Only the Dead

by Ben Sanders

  The Don turned in off the street and parked in the lot. It was near capacity. A crowd had spilled out onto the entry stairs. Two bouncers just inside the entry, facing the room. The Don approached, badge raised, Devereaux on his coat-tails. The crowd pulled back in a fat vacant wedge. The bouncers turned as McCarthy reached them. Their gazes did a neat two-step, Devereaux to The Don. They were big men in their thirties. Peppery buzz cuts hugged bald crowns. The Don had two inches and ten kilos on both of them.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ McCarthy said. Ambient bar chatter made him shout.

  The guy on the left tilted from the waist and read the ID details. ‘Inspector. What can we do for you?’

  McCarthy flashed a Shane Stanton mug. ‘Seen this man tonight?’

  Two ‘No’s’, in unison.

  McCarthy looked between them a couple of times. The two guys maintained far-off stares, palace guard-style. ‘We’ll have a look around anyway,’ McCarthy said.

  ‘We haven’t seen him.’

  ‘We’ll have a look around anyway.’

  ‘What’s that you’re packing on your hip?’

  McCarthy smiled, fastened a jacket button to keep the Glock obscured. ‘Contingency,’ he said. ‘In the event things get uncivilised.’

  Guy on the right said, ‘Take it easy. Got a good vibe going at the moment.’

  McCarthy looked at him and nodded. ‘What’s with the crowd?’ he said.

  ‘Got a gig starting up later.’

  McCarthy smiled at him. Devereaux didn’t think he was the sort of guy who’d had any trouble, two on one, with bar security. ‘We’ll be sure to let you know if it changes,’ he said.

  He took a step and then paused, nodded at their haircuts. ‘I’ve had a few close shaves in my day, too.’ He winked.

  They nudged through. The bar was to the right of the door, people thick around it. They turned sideways to cut through the crowd. Devereaux spotted pseudo-celebrities: a musician, a novelist, a radio broadcaster. They reached the middle of the room. A door marked Private led off to the left. McCarthy turned. He cupped Devereaux’s ear.

  ‘I’ve found him in here a couple of times so we could get lucky.’ He paused. ‘I’ll go lead. If you call me out again, I’m going to bust your front teeth.’

  Devereaux looked up at him, nothing in his face. ‘Good luck,’ he said.

  The Don laughed and stepped away, clapped Devereaux on the side of the head, hard enough to set his ear chiming.

  The Don pushed for the side door, shoulder-nudging oblivious drinkers. He reached the door and pushed it open, Devereaux trailing close. Space was tight. Three guys reclined on couches, boxing in a low cluttered coffee table. The guy facing the door was Shane Stanton. Their arrival zipped him out of a drowse. He recognised The Don before he was half through the door, twitched forward and cleared the coffee table, faster than a stomped rat’s nest. His reaction panicked the others, but McCarthy’s proximity kept them seated: one stride from the door, and he practically loomed above them.

  ‘Sign on the door says private,’ Stanton said.

  He had mid-length blond hair cut curtain-straight, a beard strengthening a weak jaw.

  ‘I didn’t want to do this in public,’ McCarthy said. ‘I take it that was icing sugar you cleared off the table?’

  The two others’ faces went slack, jail time scenarios parading the mind’s eye. Stanton’s eyes ran back and forth. He shrugged. ‘Wouldn’t be able to do anything, if it wasn’t,’ he said. ‘You’d have needed a warrant to get through that door.’

  ‘Why you been missing my calls, Shane?’

  He shrugged. ‘Probably wouldn’t have if I knew you’d get this uppity.’

  ‘Probably wouldn’t have either, if you knew how much stuff I conned Drug Squad into ignoring.’

  The two others shared a glance, dabbed brow sweat.

  Stanton said, ‘What do you want, Donald?’

  ‘Just a moment of your precious time, run some questions by you.’

  Stanton pouted, weaved his head back and forth. ‘Or I could get the bouncers to chuck you out.’

  McCarthy laughed. ‘I’m good for four on one with bar security. They might need to call some friends.’

  Stanton thought about it. He looked like he believed it. ‘Where do you want to go?’

  ‘Will here not do?’

  Stanton shook his head. ‘Here will not do.’

  ‘Outside then.’

  He shook his head. ‘There’s a queue. I’ll never get back in.’

  ‘Can the bathroom take three people?’

  Stanton sucked a tooth audibly, mulled it over. His eyes drifted wide, and he smiled at some private memory. ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘It can take three.’

  It was cosy. Stanton stood backed up against the bowl, The Don next to him, back to the wall, almost too broad to stand square. The door was locked, Devereaux hemmed in beside it. The cistern hissed faintly, trying to keep to itself. A frosted glass window high on the wall was open a crack, smell still sharp enough to trigger a puke.

  McCarthy said, ‘Don’t think I’m an idiot. I know you were either buying or selling something in there.’

  ‘Whatever. Either cuff me or piss off.’

  ‘Look, dipshit. I keep all kinds of people off your back, just so you can give me info when I need it. So when you stop keeping me in the loop and missing calls, I start having a serious think about talking to the lads at Drugs. Or Burglary.’

  Stanton held his gaze, but licked his lips. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘What do you know about these robberies? And don’t say, “What robberies?”’

  ‘Robbery isn’t my field any more.’

  ‘You’ve diversified. Congratulations.’

  ‘No, like, I’m not privy to the inside goss.’

  McCarthy paused. He sniffed, nodded at the toilet. ‘Anything in there?’

  Stanton checked over his shoulder. ‘Nah. Empty.’

  ‘Maybe give it a flush anyway.’

  Stanton thumbed the lever. The S-bend recycled with a roar. McCarthy waited for quiet before continuing. ‘Here’s the deal: we’ve got half a dozen guys we’re currently looking at, many of whom have files as thick as Dickens, and many of whom have you listed as a known associate.’

  ‘Associate. Associate. Associate. Doesn’t mean I did anything.’

  ‘Yeah, but people brag, people talk. And you’re a nosy little shit: don’t tell me you heard about what happened on October eight, and November sixteen, and January third, but it never occurred to you to ask around about what might have happened.’

  Stanton said, ‘Don, Don, Don, Don, Don. I don’t like your tone.’

  McCarthy smiled. ‘We popped in to see Monique just before. She was chirpy enough when we arrived, but she looked fairly miserable by the time we were on our way.’

  Someone knocked on the door. Devereaux felt the shock of it through the back of his head. McCarthy called out ‘Occupied’. He freed his jacket button, let the Glock show.

  ‘What, you’re going to shoot me?’

  ‘You going to give me a reason?’

  ‘This is why I hate talking to you; you’re always on the front foot.’

  ‘I’m always on the front foot because you always piss me off. Don’t push it, Shane. Your missus is a bit of a repeat customer in court.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘Means if I take her in for possession again, chances are they’re going to lock her up for a while.’

  Stanton shrugged. He shook his head. ‘Man. I really don’t have time for this. You want a sit-down heart to heart, you get me in formally, but right now I need another drink.’

  ‘Give me something good, I’ll shout you.’

  ‘I don’t know anything good. If I knew something good, I would have rung and told you about it.’

  McCarthy laughed. ‘You’ve never called anyone with good news in your life.’

  Stanton looked offended.

  ‘Don’t h
old back on me, Shane. The smell’s killing me.’

  Stanton said, ‘Look, I don’t have any names.’

  McCarthy smoothed a palm down his tie. ‘Why don’t we start with what you do have, and we’ll work from there.’

  ‘It’s all just whispers.’

  ‘That’s okay. Whispers are good. I’m partial to a good whisper.’

  Stanton bunched a fist, cracked his knuckles. His shirt front bore coke residue. He said, ‘Some drug guys I know are after them.’

  ‘That sounds better than a whisper, if they’re people you know.’

  Stanton, hand raised. ‘No. That’s not what I said—’

  ‘Yes, it is. You said you know them.’

  ‘No. Well. What I meant was, I know them, but I heard this stuff through some other people I know. I didn’t get it direct, you know? It was just info from a friend, about another friend.’

  ‘And all you have to do is repeat it. So easy, Shane. So easy.’

  Stanton scratched his head. He looked uncomfortable. He looked set to capitulate. He said, ‘Okay, look. I know a few guys in the business.’

  ‘What’s “the business”? I’m old, Shane. I need this shit in plain English.’

  Stanton, defensive, shoulders hiked: ‘I know guys who deal drugs, okay. There it is.’

  McCarthy laughed. ‘Is that meant to be some sort of revelation?’

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t give a shit.’

  McCarthy wheeled a finger. ‘All right. Keep it rolling.’

  ‘There’s nothing to roll. I heard some guys in the biz are after the crew that did those robberies.’

  McCarthy smiled. ‘We’ll take this in baby steps: who are the guys in the biz?’

  ‘There’s a dealer after them. Don’t ask me why, that’s all I’ve got.’

  A dealer after them. Devereaux sensed links forming. He recalled what Hale had said earlier: they got some drug dealer fired up as well, and now he’s looking for them, too. It was corroboration. It was progress.

  McCarthy said, ‘Names, Shane. This is nothing to me without names.’

  Stanton didn’t answer. He patted for a cigarette, came up empty.

  McCarthy said, ‘Who’s the dealer?’

  ‘Name’s Leonard.’

  ‘That his first or last name?’

  ‘I dunno. I think he’s just got the one. Like that Ronaldo guy that plays soccer.’

  ‘So who is he?’

  ‘I dunno. Look him up in the phone book.’

  McCarthy clicked his fingers, rapid fire. ‘More names, Shane. Who’s he after?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Yeah, you do. I know you. You love being in the loop. You always know more than you let on.’

  Stanton said, ‘Whatever, I’m done with this shit.’

  McCarthy hit him a straight left: effortless, no build-up. Stanton never even picked it up. His arms were still at his sides when the blow caught him in the gut, high on the solar plexus. He doubled up, breathless, went down beside the toilet. The Don moved in and stomped him on the shoulder to get him sitting. A heavy impact: the polished loafer with the deep heel.

  Stanton raised an arm. ‘Stop. Please stop. Someone said the name Glyn Giles. I think they’re after a guy called Giles. That’s all I heard, I swear. Giles.’

  McCarthy moved in for another kick. His back was to the door, he didn’t see Devereaux move in. It was well-timed: Devereaux flipped the hem of McCarthy’s jacket, exposed the butt of the Glock, grabbed it free of the holster. He jacked a round. The muzzle was aimed at McCarthy’s face by the time he turned.

  He froze, genuinely surprised. ‘Holy shit. That’s ballsy.’

  Stanton looked up from the floor, a gash through his hairline from where his head had struck the bowl.

  Devereaux looked down at him. ‘Out.’

  Stanton didn’t need telling twice. He scrambled out from beside the toilet, hands and knees. Shaky fingers freed the lock, and he was gone. Devereaux kicked the door closed behind him. McCarthy lowered the lid on the toilet and turned slowly and sat down. Shock had been short-lived, he was back in control.

  ‘People go to prison for this sort of thing,’ he said.

  Devereaux said, ‘Your word against mine. I fancy my chances.’

  He opened the door, kept his back to it. He pulled the slide back and shook out the live round from the chamber, let it fall to the floor. A neat arc as it rolled outside. He freed the magazine and pocketed it, tossed the gun into McCarthy’s lap.

  Devereaux stepped out and pulled the door shut behind him, walked away through the crowd to the exit.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TUESDAY, 14 FEBRUARY, 9.07 P.M.

  At least the station was close.

  Devereaux went in through the garage entrance. He felt calmer than he thought he would. Maybe courage of convictions had a steadying effect.

  He logged his car out and drove back down to the waterfront. An idling taxi had claimed the alley beside Stanton’s building, so he left the car on the kerb. The street door was still open. The fire escape was locked, as they’d left it. He considered a quick pick, but he’d had his share of breaking and entering for one night. He hit the intercom buzzer for Monique’s unit.

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Sean Devereaux.’

  She didn’t reply. He remembered McCarthy had introduced him as his plus-one: the name meant nothing to her.

  ‘One of the policemen that was here earlier,’ he said.

  ‘The one here with Don?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  No answer. The speaker held a light hiss.

  ‘Are you there?’ he said.

  No answer.

  He stabbed the button a couple of times. ‘Hey. Just listen a moment.’

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Just to come up and speak to you.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘Just to talk. I can help you.’

  ‘You weren’t much help last time you were here.’

  ‘I know. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Who else is with you?’

  He paused. A man entered the building. Eyes downcast as he key-carded the elevator, lest he see a plea for access.

  ‘Who else is with you?’ she said.

  ‘Nobody.’

  ‘You’re by yourself.’

  ‘I’m by myself.’

  ‘So how did you get in last time?’

  ‘McCarthy picked the lock.’

  She was quiet a long time. He was watching the street door: pre-existing cautiousness, bolstered by the evening’s events.

  ‘I’ll come down and let you in,’ she said.

  The elevator doors opened a minute later. She was leaning against one wall, arms folded, legs crossed.

  ‘Is Shane home?’ he said.

  She shook her head. ‘He’s not back yet.’

  He stepped inside the lift. The doors closed, and they rode up in silence. She used a key to unlock her door, held it for him as he stepped inside. The cardboard boxes hadn’t moved, but she’d cleaned the mess off the bathroom floor.

  ‘He shouldn’t have done that,’ Devereaux said.

  The keys rang as she dropped them on the counter. ‘Yeah, no shit. You could have said that a little louder and a little sooner. Like, an hour ago when you were here.’

  ‘I know. I’m sorry.’

  She smiled thinly. ‘Whose side are you on anyway?’

  ‘Not his.’

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘Don? I don’t know.’

  ‘Where’s Shane?’

  ‘I’m not sure. He got roughed up a little.’

  ‘What? Shit.’ She looked panicked, hustled round in front of him. ‘Is he okay?’

  ‘Yeah. He’s okay. He’s fine. He took a fist in the gut, but he’s okay.’

  ‘Oh, my God.’ She nudged a path through the boxes and stood at the window, arms folded, not looking at him. ‘Where was this?’

  ‘In Pit.’

&nb
sp; ‘Oh, God. I knew I shouldn’t have said where he was. Shit.’

  ‘He’s okay. I’m sure he’s okay.’

  ‘So why isn’t he home yet?’

  ‘He knew we’d visited earlier, he probably wanted to stay clear.’

  ‘Does he need to go to hospital?’

  ‘No, he doesn’t need to go to hospital. I’m sure he’s fine.’

  He fished in his pockets for a business card. He found one in his jacket and offered it to her, but she ignored it. He set it face-up on the counter. ‘I’m sure he’s fine, but if he doesn’t turn up in a couple of hours, you can give me a call. My mobile’s on there.’

  She didn’t reply. Hopefully, he thought, because he was sounding rational. She gestured with one arm. ‘This stuff isn’t stolen,’ she said. ‘Case you were wondering.’

  ‘I wasn’t.’

  ‘But Don thought it was.’

  ‘I think he just wanted to scare you.’

  She dipped her head, she touched away tears. ‘Will he send people round to go through the house?’

  ‘I doubt it. He wanted information from you. He wasn’t looking for an arrest.’

  She looked at him. ‘But could he arrest me, if he wanted to?’

  ‘I don’t know. You tell me.’

  ‘Nothing here is stolen.’

  ‘Well, okay then.’

  Thin lips below a long stare. ‘What about, like, the drugs?’

  ‘I’d get rid of them, if I were you.’

  ‘They’re Shane’s, not mine.’

  ‘Whoever’s they are, they’re not the sort of thing you want around the house.’

  ‘This isn’t the sort of conversation I thought I’d be having with a cop.’

  ‘No … well, I think my continued employment’s in jeopardy.’

  ‘How come?’

  ‘Don’s got a lot of pull. And I pissed him off pretty bad.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Thirty minutes ago I pointed a gun in his face. I don’t think it went down well.’

  She pondered it. ‘You were helping Shane?’

  ‘Hopefully, I stopped punch number two. Other wise I just threw my job away for nothing.’