Play@YSDC

A brand new day.

After attending roll-call (and hearing his APB for Marlene read), Franky heads up to Marlene Hirt's address.

ooc,Hope you don't mind that I'm pushing you along a bit.

1288 Lexington Avenue near Central Park is a very classy place. Clearly more costly than Alphonse Hirt’s apartment, just for the location alone.

Danny Boyle is at the front door in a navy-blue uniform with gold epaulets, a portly, red-nosed middle-aged Irishman.

“Miss Hirt, is it? Now there’s a proper young woman, not like some a these wild ones nowadays. Very kind at Christmas, too, let me tell yez. She’s not been home in a few days. She has a number of friends out on Long Island who she visits pretty regular. Society types, y’know. Miss Hirt moves in very fine circles, she does.”

I'm still a little fuzzy. Not hungover -- for a change -- just a little slow getting going this morning. I suppose that's why I'm not feeling real charitable towards Mr. Boyle. Or maybe there's something else about him. I pinch my nose in that way that Siobhan always makes fun of. Or maybe "made" fun of. She's not real interested in being around me right now. Way to go Francis. Put your foot right in that one.

"Okay, Mr. Boyle. Can you tell me precisely when you saw Miss Hirt last? Who she was with, what she was doing?" I scribble down whatever he says in my notebook. I also ask him about the car, the dog, any strange people skulking about recently.

I've already turned to leave when it occurs to me -- damned headache making everything harder today -- to ask him for a physical description of Miss Hirt. Will she match the real Marlene or the fake one?

"And tell me more about these people from Long Island. Names, descriptions. You know the drill."

Danny Boyle is clearly swamped by so many questions, most of them concerning things he's never really thought about much.

"Well, ah, Miss Hirt is about yay tall, I s'pose, not fat, but not skinny neither, y'know? She dresses real nice - nothin' fancy ya unnerstan. Uhhh... blond hair - natural blond too, not some peroxide job - blue eyes, real pretty face, always smilin' too. She parks her car in that garage over there, li'l red coop.

"I last seen her...uhhh... Monday night it was! I know on account she said somethin' about th' ball game that afternoon. She's a Yankee fan an' I follow those Brooklyn bums an' we always kidded around about it. She was just gettin' home from work, I guess, kinda late, but they kep' her late sometimes. She wasn't with no one. I didn' see her nex' mornin' but I'm busy sometimes with other things an' I don't see everyone every day.

"I don't know her friends, detective, honest. Just sometimes she'd be leavin' on a Saturday maybe and I'd say 'Big plans this weekend, Miss Hirt?' an' she'd say 'Oh goin' out to see some people on Long Island.' That's all I know, honest."

Boyle's sweating by the end of his catechism. "Oh yeh, dogs, I see lotsa dogs along here, detective. The parks just down the block there."

You can see an idea pop into his brain and he clutches it like salvation itself.

"Ya might wanta talk to th' building super, y'know, name's Pauly Rosetti. I only see Miss Hirt comin' an' goin' like. but he's s'poseta keep an eye on things inside. He's prob'ly in his apartment down in the basement. Y'want I should showya?"

I feel bad, suddenly, for making the old guy sweat. He doesn't deserve to have me take out my bad mood on him.

"Easy, Danny, easy. Take a breath. Show me to Rosetti's office, if you would." As we start to walk I turn and give him a conspiratorial grin. "And don't you take any guff from no damn Yankees fan, you hear?"

When we get to Rosetti's office I'll hand him my card and shake his hand. "You've been very helpful Mr. Boyle. Very helpful. If you think of anything else, don't hesitate to call me."

"Oh, sure, detective, you gotta do yer job, I know that," he says, visibly relieved to be off the hot seat, "Pauly ain't got an office, but his apartment is B-1, down in the basement. If he's workin in the buildin, his wife'll know what apartment he's in. This is as far as I can go," he says taking your card at the door, "Can't abandon me post, y'know."

The lobby is not opulent, but very sleek and smart, lots of glossy gray paint and brass and oak trim. By the brass doors of the self-service elevator (key required) are a couple dozen buttons in several rows, each labeled with a number. There's no button for any basement apartment. Pressing the button marked 407 (Marlene Hirt's apartment) yields no results. There's a small card in a brass frame that reads: For inquiries, see the building superintendent, Apt. B-1. A door marked Stairs is nearby.

At the foot of the stairs are two doors marked B-1 and B-2 and a heavy door marked Staff Only. A knock at the door of apartment (from which a baby’s thin cry issues) summons Pauly Rosetti, short and squat with suspenders over a white undershirt.

"Yeh? Whatta you want, mac?"

I let my badge do most of the talking.

"Mr. Rosetti, I need to ask you a few questions about one of the tenants, a Miss Hirt." I ask him call the same questions I did Boyle.

“Yeah, Miss Hirt is a resident here. Been here, what? two-three years, I guess.

"What's she look like?" He takes a quick peek into his apartment and steps out in the hall closing the door on the baby's wail, "She's a dish, pal, lemme tell ya. Like some movie star, blond hair, oh-so-kissable lips, an' a body. Oh, mama! What, I guy can look, right? Don't hurt nothin.

"She's been away awhile. Lemme see, must be a week now. Her friends? Do I look like i get invited to her sor-ways? high-hat types, y'know Park avenue an' Algonquin club. 'Cept fer the boyfriend; he's a right guy. Talks to a fella like a fella, y'know?

"No, I ain't let nobody inna her apartment. I don't let nobody inna anybody's apartment without their say-so. Yeh, that includes you. That’s a very nice badge, officer, does it have a search warrant to go with it?”

OOC,[color=#FF4000]You can try an ability to convince him to let you have a look around. You can also make a one-point Oral History spend.[/color]

Did you also want to get him to let you into the apartment?

Gaffer wrote:Did you also want to get him to let you into the apartment?

OOC,I have a couple ideas on how I might accomplish that. Wanted to see what the spend got me first.

I get out my notebook and pretend to scribble some notes. I fix a steely gaze on the superintendent. "And you didn't think it was important enough to report this?"

I shake my head, scribble some more notes, and look back at him. "You don't have any plans to leave town, do you, Mr. Rosetti. That's R-O-S-E-T-T-I, correct?" More pretend scribbling. "I'm probably going to have to ask you to come in for some additional questioning..."

Rosetti's swarthy skin pales. "Hey, hey... Lissen, I di'n't think it was a big deal. just a coupla kids neckin in th' alley, y'know? C'mon, Esposito, paisan, gimme a li'l slack here, 'kay? How can I make this square wit' youse? I gotta wife an' kid. I need this crummy job."

Time to twist him a little more. "I don't know, Rosetti. If Miss Hirt is actually missing..."

I let it hang for a bit. "Could be pretty bad for you. Paisan."

I figure he'll be knocking down the door to her apartment any second now.

"Aw, Jeez, how could I know... Lissen, let's take a look up there, hey? Maybe she's even home! I'll get the pass key."

He's back in seconds, the key held high like a talisman to ward off unemployment. He practically trots to the elevator and presses the floor number. Esposito can hear him muttering Ave Maria's under his breath.

Rosetti jabs the buzzer several times in short staccato bursts. Quickly satisfied no one's going to answer, he twists the pass key in the lock and the door swings open.

"Aw, Christ. Aw, noooo..." the stocky little super sags against the door jamb.

Marlene Hirt’s apartment has been thoroughly ransacked. Drawers have been pulled out, books dumped from their shelves, clothes thrown from drawers and wardrobes. Letters and other documents are scattered on the dining table.

There’s no sign of Marlene.

I take out my piece and make sure there aren't any surprises here. Once I determine that I send Rosetti back to his apartment to call it in.

When the uniforms arrive I give them the information and go looking for Danny Boyle to ask him about the "Turks" he ran off last week.

There's no one in the apartment. While waiting for the uniforms, Franky notices a few things.

On the wall of the living room is a frame holding two photographs, a man and a woman. A strange symbol has been daubed on the glass over the woman's picture.
Locksmith: Marlene’s door was picked open by a pro.

Evidence Collection: There’s a chemical smell from the rumpled bedsheets and from a rag in the bedroom wastebasket. Under the rag and some tissues, is a matchbook from the Pioneer Street Diner (at Pioneer & Van Brunt, Red Hook, Brooklyn). It’s clear that Marlene’s handbag, identification, keys, etc. are gone.

There's a knock and a call from the front door, "Detective? We're from the precinct."

It's two plainclothes detectives, Rory and Donnelly. Franky knows Rory a bit.

I nod at the detectives. "Rory, Donnelly. This is the APB from this morning -- Marlene Hirt. I spoke with the building super and he told me about a disturbance a couple nights ago. We came up to have a look..." I direct them to the evidence I've already found. "I'm gonna go have another chat with the doorman -- see what else he might remember. I'll check back in with you guys in a minute."

Before I go I take a closer look at the sign and copy down the address of the diner. "Hey, Rory? Can you make sure to take a look at the back of these pictures? Just a hunch."

...looking for Danny Boyle to ask him about the "Turks" he ran off last week

Danny's at his post and hot on the subject: “I can’t stand loafers an loungers, specially these foreign types. Last week, I hadda run a couple of 'em off three times, Y’know them as wears them Shriner hats. The beat cops oughta do somethin' 'bout these foreign types hanging 'round respectable neighborhoods.

"I found a couple of 'em hangin' 'round the service door innee alley. Now y'know they wasn't upta no good."”

"Nope. No good at all." I give him a good, solid, manly swat on the back. "You've been a lot of help, Danny. A lot of help. But I need you to try and remember what day it was when you ran them off. Take your time and think about it. Who did them Bums play that day? Was it a home game? What was the score?"

"Ye-aaah," says Danny as the memory comes to him, "'Twas last Tuesday, it was. They beat Hubbell an' them Giants. They was all tied up 'til the seventh when Joe Stripp put down 'at bunt an Terry blew th' throw t'Hubbell coverin' first. Benge got the win.

"I remember 'cuz Miss Hirt an' me both hate those so-called Giants, but I didn't get t'talk the game over with her on Wednesday." I tried talkin' t'Rosetti 'bout it, but he just wanted t'whine about the wife wakin' m up cuz there was a car runnin' in th' alley."

Danny has led the way back to the service door in the alley as he talked, "Right here is where I seen 'em loiterin-like."

Locksmith: Franky can tell after a minute's examination that the back door was expertly forced by a competent burglar.

This is the symbol smeared on the woman's photo:

I clap the old guy on the shoulder again. "Good man, Danny. You've been a huge help."

I head back to the apartment. I catch myself rubbing the side of my chin, hard, the way I do when I need a drink. Siobhan would laugh. Well, she'd laugh and then make me a drink. That would be real fine right now. Real fine.

I shake my head and go inside to see if Rory and Donnelly have found anything.

"Hey, Esposito," says Rory from the kitchen, "Bread in th' breadbox is just startin' t'get moldy. Milk in th' refrigerator isn’t sour. I figure she’s been gone about a week."

Donnelly comes down the hall from the bedroom with a rag in his hand. "This's inna wastebasket, smells t'me like chloroform, same smell onna pillow. No signs of a struggle, no bloodstains. Looks like the place's been tossed, but very neatly. I'd say a dame."

"Yeah, but no dame carried her outta here," says Rory, "We'll get the print boys in, but this looks like a professional snatch t'me. You find anything?"

[ooc - I'll assume you tell them about the service door and the apartment door being opened by a pro.]

"Yup. Doorman saw that, too. Vic's car is missing, too. Red Ford coupe. Already got a lookout for it."

OOC,Scene?

As Franky walks through the lobby, leaving the other cops upstairs to work what is, after all, their crime scene, he hears a furtive, "psssst!"

Turning, he sees the super, Rosetti, standing in a door that leads to the stairwell. "Hey, Esposito, c'mere," he beckons, "You wanna look at where that coupe hit the corner?"

Must have scared Rosetti good and proper. Good.

I walk over and take a look. I expect the paint will match Marlene Hirt's red Ford, but you can never tell.

There's not only a considerable amount of red enamel scraped over the scarred bricks, but some bright glints of metal, too. The coupe really clobbered the wall with its left front fender.

[ooc - what's next for our intrepid detective?]

I close my eyes and try to picture the car that I saw idling outside Alphonse Hirt's apartment. Did I get a look at the left front? Was the fender dented and scraped up?

Either way, it's back to the precinct to do the paperwork.

Franky only saw the car from behind.

Rory asked that you send over a statement to him this afternoon since you were the first witness and the first officer on the scene. Otherwise, it's their case and their paperwork.

You might want to update the APB on the coupe to note the possibility of the banged-up fender.

All that and lunch takes you until about two o'clock. You're all supposed to meet for dinner at seven.

While I'm having a quick lunch, I'll make some phone calls to a few local car repair joints, see if anyone has done any work on a red Ford in the last week.

As far as paperwork, I'll update the APB to include the possibly banged up left front fender, then type out a quick statement for Rory and Donnelly. I'll also update the APB on Marlene Hirt (the real one) to include the suspected abduction date.

I'll also take some time to sort through my notes and update the case book with anything important. I'll sketch out a copy of the symbol and put that in as well.

As I'm going through the files I decide to call somebody from the local precinct in Red Hook and see if there's anything brewing there, specifically among the Turkish crowd.

Going back through the Suydam case file, you find a drawing of a symbol that looks exactly like the one you copied in Marlene Hirt's apartment. It's labeled: Symbol displayed by Suydam's criminal associates in several locations.

You come up dry on the repair shops.

Lou Feldner, a 76th Precinct detective down at Union and Henry tells you it's just the same old stuff, day in and day out. "You know, Franky, Red Hook never changes."

"I hear ya, Lou. But let me know if you hear of anything hinky -- hinki-er -- going on."

I make a quick call to the lab to see if they've got anything new on those waders we found at Alphonse's place yesterday.

There's a report amid the papers on Esposito's desk. It indicates that comparative analysis of the mud and debris clinging to the soles is typical of the shore of the Buttermilk Channel along Red Hook in Brooklyn from Gowanus Creek to the midpoint of Governor's Island. That's practically the whole Red Hook waterfront..

I make a note to go to the morgue again tonight -- I might have blown off that floater from the Gowanus canal a little too lightly.

All signs point to you-know-where, damn it all.

I flip a coin a few times -- heads for Long Island, tails for Red Hook. How many times can a quarter come up tails in a row?

I grab my jacket -- and when nobody's looking, a quick nip from the bottle in my desk drawer -- and head into Brooklyn.

You look back at your notes about Hirt and the floater from the Brooklyn Morgue. Hirt: 5'7", 150 pounds, blue eyes, dark hair. J. Sherrod: approx 6', over 200 pounds, blond. Plus Louis told you the Sherrod family had identified the body.

Where to in Brooklyn?

I'll do a quick check for priors on Sherrod. If he's got a jacket I'll copy down his address, known associates, and any other data that leap out at me.

When I'm done with that it's off to the Pioneer Street Diner. I'll talk to the locals, show Marlene's Picture, ask around. If that doesn't pan out I'll try and find out if any of them know Azaff. If I get really desperate I'll show them the picture of the "Pyramid and Eye" symbol, see if that rings any bells.

I figure all that will take me a couple of hours, after which I'll rendezvous with my cohorts.

Looks like Sherrod was a square john, only a couple of parking tickets over the past three years and one pinch for drunk-and-disorderly seven years ago when he was 19.

The Pioneer Street Diner is at Pioneer & Van Brunt in Red Hook. Esposito knows its reputation -- patronized by longshoremen, smugglers and gangsters. More money changes hands under the table than across the counter. It used to be run by Mario “Big Chin” Verão, the local Portuguese boss.

It's still a dingy, greasy place, lit by a garish neon sign outside. A sweet-faced Latin girl with merry eyes and a lush mouth, a bit chubby, is waiting table. A heavyset, swarthy fellow in a grease-stained undershirt and a spotless white sailor cap is behind the counter. A couple of working stiffs are hunched over the remains of their food are talking quietly. In the corner by the back hall sits a guy reading the Sun, just his thick dark hair visible over the top of the paper.

"Wha' can I getchoo?" the girl asks, setting a glass of murky water on the table in front of Franky, "Da caldeirada is good today."

OOC:   If they don't have a liquor license change my beer to a Coca-Cola.

I'm not too sure about eating anything that comes out of Red Hook -- it's been a very long time -- but a man's gotta do what a man's gotta do. While I'm doing it, I'm keeping half on eye on Mr. Sun back in the corner.

"Been a long time since I had a good bowl of caldeirada. If you say it's good, well, that's good enough for me." I give her my best "I'm not a cop" smile. It's not hard to flirt with her, not with that sweet face. "I'll take that, and a beer, please." I make sure to enjoy the view as she walks away.

After eating some of the fish stew -- and ordering another beer -- I get the girl's attention. When she comes over, I ask her name and show her Marlene's picture.

"Me? I'm Luzia Verão," she says with a grin, "Who's dat? Someone I should know?"

"Maybe. She's been missing for a while, and I'm trying to find her. I found a matchbook from here at her place and thought maybe she'd been here. Guess I'm out of luck, huh? Except for the caldeirada, that is." It's tough to flirt and keep an eye on how the rest of the place is reacting. Good thing I'm a trained professional.

If she doesn't recognize Marlene I'll try Merivana and see if I get a hit there.

FrankyEsposito wrote:If she doesn't recognize Marlene I'll try Merivana and see if I get a hit there.

How so? I don't think you have a photo of Merivana, although you do have one of Alphonse Hirt.

Gaffer wrote:

FrankyEsposito wrote:If she doesn't recognize Marlene I'll try Merivana and see if I get a hit there.

How so? I don't think you have a photo of Merivana, although you do have one of Alphonse Hirt.

Hmm. I don't remember if I have one or not. If not, I'll ask about Alphonse who is, after all, also missing.

Franky sees Luzia's eyes widen with recognition. (Assess Honesty) "He look familiar, maybe actor on Broadaway? Why you ask?"

The scrape of the chair beside him as it's pulled back from the table startles Esposito, not least because the man's approach was so silent. Getting careless in my old age, too careless for Red Hook, maybe. A well-built young guy with a full head of dark hair smiles at him as he says to the girl, "Go ahead an' tell him what you know, Luiza. This one's on the house."

"Hokay-doke, Baldy." The girl leans invitingly close, her breath fresh with Juicyfruit, "Dis guy comes in few week ago an' few times after. He don' belong here wit' his fancy clothes, but he tip good, so I 'member him good. I t'ink he's estúpido rich boy slummin' in Red Hook, but he keep askin' questions 'bout de old church and…" She looks at Baldy and he shakes his head. "... 'bout stuff we don' talk 'bout.

"Later, I see 'im wit' dat Merivana up on Bay Street. I don'know what she is, but no Portuguese or Spanish. Baldy say she's meretriz, but I t'ink she's bruxa.”

Baldy sits in the chair and motions Luiza away, "Cute kid, huh? You pro'ly don' reco'nize her."

I listen real close. I don't know much Portuguese, but I know what "bruxa" means. Merivana's reputation precedes her.

I turn my attention to baldy, annoyed with him for sending Luzia away. "Recognize her? No, should I?" And does baldy recognize me or am I just paranoid? And who is baldy, anyway?

"We remember you, Espopsito," says the young hoodlum with a grin, "Luzia's older sister went missin' a few years back, Estrela Verão. She was Mario Verão's niece. Y'know, 'Big Chin' Verão? You an' your partner were th' only cops that cared 'bout a gangster's kid. We was sorry 'bout what happen'a you guys.

"I'm Balduinho Lazo, but people call me Baldy. I kinda run this joint for Mario an' things. He's my Uncle, too. By th' way, Luzia's seventeen, just so's ya know."

"Seventeen, huh?" I shake my head and take a long pull on my beer, hoping my grin will hide my embarrassment. "Damn, I'm old."

I run through my head real quick what I know about Baldy and his uncle.

"Real sorry about the way the rest of the force handled that. It still don't sit right with me."

I gesture at the pictures of Alphonse and Marlene. "She's his sister. They're both missing. You know anything solid about this Merivana?"

"Bay Street, huh? Gonna have to check it out, safe or no."

I give him my desk phone number. "You see that Merivana or hear anything -- anything -- about her, you call me. And if they start nosing around here you call me for that, too, you hear? They ain't taking anybody's kids this time, not if I can help it."

I shake his hand, pay my tab, and leave Luzia a healthy tip. I tip my hat to both of them as I head out.

Franky realizes that he has about an hour to spare, if he's going to be at Flanagan's on time to meet the others.

If there's time, I'll my a quick recon of Bay Street, just to bring back old memories. If not, I'll just wander around Red Hook a bit -- glad for the safety of the day time.

I leave myself plenty of time to catch a bus and a train uptown.

Will you try to talk to any of the residents of Red Hook to pick up information?

Gaffer wrote:Will you try to talk to any of the residents of Red Hook to pick up information?

Unless I run into someone I know -- an old friend or CI -- then no. Just trying to ease my way back into it without flipping out.

And there's no way I'm telling Siobhan about it.

Red Hook has changed little since the 1924 raid – it’s still a dangerous, run-down district, full of narrow streets and tenement blocks and the ever-present smell of the harbor. As Franky walks the streets of this district he feels watched and unwelcome, the object of blank stares and passive hostility. Most of the people look like poor people in other parts of the city. The worst of the neighborhoods are being demolished to make way for new housing, schools and parks. No one seems happy about it.

As Franky walks east and south toward Bay Street, there are more than a few men wearing fezzes or flat turbans. Few women are seen on the streets in those neighborhoods. Just two blocks from the diner, Esposito spots the first cult symbol, scratched into the wall of a burnt-out storefront.


When he gets to Creamer Street - the site where Suydam's tenements collapsed - there's no trace of them. But the new housing has already begun to pick up the grime and decay of the rest of the neighborhood. In the alleyway next to one of the new apartments the symbol is daubed on the wall and there's a small pile of offerings – a few coins, a couple of bottles of booze, something wrapped in a blanket. A big black dog is nosing the bundle. Franky has his hand on his revolver when it shies away and lopes off into the alleyway. Just a damn dog, Esposito, calm down before you plug somebody. When Esposito nudges the bundle, it falls open to disclose a dead cat, maggots writhing in its eye sockets. [Stability check against a target of 2]

He turns right onto Columbia Street and starts walking the block to Bay Street.

Gaffer wrote:[Stability check against a target of 2]

OOC,He's pretty freaked out, so I'm not even going to roll for it. FAIL!

Get a grip, Esposito. It's a cat. What made me think I saw a baby? Not even in Red Hook.
Never should've come back here. Should've taken the holiday off. Maybe I can just go. Take Siobhan, move to Chicago. Or maybe Iowa. Take up farming.
I'll never leave, of course. This place, it gets in your blood. Some folks don't take to it. They can't hear the humming poetry of the subway, the music of the wind whipping off the Hudson. They never learn to dance with this city. My city. Yeah, even here. Even this scabbed-over, filth-ridden, rat-infested cesspool. It's my city and I'll be damned if a bunch of fez-wearing lowlifes take it away from me.

I turn my collar up against the dank wind coming off the water. The next person who glares at me is going to get it right back at them, doubled. Maybe even hassled by John Law a little.

My city. Mine.

Esposito is practically stomping holes in the sidewalk by the time he arrives at Bay Street. He turns left and keeps marching. His determination must shine from his face, because three youths loitering on the corner hurriedly cross the street to get out of his way. On all sides, he sees the cult symbol, chalked on the pavement, embroidered onto window shades, painted on banners that hang from fire escapes above the street, on placards inside shop windows.

He's into the second block when a woman approaches him with wild eyes and matted hair. She ignores his scowl, grabbing his hand and kissing it. Her filthy clothes and sour odor make it apparent that she's been living on the streets.

"Detec-a-tive Esposito, Dios le bendice y protege. You don' 'member me, but I 'member you. You was lookin' for my bebé, my Anna. Dios le bendice. You gots'a be careful here. Dey 'member you too an'a dey kill'a you if-a dey can.

"Cops no a'welcome in'a Red'a Hook. Dey say cops'a get'a wha’sa comin' to dem soon. Big festival a'come soon. Dis week, nex' week, I dunno. Festival times ver' bad in'a Red'a Hook. Missin'a ninos an'a fires in da night. Da church on Visitation Street issa haunt' again. You stay 'way from it."

"Kill me? Let 'em try. We'll see about who's welcome in Red Hook, and who gets what's coming to them. New York is my city, and Red Hook's part of it."

I give the old crone whatever change is in my pocket. (Hope I have enough for the train back uptown.)

"Here. You find yourself someplace warm. Looks like it's gonna get cold tonight."

"Bless'a you, Detective Esposito." She hurries off down the street.

Down the block, a red coupe drives across the intersection of Clinton and Bay, heading north along Clinton.

I run to the intersection, hoping to get a good look at the plate. If it's Marlene Hirt's car... I'll go after them if they're within reach, otherwise find a callbox and phone it in.

I hate Red Hook.

Franky gets to the end of the block and practically runs into a uniformed cop.

"Take it easy greasy," says the cop putting his hands on Esposito's shoulders, "You gotta long way to slide." He starts pushing Franky toward the wall of Cheng's Restaurant he just came out of, "Now let's start with why --" over his shoulder Franky sees the coupe turning left on Lorraine.

"Take it easy, yerself there, Jerry. Look who it is yer shovin," comes the voice of another cop coming out of Cheng's behind Jerry, "It's Franky Esposito his own self. How ya been, Franky?"

In a moment, Esposito recognizes Jerry O’Donogh and Pat Corydon, two stalwarts from the Butler Street Station, still patrolmen despite the several years since he's seen them.

I ignore the two for the moment and turn to get the best look I can at the coupe. Could it be Hirt's? Can I get a decent look at the driver?

"Either of you guys get a look at that red coupe? I've got an APB out on one just like that. Two missing persons and more." ...double take... "Jerry O'Donogh? And Pat Corydon, big as life! Good to see you two still keeping your thumbs on this neighborhood. How the hell are ya?"

It was definitely a red coupe, probably a Ford, and maybe some front end damage. Looked like a guy driving it.

"I was still inside, settlin' th' tab," says Pat.

"I caught a glimpse as it went past th' winder," says Jerry, "An' I thot I remembered somethin' 'bout a red coupe."

"Two missin' is it? We'll be sure to keep an eye peeled, Pat says solemnly, "And what's th' 'and more' about?"

"Ah, we've been grand, Franky, just grand. Pat's a grandfather now, y'know."

"It's true. An' this lug'll be married this time next month. Can ya believe it now?"

"Well, saints preserve us. Who's the unlucky girl?" I give Jerry a slap on the back.

"Grandfather, huh? Hardly seems possible, Pat. Amazing how it flies by, ain't it?"

I don't want to break the mood, so I shoot the breeze with them for a bit. I can't just let it go, though.

"So, I'm hearing some bad things going on in these parts again. You guys hear anything?"

Corydon steps in close so he can keep his voice very low, "That dance hall on Visitation's opened up again."

"Yeh," mutters O'Donough, "New owners, but the same old faces in the crowd. No kids missin' ...yet."

Franky realizes it's after five and it'll be getting dark soon.

"Heard that. The locals are pretty nervous."

I let that hang in the air for a while, watching the last rays of sun retreat from Red Hook, almost as if the sun itself is afraid of this place. It's been a long time since I've been on these streets after dark. Not nearly long enough.

"I need to get moving. You guys be careful out there. And keep in touch. I'm pretty sure that the person I'm looking for is involved in all the stuff goin on on Visitation. You see that red coupe you let me know about, ya hear?"

"If the coupe has anythin' to do with Visitation, it'll likely be there t'morra night. If we spot it, we'll get in touch," says Corydon.

"Yeh," Jerry says, "You be careful, Franky."

Jerry and Pat share a look.

"It's Wednesday, Franky," says Jerry.

Pat nods, "That was always their night to howl."

Both men cross themselves.

"Oh, right. It's, uh, been a few years."

Yes, yes it has. Good years, mostly. Years, at least, where nobody got ripped in half by a, a...

"Reckon maybe I'll pay a little visit tomorrow night, then. See if our red coupe is taking part in the festivities. Thanks for your help, guys. I owe you a beer."

Time to get out of here, to get back to someplace normal.