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pot in her right

hand. “You said double-vanilla latte decaf, right?”

“Must be my lucky day.”

“Every day’s your lucky day, darlin’!”
    Pancake John is getting ready to close up shop and flip the sign, so when Erin excuses herself to wipe

the maple syrup off the red Naugahyde booths, me and Lindgren shyly return to our so-called coffee.

And when Erin stoops under a table to pick up a fallen menu, I slide him my

Newsday.
    “John Paul Newport’s column on Hillary,” I say. “It’s hilarious. Kind of thing your lieutenant might get a

hoot out of too.”

“Thanks, pal,” says Lindgren.
    He cracks the editorial section just enough to see two fat envelopes, then slides over his

New York Post.
    “Crossword’s a bear today,” he says, “but maybe you’ll have better luck with it than I did.”

“Coffee’s on me, Hugo,” I say, dropping five dollars on the counter as I head to the door.
    I don’t open my

Post

until I’m safely back in the Big Black Beast stationed in the middle of the empty parking lot.
    Then I read the note from Lindgren.
    Apparently some sharp-eyed civilian called in a tip to the cops this morning about a wanted fugitive

looking a lot like Michael Walker. The suspect was leaving a Brooklyn gym last night, and the name of the

establishment now fills the twenty-two letters set aside for nine across. And when I glance at the backseat,

I see Hugo has also left me a little party favor-a brand-new, bright-red Miami Heat basketball cap.
    I may have been underestimating Lindgren all these years. I know it’s only the

Post

and not the

London Times,

but who would have thought that a corrupt, degenerate excuse for a police officer had the balls or

vocabulary to do the crossword in ink?

Beach Road

Chapter 23
    Loco

ON ACCOUNT OF the fact that I’m a whole lot brighter and craftier than I look, locating the Bed-Stuy

Community Center is a piece of cake. The tricky part is finding a place to park where the Big Black Beast

doesn’t draw too much attention to itself and I still have a halfway decent view of both entrances. This,

after all, is a stakeout. Just not by the cops.
    After circling the block a couple times, I double-park half a dozen spaces past the community center.

That’s right across the street from Carmine’s Pizzeria, so it looks as if I’m just sitting there enjoying my

Pepsi and slice like any other self-respecting neighborhood goombah.
    I thought these boxing clubs were extinct, something out of a black-and-white Cagney flick. These days,

tough kids don’t scrap. They strap. So mastering the sweet science is only going to get you killed.
    But maybe I’m wrong, because the place looks all renovated and spiffy, and folks are going in and out at

a pretty good clip. Most of ‘em have a strut too.
    If nothing else, banging on a heavy bag has got to be good stress management. And right now our man

Michael Walker has got to be seriously stressing, what with an APB out for him in fifteen states and an

outstanding warrant for triple homicide.
    While Walker works out, I blacken the end of the Graycliff Robusto I bought at the Tinder Box in East

Hampton. And it looks like I picked it well. It’s nice and soft, and lights like a dream.
    The bad news is that I’m exactly three puffs into my delightful cigar when Walker slides out the back door

in a gray hooded sweatshirt, a big gym bag slung over his bony shoulder.
    Now I’m fucked. If I put it out and relight it, the Graycliff will never taste the same. If I take it with me, it’s

hardly going to be the relaxing experience I had in mind when I dropped fifteen dollars on it.
    So making the kind of difficult executive decision that earns me the big bucks, I open the sunroof and

place the cigar gently in the ashtray. Then I follow Walker north toward Fulton Street.
    Staying half a block back, I see him take a quick left. Just as I round the corner, he looks both ways and

ducks