Al’s drinking is getting out of control, but my boy needs to self-medicate. Might do something stupid otherwise. I’ve known him for almost as long as I’ve known Leslie. He was and still is my best friend. Maybe my only friend. And I might be his only friend too. Jimmy? Yeah, they’re bros, but Jimmy’s married and has a life outside the job. I do believe that the job is all Al has ever had, aside from me. That’s why I believe him. That the kid had a gun.
Feeling trippy.
“Don’t get pissed,” I begin, which is never a good way to begin, “but did you have anything to drink before the shooting?”
“That doesn’t piss me off. No. But you know how it is with me. There’s a nice bottle tucked away in a drawer of my desk. Reserved for the end of the day or after a good hit.”
“I remember those days.”
“I might indulge a bit too much at home, especially now, but not like that on the job.”
Yeah, Al, he sure as hell ain’t nothin’ like me.
Before I can finish my drink, Al nods off in a sitting-up position on the sofa. I worry for a second, but then he starts to snore, so I know he’s still alive.
I nurse my drink, staring at him, or more like through him.
What do I do now? Find a blanket and tuck him in? Shit.
He’s got me by ten years, and he’s got almost twenty-eight years on the job now. Going for the maximum percentage before he goes out.
My old boy sitting there, slouched over, like a scarecrow that’s lost all the straw in its belly, is the man who taught me most everything. He’s the reason I was one of the best narcotics investigators in the department. I owe him. I often wonder if he knows why I retired early, that I was forced into early retirement. Quietly. Would he have kept it to himself if he knew I was using coke while on the job? I’d like to think he’d come to me first. Kick my ass maybe. Or at least try. I’d probably let him, too.
I stand up, reach over him to grab the bottle and pour myself a couple ounces. After I set the bottle down, I look around his living room. It’s bigger than mine. The dining room is bigger, too, and opens into the kitchen, a kitchen that needs a remodel and newer appliances. Don’t know how he can cook on that ancient stove.
I decide to pick up the empty bottle of Laphroaig and trash it. I walk to the kitchen, open the cabinets beneath the sink, but can’t find a recycle bin, so I drop it in the regular trash next to the counter.
The kitchen’s a fucking mess. I’m a good friend but not nice enough to clean this shit up. I head back to the living room.
He’s snoring louder, brief pauses between, like he’s lost his breath. Apnea?
I sit on the chair where Leslie was sitting, notice the slightly open end-table drawer beside the sofa where the bourbon is set. Looks like a pack of cigarettes in the drawer. Newports maybe. I open the drawer. It is a pack of Newports, and it’s open. More than half the smokes gone. We used to carry those around with us on the job to offer a suspect when we were interviewing them. Doesn’t smell like cigarette smoke in here, but then my nasal passages are pretty fucked up. There’s an ashtray in the drawer, too, wiped clean, with just a bit of old ash sticking to the clear glass bottom where the cigarettes have been snuffed out. I pull out the ashtray and set it on the end table. I grab one of my own smokes and light it up.
A couple more sips of bourbon, and then I flick the ash of my smoke into the ashtray. That’s when I notice papers in the drawer and what looks like the bottom white edges of old Polaroid photos. I gaze toward Al, ’cause I’m about to go sneaky on him.
I quietly open the drawer, a half smile on my face, like I gotta be careful or my big brother’s gonna catch me going through his stuff.
There are three Polaroid pictures.
My mouth nearly drops when I notice the top one. It’s Tamie Darling naked, on top of a bed, legs spread wide, exposing her vagina, and with the index finger of her right hand, she is touching herself like she’s masturbating.
It’s an old photo. Has to be when we first signed her on ’cause she didn’t look as bad then as she does now. She still used crack, but it hadn’t been the kind of long-term usage that starts to wear at the skin and age you fast. Her face is rounder, too, maybe nineteen years old.
What the fuck, Al?
Where was this taken? Did she give it to him, or did he take it? I’m hoping the former.
I look at the other two photos. Still Tamie, but different, with equally distasteful poses. I can see the nightstand beside the bed in the last one. Looks like a Glock 17 sitting on it, under a lamp.
Fuck me.
I stand up, take the photos with me, and walk up the stairs to Al’s bedroom. Same lamp on the nightstand. After all those years, he still has all the same shit. Should have at least bought a new lamp.
Fucking his CI. Is he still fucking her? Was he at the lot getting a little something on the side?
It’s a good thing no one else found these, but he’s still gonna catch some shit from me.
Nine
He’s fallen back on the sofa now, mouth open, head resting against the wall. Gurgling out snores. I sit back in the armchair, lean forward, and smack him hard on his thigh with the palm of my hand.
Nothing.
I smack him on the cheek this time.
He pops up. I move out of the way just in time, ’cause he’s about to swing at me.
“What the fuck, Frankie!”
“What the fuck, Al?” and I drop the photos on his lap.
He doesn’t look at them for more than a split second and snatches them up just as quick.
“What the hell you think you’re doing searching my stuff?”
“End table drawer was open, so I grabbed the ashtray. Surprise. Surprise.”
“Damn, Frankie. This is ancient. I got these at a search warrant years ago.”
“What? A search warrant for your own home? Damn, Al, these were taken in your bedroom.”
“Now you’re searching my bedroom?”
“Stop already. It’s disgusting, man. How could you get with her? She was—still is—a crackhead prostitute. But that’s the least of it. You fucking jeopardized every case you made with her and whatever cases we made together with her.”
And who am I to speak? Hypocrite I am. I jeopardized that and more.
“You know what these photos can do to you?”
“You going to give them over?”
“Hell no. In fact, you’re damn lucky I’m the one who found them.”
“I didn’t even remember they were there, it’s been that long.”
“Bullshit. Fresh pack of Newport cigarettes. Isn’t that what Tamie smokes?”
“I do, too, on occasion.”
“Remember who you’re talking to. I know you like family.”
“Sounds more like an interrogation to me.”
“It could’ve been, if these were found by anyone else.”
“You mean like Freudiger? How the hell would he have found them?”
“C’mon, Detective, you forget how to do your job? Lord forbid, but let’s say you get charged. You know a good detective’s gonna get a search warrant for your house to see if there’s anything that might connect you with the decedent. He’d at least get it for gun paraphernalia ’cause it was a shooting.”
“Internal Affairs doesn’t go all out like that. It’s too much work.”
“You don’t remember Johnny.”
He downs the rest of the bourbon, pours more after.
“You’ve been off the job too long, Frank.”
He tries to put the photos back in the drawer.
I snatch them out of his hand.
“Hey now!”
“I’ll take care of these,” I snap. “Anything else like this hidden anywhere that I should know about?”
He doesn’t respond fast enough.
“No, that’s it.”
“If there is—Tamie, some corner prostitute, or even some assistant US attorney that you fucked back in the day—get
rid of that shit or give it to me and I will.”
“Yeah, yeah…”
“Damn you, Al. I never would’ve dreamed…Fuck, I need a smoke.” I light one of my own up. “So, tell me what you were meeting Tamie for.”
“Honest to God, Frank. It was about a case. I swear.”
You swear.
“If they subpoena her and she says otherwise, you’re fucked. They’ll consider everything you said, whatever statement you wrote, a lie. End of story. End of you.”
“It was about an investigation. That’s why we met.” He stands firm.
“Leslie needs to know about this, just in case.”
“Hell no! I don’t want her seeing those photos. And just in case what?”
“Just in case it comes back to bite you some other way. This alone is the kinda shit that’ll end your career, but you have this shit and a shooting they might come back saying is unjustified.”
“It was a good shooting. And Tamie has nothing to do with anything. Destroy the fucking things. I don’t give a shit. No one will know, especially Leslie.”
“You know more than anyone that you can’t trust a CI. They talk to her, who knows what she’ll say. I damn well hope you’ve been keeping her happy.”
He smiles briefly, but pulls it back after he realizes.
“Bastard,” I say.
Ten
What the hell’s he thinking? I wouldn’t even cross that line, and trust me, there’s a lot of lines I’ve crossed in my time.
I made Al go to his room and sleep it off. Good parent/friend I am. I lock up and decide to grab a sandwich at this deli/liquor store near my home.
On the drive there I give Leslie a call, but it goes to voice mail.
“I left Al. He’s in bed sleeping it off. Call me when you can.” I disconnect.
She’s probably dealing with a shit storm right now, and I don’t think she needs to know about the photos. I might have to tell her about the possibility of Al and Tamie still having some kinda fucked-up relationship, though. She’ll need to know that in case it ever comes out. And the only way it’d ever come out is if Al admits it or Tamie gives it up, if or when she is ever interviewed by IA.
Crazy how things have changed, with me, mostly. I don’t know. I would have thought giving up blow would have made me sharper, more ready to handle a crisis like this. But look at my hands on the steering wheel. I could fucking vibrate right off the driver’s seat. Coke would have been the thing to keep me right on these rails. Now that I’m straight, I’m a rusty ticking bomb. Luna’s a trigger. Leslie’s a trigger. A sandwich might do me some good. It’s always been my comfort food.
I park on Columbia Road, about a block away from my spot. Been a while since I’ve been here for a sandwich. The old man who owns the place does have a good scotch and bourbon selection, but there’s another liquor store closer to my house that I go to because I usually drink the cheaper stuff.
The top of the door hits a little bell when I step inside. It jingles, and the old man behind the counter turns. I give him a wave. He looks the same kinda old that he’s always been, and I’ve been coming here off and on for more than twenty years. Doesn’t seem to age. Never smiles, either, just a slight wave of the hand, like he’s shooting from the hip.
The deli counter is across from the shelves of spirits and a few low-end wines. A young man’s working the deli, his medium-length dreadlocks covered with a mesh skullcap. The glass counter is stocked with cheeses, slaws, potato salads, and deli meats. There’s a whiteboard with a handwritten menu on the wall above a couple of slicers. Even though I already know what I’m gonna order, I check it out. The young man turns.
Fuck!
It hits me like a wave of heat that folds over my body. I go flush. Wanna sit down.
I know him. I mean, how could you ever forget the face of the young man you left for dead at the river?
Calvin. That’s his name, but they called him Playboy.
He looks at me the same way, except he’s holding a butcher knife and I can see his knuckles whiten as he tightens his grip around the handle. He looks afraid, but not the same look I remember he had when it was the fear of death at the river. Now it’s something more like seeing a ghost. The large counter separates us, but it doesn’t ease my tension. I can easily pull my weapon before he comes around, if that’s what he’s fucking thinking. I’m thinking he’s just as stunned as I am. And it’s like a standoff. Who’s going to do or say something first.
“Turkey club on wheat. No mayo,” I tell him.
Playboy scrunches his face, like, What the fuck?
He stands there looking that way for a couple of seconds, then a side glance toward the old man behind the counter, and then back to me again.
Does he wanna call for help, tell the old man to call 911? Maybe just jump over the counter and slice my throat?
With a look and a slight shake of his head, like he’s snapping out of a daydream, he simply sidesteps toward the slicer, but hesitates before setting the butcher knife down. He does, but keeps it close, with his eyes still on me. What the fuck am I supposed to say? Sorry? Hell no. He deserved worse than what he got.
He does his job. Looks pretty good at it. How long has he been here? He turn his life around ’cause I scared the fuck out of him? That wouldn’t be so bad. Or maybe he’s got something going here, dealing a little something on the sly. Behind the counter, slipping whatever it is he’s selling in a sandwich. I hope turkey club simply means turkey club and I won’t find a little zip containing crack between the turkey and the cheese.
I watch him carefully as he makes the sandwich, make sure he doesn’t spit on it or drop something bad inside. Who knows what. He places the sandwich on a square of deli paper, cuts it in quarters like he means business, and wraps. A little tape, writes “TC” on the paper with a black felt-tip. He picks up the butcher knife. I grip my sidearm. He picks up the wrapped sandwich with his free hand and slides it over the counter to me. Waits for me to grab it.
Butcher knife through my good hand if I do?
I decide to grab it with the hand that’s already damaged, so I can keep my hand on the gun.
I do.
For a second he looks like he’s going to do it. I can see it in his eyes. Burning red. Even tearing a bit.
I look at him a bit hard. What do I do? Hell, what do I think he’s going to do, stab my hand or call the police after I leave? He won’t call the police. Something that happened more than three years ago, something I’m sure he doesn’t even want the police to know about? Fuck, he was the driver of a car used in a drive-by, one that got a cop killed. Almost killed me, too. The shooter, they called him Little Monster, just took advantage of the officer being there at the same time. Two birds with one—fuck, you know what I mean. Hell, now this?
I was so fucked up back then, I can’t remember why I didn’t turn Playboy in. Decided to take matters into my own hands, but I couldn’t finish the job, so I left him on the filthy bank of the Anacostia River. Actually believed in my head that the river would suck him back in, like an angel of God. Do the job I couldn’t do. No, he ain’t gonna call the police. They don’t have his real name, but I’m sure they still know him as Playboy.
I gotta know what the fuck he’s doing here.
I take the sandwich, walk over to the old man at the counter, and pay him. Exit.
I see him through the window as I walk, still standing there holding the butcher knife, watching me as I pass.
I’m still surprised. Still rattled. Cocaine pops into my head, not like an image or a word, but a summons. I close the door on it. No way to lock it down, though. That shit has a key to every door in my head. I turn around, make sure Playboy’s not peeping out to catch where I go. I walk past my car to the next block, cross the street, and walk around the block.
A disheveled bum, with layers of clothing on, is at the corner digging through the trash. Slate-gray clouds overhead. Looks and smells like snow. I drop the bag with the sand
wich in the trash, hitting the bum on the hands. He turns to give me a look.
“That’s for you,” I tell him. “Figured you’d rather take it outta there than from my hand.”
A different kinda look this time. Maybe he agrees.
He grabs the bag and opens it. I don’t stick around to see if he likes what’s inside. All I know is I don’t have the stomach to eat it anymore. I know Playboy didn’t do anything with it, but he made it with his hands and that’s enough.
I look down the street toward the storefront. When it looks clear, I hop in my vehicle.
On the way home I drive by 17th and Euclid, where it all happened. Block’s empty. Couple of regular-looking folks strolling by.
The row house looks the same. Probably still a brothel. A brothel/gambling house between two well-maintained million-dollar homes. That shit’ll always be here. You only need to know where to look. There was a time, before I was a cop, that I was clueless. Maybe not as clueless as the young couple I just passed, because I did have a certain edge, but still naive enough to never give a place like that row house a second glance.
I want to hit it or maybe some other stash house. It’s too dangerous, though. Not for fear of being caught but of doing something stupid. The hope of finding a wonderful stash and going off on a binge.
Last thing I ever imagined was running into an animal like Playboy.
I crack the window, fire up a joint. Get calm, Frank. Get calm.
Eleven
When I get home, I put the photos of Tamie in a pocket of my shoulder pack. They might come in useful, but not when I talk to Tamie. That’s a delicate matter, ’cause I don’t want to piss her off. Last thing we need is her working against us.
I pour myself a bit of Jameson, sit on the sofa. It’s not time for the local news on TV, so I go to the Fox 5 app on my iPhone. My left hand starts to shake. The result of nerve damage, getting stabbed through the palm of my hand. I massage it, but it doesn’t help much. I can deal with the slight pain, but not the shaking. Makes me feel like an invalid. I hold the phone in my right hand, wait for the shakes to stop, then take a sip of my drink and check out the top stories. Of course, the shooting is the top story.
Trigger Page 3
