Since that fateful day events, Andre doesn’t drink anymore.
Not that he did a lot, but now he’s painfully aware a lot of his colleagues would put two bullets in him and call it a terrible accident, and that he better be on his guard, if he doesn’t want ending up dead before the first grey hair. No matters the corruption he unearthed was proved and judged, and the guilty cops behind the bars, Andre is forever the one who talked.
So, he’s drinking a Coke, and wishing for rum, alone in bar in a Monday evening, because even people living for their job sometimes needs a moment of respite, of pretending everything is fine and they aren’t lonely, when a white guy sits next to him.
Since the bar is empty save for themselves, it’s suspicious. Either she has some black men fetish, always creepy, or…He looks at her face and immediately recognizes her. She’s a bit of celebrity, New York’s longest memory and probably second less-handleable cop, with him in first place. He has never meet her in person, but he’s suddenly burning with curiosity.
“Carrie Wells, have a seat,” he salutes sarcastically, as she’s already invading his bench. She smiles and something stirs in his stomach. She’s beautiful, and it’s been too long. She looks at his drink:
“I prefer my Coke with something stirred in it,” she confesses, with a wink.
“Not very prudent, when all cops want you six feet under.”
“Not everyone”, she affirms.
“Well, it would be a shame.” Another wink and he clearly sees her admiring his shoulders. He snorts.
“Subtle rarely works. But, alas, I’m not here for fun. Not that it’s totally outside my mind, if you want to give me a call one day.”
“Relax, super cop, everything is fine. Except, you know, for your colleagues wishing you dead.”
She steals his Coke and, her eyes in his, “I’m not opposed to flirting, but I suppose you have heard of the special team I’m part of? What would you say of working with cops who think Justice still means something?”