He fell and fell hard like his heart was a mob informant and she
the East River. Actually, he was a mob informant, the only
way to advance his stalled career on the squad. She, however,
was not the East River but the black leather, blue-eyed mistress
of Butch the Barracuda. Few salt water fish in the East River,
however, there were plenty of decomposing informants, even he
knew that, knew her mouth was moist as a June strawberry,
cartons shipped from the docks along with the guns and the crack.
Actually, he had never kissed her, though he knew how succulent
she would taste, especially at night, along the shore of the East River.
However, at the card table in the back of the warehouse, he called
Butch by his Christian name, instantly blowing his cover, the cold
bullet finding his brain, and he now finding himself sinking in the
East River, which, he always knew, had never, actually, been her.