Slow Burn by Terrence McCauley

especially where the brass was concerned. I didn’t expect him to have the same bitterness toward them that I had. I just hoped that whatever he told them bought me enough time to find something that would give us a foothold to keep us on this case.
    And not just for my sake anymore.
    Sure, I’d gone into this scheming for a payday. But the look on Mr. Van Dorn’s face as he mourned his family had hit me deeper than I’d like to admit. That look stuck with me, and stuck good.
    I knew that look well. I should. I saw it in the mirror as I shaved every morning. I drove down to Jack Van Dorn’s apartment: 70 Perry Street, apartment 3A. The heart of Greenwich Village — Oddball Capital of New York City, which put it in the running for Odd-ball Capital of the World.
    The Village was a strange world of stately brownstones, tenements and railroad flats, crooked streets and parks and narrow alleys. For some reason, it had always been a hotbed for the fringes of society: Commies, Marxists, musicians, writers, poets, actors, big thinkers and general flakes of every stripe. I guess they were drawn to the little playhouses, theaters and coffee houses, and dusty little bookshops with too many books about stuff you couldn’t pay me to read, much less get me to buy.
    Despite Prohibition, there was still plenty of drugs and drinking, too, but it was mostly self-contained. There was cocaine and opium, of course, but marijuana was their drug of choice. It was cheaper than the other drugs on the market and it kept them all mellow for the most part, so the department let it go.
    The Village always seemed more like a state of mind than just a neighborhood on a map. It was a place where the Lost Generation types had found a home. The people who lived there didn’t seem to be able to fit in anywhere else, but then again, they didn’t seem to try very hard. If anyone could appreciate that, I sure as hell could. I parked across from 70 Perry on the north side of the street. It was one of the nicer buildings in the area: a three-story townhouse, stone stairs out front. A nice, clean place. The kind of digs I’d expect a brat like Jack Van Dorn to live.
    Close enough to the grit and grime without getting his hands dirty. This place was about as bohemian as I was Chinese.
    An old woman I took for the landlady was sweeping the stoop. She wore a moth-eaten housedress that looked nearly as old as she was. Her fleshy arms swayed as she swiped at the dirt in short, spiteful strokes, as if she hated the broom as much as the mess. The heat bounced off the pavement as I stepped out of the car. I should’ve put on my suit jacket to hide my gun, but I left it behind. Jack’s picture in my back pocket was all I needed.
    The landlady saw me coming and stopped in midsweep. She eyeballed my shoulder holster as I crossed the street. I already had my badge out of my pocket. I even tried a smile.
    “Don’t worry, ma’am. Police business.” Neither the badge nor the smile worked. If anything, she looked even more miserable now that she’d seen the badge.
    “I didn’t see nothin’ and I didn’t hear nothin’, mister, so best be on your way.”
    “Jesus, lady. I didn’t even ask you anything yet.”
    “But you will,” she said. “Never saw a copper come around who didn’t have a lot of damned fool questions. Sniffing around, arresting their own kind.” She hawked and spat on a small clean spot on the stoop. “I hate goddamned cops.”
    “That makes two of us.” I put my badge back in my pocket. “Now that we’ve got so much in common, how about telling me about the man who lives in 3A.” I fished out his picture from my back pocket and showed it to her. “This man.”
    She leaned on her broom handle and scowled up at me. She didn’t even look at Jack’s picture. “Why the hell should I?”
    “Because I’m not coming at you hard like most cops would. And if you tell me what I want to know, there might be some money in it for you. Real