Page 78 of NYPD Red 7: The Murder Sorority

Vincent downed the lastof his beer and set the glass on the scarred walnut bar top that had been a refuge for the locals forforty-

sevenyears. Within seconds, a callused hand whisked the empty away and replaced it with a full one, the glass cool, wet, and sparkling clean, the head sitting on top of the amber brew, mushrooming about an inch over the rim.

“On the house,” Smitty said. “But you gotta do me a favor.”

“Name it,” Vincent said, lifting the beer.

“Smile, will ya? You’re giving happy hour a bad name. Customers are starting to complain.”

Vincent did more than smile. He laughed out loud. That was why this became hisgo-towatering hole. Smitty could crack up a church full of grieving widows.

“So what is it?” Smitty asked.

“What is what?”

“Come on, Vincent. What’s my mantra, my core credo, the unshakable doctrine that guides my life and that I willingly share with every sad sack who drags his ass into my saloon?”

Vincent, still grinning, shook his head.

“Say it, Vincent, or I’ll take the beer back.”

Vincent let out a weary sigh. “If it’s got tits or wheels, it’s gonna give you problems.”

“Now you’re talking,” Smitty said. “And since I know you ain’t got a car, that eliminates the wheels option, which leaves us with what? Women.”

Vincent nodded, enjoying the performance.

“And since you’ve been parking your ass on that stool since five years before you were legal, I know you well enough to count the women in your life on three fingers. How am I doing so far?”

“You’re batting a thousand,” Vincent said. “But I’m an easy read. We can’t all have fourex-wiveslike you.”

“Threeex-wives. The dead one don’t count. Now, where was I?”

“You narrowed down my problems to three women.”

“Right. The one is your sister.” Smitty held up one finger on his right hand. “Priscilla drives you crazy all the time. And when she does, you come in here all worked up, ready to pounce, like a rat trapped in a corner.

“Or,” Smitty said, raising a finger on his left hand. “It could be your girlfriend. When Valerie pushes your buttons, you’re a whole different kind of angry. More pissed at yourself than at the rest of the world. Like she pressed that old familiar ‘you’re not good enough’ hot button that was installed, lo these many moons ago, by candidate number three—your dear departed mother.”

“Jesus, Smitty,” Vincent said.

“Hey, tell me it ain’t true, and I’ll never say it again. But come on, Vincent—your mom? I seen her do it all the time. She was always taking people down a peg, and you and your sister got the worst of it. Why do you think I let you drink here when you were only sixteen? Why do you think Priscilla don’t come out of the house and deal with the world? It’s a shame how your mother treated you kids. But she’s gone. Don’t let her liverent-freeinside your head.”

He took a dry towel and rubbed the ancient wooden bar top hard enough to coax a hint of the old luster out of it. “I’m sorry, kid,” he said, looking up at Vincent. “I have this bad habit of thinking everyone comes here for the gospel according to Ernie Smith. It’s just that I know you got a great girlfriend who loves the shit out of you, and she’s got two kids who treat you like the dad they always dreamed about, and you have a damn fantastic life ahead of you. And then you come in tonight, and you’re not pissed off, like when Priscilla is driving you batshit, and you’re not looking allpussy-whippedlike Valerie called you out on something, so I was trying to guess what the fuck was wrong with you, and I came up with the ghost of Ingrid Ackerman.”

“It’s not my mother,” Vincent said. “It’s Valerie. She wants to get married.”

“That’s fucking fantastic! What are you sitting here drowning your sorrows for? You’d be crazy not to marry her.”

“I know. I wanna. I love her. And her kids—my God, I’d throw myself in front of a bus for them.”

“So what’s the problem?

“Valerie is from the Dominican Republic. Her roots are there. Her whole family is there. She wants to marry me, but only if the four of us move there.”

“So go! The DR is beautiful. It’s summer all year long. You been with the MTA twenty years. Take an early retirement and go make a life for yourself. What the fuck is in Astoria that would keep...” Smitty stopped. “Oh, right. Priscilla don’t want you to go.”

“I haven’t told Priscilla,” Vincent said.

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