Page 8 of Delusional

“Really, I’m sorry.” He sounded near tears.

“Sorry because I confronted you, cabrón. How many poor girls have you harassed?”

“I was being funny.”

“You were being an ass.” She shook the man a little bit, like a dog with a toy.

The man looked panicked now. “What can I do to prove to you I’m sorry?”

Hernandez loosened her grip slightly. Then she said in a calm voice, “Where’s Jimmy Pinter?”

The man looked confused for a moment. Then he said, “I don’t know, I swear. He likes to eat over at a sandwich place called Mr. Submarine. Maybe he’s there.”

Hernandez grilled him a little more, then made him swear not to tell Pinter that anyone was looking for him. She released the man and watched him scurry away. She did all that and never even had to mention she was a cop.

“Is it always like this or have I just never noticed?” I asked as we reached the perimeter of the construction site.

“This is particularly bad. I’ve already trained most of the men in the Bronx not to act this way. I haven’t had time to come down to Manhattan and fix the problem here.” She gave me a sneaky smile.

Terri was a champ.

CHAPTER 9

BY THE TIME I made it home, I could say I was “frazzled,” but it was actually more of a deep-seated exhaustion. I’d been all over the city and parts of New Jersey, and it was still only a little after dinnertime.

As I entered my building, Rodney, the main doorman, held the door for me and said, “Good evening, Mike. I hope you had a favorable day.”

His pleasant greeting made me stop and look at the muscular man who once had played linebacker in the Canadian Football League. I knew all about it, since nearly every time I made small talk with Rodney for a few minutes, it inevitably led to some story about his football days. Sometimes he told me about his year on the practice squad of the Pittsburgh Steelers.

I shook my head and said, “It was some kind of day.”

“You weren’t involved in that foolishness downtown, were you? The idea that someone is planting bombs in Manhattan is an insult to democracy.”

This wasn’t like our usual conversations. I didn’t want to say anything, but I must have given Rodney an odd look.

He smiled and said, “My girlfriend bought me a subscription to a web series on modern politics and philosophy. It’s making me look at things in a different way.”

“That’s always a good thing. I applaud your interest in learning.”

“And it doesn’t interfere with my interest in keeping you and your family and the building safe and secure.”

I patted him on the shoulder. “You hungry, Rodney?”

“I’m a thirty-five-year-old former football player. There’s not enough food in the world to keep me from being hungry.”

I handed him the bag containing an untouched full-size turkey sub. I’d picked up two while looking fruitlessly for Jimmy Pinter, and I’d already eaten the other one.

Rodney said, “This smells great. Thank you so much. Where is it from?”

“A place called Mr. Submarine. It came highly recommended. Although the person I was hoping to meet there wasn’t around.”

Rodney said, “Between this and my leftover lasagna, I should be able to make it until nine o’clock. I’m working a double tonight. Larry called in sick.” He gave me a broad smile that showed two teeth with gold frames.

“What’s wrong with Larry?” I tried to keep my voice neutral, but I had recently been having a few concerns about the rail-thin former school custodian and his drinking habits.

“Between you and me, it was Larry’s birthday yesterday, and I think he went a little overboard,” the former football player said, in a manner that confirmed my suspicions. “He and I are going to have a little conversation later on.”

I didn’t envy Larry at all.