“The one who got out of the front passenger seat?”
“Yeah.”
“You know the other two?”
“Naw.”
They walk to an old, beat-down, attached redbrick two-story and enter.
“This is fucking good,” I say. I note the address. “Do you know this house?”
“Why’d I know this house? I don’t even know these peoples.”
“Let’s make an agreement here,” I say. “I won’t ask any more questions if you just tell me when we see a person or a spot that you know. Sound reasonable?”
“Sound good.”
“Let’s sit on this here for a bit, see how long they stay.”
I grab a flask out of my backpack. Enough of this good example shit.
I offer it to him.
“What is it?”
“Whiskey to warm the bones.”
He accepts with what is probably a smile but looks like a sneer.
Takes a drink. Coughs. Some of the whiskey dribbles out of the corner of his lip. He wipes it away.
“An acquired taste.”
“I’ll stick to my Rémy. That shit’s rough goin’ down.”
He hands it back. I take a nice swig, return it to my bag.
“That somethin’ you do a lot?”
“What?”
“Drinking.”
“No, man. I don’t drink and drive.” I smile.
I sit back. Calvin pulls a smartphone out of his coat pocket, types in a code.
“Can I wear my earbuds?”
“You need to keep alert.”
“I got my eyes open.”
“As long as I can’t hear it. I like silence.”
He plugs the earbuds in and sticks them in his ears.
Not even two minutes later he says to himself, “This is some sick shit here,” and laughs.
I look over to see what he’s watching. He looks up and shows me.
Two large women are fighting on the front lawn of a house wearing tight spandex and torn shirts. They’re tumbling around, slapping, scratching, with occasional hard punches to the faces. Fucking disgusting.
“What are you watching that shit for?”
“Huh?” he says, then pulls out the earbuds.
“What the fuck are you watching?”
“Silly shit, man. The fat women fightin’. Funny as shit.”
“Sad is what it is.”
“Sad? Naw, man, it’s silly. Look here.”
He taps the screen to show another recording. Two young boys face up to each other. One is tall and lanky, nothing but skin and bone. The other one is a big boy. I can’t hear the sound, but they’re arguing, and suddenly the lanky kid sucker punches the big one and drops him like nothing. Out for the count.
“This is what you watch for entertainment?”
“Just some silly shit. This one’s got, like, more than two hundred thousand views.”
“Turn that off and pay attention. Shit.”
“You need to get yourself some humor, man.”
He unplugs the earbuds, balls them up, and puts the phone and earbuds back in his coat pocket.
Not much conversation after that. I slide down the window, light up a smoke, and am surprised by a man who appears from behind the car and taps on the window. Calvin jerks up, turns to see. Looks like a young crackhead.
“What the fuck you want?” I ask.
He looks over toward Calvin, then back to me.
“You a couple of faggots?” he asks.
I slide my hand to my side, grip my gun, but try not to show what I’m doing.
“What the fuck you think comin’ up to my car like that? Move on,” I say.
He lifts his jacket to reveal a gun tucked in the pants of his waist area. First thing I notice is where the magazine should drop out at the butt of the grip, there’s a release lever for something like a CO2 cartridge. Fucking pellet gun.
“Oh shit, man,” Calvin snaps.
“Yeah, oh shit. Now give me what I needs.”
“I don’t know. What do you need?” I ask.
He looks stunned, grips the gun, pulls it out and points it at the window toward my head.
Calvin ducks down and says, “Aww fuck.”
I roll down the window.
“I don’t want you cracking my window with that thing.”
“Wha—”
I open the car door hard, knocking him back, but not to the ground. He straightens up, aims the gun at me as I step out.
“You crazy fool. I’m gonna cap your ass.”
“Most you’re gonna do with that thing is sting my ass.”
I draw my gun. He squeaks out a yelp. Comical. I almost laugh.
“Don’t shoot me. Don’t shoot. This ain’t real!” He drops it at his feet.
“I know it ain’t real. You think I’d step up to you if it was? Shit.”
“C’mon, now,” he begs.
“Calvin, step on out here,” I say.
“Fuck no,” he says.
“Just step out here.”
He opens the door, slowly steps around the front of the car, stands there.
“You tell me what we should do here, have him arrested or beat the shit outta him for being simpleminded?”
“And calling us faggots.”
“Yeah, that too.”
“C’mon…c’mon now…,” he whimpers.
“How many views you think this would get on YouTube?” I ask Calvin.
“Y’all got to be kidding me.”
“He ain’t nothin’ but a crackhead,” Calvin says.
“You showing pity?”
“Do whatever the fuck you want. He nothin’ but a fool. I ain’t gonna get none of his blood on me,” Calvin says.
“Kick that pellet gun to me,” I tell the crackhead.
He does. I bend down and pick it up, holster my weapon.
“You the police?”
“Do we look like the police?”
“Yeah, well, now that I can see you better, you do. I don’t know about him there,” he says, looking toward Calvin.
“What you sayin’?” Calvin asks, pissed now.
“I ain’t mean nothin’, man. Really.”
“You better watch your mouth, then, fool,” Calvin says.
I take the pellet gun in my right hand and shoot the big toe of the crackhead’s left foot. He shrieks, bounces on his right foot as he lifts the left to try to hold the tip of his shoe.
“Didn’t know it even worked. You could’ve taken my eye out with this.”
“Shit, man. Shit, shit.”
“Fucking hobble on out of here. I see you again, you’ll get more than a pellet in the big toe.”
He limps away at a fast pace, but not quite a run.
“Can I have that pellet pistol?”
“No,” I say.
I sit back in the car, stick the pellet gun in my backpack and pull out the flask. Take a nice hard swig and put it back.
Calvin gets in.
“That some crazy shit there. How you know it wasn’t a real gun?”
“It’s older. Some of the newer ones you can’t tell.”
“Shoulda caught all that on my phone.”
“You want to lose that phone of yours, then try.”
“You the one that mentioned YouTube.”
“I was being sarcastic.”
“Why you didn’t call the police on him?”
“We don’t have time for that. Besides, that’d make me a fucking complainant on a report and I’d probably have to go to court. I don’t need that.”
“Yeah, makes sense.”
After about two more hours I call it, and we roll out.
“I think that might be a crash place for them. What do you think?” I say.
“Yeah, they probably be bedding down there.”
“You hungry?”
“Like McDonald’s, somethin’ like that?”
“Fuck no. I don’t eat at McDonald’s.”
“I gave my uncle most of that money you paid me.”
“It’s on me this time. I got this spot.”
“In fact, my uncle was wondering why I’m getting paid in cash. He thinks I’m back to dealing or somethin’.”
“You want me to talk to him?”
“Hell no!”
“Why you afraid of me talking to him?”
He gives me a look, not hard, just like I should know better. I leave it there.
Forty
There’s a Salvadoran restaurant on 14th I sometimes go to. No frills, just good, authentic food. We sit at a table against a wall and close to the bar. I set the backpack at my feet. Not a lot of folks here, just a few regulars at the bar and at a couple tables in the middle of the room. It’s the time of day, I suppose, too late for lunch and too early for dinner.
“I like me some good Mexican food sometimes,” Calvin says.
“This is mostly Salvadoran, but they serve Mexican, too.”
“A ’migo is a ’migo.”
“No talking like that in here, all right?”
“What?”
“You like I should call you a mope?”
Smiles. “I don’t give a fuck what you call me, ’cept if it’s ’migo.”
I don’t respond. Just like a few cops I know, even me. I’m no different, so what the hell am I preaching for.
A young, pretty waitress wearing tight jeans approaches.
“Hola,” she says.
“Hola. Cómo estás?” I say.
“Muy bien, gracias.” She smiles.
She hands each of us a menu.
“Would you like drinks?” she asks.
“Two cervezas, por favor.”
I notice Calvin looking up at her, smiling. She gives a slight nod and walks toward the bar.
“I know that means beer, right?” he asks me.
“Yeah. You like beer, don’t you?”
“Yeah.”
“Pretty, isn’t she?”
“She be all right.”
Yeah right, Playboy.
My cell rings.
“Frank Marr,” I answer.
“This is Rattan. You busy?”
“No. Hold on for a second, though.” I cup the mouthpiece. “I gotta take this outside,” I tell Calvin. “What’s up?” I ask Rattan while walking out.
“We pulled some photos from the bodycam of one of the officers,” she begins.
I open the glass front door and step out. Walk toward the curb.
“That’s good news. Right?”
“Not really the images we hoped for, but I would still like to show them to you, see if you can recognize the subject.”
“Of course. When?”
“Now would be great, if you’re available.”
“Okay, I’m at the Salvadoran spot at Fourteenth near Newton. Just got here. You know where I’m talking about?”
“I can find it. About twenty minutes?”
“We’ll be here.”
“Thank you.” She disconnects.
I realize I just said We’ll be here.
I enter, notice the beers are on the table. He’s already halfway through his. I sit.
Calvin doesn’t mention anything about the phone conversation. Smart enough to know when something is not his business. I sip the beer.
“You know what you want?” I ask.
“No, man. I don’t know what any of this shit is.”
“I’m going to have the stuffed pupusas. That’s what they’re known for here.”
“What’s a pupooza?”
“It’s like a closed-up sandwich, stuffed with goodness.”
He looks at me, like, What the fuck…?
“Beans, cheese, and meat. It’s good comfort food. Try it.”
The waitress returns, and I order for both of us. I hand her my menu, but she has to pick up Calvin’s. He smiles at her, and she returns the smile. Fucking Romeo.
“I better not get sick on those pupoozas.”
“I haven’t yet.”
He finishes his beer with an “Ahh…” Sets the glass down. “So, this is what you do every day, huh?”
“Not always.”
“That was some shit with that crackhead, huh?”
“Yeah” is all I say, but have to admit, only to myself, that I love when something like that happens. It gives me an adrenaline boost, a bit like coke but without the sudden surge, more like waves, one right after the other. Stays with me for a while after. Little spike of energy. That’s why I still like to bust into drug houses. You get that feeling right before you go in because you don’t know what to expect. You get it again if you’re hit with the unexpected. That’s when the training kicks in.
“How you expect to talk to those boys we seen?”
“Haven’t worked that one out yet. Maybe you can come up with something. Earn that money.”
“I don’t know this shit. You gotta teach me, remember?”
“How would Cordell have you handle it?”
Huffs a laugh and says, “He didn’t play by the rules.”
“And you think I do?”
“That shit slipped my mind,” he says, and I know he’s referring to the time I got the information out of him and almost killed him after.
“Maybe you two be like the same and I just worked myself from one bad situation into another.”
“No, you didn’t, ’cause I’ll never make you do something you don’t want to do.”
Except that one time, a few years ago.
“Can I get another one of these sirvezas here?”
“Yeah. We’re almost done with the day.” I look at him. He’s got that wandering eye again, trying to catch the backside of the waitress. “How old were you when you first started working for Cordell?”
He looks surprised, I’m sure wondering why I asked that.
“Table conversation,” I say. “Nothing more.”
“I don’t know. Little kid.”
“I mean, just like that—from Clifton Terrace to Seventeenth and Euclid?”
“Man, what you diggin’ for? Why you wanna know all this?”
“I wanna know better the man I’m working with.”
“Shiet.”
I don’t push it.
“My pops. He the one that introduced me to him,” he says after a couple of seconds.
“Your dad knew Cordell?”
“Fuck, how you think Cordell got that name of his, and all the money and shit? He ran with my pops.”
“Your dad’s responsible for who Cordell is—was?”
Doesn’t respond, but I think that crooked smile is an answer.
“He still alive? Your dad.”
“I don’t know. Man, they got into the shit, though. Serious shit.”
“Kill people?”
“My pops had a reputation,” he says proudly. “No one fucked with him. The way they rolled, man, that was some old-school shit.”
Didn’t answer my question. Don’t expect him to.
“Drugs?”
“Yeah, but not like you think. Home invasion shit, but they hit the suppliers. The big boys.”
“That’s some shit,” I say, and I’m thinking I’d probably get along with his dad. “So he just, like, disappear on you and your mom?”
“Yeah, ’cause he had to. At least that what I remember. Things got hot after one hit. This rich man’s house in Upper Northwest. Nothin’ but a dope dealer with a big house and a family to pretend he like something normal.”
“They got a good score, then?”
“Hell no. What I heard, it all went bad, but that was mostly ’cause of Cordell, not my pops. He went off, killed the man and his family.”
Fuck. I remember hearing about that. I was in plainclothes then. The man was politically connected, but I never heard anything about drugs.
“I think I remember that,” I say.
“Fuck, it was all over the news.”
“Cordell tell you all this?”
“Hell no.
Just heard the stories from everyone else mostly.”
“Must be tough, your dad being behind something like that?”
“Naw. Why’d that be tough?” he says bluntly.
“I mean the kids.”
“Yeah, I guess. But I know my pops wasn’t a part of killing kids. I suppose that’s why he had to roll out, though.”
“DC police were all over that case,” I say.
“Aw fuck. So now you gonna try to bring me in on this ’cause I got stupid with a conversation?”
“Give me a break,” I say, but I think how satisfying it’d be to connect Cordell with something like that. Give him life. I mean, damn, after only one beer, the kid’s got a seriously loose tongue.
The cute waitress returns with the meals just in time. I order two more beers, wonder how loose he’s gonna get after the second one.
“I ain’t talkin’ about this shit no more,” he says, like he knows what I was thinking.
Calvin examines the pupusas on his plate like he expects to find bugs crawling on them. He opens one up to look inside. I take a good bite from one of mine. Hard not to finish with a “Yum.” He gives it a try. A small bite at first, and shortly after a large bite.
“Uhm, uhm…,” he mumbles.
Waitress returns with the beers. Calvin doesn’t look up from his food. Good thing. His dick doesn’t control everything.
Forty-One
Rattan rolls in before I’m finished. Calvin came close to polishing his plate. He notices her as she walks toward us, badge hanging around her neck and cradling a case jacket. She’s alone.
“That’s Detective Rattan with Homicide,” I tell him. “She’s the one who called me.”
He looks nervous.
“Have a seat,” I tell her.
She pulls out a chair, gives Calvin the once-over before she sits.
“This is Calvin,” I say. “He’s an associate in training.”
“Okay,” she says with some hesitance, offers her hand to shake. “Detective Rattan.”
Calvin looks at me like he needs permission, then extends his hand and they shake. It’s awkward.
“Just finishing up a late lunch,” I say.
She sets the case jacket on her lap, looks at Calvin again and smiles. Reluctant, but he smiles back.
“Might want to have Calvin look at the photos, too.”
He straightens in his seat, looks at me again with question. Probably should have told him that Rattan was coming. I’m sure his mind is working nervously, maybe thinking about that day he was the driver when Little Monster took out the dirty-as-shit officer and tried to take me out, too.
Trigger Page 13
