the rolling suitcase in which he’d brought them.
In the bathroom he stared through the steam at the serviceable face he was shaving, the short hair with almost no gray. “The family face, anonymous and perfect for stakeout work,” his grandfather “Black Jack” Quinlan had said. Jack Quinlan had made detective lieutenant on the job. He’d died almost thirty years back when Sean was barely thirteen. He thought about the old man almost every day.
Sean looked in the mirror and smiled just a bit. Lately he’d had occasion to notice that the Quinlan face was also perfect for a man on the run. He put on a jacket and shirt but no tie because suddenly there wasn’t time. On the way to the bedroom he picked up the brown snap brim that he’d been wearing for practice and put it on his head with just enough tilt.
When he kissed her Adie said, “Brazil! I’ve got a Brazilian with money interested in a penthouse and with that trade agreement he doesn’t even have to explain where he got the cash.”
Then she looked up and said, “You are beyond retro, Mister. You disappear and I’ll start believing in Sliders.”
“People talk about Sliders. Have you ever known one?”
“It’s escapism not reality. I think they took the name from some old TV show nobody watched. I know a woman who described her teenage son as a perfect 1969 hippie. He had the clothes and the hair; his room was papered with old posters and he hardly ever left it. One morning he disappeared and she thinks he slid back there, claims she found notes from him written on old yellow paper and telling her he was okay. Of course she’s also delusional enough to think the Dow will hit 16,000 some fine day.”
Turning to go he said, “Remember the Peggy Hughes party tonight.”
Adie nodded and pointed to a set of handcuffs attached to one of the brass rods on the headboard. “Can you hide those before you go? The cleaning lady’s coming today.”
Outside on Rivington Street, it was still early enough that Quinlan got a cab with no problem. This Lower East Side drug pit of his youth had gotten gentrified and hip beyond measure. But times like this, on mornings with bright, merciless sun shining on empty shop windows, it had started to look a bit shabby again.
As the cab rolled across Houston Street into the East Village, he noticed people setting up folding tables on the widened sidewalks, opening for business in the big informal flea market that had grown up there.
Portable dressing rooms lined Avenue B. On Tenth Street police barricades blocked traffic onto that side street. Miss Rheingold posters and ads for Pall Malls covered over the Mexican restaurant and reflexology parlor signs. Extras were ready to stand on the corner in greaser haircuts or lean out of first floor windows in housecoats and hairnets. Down the block, lights brighter than the sun illuminated a tenement.
Getting out of the cab Quinlan was spotted by a couple of the film crew. “Morning officer,” one said and they all laughed.
For their amusement and his own he did an imitation of the old cop he’d heard on TV. “This is my once and future city. My life consists of long periods of waiting and brief, flashes of action and violence. My name’s Sean Quinlan. And when I can get the work, I’m an actor.”
Big parts of Quinlan’s life were in a condition he didn’t want to think about. But he had a good part in a medium-sized film. Nothing else would matter for the next few hours.
At 9:22 one day in the spring of 1960, New York Police Detective Pete McDevitt climbs out of an unmarked Buick, flicks his half smoked cigarette away, and steps into East Tenth Street. His suit is gray and his shirt is blue to match his eyes. His tie is blood red and his hat is tilted back a tad to give full value to his face. Detective Pat Roark exits from the driver’s side wearing brown with a white shirt and blue tie as befits a steady back up man and faithful partner.
McDevitt was played
In the bathroom he stared through the steam at the serviceable face he was shaving, the short hair with almost no gray. “The family face, anonymous and perfect for stakeout work,” his grandfather “Black Jack” Quinlan had said. Jack Quinlan had made detective lieutenant on the job. He’d died almost thirty years back when Sean was barely thirteen. He thought about the old man almost every day.
Sean looked in the mirror and smiled just a bit. Lately he’d had occasion to notice that the Quinlan face was also perfect for a man on the run. He put on a jacket and shirt but no tie because suddenly there wasn’t time. On the way to the bedroom he picked up the brown snap brim that he’d been wearing for practice and put it on his head with just enough tilt.
When he kissed her Adie said, “Brazil! I’ve got a Brazilian with money interested in a penthouse and with that trade agreement he doesn’t even have to explain where he got the cash.”
Then she looked up and said, “You are beyond retro, Mister. You disappear and I’ll start believing in Sliders.”
“People talk about Sliders. Have you ever known one?”
“It’s escapism not reality. I think they took the name from some old TV show nobody watched. I know a woman who described her teenage son as a perfect 1969 hippie. He had the clothes and the hair; his room was papered with old posters and he hardly ever left it. One morning he disappeared and she thinks he slid back there, claims she found notes from him written on old yellow paper and telling her he was okay. Of course she’s also delusional enough to think the Dow will hit 16,000 some fine day.”
Turning to go he said, “Remember the Peggy Hughes party tonight.”
Adie nodded and pointed to a set of handcuffs attached to one of the brass rods on the headboard. “Can you hide those before you go? The cleaning lady’s coming today.”
Outside on Rivington Street, it was still early enough that Quinlan got a cab with no problem. This Lower East Side drug pit of his youth had gotten gentrified and hip beyond measure. But times like this, on mornings with bright, merciless sun shining on empty shop windows, it had started to look a bit shabby again.
As the cab rolled across Houston Street into the East Village, he noticed people setting up folding tables on the widened sidewalks, opening for business in the big informal flea market that had grown up there.
Portable dressing rooms lined Avenue B. On Tenth Street police barricades blocked traffic onto that side street. Miss Rheingold posters and ads for Pall Malls covered over the Mexican restaurant and reflexology parlor signs. Extras were ready to stand on the corner in greaser haircuts or lean out of first floor windows in housecoats and hairnets. Down the block, lights brighter than the sun illuminated a tenement.
Getting out of the cab Quinlan was spotted by a couple of the film crew. “Morning officer,” one said and they all laughed.
For their amusement and his own he did an imitation of the old cop he’d heard on TV. “This is my once and future city. My life consists of long periods of waiting and brief, flashes of action and violence. My name’s Sean Quinlan. And when I can get the work, I’m an actor.”
Big parts of Quinlan’s life were in a condition he didn’t want to think about. But he had a good part in a medium-sized film. Nothing else would matter for the next few hours.
At 9:22 one day in the spring of 1960, New York Police Detective Pete McDevitt climbs out of an unmarked Buick, flicks his half smoked cigarette away, and steps into East Tenth Street. His suit is gray and his shirt is blue to match his eyes. His tie is blood red and his hat is tilted back a tad to give full value to his face. Detective Pat Roark exits from the driver’s side wearing brown with a white shirt and blue tie as befits a steady back up man and faithful partner.
McDevitt was played
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