Fala Factor Read Online Free PDF Page B

you,” I said, grinning back at Cawelti. “He’s only going to do it again when I leave.”
    â€œPeters, Peters,” said Cawelti, “we’re coming to that time. Things are changing around here, and you and me are going to dance in the moonlight,” The last had been punctuated with a finger jabbed at me for “you” and a thumb at himself for “me.”
    â€œPoetry will get you nowhere, John-John,” I said, propping the Mexican back up in the chair while trying not to let any of him rub off on me.
    â€œHey,” a voice, deep and dark, called across the babble of the room. I turned, and beyond the bulk of a mountainous sergeant drinking a cup of coffee, I saw Steve Seidman waving at me. Without another word to Cawelti, I skipped past an overturned basket that had something wet and red in it, hopped over the Negro kid on the bench, who pulled back into a protective ball, and weaved around the mountain of a cop whose name was Slaughter and whose disposition was known to match his name. He almost spilled his coffee as he made way for me to get past him. I gave a half-second prayer that the coffee didn’t spill and put Slaughter into a worse-than-normal mood.
    â€œBeen making friends in the squadroom again?” Seidman said, sitting back against the edge of his desk in a corner. There were two small fruit crates on top of the desk. One had once been filled with Napa Sweetheart artichokes and was now piled high with papers, notes, and assorted junk.
    â€œEarly spring cleaning?” I asked, nodding at the desk.
    â€œMoving day,” he answered, pushing away from the desk and starting forward. I followed him.
    â€œHow’s the tooth?” I said as we angled past the semiclear space near the filthy windows that tried but failed to keep out all of the sunlight. Seidman’s right cheek was definitely puffy.
    â€œThe man,” Seidman said over his shoulder, “is a butcher, an incompetent unclean quack.”
    â€œAnd those are Shelly’s good traits,” I said as he opened the door marked LT. PHILIP PEVSNER .
    â€œYou’re a class act, Toby,” Seidman said emotionlessly as I moved past him. Then he whispered, “Be careful, Phil’s in a good mood.”
    I stepped in and Seidman stepped out, closing the door behind me but not before I caught a glimpse of his hand reaching for his cheek. Phil was standing behind his small desk in the office, which was about the same size as my own. His bulky back was to me. He was in his rumpled gray suit looking out the grim window at the blank wall. A cup of coffee was in his hand. He didn’t turn when the door closed but I caught a movement of the shoulders that led me to believe that he wasn’t lost in some form of meditation.
    â€œHappy birthday,” I said, resisting the temptation to sit in the chair across from his desk. I’d been trapped in that chair more than once and wound up with books in my face, a kick in the leg that led to orthopedic therapy, and a variety of lesser but equally interesting injuries, each of which was good enough for at least a fifteen-yard penalty.
    Phil grunted and took another sip of coffee. He was just too fascinated by that brick wall to turn around. I couldn’t blame him. More than ten years of looking at it could not dim the fascination of its potential mysteries.
    â€œWhat are you looking at?” I heard myself say, knowing that it was exactly what I shouldn’t say, at least what I shouldn’t say unless I wanted my brother to turn in murderous rage, which is probably what I did want. Old habits die hard. I had once said that to my friend Jeremy Butler. He had said, “Old habits never die. They are only repressed and come back to haunt us in disguise.” So, I had decided it was better to make friends with my bad habits than to hide them away. The result had been a lost marriage, a bad back, no money in the bank, a diet