Little Easter by Reed Farrel Coleman

stuck the Murphy’s in my fist.
    I didn’t want a drink, but I plugged the bottle with my tongue and made believe. The tip of my tongue didn’t like it, but the rest of me appreciated the pantomime.
    “The bitch was a Jew to boot,” the giant grabbed the bottle back.
    Maybe something showed on my face. I don’t know, but O’Toole squinted at me.
    “What’s your name anyways?” He tried dressing the question up with an air of nonchalance, but his self-consciousness was showing.
    “Klein. Dylan Klein,” I replied with as little affect as possible.
    He just smirked, threw up his free palm and raised his brows. That was as much of an apology as I was going to get. And I wasn’t about to push him. I couldn’t afford to plug the the only pumping well I’d struck so far. So what if he wasn’t a flower child. Besides, hate was probably all he had left. I was so good at rationalization.
    “So she was a wiseguy’s girl and she didn’t take communion.” I put us back on track. “What else? What about Johnny Blue?”
    “There ain’t much else,” he took a small ocean of a drink. “The Johnny Blue stuff was a code thing between ‘em. Like I said, Johnny knew I disapproved. So she’d leave notes at the precinct house for Johnny Blue or Johnny Green. I didn’t make detective,” the booze was making him repeat things now, “but even I could figure that one color meant the coast was clear and the other was a warning.”
    “Anything else?” I pumped some more.
    “See him?” O’Toole was pointing at his son’s picture again. “Kids—
    “—don’t listen,” I finished. “Johnny and the girl,” I prodded.
    “Right,” he tried licking the bottom of the bottle. “Kids don’t listen. Coulda gotten him onto the force.”
    I figured the well was running dry as the Murphy’s and my time had come to leave. I planted one of my old business cards in his shirt pocket and reminded him to ignore the office number. I thanked him and asked him to call if anything, no matter how insignificant, about Johnny and the girl came to mind.
    “Did I tell ya the cunt was a matzoh eater?” he smiled that evil-toothed smile up at me. His blue eyes were as glazed as a holiday ham. “Hey, get me a beer, fella, huh?”
    “Yeah, you told me about the girl,” I assured him, popping open a Coors. “Sleep tight,” I handed him the beer knowing he would. I started for the front door.
    “Crazy,” the sour cop’s voice boomed to my back.
    I considered not turning to him, but I don’t always pay atttention to what I’m thinking. “What?” I shouted.
    “Crazy, I’m crazy for feelin’ so lonely,” the giant sang in a queer falsetto. “Johnny was always singin’ that. I told ya.” He hadn’t. “The kid had some good pipes on him. I got him right outta the academy; greener than clover . . .”
    I closed the door quietly behind me as the scarlet-nosed giant ate at his bitter heart and finished his drunken tape loop of stories.

Dark Pride
    The only thing working hard the next morning was my dialing finger. O’Toole had finally given me some meat for my table. But when you spilled out all the fat and reduced it over high heat, there really wasn’t much to chew on. I’d gotten just enough to eat to let let me know how hungry I really was.
    I punched up Larry Feld’s office. Much to my chagrin, his secretary was still alive. She didn’t exactly treat my call like the second coming, but Mary managed to put me through before any more of my hair turned gray or fell out. I knew it was in my head, but the phone got cold against my ear when Larry spoke. I bit my lip and thanked the man for his guide to the Diamond Exchange and the list of Johnny’s cop mates. Before he could ask, I admitted both seeds had borne fruit. Larry lied about being happy to help. Larry didn’t understand happy, but even at this distance I could hear him tallying up the payback. Larry understood debt. I decided to increase mine.
    There was just