CHAPTER 4
AFTER THE SHORT, official reception at the parish house of the church, I dragged Trilling to the Irish Rose, one of Lou’s favorite pubs. As soon as we stepped through the old wooden doorway, it was like entering another universe. The place was absolutely packed. Most of the people who’d attended the funeral were there, plus a bunch of cops just getting off shift, some still in uniform. There was a certain subdued rowdiness that Lou would’ve appreciated. The Saturday afternoon atmosphere magnified the emotions.
I nodded to half a dozen people as we walked through the crowded pub. Somehow we found a couple of stools at the far end of the bar. Without even asking, a stout bartender with a fancy curled mustache set down two Guinnesses in front of us.
A short, balding Black man with thick glasses crawled up onto a table and started banging a metal tray with a serving spoon. I turned toward Trilling and said, “That’s Dave Sharp. One of the truly great guys in the NYPD.”
Sharp waited for everyone’s attention. “I’ll let you get back to drinking soon enough. I just wanted to remind everyone why we’re here. Lou Sanvos will never be forgotten in this town. His support for youth centers is unparalleled. Lou’s wife, Margaret, tells me she’s fine financially and that any money people might want to donate should go to Lou’s favorite cause: helping young people.
“I’m going to pass around the bucket, and anyone who feels like it can throw in a few bucks. We’ll split it between the two youth centers in the Bronx Lou worked so hard to build.”
Someone came up and tugged on Dave Sharp’s sleeve. He leaned down, then turned to the crowd and said, “And even though it’s not official, let’s not forget our own Celeste Cantor, who’ll be retiring soon and running for New York City Council. We’re hoping that’s just a stepping stone to bigger and better things.” That comment got a loud round of applause as Inspector Celeste Cantor—an attractive fiftysomething woman dressed in a dark-blue pantsuit and not her usual uniform with more ribbons and medals than a nineteenth-century Bavarian count—stood up and waved to everyone in the bar.
Trilling said, “Cops can run for political office?”
“You have to retire first. If she’s half as good a City Council member as she is a cop, we’ll all be in better shape soon.”
Cantor smiled when she noticed me at the corner of the bar. She pointed directly at me and started marching in my direction, fending off a few people trying to corner her as she approached.
After she gave me a hug, I introduced her to Rob Trilling. Cantor smiled and said, “We’ve both come a long way from patrol work in the Bronx, haven’t we, Mike?”
I turned to Trilling and said, “Inspector Cantor was part of a narcotics squad when she was a lowly sergeant. They called themselves the Land Sharks, after an old Saturday Night Live skit. It only took a couple of months before every dealer in the city took notice and worried about ‘the Sharks’ coming onto their turf. Even the commissioner referred to them as ‘the Sharks’ during a news conference.”
“And now I’m about to be cast out to sea.”
“If you’re running for City Council, I call that catching a wave .”
Cantor laughed. “As tough and dangerous as police work can be, I think I still prefer it to politics.”
I raised my glass of Guinness and said, “Hear, hear.”
Trilling turned and stared at me, so I quickly said, “Sorry—the Irish pub got in my brain.” I turned back to Cantor. “Let me know if there’s anything I can do for you.”
A crooked smile, the result of a broken jaw from a protester, spread across her face. “As a matter of fact, I do have something you could help me with.”
I already regretted making the offer.