. The grim-faced tourist slipped it to Schaeffer, who counted the bills carefully.
    “The watch too.” Ricky pointed eagerly to the man’s wrist.
    “My watch?” Shelby hesitated and, grimacing, handed it to the skinny man.
    Schaeffer gave the tourist his driver’s license back. He pocketed it fast then hurried east, undoubtedly looking for a taxi that’d take him straight to the airport.
    The detective laughed to himself. So, maybe New York ain’t such a nice place to visit, after all.
    The men split the money. Ricky slipped the Rolex on his wrist but the metal band was too big and it dangled comically. “I’ll get it adjusted,” he said, putting the watch into his pocket. “They can shorten the bands, you know. It’s no big deal.”
    They decided to have a drink to celebrate and Ricky suggested Hanny’s since he had to meet somebody over there.
    As they walked along the avenue, blue-gray in the evening light, Ricky glanced at the placid Hudson River. “Check it out.”
    A large yacht eased south in the dark water.
    “Sweet,” Schaeffer said, admiring the beautiful lines of the vessel.
    Ricky asked, “So how come you didn’t want in?”
    “In?”
    “The boat deal.”
    “Huh?”
    “That T.G. told you about. He said you were going to pass.”
    “What the fuck’re you talking about?”
    “The boat thing. With that guy from Florida.”
    “He never said anything to me about it.”
    “That prick.” Ricky shook his head. “Was a few days ago. This guy hangs at Hanny’s? He’s who I’m gonna meet. He’s got connections down in Florida. His crew perps these confiscated boats before they get logged in at the impound dock.”
    “DEA?”
    “Yeah. And Coast Guard.”
    Schaeffer nodded, impressed at the plan. “They disappear before they’re logged. That’s some smart shit.”
    “I’m thinking about getting one. He tells me I pay him, like, twenty Gs and I end up with a boat worth three times that. I thought you’d be interested.”
    “Yeah, I’d be interested.” Bob Schaeffer had a couple of small boats. Had always wanted a really nice one. He asked, “He got anything bigger?”
    “Think he just sold a fifty-footer. I seen it down in Battery Park. It was sweet.”
    “Fifty feet? That’s a million-dollar boat.”
    “He said it only cost his guy two hundred or something like that.”
    “Jesus. That asshole, T.G. He never said a word to me.” Schaeffer at least felt some consolation that the punk wouldn’t be saying anything to anyone from now on.
    They walked into Hanrahan’s. Like usual, the place was nearly deserted. Ricky was looking around. The boat guy apparently wasn’t here yet.
    They ordered boilermakers. Clinked glasses, drank.
    Ricky was telling the old bartender about T.G. getting killed, when Schaeffer’s cell phone rang.
    “Schaeffer here.”
    “This’s Malone from Homicide. You heard about the T.G. Reilly hit?”
    “Yeah. What’s up with it? Any leads?” Heart pounding fast, Schaeffer lowered his head and listened real carefully.
    “Not many. But we heard something and we’re hoping you can help us out. You know the neighborhood, right?”
    “Pretty good.”
    “Looks like one of T.G.’s boys was running a scam. Involved some tall paper. Six figures. We don’t know if it had anything to do with the clip, but we want to talk to him. Name of Ricky Kelleher. You know him?”
    Schaeffer glanced at Ricky, five feet away. He said into the phone,