by R. D. Hunter
I didn’t take it personally. Being part of an underground society myself, I understood the stigma that could arise from talking with outsiders. So, I simply nodded, handed each of them one of my cards and asked to call if they heard or remembered something. This way, if any of them knew something, they could wait until they were away from prying eyes and ears before talking to me.
I was just about to leave, when the sound of a heated exchange between two men reached my ears.
One of the men I’d given my card to sighed, “Shit, it’s Bulldog again, giving that boy a hard time.”
“Who’s Bulldog?” I asked before I could help myself. He gave me a sharp look.
“No one that concerns you, Lady. You head along now.”
The sounds of the argument grew louder. I heard swearing and the sound of flesh striking flesh and someone cried out in pain.
“Like hell.”
I marched past the group, who all were staring at the ground uncomfortably, and around a group of two-person tents to find the source of the disturbance. A young man, probably fresh out of his teens, was laying on the ground, clutching a wrapped sandwich to his chest like it was his most treasured possession. Hell, for all I knew, it was.
Towering over him was Bulldog. It couldn’t have been anyone else. Not only were his broad shoulders and heavyset features a dead giveaway, but his face was kind of scrunched in, like he’d been hit in the face with a frying pan really hard and it’d never popped back out. He was dressed better than the others in the camp. His coat was newer and he looked better fed. The kid at his feet, though, was the exact opposite.
His clothes were torn in several places, his hair was a wild, tousled mess and he looked like he hadn’t had a good meal in several days.
“No. No, it’s mine,” he was repeating, a thin trickle of blood leaking from a cut on his lip. “They said I could have it. They said.”
His eyes darted around erratically and he began mumbling to himself, like he was carrying on a conversation with someone only he could hear. Bulldog wasn’t having any of it.
“Boy, I told you I don’t give two shits what they said,” he growled. “It’s time to pay your rent and that sandwich will do just fine. Now give it over.” He reached down and grabbed hold of the cellophane-wrapped sandwich and tried to pull it away, but the boy held tight.
“No, they said I could have it. They said!” he screeched at the top of his lungs.
I realized what was going on at once. Bulldog was “the landlord.”
Whenever a camp was set up, it wasn’t unusual for the biggest and usually meanest person around to charge the others “rent.” Basically, they could take whatever they wanted at any time, under the guise of maintaining order and security, and there wasn’t a damn thing anyone could do about it. At least, not usually.
Bulldog pulled back one massive fist that would have driven the kid into the pavement. He would tolerate no challenge to his word, even from someone who was half his size and obviously mentally ill. He never got the chance to use it.
Krav Maga doesn’t have a lot of holds and locks. Practitioners are taught to utilize simple, effective strikes to incapacitate their opponent in the most efficient way possible. We’re also taught to use whatever is at hand to give us an edge, and I needed an edge right now.
I didn’t want to pull my gun. That could escalate things beyond the point of no return. Magic was out, as a growing crowd of onlookers had been growing steadily and were paying close attention to what transpired. Nor did I want to just swoop in and put myself between the two, expounding upon the elements of truth and justice while challenging Bulldog to fisticuffs. That was just stupid. So, I cheated.
At my right foot, was a long, rusty nail. It had probably been dropped there by a construction crew or the transportation department. It was about four inches from head to tip, and was just what I needed to turn the tides of this fight in my favor.
I snatched it up and gripped it between my right thumb and forefinger. Then, before Bulldog could let fly with that ham-fist of his, I came up behind him and delivered a front kick to the back of his knee. It buckled almost instantly, causing him to collapse to the dirt, putting the top of his head just below eye level. I darted in before he knew what’d happened, pressing the point of the nail into the soft flesh on the right side of his neck. He froze instantly.
“Feel that?” I said as menacingly as possible. “That nail is less than an inch from your carotid artery. Three more pounds of pressure, and you’ll bleed out before you can get that sandwich unwrapped.”
“This ain’t got nothing to do with you, Bitch,” Bulldog said, staying very still. “Just walk on.”
“Oh, I don’t think so. See, I despise a bully. And that’s what you are. You hang around, using your size and fists to impose your will on these people who have so little. You make them give you whatever they have for the pleasure of simply existing in your presence. It ends, here and now.
‘Now, I’m going to step back, let you up and you’re going to walk away. And if I ever hear or see you bothering these or anyone else ever again, you and I are going to have a really big problem.”
I gave him one last jab with the nail to show how serious I was, and stepped back, centering myself into a wide stance. Bulldog got to his feet, rubbing his throat with one massive hand. There was no blood, but the murderous gleam in his eyes promised revenge in a staggeringly violent fashion.
He balled up his fists and took a menacing step towards me. I pulled back my jacket, revealing the badge and sidearm that were on my hip. He froze immediately, like it was a cobra with its hood raised.
“How much heat you wanna bring down on everybody?” I asked in a cold, quiet voice. “Because if a detective with the Special Criminal Cases is assaulted or killed while investigating a homicide, I can promise you an army of pissed off uniforms will descend on this and every other homeless camp in the city like one of the plagues of Egypt. No one on the streets will be able to wipe their ass without someone with a badge handing them some toilet paper and asking to see their I.D. And it’ll be all your fault. What do you think will happen then?”
We both knew the answer. He’d be ostracized from the rest of the homeless population. No one would talk to him, share news or resources, and no one would pay him. He’d be completely cut off, which could be a death sentence if things got tough.
Bulldog seemed to come to the same conclusion I had, because the fire in his eyes went out and his fists unclenched.
He pointed one finger at me and said in a low tone, “That badge ain’t gonna protect you forever, Bitch.”
“Right now, this badge is protecting you, not me,” I said evenly. “Now, make tracks.”
He spat on the ground in front of me to show his contempt, then shambled off. I released the breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding. I wouldn’t really have deflated him with the nail, nor would I have pulled my firearm over the rights to a half-smushed sandwich, but he had to believe I was ready and eager to do all those things, or it could have got really bad, really quick.
I helped the kid up off the ground, who continued clutch his sandwich and make strange mutterings under his breath. His eyes darted around sporadically, like he was tracking several somethings that only he could see.
“You okay?” I asked, brushing off his jacket. He glanced at me for a second before giving a quick nod.
“They said I could have the sandwich,” he said. “They said.”
“I know. That’s what they said. You didn’t steal it.” He shook his head sharply.
“No. Didn’t steal it. They said I could have it.”
A good portion of the homeless population had some kind of mental illness. Often times, it was left undiagnosed or untreated and just became another demon for them to fight. That was obviously the case here, but maybe I could do something about it.
The crowd around us had dispersed, by this point. Everyone was going about their business, taking great pains to gi
ve us a wide berth, lest they incur Bulldog’s wrath upon a later date. Perfect.
I reached for the wellspring of magical power inside me. It was the source of life every living being possessed, but few knew how to harness. Of those who could access it, everyone said it felt different. For some people, their energy was a ball of comforting warmth. For others, it was like an orb of electricity, charging everything around it. For me, it was a glowing pool that bubbled and rose to the surface upon the command of my will, allowing me to channel it into a spell, like I did now.
I placed two fingers against the Kid’s forehead, who flinched and pulled away slightly, before allowing the gentle touch. Then I spoke.
“Peace be of mind
Voices be stilled
Unbroken be sanity,
Thoughts and of will.”
I felt the energy pour out of me, modified by the spell and the will behind it. It left me a little shaken, but I’d been working on my magical stamina lately, so I wasn’t completely tapped out.
The Kid stood stock still, blinking slowly as the spell took hold. For the first time, I saw his eyes focus on me, then he looked around like something was missing and he couldn’t quite place what it was.
“What…what did you do?” he asked in a stunned voice.
“Just a little trick I know,” I said vaguely. “It won’t last long.” I scribbled down an address on the notepad I kept in my back pocket. “This is a free clinic just a few blocks from here. Go there, right now, and they’ll get you the meds you need so you can stay like this.”
He hesitantly took the paper from me, like he was afraid all this was an illusion that was going evaporate into smoke at any second. When it didn’t, he grinned broadly, and for the first time I saw a glimmer of the young man he could be if enough was invested in him.
“Thanks. Thank you. Really. I’ll go there right now. I will.”
He shook my hand so hard my teeth rattled, looked like he wanted to hug me, but decided against it. After a second’s hesitation, he pressed the wrapped sandwich into my palm.
“Here, take this. It’s good. You’ll like it. Least I can do.”
A piece of dust landed in my eye and I blinked it away rapidly. I gently took his hand and put the sandwich back in it along with a twenty-dollar bill.
“Thanks, but I’m not hungry,” I said with a kind smile. “You keep it. After all, they said you could have it.”
His head rocked back slightly, like I’d hit him, then his eyes cleared even more as the recent memory took hold.
“Yeah. Yeah, they did. They said I could have it.”
“So, have it. It’ll give you something to eat on the way to the clinic.”
“Yeah. Okay. Thanks. I’ll eat it on the way to the clinic.” His brow furrowed, like he was trying to remember something he’d heard somewhere. “I’m…Jerry. Jerry Thompson.”
“Melanie Graves. Go get those meds, and call me if Bulldog or anyone else gives you any trouble.”
I handed him my card, which he took a lot more eagerly than the men I’d talked to earlier.
“I will. I’ll do that. Bye, and thanks again.”
He left almost at a run, and I watched him with satisfaction. Magic couldn’t do everything, and I couldn’t go around and cast spells on every mentally ill homeless person in a city the size of Atlanta. But, when the conditions were right and the opportunity presented itself, it felt good to be able to make a positive difference in someone’s life.
My cell rang, and I saw it was my boss, Captain Barker. Strange. He usually wasn’t one to call his officers when they were working in the field.
“Hi, Captain,” I answered. “Charley’s wrapping up the scene and I’m canvassing the area, checking for witnesses. Should be another couple of hours, then I’ll be in.”
“We need you to come in now, Detective Graves,” he said formally. I stiffened.
The Captain didn’t call his subordinates by their professional title. He was ‘Captain’ or even ‘Cap’, and we were referred to by our last names. It was informal, but still respectful. For him to call me by ‘Detective Graves’ meant that something was up.
“Is everything all right, Sir?” I asked. There was a pause.
“Harold Mason is here, asking to speak with you. We need you here as soon as possible.”
My heart sank. Harold Mason was one of the richest and most influential men in the city. During my last investigation, I’d had occasion to cross paths with him a couple of times, and it had ended with me putting his gorilla bodyguard on his ass while calling him a prideful, arrogant son-of-a-bitch.
I’d been expecting some fallout, but it’d never come and I had hoped that would be the end of it. Apparently, Mason just liked to take his time. This wouldn’t be pretty.
“I’m on my way,” I said, trying not to sound like a doomed woman on her way to the gas chamber.
CHAPTER TWO
The Special Criminal Cases division of the Atlanta P.D. was set up to handle all the high-profile cases that were likely to make major headlines. A man killed via tranquilizer darts certainly qualified.
As such, we had our own headquarters set up in a satellite office off Highway 85, just south of the airport. It’s a three-story structure, with classrooms and meeting centers on the first, offices on the second, and interview rooms and holding cells on the third. The parking lot is usually sparsely populated with sedans, trucks and a few SUV’s, but this was the first time I’d seen a top-of-the-line, silver Porsche parked there.
Ladies and gentlemen, Harold Mason was in the building.
I walked in and warmly greeted the receptionist, Linda. She grimaced and looked at me sympathetically.
“You have a visitor waiting in the Captain’s office,” she said in a hushed tone. Then, glancing around like she expected ninjas to pop out of the office fern, she said, “It’s Harold Mason.”
I nodded casually, like it was the most normal thing in the world to have a multi-millionaire waiting for me in the Big Man’s office. Truth be told, my heart was pounding out a heavy rhythm in my chest and I was finding it hard to focus on anything other than putting one foot in front of the other.
I loved my job. I loved being a cop and finding justice whenever I could for those who couldn’t find it themselves. Mason had enough money and influence to flush my career down the tubes with only a couple of words, and that was a more powerful magic than I’d ever have.
The bullpen was unusually quiet when I exited the interview. Only a few other detectives were at their desks. Bill was still on medical leave, recovering, and Gunter had decided to opt for gastric bypass surgery so his heart wouldn’t give out in the next couple of years. All except three others were either in the field or had made themselves scarce on other business as soon as Mason walked in. I couldn’t say I blamed them.
There were three men waiting for me in the Captain’s office. One was Captain Barker himself, an older man, physically fit with a square jaw and blue eyes. His expression was tough to read, as always, but he nodded his head politely as I came in and motioned to the empty chair across from his desk.
The other was his second in command, Lieutenant Rick Calloway. He was of similar age to the captain, but sported a thick beer belly and a mustache that was so meticulously combed you’d think it was a natural treasure.
He gave me a look of intense disdain when I came through the doorway, which I ignored in turn. The Lieutenant and I had issues to work out.
Finally, there was Harold Mason. Mid-thirties, tall with broad shoulders and a trim physique hidden under a thousand-dollar suit, the man was put together better than most jigsaw puzzles.
The only thing out of place on him was the long cut on the left side of his forehead. It’d obviously been professionally tended to, but it still looked ugly. What had happened there, I wondered before reminding myself I didn’t care. He was the only one to smile as I came in, a perfectly placed mask to hide what his true thoughts and intentions.
; I nodded stoically at him, not wanting him to see I was rattled.
“Thanks for coming, Detective,” Captain Barker said as soon as I’d sat down. “We’re here to discuss your performance during your last investigation when you interacted with Mr. Mason.”
“I can explain,” I said quickly, wanting to get a jump on the conversation before the accusations started flying. But the Captain was having none of it and continued on like I hadn’t even spoken.
“Mr. Mason said that you were a consummate professional, thorough in every regard and he has the highest opinion of you.” I had to stop my mouth from falling open at the hinge.
“I…uh…what?” I looked around the room, but didn’t get any help. Lt. Calloway just kept glaring at me and Mason’s maddening smile was so fixed in place you’d think it was Halloween mask.
“That’s right,” Captain Barker continued. “He was very impressed with your attention to detail and the competency with which you conducted your investigation.”
“Oh, well, Mr. Mason’s cooperation was instrumental in helping me complete my investigation,” I said carefully.
That was true enough. I sensed a trap closing around me but wasn’t sure from which direction it was coming from. Those were always the most dangerous.
“That’s why, in light of certain events that have placed Mr. Mason’s safety in jeopardy, you’ve been temporary reassigned as his head of security.” And there it was.
“Come again?”
“That’s right,” Mason spoke up for the first time, his voice smooth as butter on bread. “When I found myself in need of some extra protection, I couldn’t think of anyone more qualified than the detective who had exhibited such a…zest for her duty.”
So, that was his angle. I’d messed up during our last encounter and, in exchange for his silence, I now had to babysit him for the foreseeable future and make sure he didn’t so much as stub a toe. I almost wished they’d just fired me.
