Soft Case (Book 1 of the John Keegan Mystery Series)

by John Misak

really wanted to try it, because I knew what it did to people. It messed them up, and my life was a serious of messes that no one could clean. But I got bored. I’d had plenty of sex in my life, some of it pretty good. The thought of doing something better that didn’t come with someone who you had to talk to, buy dinner, and basically keep happy seemed perfect. Well, almost. And I came real close.

  It was a phone call which saved me from the brown demon. I sat in my living room, listening to some talk radio show where the host ranted about the problems of the world. It wasn’t that I cared what he had to say, he was a jackass, but I had nothing else better to do, and I didn’t feel like listening to music or watching the train wreck known as prime time TV.

  The phone rang and I looked at it, one of those Cobra cordless jobs without an antenna, which I bought because it looked so cool on Seinfeld. I needed to move into the new millennium, soon. I debated about letting the answer machine get it and, in retrospect, maybe I should have done that.

  “Yeah,” I said. I didn’t bother to try to sound enthusiastic.

  “You moron.” Of course, it could be anyone uttering those words to me, but this time it was someone from the department— Rick “Listen to Me Because I’ll Be Your Boss Someday” Calhill. We worked on a few stiffs sometimes, and he always called me whenever he needed advice. He was an okay guy, but he was too concerned about moving upward for my taste. I would never make it past Sergeant, if I even made it that far. I had the coveted gold badge, and I got it earlier than most did. I was happy with that. Rick wasn’t.

  “Coming from you, that really doesn’t say much.”

  “What the hell are you doing?”

  “Sitting in my apartment, looking down on the street, waiting for the next stiff. Thinking about starting a heroin habit.”

  “You gotta be kidding,” Rick said. I could tell he really didn’t hear what I said. He had other things on his mind. “

  I answered him with silence.

  “Anyway, come meet me at Kasey’s.” I didn’t want to move.

  “What for?”

  “Something big. Real big. Major.” Rick sounded excited, but then, he always did. Like every twist and turn of life got him riled up. This added to why I didn’t like him.

  “I don’t feel like going anywhere. I’m in my boxers, and the only clean clothes I have are the ones I’m wearing tomorrow.” I didn’t lie here.

  “So put something dirty on. I’m sure it won’t be the first time. Trust me, you’ll want to hear about this one. It’s huge, and I want you in on it with me.”

  I looked around the apartment, my tired eyes falling upon the empty pizza box from the day before. I could go meet Rick, or I could straighten up the place a bit. It didn’t take long to make a decision.

  “Give me twenty minutes.”

  “I’ll have a drink ready for you.”

  “Now you’re talking.”

  I hung up, and started to get back into the clothes I’d thrown on the bed. Well, my foray into the world of drugs and scumbags would have to wait another day. I didn’t want to admit it then, but I was thankful to Rick for making the call. Whatever he had, even another bullshit case, would occupy my mind for a little while, and I could milk him for a couple of drinks. If what he had for me even closely matched his excitement level, a free dinner loomed on the horizon.

  The watch my grandfather gave me told me it was just before nine. Fourth Avenue, right outside my window, had started to slow down. No more honking taxis and stressed out commuters, thank God. Everyone was stressed. It made me laugh. After being on the force for nine years, I realized how good I had it. I had a reason to be stressed, yet, I wasn’t. The people who passed by during rush hour below my window didn’t have a reason. They just needed to be shown better. They didn’t spend their lives looking at the wasted part of society, the broken lives and shattered bodies that occupy the underbelly of the city. I knew I judged them, and harshly. Many times I accused ‘regular’ people of merely working for the paycheck, unless they taught, were a priest, or served me drinks. Once I saw through a cop’s eyes, I had a hard time going back. Maybe I was jealous that some of those people plunked down what amounted to my rent money for Knicks tickets. Maybe I felt my job had more purpose. Cut me some slack.

  I had come within two bad decisions of starting a heroin habit.

  So, I got into the outfit that cost less than what those guys spend on dinner, strapped on my holster, and put on the beaten brown leather jacket I’d had since I’d started on the job. It didn’t have someone’s name on the inside label, but it was all mine, and all me. I walked into the bathroom and splashed some water on my face. When I looked in the mirror, a tired man looked back at me. It was just what I’d expected to see, but it was still enough to give me a jolt. I wasn’t old. I had just turned thirty-two. But I looked older to myself. I know that most people, when they read a story told by someone, want to know what that someone looks like, so I’ll indulge that desire for a moment. I stand at about 6 feet, weight just shy of the magic 200 mark, and have dark brown hair. Actually, as I looked in the mirror, I saw a war going on in that hair. The gray uniforms attacked the browns, and though it appeared that the browns held off that attack pretty well, the grays had the momentum. I actually looked forward to going completely gray. That way, I wouldn’t have to worry about it anymore. I read somewhere that 83% of women find men with gray hair sexy. That was a comforting thought. As far as what I look like, my eyes are brown, my features comparable to Martin Sheen before aged kicked his ass, and I think I’ve got it together well enough. Some women find me attractive, but that wears off after they deal with me for a week. Oh, and I am single. If you’re interested, and are a good looking female who can tolerate an intolerable man, you can look me up through the New York Police Department. Detective John Keegan. Don’t send flowers. I don’t like them.

  I finished gawking at the ravages of time on my face and got my gun, a chrome Smith and Wesson 380, and put it into my shoulder holster, under my jacket. I grabbed the pack of Marlboros on the TV, and shook the pack. About three left, so good old Rick would have to front the fifteen bucks Kasey’s stole from you for a pack of cigarettes as well. Price you gotta pay.

  When I made it to Kasey’s, which sat four blocks east of me on Fourth, the place had a pretty good crowd. Four guys in suits sat at the end of the bar by the door, watching the Ranger game. Kasey’s was pretty much a cop joint, though I don’t really know how a place becomes something like that. It’s not near any precinct, and though it is a down to earth place, there’s really nothing there that stands out which would make it suitable for blue shirts. Those guys at the end were welcome to come in, but they didn’t fit, and it showed. They were the only ones talking over a whisper.

  John, the bartender, nodded when I walked in. I’d known him for about three years, when he started there, and I think we had about two conversations that lasted more than a minute. Still, we had an understanding. He poured the drinks, I drank them and, if there was something interesting to talk about, we did. A Billy Joel song played quietly on the jukebox, “The Entertainer,” I think. I never liked the man, or his music. That stuff was for Long Island kids who thought they were being bad by listening to a man sing about blowjobs or doing pot. What I did notice about Joel was that his fans were dedicated. You heard one of his songs on the jukebox, like “The Entertainer,” you knew for damn sure that “Scenes from an Italian Restaurant,” “Piano Man,” and “Goodnight Saigon,” weren’t far behind. Yeah, this guy could sing about being in Vietnam, the same way I could sing about wearing a dress. But Christ, don’t go telling a Billy Joel fan that.

  John gestured toward a booth in the corner, and I saw the back of Rick’s blonde head sticking out. I walked over to the booth, and Rick greeted me with a wide smile, the one he always wore when he smelled a good case. His sense of smell wasn’t particularly good and, at that moment, when I really thought about it, I realized how morbid he was being excited because someone h
ad died. But we all got excited when someone died, especially someone of some importance. Sick, I know. Very sick.

  “Jackass,” he said. I always used that word, and Rick abused it. Reason number three for why I generally couldn’t stand him.

  “Coming from the Chief,” I replied, and sat down to a Dewars and coke before me. The ice hadn’t even started to melt. As a matter of fact, it still crackled. I liked that. It showed that Rick cared enough to wait for the right time to order the drink. Either that, or John knew better. It didn’t make a difference. It still made me happy.

  I took a long sip, let the booze slide down my throat and warm it, then looked at Rick. “What’ve you got?” I asked, trying to sound somewhat interested.

  “Oh boy.” He still smiled. I resisted the urge to smack him. I should have a trophy case for the awards I deserve for my restraint with him.

  “Uh-huh.” Another sip.

  “I’m telling you John, this is it. I just have a feeling. This is the one that’s gonna put me over the top.” See? It’s all about Rick.

  “Like the pet store owner two months ago,” I said, flatly. I did like to rub it in sometimes. “That one was real huge.”

  “No, this is different.” It must have been, because his voice was going up and