Wow. Apparently, I got a little chatty yesterday. From now on, two is my limit. I'm still a little fuzzy in the head (and wearing yesterday's clothes) so I'm not sure what all I told you. I'm sipping some Irish coffee to clear the cobwebs. Ian let me crash at Saints, last night. I've had a key to the place going on three years, now. Its a symbiotic relationship. Once, every couple of weeks he has to open the day after he closes, so he leaves some work for me to do - tapping kegs, sorting bottles and whatnot. I fill the ice and cut fruit for him so he can sleep in a bit. I like that part, cutting fruit; It helps me focus. Sometimes I'll be working a case (not sure I mentioned that I'm half-a-P.I. unlicensed, whatever, more on that later) and a break will be right there in front of me and I can't connect the dots because of some bias or blindspot or not enough sleep or (spoiler alert) I may, on occasion, drink too much. But then I'll be slicing into a lemon and as the juice seeps into one of the little cuts on my hand (all bartenders have these cuts and they do not heal) things come into focus. The spell is broken and the fog of Absinthe and curiosity and Opium burns off like the marine layer at Venice Beach in June. And right now, although I admit that I know next to nothing about this puzzle, I know one thing for a fact about Detective Kelli Karson of the New York City Police Department and that is this: I don't believe her.
Rome pours himself a shot of Jameson.
Like I said last night, I try to avoid cops. But they seem to be attracted to me, admittedly with good reason as often as not. So I have had many dealings with police. And, unlike in the movies, spotting a cop out of uniform, particularly when they are skilled undercover operatives, is often difficult. They can look like anyone they want. They wear the clothes and drive the cars they seize in drug busts. I've seen narcos with full beards and hair down to the middle of their back, driving a Tesla. So, when someone tells you they can always spot a cop, they are full of shit and will eventually get pinched by some big, fat vato with full sleeves and a teardrop tattoo or some ninety pound meth whore who, when the shit goes down, is the one putting the cuffs on. I've seen it happen. Nobody can say with certainty that they can always spot a cop. I usually can. But not always.
He knocks back the shot of whisky.
What is far easier for me to spot is who is NOT a cop. And I don't know what kind of game "Detective" Kelli Karson is running, but if she has a gold shield, I'll eat it.
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