Page 103 of Under Cover
“Yup,” Crosby said, moving up from the refrigerator. He cracked the soda and held it up to Pidgeon, standing off to the side, keeping his gun aimed. Pidgeon opened his mouth and drank greedily, moaning slightly with the sugar and caffeine suffusing his bloodstream.
“You’re good to me, Ricky,” Pidgeon mumbled when he was done. Crosby set the soda can on the table, having collected DNA in case Pidgeon was wanted on any other crimes.
“Pidgeon,” Crosby said, keeping his voice low. “Tell me about the delivery tonight. It’s a big one. You said the big bitch is gonna be there. This bitch got a name?”
“Beechum,” Pidgeon said promptly. “It looks like something ritzy, but even she says Beechum.”
“Gotcha. You say she’s the big bitch. Does she got a boss?”
Pidgeon frowned, and Crosby could swear he smelled burning rubber. “She does,” he said. “Guy who owns the warehouse. I heard her talking to Jimmy tonight. She was like, ‘He told me there was a shipment tonight, and I don’t give a shit what your assclowns are doing about that other thing, have them here tonight to do their fucking jobs!’”
Crosby let out a small laugh. “Sounds like a ballbuster,” he said, and he could see that Marcy’s track record of not making friends had followed her.
“She’s someone… I dunno. Big. McEnany sucks up to her all the time. Asking her for money, making sure Creedy can take samples of the blow. If she had a knob, he’d wax it, you know?”
Crosby nodded. “What about McEnany. How’s he doing?”
Pidgeon shook his head. “Dunno. Someone broke his face three days ago. He’s been shitting kittens ever since.” Pidgeon lowered his head conspiratorially. “I’ll be honest,” he whispered. “He and Creedy been pulling each other apart. He was pissed ’cause Creedy said you OD’d, Creedy was pissed ’cause he said McEnany got you Narcan. All that ‘this is my brother’ bullshit, that’s been flushed down the fuckin’ tubes. Now it’s both of them trying to push each other in front of the truck that’s Big Bitch Beechum.”
There was a solid knock at the door. “FBI. Is this the home of—”
“Don’t say his fuckin’ name,” Crosby snapped through the door. “Were you or were you not told it’s silent running tonight?”
There was a silence. “Apologies” came a more subdued voice. “FBI arriving for a joint mission with the SCTF?”
“I got it,” Garcia said from the hallway. “You opened him up like clam with a screwdriver, Cowboy. Good job.”
Pidgeon gave a weak, wet little snort. “And now you’re jus’ gonna throw me away,” he said.
Crosby turned toward him, not sure there was redemption in his future—not sure there could be. “You’re gonna get clean in prison,” he said. “You’re gonna get clean, and prison’s gonna fuckin’ suck. But you know what you said about remembering how stuff was after something bad?”
Pidgeon nodded glumly.
“Remember this moment. You smell, Pidgeon. You ain’t changed your clothes in a week. Your teeth are fuckin’ falling out. And you’re running around doing bad shit and you don’t even know why. You ask yourself if prison’s worse than this, yeah? And if it’s not? Maybe you can change shit when you get out.”
Two guys with FBI windbreakers walked in, handcuffs and manacles in their hands. Garcia handed them the keys and pointed them to everything on the end table that they’d cleared out of Pidgeon’s pockets.
“Make sure you get all the fuckin’ dime bags,” Garcia groused. “I don’t want that shit in my house.” Which was fine. Crosby didn’t want it either.
“Understood,” said the Special Agent in Charge, a slender, no-bullshit woman named Downey who took in Garcia’s house at a glance. “Was this a home invasion?”
“Attempted,” Garcia said. “I’ll forward you the video of him casing the house and looking to get in.”
“What alerted you to the prowler?”
Garcia laughed and looked over the couch back again. Crosby risked a glance and saw that their friend the enormous cat was still there.
“My roommate heard our guy there disturb the cat,” Garcia said, still chuckling. “Woke me up and the alarm beacon was flashing.”
The agent looked over the couch and gave a ghost of a smile. “Your cat?”
“Is now,” Crosby said mildly. He gave himself a mental pat down to make sure he had all the gear he needed. “We gotta go,” he said. “Did our chief give you the lowdown?”
“We understand there’s shit going on tonight,” Downey said shortly. “Your SAC told us to give you a unit so we could sweep the one here.” She pitched the keys to Garcia, who pitched them to Crosby in one smooth move. Downey laughed. “So we know who drives?”
Crosby could see the smartass retort in Garcia’s eyes, so he answered quickly. “I, uh… go fast.”
“He makes the other cars pregnant by riding up their tailpipe.” Garcia snickered, and that at least was safe to laugh it.
