Badge of Evil by Bill Stanton Read Free Book Online

boogie.”
    â€œNo wonder you’re a defense attorney, Vic. All that compassion, all that obvious humanity and raging desire to help people. And don’t worry, my hard-on looked like a frightened turtle retreating into its shell the moment I heard your voice. I’ll be there in about fifteen minutes.”
    Bishop hung up and looked wistfully at the scene in front of him. Both strippers were kissing and fondling Bickers, whose dress was now half open, while she was putting the occasional hundred-dollar bill in their G-strings. He looked at the phone, he looked at them, and then he sighed heavily. He told them he had to leave for about an hour. Nobody paid attention.
    He got up, went to the door, and said to Bickers loudly before opening it, “You okay with the bill?”
    â€œNo problem,” she said, smiling. “I gave the waitress my black Amex.”
    â€œAren’t you worried your husband will see you were here?”
    â€œFuck him,” Bickers said. “This is payback. And I’m only getting started. If you don’t make it back tonight, let’s have dinner next week so we can talk about my case,” she said with a wink, turning her attention to the strippers.
    â€œTrust me, sweetheart, I’m coming back.”
    â€¢Â Â â€¢Â Â â€¢
    Bishop had been drinking vodka at V (he never actually got a chance to have the Beau Joie), and when he walked into Bell’s, it was on something less than rock-solid legs. The place was, as always, crowded and noisy. After thirty-plus years, and many premature pronouncements of its death, Bell’s was still a solid, if somewhat tired, late-night hangout that continued to draw a reasonable number of the city’s B- and C-list boldfaced names. It wasn’t hip, it certainly wasn’t hot—no chance anyone would confuse it with the rooftop at The Standard—and there was little to say that was positive about its look or the food. Still, it remained, for a certain class of privileged New Yorkers, a real saloon, in the best sense of the word—no blaring music, no annoying downtown wannabes or hipsters who thought they were too cool for the room, and no gawkers. It was a comfortable hangout for celebrities, journalists, attorneys, and cops.
    Smiling and shaking hands, Bishop slowly tried to make his way past the high-visibility tables in the front along the wall opposite the bar. This was the gold coast, the best real estate in the joint, reserved for the regulars and the celebrated. “Frank, hey, Frank.” Bishop heard his name being called through the din. It was Bell, sitting at a table with Sylvester Stallone and Alex Rodriguez. While making small talk with them, he spotted Victoria Cannel at a table farther back, with three people he didn’t recognize and her assistant.
    Bishop could see that she was telling a story and the people at the table were hanging on every word. Without missing a beat, she looked directly at Bishop and opened her big brown eyes a little wider in a why-aren’t-you-on-your-way-over-here gesture. He gave her a slight nod of recognition and apologized to Bell, Stallone, and Rodriguez for not sitting down. “I’m actually working,” he said, excusing himself a little sheepishly.
    When he finally reached Cannel’s table, she dismissed everyone except her assistant. “The usual, Mr. Bishop?” a waiter asked.
    â€œAbsolutely not,” Cannel said before the PI could respond. “Bring him green tea. He’s gotta get up early tomorrow.”
    â€œWell, you heard the lady. I guess I’ll have green tea,” Bishop said with a little wink. “So I guess we’re on the clock starting now, right, Vic?” he said, looking at his watch.
    â€œI need you awake and at your fucking best,” Cannel said, ignoring his sarcasm. “You’re meeting me at eight thirty sharp tomorrow morning at Bellevue. This is a real score,