Late the next morning, he dropped me off at the restaurant before heading back uptown. As the day moved on, he called me a half dozen times from all over the city as he went about his tour in the war-zone, his never-ending making of doughnuts, as he called it. Around one a.m., right after I’d closed down the bar, he called me from The Tombs. He wasn't having much fun.
“The bad guys won’t get with the program,” he said.
“Don’t those buttheads know giving you a hard time is against the rules?” I said, ducking into the bathroom to get a little quiet time away from the hooch klatch the waiters were having at the bar with their after-shift drinks.
“The mooks don’t always read the memos,” he said, and coughed.
“Me and Javier had to transport a mouthy perp down from the Heights. In jammed up traffic for an hour and a half. Lunatic wouldn’t shut his trap.” He coughed again.
“Sounds like a bad cold coming on.”
“Just a sniffle. But thanks to Mr. Bigmouth’s chatter, a headache’s in there, too. His nonsense got to me. Which was stupid. Don’t know why I let it. ”