Codes of Betrayal Read Free Page A

brawl—fists and beer flying.”
    He had a magnetic voice, and he seemed to disappear into the scene he was depicting. Guys paused in their paperwork—those on the telephone only paid half attention to the voices coming from the receiver.
    “So I tried to keep out of it—hell, I’d done my job of work, but wouldn’t you know it? Right in front of my face, this stupid-looking little Irishman, I mean a right off of the boat donkey,” he glanced at the Irish guys who waited him out, “no offense, honest, but this man, he even had those little pointy ears your Irish fairies have.”
    McFyphe looked up from his typing. “We Irish don’t have fairies, so be careful what you say, Mr. White.”
    Nick called out, “Leprechauns.”
    “Ah, that’s it, that’s what he looked like, one of those. Those little guys you haul out for the St. Patrick’s Parade. Anyway, this dumb dude holds off and slams Magee the barkeep right in the chops, and Magee grabs onto me and yells, ‘Arrest this bastard before I kill him.’ So I had to take the man into custody. By now, we’ve got a coupla off-duty guys trying to straighten things out, but my little friend lands one on me. So I cuffed the culprit and begin to read him his rights.”
    White covered his eyes with his hand and shook his head.
    “I check with my little card, to make sure I say everything in the right order. Then I look at the guy and he has a really nutty look on his face, so I go, “What? What’s up? Do you understand what I’m tellin’ you? And he looks at me and says, ‘Jesus, I thought you was supposed to read that to you people. Why you readin’ this shit to me?’”
    McFyphe, without looking up from his report, asked, “Well, isn’t it just for you people?”
    White ignored him. “So I ask him, nice, y’know. And just which people are you referring to, m’man? I can see this little … guy … is working hard now. He gotta be careful, so he says, ‘the Negro people?’ I glare at him. He tries again—’the black people.’ I tell him to try again. ‘Okay, I mean the Afro-American … African Americans … Jesus Christ, you people keep changing who you are every other day, how the hell are we supposed to know what to call ya?’”
    The detective had a contagious laugh, and in the pause, McFyphe asked, “So now come, Del-a-ware, you people call each other ‘nigger’—hell, I hear it all the time on the street and in that rap music and all—so how come we can’t? Use the word, I mean?”
    White smiled, put his heavy hand on McFyphe’s shoulder, and said softly, “Just don’t try, brother, just don’t try. I tell you this as a friend.”
    He turned back to his audience. He hadn’t finished. “So I book the guy and I tell him: listen, my man, I want you to know something. You have just been arrested by the best goddamn cop in New York City, and I want you to remember my name, okay? The guy nods. So I straighten up, look him right into his beady, shifty little eyes, and I tell him: I am White! Talk about a confused Irishman!”

CHAPTER 2
    A S HE TURNED OFF the parkway and headed up the winding road that lead to his home, Nick regretted that he hadn’t touched base with Kathy. He hadn’t been home in two days. He and Ed had to work around the clock chasing down an elusive informant, whom they hadn’t found until the very early hours of the morning. By then it was too late to head for home, or even call. What was the point of waking his wife up at four in the morning to tell her what she already knew: that he was stuck? Three hours later she’d just be getting up again, to head out for her teaching job at the high school.
    And he hadn’t called today because, well, he’d see her soon.
    That of course was rationalization. He hadn’t touched base with her in more than forty hours because he didn’t want to hear the sound of her voice. The pained Okay; I understand; sure.
    There had been a time when she did understand. And when he did