The sun was settling, but a touch of light lingered. Perez leaned against the wall of Piccolo's, standing beneath the short entryway. Most of the reporters had scattered when a fire broke in Midtown, but a few die-hards remained. Vicki Vale loitered down the block, her blond ponytail unmistakable even in the drizzle.
The double doors behind her swung open.
"Hey, hey, Mari. Whatta you know?"
Brian Thompson grinned as he dragged out a metal stool, setting it just under the awning where the rain could tease the edge of his shoes. He fished a pack from his jacket.
"Bri, how's the business?"
"Gamblers still like to spend their shit where they shouldn't."
"And on the street? You hear anything worth knowing?"
"Sure," he said, taking a drag.
No one gave up intel for free. Perez pressed her back to the wall, studying him. Brian was in his fifties, overweight, black hair going gray. He owned Piccalo's and a few seedy slot joints around South B. His arm stretched out, offering her a cigarette from crinkled Newport's pack. She took it. He thumbed a yellow Bic lighter. She leaned forward, noticing his calloused fingers from fixing everything that broke.
"Heard I.A. is sniffing around Saigon," said Perez, exhaling smoke.
"Yeah, caught that too," said Brian sounding unimpressed.
She slung a hand into her jacket, flicked ash onto the wet concrete. "Heard some of Loeb's top brass landed in the ER."
"Everyone's heard that," Brian said, blowing smoke.
"Well, shit, Bri. Tell me something you don't know."
He smirked. "Some cops roughed up a ginger in that alley," he said, jerking a thick finger across the street. "Word is Lorenzo was in the mix."
"Oh yeah?" Perez's skin prickled. She didn't like where this was headed. Didn't want to drag Gordon into it. Her silence hung there, it was answer enough.
Brian hopped off the stool, and stepped closer to the curtain of rain. "You know, I knew Carter back in the day. In the fifties when I was just a little shit. We all were. But Carter—he was the man. Real old school. Took on the Italians in the Westside and the white boys in the East End. Didn't take shit from anyone."
Perez's ears twitched. "Must've shocked you when he flipped."
Brian took a long pull from his cigarette. "He didn't flip."
She narrowed her eyes. Fuck. He knew something. And if she wanted it, she'd have to pay.
He let the smoke drift from his mouth, slow and thoughtful. Like he had to summon the nerve to ask. When he finally did, she understood why.
"What's 'eye for an eye' mean?"
She exhaled. "Why'd Carter burn his crew?"
Brian nodded, like he'd been waiting for her to ask. "He broke a deal. Or one of his boys did. Your guy warned him—told him to stop spraying bullets around the block. Said if it didn't stop, he'd flip the whole crew. Then one of his boys shot up a deli. Carter knew what was coming."
"So he did snitch?"
"Ain't how the streets see it," said Brian. "So, what's 'eye for an eye'?"
Perez took a slow drag, glanced at the precinct across the street, its walls streaked with rain.
"Means you protect your own, Bri."
"You talking about the ginger?"
Perez said nothing. Just smoked.
"He working for a cop?" Brian asked.
"He works for no one."
Brian followed her gaze to the precinct.