Freeney

by Clay Zimmerman

  Martin rounded the corner of the Chinese restaurant he’d ordered from the night before which was ironic in and of itself because ‘Wok in the Park’ had essentially cornered the market for Asian cuisine delivery in Allenville. The turn took him to a more unglamorous offshoot of the Drag and ‘Wok in the Park’ had adjusted it’s business appropriately. Away from the eyes of it’s clientele entering through the front, a nondescript side door served as a go between for their delivery boys who’d lined the curbs with their bicycles and high miles per gallon cars. Above this door was Rosicky’s destination. A fire escape stairway had been unrolled to street level, leading to an otherwise forgettable second story loft. Any party with enough free time to devote a fleeting thought about it would probably have reached the conclusion it had some connection to the establishment below. A tiny accounting office, someone’s kids secondary apartment maybe, a crash spot for immigrant kitchen workers who could save money and send back home to their respective families but this couldn’t be further from the truth. The one window displaying a wall of tin foil wrapped insulation could easily be written off as an attempt to save money but anyone with a rudimentary familiarity with paranoia might know better.

  Rosicky furtively checked his vectors and, once satisfied, scurried up the fire escape and onto the little ledge just outside the unremarkable second story door, even bearing the same coat of paint as the rest of the building on that side.

  Some minor commotion in the alleyway stayed him momentarily from signaling his arrival with his knuckles. A gang member had demanded and then received the wallet of a passerby not 20 yards below his position. Well, nothing I can do about that from up here, he scoffed. Except, I have a badge. And I have a gun. But I’ve got bigger fish to fry. I’m not about to risk making my best informant for the sake of some schmuck’s credit cards he was either too ignorant or too cowardly to protect.

  Distractions aside, he tapped out the agreed upon knock sequence and waited. Out of the corner of the window, he regarded the lens of a closed circuit camera. The red light indicating it was recording. And he would expect nothing less. Martin could hear latches being disengaged from behind the door. Soon, it was poked open just enough to allow the detective to gain access and he was ushered into the one bedroom apartment with great haste.

  “C’mon, hurry up! Get in here.” The voice whispered with a noted degree of irritability.

  Rosicky was now face to face with Diego “The Nose” Marscese. They called him that because he had a large one. More closely resembling the beak of a toucan than anything else and he had the propensity to stroke it methodically when pensive. “The nose knows” he always used to say when confronted. Marscese shut the door behind him and activated a series of bolt locks.

  “Can’t you dress like a normal person for once? I can’t have people thinking I just talk to the police willie nillie like it’s normal or something.”

  Rosicky was taken aback. He gave himself a once over.

  “What. I think I look like a perfectly reasonable scumbag.”

  “Of course you’re a scumbag. You’re a cop.”

  “In this trench coat, I could easily pass as your average, run of the mill pervert.” Martin retorted.

  “Nobody dresses like that anymore. You look like a pervert scumbag cop.”

  Rosicky smiled to himself. The two had an ‘Odd Couple’ like dynamic that allowed them to communicate unfiltered.

  Little was known about Marscese’s background. Rumor had it a stint in the Navy, some even contended he was at one point a SEAL, had landed him a field position in the CIA where he’d served a tour in the Middle East. The Nose had developed a system of information gathering which benefitted from word of mouth reports on the ground as well as a conveniently placed group of associates in various industry and academia positions he could call upon at a moment’s notice. Detective Rosicky’d stumbled upon his operation by following a trail of bread crumbs through the underworld and quickly assessed that it would be worth the professional risk to allocate some “black funds” and place The Nose on payroll. It had proven to be a rather effective gamble. At this point in the game, Martin reasoned that Marscese could effortlessly have relocated seamlessly once he was discovered or, worse, wouldn’t have had to over exert himself to simply make the detective “go away”. But they’d nurtured a symbiotic arrangement as well as a veiled amount of respect for one another.

  “Cigarette?”

  Martin declined the pack of Marlboro reds he’d been offered. Marscese cleared away a slew of papers and dirty laundry which was oddly situated in the living room and made a seat for himself. It always amazed him how an ex-military man could live amongst such disorganization but then again, there’s no telling the type of transformation one’s mind might undergo after years and years of chaotic business arrangements, unenviable romantic soirees, troublesome flashbacks of combat scenarios gone awry. And yet, who’s to say the appearance of a disorderly livelihood was just that and not strategically perpetuated?

  He was tall and robust. His attire reflected the clutter. A Syracuse Orangemen t-shirt, basketball shorts, flip flops. Rosicky knew he had a gun nearby or on his person but he couldn’t tell where. With The Nose, anything was possible. He wouldn’t be surprised if there was a gunman lying in wait in the bedroom should something unexpected transpire. Marscese popped open an exceptionally crafted laptop on the dining room table that had been placed next to the mattress where he slept. A veritable Pacific Union style procession of modems, routers and other gadgets led to a well-used power strip. Rosicky had no doubt Marscese’s equipment was state of the art, virtually unhackable and not to be found on the shelf of a Best Buy.

  “I don’t know how you do it.” Martin quipped as he situated himself in the canvas lawn chair, not exactly a beacon of light in the world of comfort. “You know, get such good results in this pig pen.”

  “Let me remind you how this works. You ask questions; I give you answers, simple as that. Besides, you should be the expert in pigs and pig lifestyles.”

  Martin shuddered at the comparison to swine. The wisecrack had clearly hit a soft spot. He spoke up, trying not to let it show.

  “Tell me about one Gary Simon. I think he murdered an old lady in the ghetto.”

  Marscese ignored the question. Instead, reached over the table to a stack of olive drab dossiers and procured one. He calmly unwound the string from the doily cinching it closed, opened it and, shielding its contents from Martin’s curious gaze, shuffled through the leaflets and large print polaroids.

  “Oh, yes. The hospital escapee.” The Nose commented nonchalantly.

  It bothered Rosicky to no end how Marscese already knew details about a confidential ongoing investigation, a fresh one at that, but The Nose payed him no mind. Casually, he shut the folder and tossed it back on the desk with the others as if it were a poorly conceived middle school book report. Next he leaned back into a makeshift back rest composed of dirty laundry and propped a foot across his knee. Marscese began stroking his gargantuan nose the way he was known to do.

  Martin wanted to stand up and slap him in his pretentious face. What is the God damn hold up? But he wasn’t about to be the first one to break the silence, thus tipping his hand. A sort of impromptu ‘quiet game’ ensued. Is this the part where I’m supposed to toss him a brown paper bag with bundles of cash in it? I hope not. Because last time I checked, The Nose had been paid in full, handsomely at that. One would think he could afford the rhinoplasty many times over by now.

  Marscese brought his hand down from his nose and grabbed a zippo from the nightstand. He lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply on the tobacco. Smokers have such a way of building the suspense. It was wholly unfair. The Nose eventually replied, smoke wafting from his nostrils as he did.

  “Simon is unimportant.”

  Rosicky sighed. “That’s not exactly the answer I was looking for.”

  “If you don’t like it, you can take a flying fuck and a rolling doughnut. Which
, for you, might qualify as meals on wheels.” He shot back.

  “Tuh.” Martin scoffed.

  Another cop joke. I could’ve watched Law and Order for that. This was useless. Martin placed his hands on his knees, bracing himself to get up. Then Diego “The Nose” Marscese piped up.

  “I can, however, inform you on good account that someone is attempting to open a gateway to hell at the Lutheran church. Go there. You will find all the answers you are looking for.”

  As Patrick regained consciousness, he became painfully aware that he was the victim of an overtly cruel headache. He’d never partaken in any libations but this, he surmised, is what the dreaded hangover must be all about. As the blur melded into a semblance of reality, he also pieced together that his environment was a bit more confining than what he was accustomed.

  Of course!

  Last night. I got arrested.

  The events came back to him slowly, followed by more painful realizations.

  I hope Maddy’s ok.

  Apparently she’d quite resourcefully seized the unforeseen opportunity that had materialized when Patrick’s arresting officer made his unfortunate discovery of the haphazardly concealed firearm.

  But did I squeal on Maddy?

  No.

  I wouldn’t have.

  He surprised himself actually in his resolve. When the cop’s supervisor had arrived on scene, he’d questioned him, albeit without reading him his Miranda rights, rigorously about his “lady friend” as he called her. There was even a hollow threat made, citing a Patriot Act clause, in which the authorities would be permitted to imprison him for up to ninety days without even telling his parents, in an effort to entice him to spill the beans about where he’d acquired that pistol and what the identity of his partner in crime was. All they had to do, he claimed, was deem him to be an “enemy combatant”. But Patrick knew he was bluffing. He’d regurgitated that hogwash assuming that Patrick would be petrified by the language and too young to press the issue should the legality of saying such a thing come into play. Perhaps all those crime scene investigation shows he’d sat around watching with his folks after dinner were finally paying off.

  Either way, he was well aware that, whether his crime was justified or not, these cops were no good. They were up to something and they oozed sinister. It was more than enough for him to concede that they couldn’t be trusted, especially with Maddy’s whereabouts and identity, which would do nothing anyway but lead them to the original owner of the weapon. Whenever someone was guilty on t.v., they usually refused to answer questions without the presence of their lawyer and that had been enough to back them off for the time being.

  Patrick hopped off of his plastic mattress and gaged his surroundings. Fluorescent lighting. Institutional, off white paint. Concrete with steel shavings mixed in it to make it extra consistent. The lack of anything remarkably visual alone was enough to dilute one’s outlook. The whole thing was wantonly devoid of stimulus.

  He hopped back onto his bed and stood on it, peering out of the window slice he’d been afforded, hoping to find some refuge in the outside scenery.

  O, how he longed to be outside of those walls. Anywhere in his field of vision would do, even if he were to randomly materialize in the middle of that thoroughfare during rush hour traffic.

  Wait.

  Was that……Madison? In the distance. Meandering through the adjacent pasture. Or was his mind just seeing what it so desperately desired to see?

  He refused to entertain the idea that he had let her down. He had to find a way to get to her. To help her. He’d already lost one friend, he wasn’t about to lose anoth- Oh, poor Rory! His heart hadn’t had time to grieve the loss of his best friend to the beast. His world was seemingly collapsing all around him and it was an awful lot for a young man of his age to be confronted with. But in many ways, perhaps he was more prepared to take on these hardships than many full grown adults under the same circumstances. Though many might wrestle with the prospect of epic tragedy and world crushing events on a daily basis, by that very token, the realization that at least something of that nature will occur as an eventuality could easily contribute to a palpable level of panic and instability. By contrast, someone Patrick’s age may not be aware of what they could potentially be missing in the future as well as a lack of regrets concerning the past, they might not know that they should be panicking. Is it not strange that so many fear death and, not simply the potential act of dying but the conceivable passage to the next experience, even though it is as normal as birth itself?

  Yet, how could this have happened?

  Twenty four hours ago, he was your average, all-American Joe enjoying his high school time with his friends. Now, he’d been a witness to the gruesome execution of his closest colleague at the hands of a nightmarish monster. He’d stumbled upon the murder scene of a gentle, elderly woman, watched as his other friend was subjected to scrutiny, been arrested at a young age for a potentially serious charge, all the while facing obstacles as the lone voice of sanity without a hint of support or guidance from the adult community. And there was nothing he could do about it from his present confines! He slammed his fist against the bullet proof, 4” thick glass in frustration.

  Patrick’s mind raced with possible scenarios. He had to be missing something! It just wasn’t adding up. He’s only fourteen for God sakes! How can they justify holding me here in adult jail? Don’t they have to notify my parents? Of course, even if he could get ahold of them right now, would he really want to? Only a child can truly appreciate the wrath of a furious disciplinarian.

  Patrick twirled around. He could feel that creepy sensation of being watched by less than innocuous eyes. And, sure enough, much to his chagrin, he could see, in the lower portion of his observation window facing out into the cold, drab hallway, a grim face gawking back at him. The visual was most unsettling for his young mind. Oh, my God. How long has he been there watching me? More disturbing, perhaps, in that his antagonist wasn’t saying anything. Just peering at him behind deep, dark, sunken peepers and a putrid, emaciated face. The voyeur had the look of one who’d been marching through the Mojave for a week without food or drink and Patrick had taken on the appearance of a Cornish game hen.

  Patrick could feel the adrenaline surge with the revelation of the silent and ominous threat. He fought the temptation to run up to the door and yell, “What do you want?” But thought better of it. What if his action merely provoked the peeping Tom to come into his quaint abode? Though the freak was clearly pejorative in stature, his ghoulish demeanor was enough to convince Patrick that he didn’t want to find out what that guy was capable of. Now that he’d had a bit more time to assess the spectacle before him, it could be seen that the figure opposite of the partition was looking at him so intently that he was fogging up the window and actual sputum and nasal debris was accumulating on the glass closest to his olfactory senses.

  Patrick wisely chose to stay in the standing position on top of his bunk. If that creep did find a way to get in, at least he would be occupying the high ground. Presently, the boy was trying to summon the courage to be proactive and take the initiative in the uncomfortable exchange his tormentor seemed content to perpetuate. The best he could think would be to ask a harmless question, possibly humanize the ambiance.

  “Uh, hi.”

  No response.

  “Have you seen a guard around here? I’m starving. When do they serve lunch?” he ventured, trying not to sound too vulnerable.

  The minion’s expression slowly evolved into a smirk. After an awkward pause, he answered with unadulterated peculiarity. His voice had all the likeness of a goblin or Gollum like creature.

  “Oh, how ironic! Don’t worry, little boy. We’ll all be eating soon enough.”

  The Quasi Modo-esque henchman began chortling and snickering, spittle and oral detritus splattered indiscriminately on the observation window glass, fogging it up. The uneasiness magnifying exponentially, to Patrick’s bemusement, a
s the fiend’s chest heaved up and down more and more with each obnoxious guffaw, he could now make out the appearance of a shiny badge and sheriff’s uniform. Apparently they really were just hiring anybody these days.

  “Can I make a phone call?” Patrick interjected, if only to break up the jail guard’s inappropriately long episode of self-amusement.

  “What?” He replied, taken aback.

  The weirdo blinked at Patrick, wide eyed as though the funny spell had been instantly shattered.

  “Yeah, I never got a phone call. I get one free phone call, don’t I?”

  He’d actually gathered this from the movie “The Matrix” starring Keanu Reeves. Patrick wasn’t totally convinced this was even true and reluctant to decide if he would be calling his parents or anyone else in particular should he be given the chance to do so but it seemed to have an immediate effect on the mad man’s annoying little demeanor.

  There was no laughter coming from the other side of the partition now as the freak regarded Patrick with contempt. It finally breathed a sigh of concession, “I’ll go and fetch the supervisor for you.”

  Well, that was easy. Patrick hadn’t entertained any ideas that his request would be received with even a grain of consideration. Why would an organization of hooligans with little interest in decency, not to mention rule of law, give credence to such a claim? But in the meantime, it appeared to take this aspect of Patrick’s due process quite seriously, strangely enough.

  Of course, now the prospect of dealing with that twisted soul’s higher up was making it’s presence known and he was beginning to wonder if his little maneuver was about to blow up in his face. Anyone who was willing to approve of the type of employees Patrick had been exposed to surely couldn’t be up for eagle scout honors. He was about to begin the process of psychologically recovering from his probable wrong footing and hyping himself up for another confrontation with inanity but for an intense, inescapable light permeating through the room, blinding him. This light was accompanied by a trance like, high pitched intonation which modulated at various points and carried with it the characteristics of a tuning fork.