Piccolo's Slots was a nickel-and-dime dump across from the 52nd. Like the rest of Uptown, it only had a license for slots. Cards and dice games required permits, and only Midtown had permission to issue them—and only Cobblepot's joints got the permits.
The main floor was jammed wall-to-wall with machines—a gaudy sprawl of chrome and flashing bulbs. Harsh lights glared down, exposing every stain in the threadbare carpet. The noise was relentless: bells screaming, coins clattering, levers slamming with mechanical clunk. Most of the hands pulling them belonged to the middle-aged or older—slouched husks with glassy eyes, their faces lit by spinning reels, each of them chasing something they'd already lost.
Dent watched it all from the back from a dim row of phone booths—though booths was a generous term. Thin wood partitions separated each unit, offering only the illusion of privacy. He stood in one, resting his plastic cup of well whiskey and water on the narrow counter beneath the phone. Beside it, he dropped four quarters with a soft clink, checked his watch, then took a slow sip.
Before leaving Sal's, he'd put in a call to Elliot Carmichael—his supervising attorney. Dent had met him during a networking trip to Boston. He found Elliot on the driving range—clean-cut, Ivy-primed, and with a gleaming pedigree. His father was a surgeon, his mother a pediatrician—both fixtures in Downtown's social calendar. When the kid graduated, Dent plucked him out of Cambridge and planted him in Uptown like a flag.
He slid a quarter into the phone. It rang once.
"Mr. Dent." Elliot's voice was eager, breathless. "I got Tiff's number—quiet, like you asked. Said it was about some confidential files she left behind."
"Smart lad." Dent grabbed a pen and one of his cards from his inner pocket. He jotted the number on the back, then added, "This stays between us."
"Of course. Oh—and two detectives from Internal Affairs showed up at Central Holding. They were asking about the suicides."
"How'd you hear that?"
"One of the sheriffs went to my high school on a track and field scholarship. He gave me the heads-up."
"He say anything else?"
"Just that they were assholes."
Dent smirked. "IA usually is."
"Still, it's odd, right? I mean—the jails are run by the county sheriffs, it's their jurisdiction, not G.C.P.D. If anyone was investigating, it would be the sheriffs, right?"
Dent agreed, but all he said was, "It's for show. Loeb wants to look proactive. Keep me posted."
He hung up the receiver, which was covered in tacky grime that clung to his hand. Dent slotted another quarter and glanced out toward the floor—the line rang, then clicked.
A husky voice answered. "Hello."
"Tiff. It's Harvey."
"Dent? Jesus, how did you get my number? And do you know what time it is?"
"I do. Surprised you're home. Night's still young."
"Maybe for you. What do you want?"
"To talk."
"Now?"
"Tonight. Somewhere private."
She chuckled.
"Relax. Not like that," he said—though he noted she wasn't offended or outraged by the idea. "Heard you're doing mediations with a retired judge. What was his name?"
"Tom Jefferies."
"He was a bore on the bench," said Dent.
"He still is."
"What if I could get you something better?"
A beat of silence. "What's it gonna cost me?"
Dent rolled a quarter across his knuckles. He had favors to burn—but first, he needed to see her. Size her up.
"Let's talk. Private, but public."
There was a long pause before Tiffany spoke. "Fine. Ashbury Shore Country Club. Ten A.M."
"See you there."
He hung up. Palmed another quarter. Flipped it—watched the coin catch the light, spin, then fall.
Heads.
He slotted it and dialed again.
"Hello?" A woman's voice—tired, but warm.
"Jen. Sorry, I know it's late."
"Harvey?" Her voice perked. "You can always call. John loves hearing from you. Usually." She chuckled. "Hold on."
Muffled sounds. A cough. Then the judge.
"Harvey. Hope this is a social call. I'm running out of ways to sign warrants without catching heat."
"I'm in a jam, Judge. Well, Bill's the one in a tight spot."
"I heard. I did warn you—they'd go after cops first."
"I should've played it different. But I can't rewind it. Bill's not gonna hold. With enough pressure, he'll crack."
"You don't know Bill. They stuck him in Uptown for a reason—he doesn't bend. But I'm not sure how I can help."
"You know Loeb."
Hawkley snorted. "I shake his hand at fundraisers. That's it. Loeb only respects one thing."
"Money?"
"Power. And right now, you don't have any. His corner's stacked—his brother's chief of police, his cousin runs the union, then there's Liech, Mayor Thorn, Davenport and his media empire."
Dent could feel his left eye quivering. He clenched his fist. "I need leverage. Something to make him blink."
"You won't get the outcome you want, Harvey. You came in loud and fast. He took it personal, and he can't afford to look weak. If he lets you roll over his men without retaliation, then others start circling."
And there it was again—a possible fracture in Loeb's inner circle. Liech had mentioned it, and now the judge. There was something there.
"I thought the blue line was unbreakable," said Dent.
"It is. But I hear Loeb is getting pushback."
"You know something?"
"Just rumors that some of his guys are getting unruly and defiant," Hawkley said flatly. "If you want to help Bill, settle with Loeb. Give him something."
Dent flipped the quarter again. Watched it spin.
Tails.
If there was a rift—if someone inside wanted Loeb gone—he could use it. Or at least stir enough chaos to buy time to get the rest of the squad in line before the walls closed in.
"I can't play his game. If I do, I lose."
The judge was silent, then gave a loud exhale.
"I'll poke around," Hawkley said finally. "See what I can dig up."
"Appreciate it, Judge."
Dent hung up. Knocked back the last of the whiskey, set the empty cup aside. He palmed the last quarter. Flipped it. Watched it turn midair.
Heads. Tails.
Everything was a gamble.
And Dent didn't play to lose.