Read Online The Good Cop by Brad Parks - Free Book Online Page B

here.”
    “Timberland guarantees its product against material or manufacturing defect,” Gene said. “So we—”
    “Tut, tut,” Bernie interrupted. “What are you, making a megillah? He gets the point. Geez, Gene, someone asks you what time it is, you build ’em a clock.”
    “So all this stuff,” I said, making a sweeping gesture with my arm. “The pots, the pans, the power tools. All of it is—”
    “Straight from the manufacturer, never been used, good as new,” Bernie said. “Same as you get in the store. But for the right customer, Uncle Bernie gives you a discount.”
    “But can you … do that?” I asked. “Is it legal?”
    “Legal?” Bernie spat. “Was it legal what the Pharaoh did to my people? Was Auschwitz legal? Don’t talk to me about legal!”
    “But don’t these companies, I don’t know, protect against this somehow? You must have twenty pairs of Timberlands there. Doesn’t Timberland eventually figure out it’s shipping all these new boots to the same place?”
    Bernie just smiled and said, “We in the tribe have a saying for that: ‘ Mensch tracht, Gott lacht. ’”
    “Man plans, God laughs,” Gene said.
    I felt like laughing, too. Newark: there are a million scams in the naked city.
    “So, I’m not here to dance with you, I’m here to sell stuff,” Bernie said. “You want the boots or not?”
    “Yeah, I’ll take the boots. But I need a quick favor,” I said, extracting the picture of Darius Kipps from my pocket. “My guy Tee tells me you know all the cops around here.”
    “The cops, the pawnbrokers, the shopkeepers, the machers , the kurves, the bubbas ,” Bernie assured me. “We know everyone. In this line of work, someone farts, you gotta be able to smell it, kid.”
    “Okay. Well, I’m trying to figure out if this one detective is dirty or not.”
    “Dirty? What, you mean is he on the take?”
    “Yeah, something like that. I just want to know if he’s involved in anything he shouldn’t be involved in.”
    “Time was, they were all on the take,” Bernie said, chuckling. “You remember that, Gene? They paid those poor shmendricks a hundred fifty bucks a week and then they wondered why they were all in the mob’s pocket.”
    “Tell him about Addonizio,” Gene said.
    “Addonizio! Remember him? He was a real Moyshe Kapoyer. He was the mayor. He used to be a congressman, but you know what he said? He said ‘You can’t make any money as a congressman, but as mayor of Newark you can make a million bucks.’”
    “Said it right into a wire,” Gene added. “To the FBI.”
    “Ah, but that was the old days,” Bernie continued. “Now? Not so much. The pay. The benefits. It’s all too good. These guys don’t want to risk their pensions. A few of them get involved in some funny business here and there, but nothing like it used to be. Let me have a look at this fella.”
    I handed Bernie the photo, which he held out at arm’s length for perhaps a half a second.
    “Him? Oh, he’s all right. He’s fine.”
    “Are you sure? You want to look—”
    “Sure? Yeah I’m sure! Listen to this guy, thinking I don’t know what I’m talking about. I got stains in my shorts older than you, kid. You gonna tell me my business? I say this guy’s okay, he’s okay.”
    “Gotcha. Thanks for taking a look.”
    “No problem. Now, hey, you need a briefcase by any chance?”
    *   *   *
    Somehow, I made it out of Gene and Bernie’s Warranty Emporium without acquiring any more merchandise, though not for lack of effort on Bernie’s part.
    I tossed the Timberlands in my backseat, wondering when I’d ever have a chance to use them—I’m not exactly a steel-toe kind of guy—then turned my gaze to the Fourth Precinct headquarters, a hulking, fortresslike edifice whose windows had all been bricked over. The building had a famous—or, rather, notorious—history as the place where the Newark riots began in 1967.
    Most folks thought the riots began when some