And the boys of the NYPD Choir were singing “Galway Bay”
And the bells are ringing out for Christmas Day.
It’s a freezing night in Harlem.
Dumb cold.
The kind of cold where the dirty snow crunches under your feet and you can see your breath. It’s after ten and not a lot of people on the street. Even most of the bodegas are closed, the heavy metal gates, graffiti-strewn, pulled down and the bars over the windows shut. A few cabs prowl for business, a couple of junkies move like ghosts.
The unmarked Crown Vic rolls north on Amsterdam and now they’re not handing out turkeys, they’re about to dish out the pain. Pain’s nothing new to the people up here, it’s a condition of life.
It’s Christmas Eve and cold and clean and quiet.
Nobody’s expecting anything to happen.
Which is what Malone’s counting on, that Fat Teddy Bailey is fat, happy and complacent. Malone’s been working for weeks with Nasty Ass to pin the midlevel smack dealer with shit on him when he’s not expecting it.
Russo’s singing.
You better not shout, you better not cry,
You better not pout, I’m tellin’ you why.
Santa Smack is coming to town.
He turns right on 184th, where Nasty Ass said Fat Teddy would be coming to get his rocks off.
“Too cold for the lookouts,” Malone says, because he doesn’t see the usual kids and no one starts whistling to let anyone interested know that Da Force is on the street.
“Black people don’t do cold,” Monty says. “When’s the last time you saw a brother on a ski slope?”
Fat Teddy’s Caddy is parked outside 218.
“Nasty Ass, my man,” Malone says.
He knows when you are sleeping.
He knows when you’re awake.
He knows when you’re just nodding out …
“You want to take him now?” Monty asks.
“Let the guy get laid,” Malone says. “It’s Christmas.”
“Ahh, Christmas Eve,” Russo says as they sit in the car. “The eggnog spiked with rum, the presents under the tree, the wife just tipsy enough to give up la fica, and we sit here in the jungle freezing our asses off.”
Malone pulls a flask out of his jacket pocket and hands it to him.
“I’m on duty,” Russo says. He takes a long draw and hands the flask to the backseat. Big Monty takes a hit and passes it back to Malone.
They wait.
“How long can that fat fuck fuck?” Russo asks. “He take Viagra? I hope he didn’t have a heart attack.”
Malone gets out of the car.
Russo covers him as Malone squats beside Fat Teddy’s Caddy and lets the air out of his left rear tire. Then they go back into the Crown Vic and wait for fifty more cold minutes.
Fat Teddy goes six three and two eighty. When he finally comes out, he looks like the Michelin man in his long North Face coat. He starts walking toward his car in his $2,600 LeBron Air Force One basketball shoes with the satisfied swagger of a man who just got his rocks off.
Then he sees his tire. “Mothuh-fuckuh.”
Fat Teddy opens the trunk, gets out the jack and bends over to start taking off the lug nuts.
He doesn’t hear it coming.
Malone puts his pistol barrel behind Fat Teddy’s ear. “Merry Christmas, Teddy. Ho, ho, motherfucking ho.”
Russo holds his shotgun on the dealer as Monty starts to search the Caddy.
“Y’all some thirsty motherfuckers,” Fat Teddy says. “Ain’t you ever take a day off?”
“Does cancer take days off?” Malone pushes Fat Teddy up against the car and searches through the thick padding of the dealer’s coat, relieving him of a .25 ACP. The dope slingers do love these weird-caliber weapons.
“Uh-oh,” Malone says. “Convicted felon in possession of a concealed firearm. That’s a pound zip-bit right there.”
Five-year minimum sentence.
“It ain’t mine,” Fat Teddy says. “Why you stop me for? Walking while black?”
“Walking while Teddy,” Malone says. “I distinctly saw a bulge in your jacket that appeared to be a handgun.”
“You checkin’ out my bulge?” Fat Teddy asks. “You gone faggot on me right now, son?”
In response, Malone finds Fat Teddy’s cell phone, tosses it to the sidewalk and stomps on it.
“C’mon, son, that was a Six. You OD’d.”
“You have twenty of them,” Malone says. “Hands behind your back.”
“You ain’t takin’ me in,” Fat Teddy says tiredly, complying. “You ain’t gonna sit there filling out no DD-5’s on no Christmas fucking Eve. You got drinking to do, Irish. You got ‘ackahol’ to get to.”
Malone asks Monty, “Why is it your people cannot pronounce ‘alcohol’?”
“Don’t ‘acks’ me.” Monty reaches under the passenger seat and comes out with a sleeve of smack—a hundred glassine envelopes grouped in tens. “Oh, what have we here? Christmas at Rikers. You better bring mistletoe, Teddy, hope they let you kiss them on the mouth.”
“You flaked me.”
“I flaked your ass,” Malone says. “This is DeVon Carter’s heroin. He ain’t gonna be happy you lost it.”
“You need to talk to your people,” Fat Teddy says.
“Which people?” Malone slaps him in the face. “Who?”
Fat Teddy shuts up.
Malone says, “I’ll hang a snitch tag on you at Central Booking. You won’t make it out of Rikers.”
“You do that to me, man?” Fat Teddy asks.
“You’re either on my bus or under it.”
“All I know,” Fat Teddy says, “is that Carter said he had protection in Manhattan North. I thought it was you guys.”
“Well,
