Summer of the Gun

by Warren Court

  “Please,” Kumarin said and he led Temple into the back of the restaurant.

  There were men in there playing cards and they barely looked up when Kumarin and Temple passed by.

  Kumarin led Temple into a small office at the back. Temple’s blood pressure was rising; he could feel it in his neck. But he kept cool on the outside; this was a dangerous game. He had re-racked and checked his Glock before heading out from 40 College.

  Kumarin sat in a leather chair and indicated another chair for Temple. The door opened and the big burly man from the front came in. He said something in Russian to Kumarin. There was a brief exchange and then he left.

  “I tell him not to worry; I am not afraid. I have broken no laws.”

  “You sure about that?”

  “You are John Temple of homicide. Team Two, yes? You work for Munshin.”

  Temple nodded.

  “Why bother me? To break up card game?”

  “No, I’d like to join in.”

  “I don’t see that happening. Stakes are too high,” Kumarin said.

  “You’re probably right.”

  “And by what Horowitz tells me you are up to your neck in debt. Maybe I can help with that?”

  Temple tried to keep his anger under control, but it was another piece of information easy to come by in the underworld. Question was, had Horowitz spoken to this Russian after Temple had asked about him? Had they known he was coming? If Temple could confirm that, that effeminate Jewish bookie loan shark was going to get kneecapped.

  “No, I think I can manage Horowitz,” Temple said.

  “That faggot,” Kumarin said, and he searched Temple’s face for a reaction. There was none.

  “Do you like to take train rides, Mr. Kumarin? Out to Milton, late at night. The last train out of the city.”

  “I have wedding to get back to.”

  “That highball out on those tracks at night gets up to full speed, rocketing through the countryside.”

  Kumarin said nothing.

  “What about Chinese food or Vietnamese? Ever nip over to Chinatown for some kung pao or bun cha?”

  “Gives me gas.”

  “And Russian food doesn’t?”

  “The wedding,” Kumarin said, and he started to rise out of his chair.

  “Do you have any business dealings in Chinatown? Real estate?”

  “You’ll have to speak to my lawyer about that.”

  “I’m investigating the murders at the Beautiful City restaurant.”

  “Sounds charming,” Kumarin said. He sat back down.

  “Five people shot dead in Chinatown just a couple of days ago. Two men seen leaving. One was white. Got into a black SUV. One of the shooters was shot, and whoever manages him had him taken care of—put on a train track and run over.”

  “Ugly business.”

  “It was. I saw it.”

  “So?” Kumarin said. He shrugged and put his hands up.

  “The dead man on the tracks had Russian prison tattoos on his knees and arms.” Temple was bluffing; they had found only one tattoo. The guy’s other arm and both knees were missing.

  “So you think he works for me? That is a racist and prejudiced statement, Detective Temple. What proof do you have this man worked for me?”

  “Last year, a similar body was disposed of in the same manner. Too much for coincidence.”

  “I have wedding to get to.”

  “I know your niece and the visa seeker.”

  “Common practice. I guess now you’re a going to threaten me about the card game going up the hall. Or get my new nephew-in-law deported.”

  “I’ll let you get back to it.” Temple stood up to leave.

  The big burly man opened the door. He was either listening through it or the room was mic’d.

  19

  Karen Kindness was wearing a tight black dress and a tan shawl over her shoulders when she opened the door. Temple made to come in but she put a hand on his chest and peered over his shoulder.

  “Were you followed?”

  “What? No. If you’re so worried, why are we meeting at your house?”

  “Nothing says you’re guilty like meeting in a clandestine spot. You’re just one of my officers coming over to deliver a report.”

  “Yeah right,” Temple said, and he moved past her. One last look around and she closed the door.

  Temple went over to the side bar and started making himself a drink. Whiskey soda. There was a small ice bucket filled to the top. She was ready for him, but the ice had already started to melt.

  “By all means, help yourself.”

  “Thanks. I will. You want one?”

  She nodded and he came back to the couch arrangement with two cold drinks. She sat down on one of the couches and curled her legs up. He sat across from her.

  “So,” she said. She feigned looking at a watch, though she wore none.

  “Tim Wozniak.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I think he killed his wife.”

  She spit her drink out. “You’re supposed to ease into a thing like that. Like that old joke about the cat on the roof.”

  “I’m done pussyfooting around it,” he said.

  “Who else have you told?”

  “No one. Just been going over and over it in my head.”

  “She killed herself, didn’t she?”

  “Uh huh. Year ago. Swallowed a bottle of pills.”

  “So, how can you think it’s murder? And furthermore, why do you care?”

  Temple cocked his head and said nothing, but the look on his face spoke volumes. Karen read it.

  “You dirty little bastard. Boning your partner’s wife.”

  “My friend’s wife,” he added. “I know; bad news.”

  “Yes, you are.” She scoffed. “For how long?”

  “About six months. I ended it. She was getting weird. Then a couple of days later she was dead.”

  “Did Tim know?”

  “She said she told him. Then she said she didn’t. I couldn’t tell. And you can’t get a read on him.”

  “Yeah, I know. He’s a strange one. I’ll be honest—we are seriously looking into him about continuing on in homicide. I know some people think he’s good…”

  “He’s the best.”

  “Better than you?”

  Temple shrugged.

  “We think he’s getting burned out. Munshin has some concerns. This would mean a bump up for you, especially if we find out he did his wife in.”

  “I’m not like you, Karen. I could care less about climbing the greasy pole of power.”

  “Speaking of greasy poles.”

  “Let’s get through this first,” he said.

  She laughed and got up to make them another round.

  “She told me she wanted to go away, by herself,” Temple said.

  “Go on,” Karen said. She dropped ice into both their glasses.

  “She said Tim hated travel. She wanted to go to Greece. He hates the food. Hates flying, hates all of it. It’s true; he complains about travelling out of the city to go see her folks.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “Then when I talked to him after she was gone, the day of the funeral, he said it was his idea, this little trip.”

  “That’s it? Come on, John.”

  “It was the way he said it. Why would he volunteer that if I didn’t know the opposite to be true?”

  “You think he’s playing you?”

  “Yes. He knows about us. He did her in because of us. Now he wants me to know it.”

  “You in fear for your life?”

  “Please.”

  “If he’s flipped his wig, why not come after you? Course, he’d have to get in line.”

  “That’s funny.” He sipped his drink.

  “Cheers.” Karen said and they clinked glasses.

  Temple woke up the next morning with a pounding headache. He was surrounded by soiled sheets.

  He looked at the only light in the room and
saw a naked Karen Kindness standing in front of the mirror. His groin stirred automatically. They had done it before, and there were no illusions about it happening again. But it always by her schedule. Then he remembered the night. It was fuzzy. Had she drugged him?

  He tried to move; his wrists were locked to the headboard.

  “Karen,” he tried to say, but there was something in his mouth. It tasted like plastic.

  She heard his mumbling. “Morning, honey. Glad you didn’t choke on your own vomit.” She came to him, glistening from the marathon sex session. She climbed over him; her boobs bounced in his face as she undid his bindings. When his hands were free, he pushed her off. She giggled.

  He struggled with the gag ball and ripped it off. Lying on the bed was a huge strap-on dildo.

  “Karen, what the heck—?” he said.

  “What?”

  He pointed at the monster. It was black and glistening like she was.

  “Oh, that,” she said.

  He sheepishly felt his ass. It was no tenderer than usual, having had a recent flare-up of hemorrhoids.

  “You didn’t think I…” She put a hand to her head and giggled again. “That would have been a good idea.”

  “Who’d you use that on?”

  “Friend of mine. She left just before you got here. You know her. That is to say, she knows you.” She raised her eyebrows as she said it.

  “Who?”

  “That news reporter. She told me a story about you and her getting it on and this girl busting it.”

  “Sara Chang,” Temple said, and regretted it immediately. “In forensics? She didn’t join in?”

  “No, she ran out.” Karen took the dildo and the gag ball and put them on the dresser.

  “Why the drugs?” he said as he searched for his underwear.

  “I like my men compliant. I’m a dom. One shot of this,” she held up a little bottle, “and your inhibitions go bye-bye.”

  “I’m no sub.”

  “Not by force.”

  He had to laugh at the absurdity of it. He had no recollection of their coupling. Maybe that was part of her scheme, to keep him in the dark. “I oughta crack you in the mouth. You drug me again and I will.”

  He found the rest of his clothes and starting dressing. His gun and badge wallet were on the dresser next to the dildo and gag ball, and he retrieved them quickly.

  “Feel better now with those on?”

  “You know it. You going to look into Tim?”

  “Nope,” she said.

  His shoulders dropped.

  “You get me something more concrete and I will look into it. But a conversation about a trip to Greece? No way.”

  “You owe me, though. Operation Carnivore,” he said, and she flinched. “Operation Carnivore!” he yelled while looking around the room. “In case the bugs didn’t catch it.”

  “You bring me something better and I’ll see what I can do. I’m not going to bat over that.”

  “Same time next week?” he said.

  “Maybe.”

  “Next time I’m making all the drinks.”

  He left her place to the sound of her laughter.

  20

  Temple kept a locker on the fifth floor of 40 College. It had two fresh sport coats and two sets of shirts and ties in it. After showering in the changeroom, Temple got into the clean clothes and felt almost normal. He had kipped out in his Buick for two hours in the underground parking lot, and that had also helped. While he was in the shower, he kept checking his ass to see if anything had gone up it; he couldn’t tell. Temple wondered if he was the only detective on the force whom the deputy chief had fucked, literally, in that way. He was used to getting screwed by Command, figuratively, but this was a little too much.

  “Nah,” he said as he closed the locker. “She’s crazy.”

  Mendoza was looking fresh and sitting at his desk reading the paper.

  “Hard at work?” Temple said as he dropped his keys on his desk.

  “There’s a lot of info in here on what’s going on in the street,” he said. “More than what we get on the briefings.”

  “A lot of it’s crap. What’s it called? Fake news?”

  “I can weed that out.”

  Temple said, “You find out anything on this Taylor guy?”

  “So far all I know is that he’s a big-time contractor. Been in business for about twenty years. Built condos all over this town. I live in one of them.”

  “That’s it?”

  “As far as I can tell, he’s clean.”

  “That’s not saying much. Anything come in yet from technical services on the apartment and the restaurant?”

  “Negative, but we should have something by lunch.”

  “Okay. You stay here and wait for it. I’m going to pop over to City Hall.”

  To get to City Hall, Temple took the Path, a confusing system of underground walkways that crisscrossed the downtown core. On a hot, sticky day, it was a nice break from the heat. It was also very useful during winter. There was every kind of shop and restaurant down there; there was really no reason to go above ground at all. But the maps and signage were utterly confusing; if you didn’t know your way around you could easily get lost.

  City Hall was busy. Council was in session, and there were reporters standing around waiting to ambush the mayor and councillors as they emerged from the chamber.

  Temple approached the security desk. There were two guards behind it; one was young, fresh faced and wearing a turban. The other was old with a pockmarked face and a tightly cropped grey hair. His name tag said Curtis. He looked up from a computer monitor with feigned interest as Temple approached, happy to let his younger colleague handle it.

  “I need to find out if someone filed an injunction against a building plan,” Temple said.

  “You mean you want to file one?” the guard with the turban said.

  “No, I want to find out if someone did.”

  “I don’t think you can do that,” the turbaned guard said.

  “Detective, can I help?” Curtis said, and gave him a knowing smile. Temple had never met him before; he must just look like a cop.

  “Where do I go for it?”

  “Second floor. Office of the registrar.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Any time, Detective,” Curtis said.

  Temple walked to the elevator and caught the man still looking at him; he turned away when Temple met his stare.

  Temple told the girl behind the registrar’s desk what he wanted. She was stymied and quickly became flustered.

  Another woman came over, a clipboard in her hand. Temple explained for the third time what he wanted. She sighed and said, “What plan?”

  Temple pulled out the number he’d copied from the notification near the Beautiful City restaurant and recited it to her. She and the other woman went into another room, and Temple strolled around the office looking at various posters and black-and-white photographs of city life from days gone by.

  The women came back; the one with the clipboard had a document in her hand.

  “Here,” she said. “One was filed. It’s not confidential information.”

  Temple looked at the paper. It was a request to stop the tearing down of the Beautiful City’s block; he recognized the address range. It was signed by the Concerned Chinatown Group and had a long list of names on it, including Kiet Du’s.

  “It was rejected,” the woman said.

  “By whom?” Temple asked.

  “The building committee, of course. They met on this six days ago.”

  Temple nodded. That corresponded with the notice Du had on his coffee table. “Who chairs that?”

  “Councillor Nallartnam.”

  “Of course he does.” Temple thanked the woman and left.

  21

  The superintendent of Kiet Du’s building was inside the lobby watering a potted palm tree. Temple tapped on the glass and the man let him in.

  They said nothing
to each other and Temple took the elevator. He pushed a lot of buttons including the eighth floor so the superintendent wouldn’t know which floor he got off on.

  Temple knocked on Sue’s apartment door. Nothing. He tried the handle. Locked. He looked around, then took out his lockpick kit and knelt down in front of the door so he could get the first pick in straight. He had tried to master picking a lock while standing up, but it was hard. He worked the two picks and heard it click. With a bit of effort he rotated the deadbolt back and was in. He put his picks away and closed the door behind him.

  “Miss Du?” he called out. “Anyone?”

  He walked through the apartment. It was clean, very orderly. Two bedrooms. He poked his head into one. It was hers; he could tell by a pair of tight, studded jeans strewn over the back of a chair and a poster of Beyoncé on the wall.

  The bathroom held no clues. None that he could see, anyway. Standard set of toothbrushes, tampons in the medicine cabinet.

  The other bedroom was her father’s. There were men’s clothes strewn on the floor. He checked the closet. There were only a few shirts hanging up and a dozen hangers lying on the floor. She’s neat; he’s messy. So what? Temple thought.

  On his way out of the room, he paused at the bureau; on top were several framed photographs. One was a black-and-white of the mother, who had been very attractive, with a seventies-style hairdo. There was another one, in colour, of her slightly older. From the style of clothes and the small age progression Temple would say it had been taken in the eighties. Maybe just before she died. There was another photo, smaller and black and white, of a young Asian woman. Maybe it was the woman in the other photos; maybe not. Temple couldn’t tell.

  There were photographs of the daughter in her high school graduation gown, then slightly older and graduating from college. There was one photo of the daughter and the father in the restaurant standing in front of the counter. He had his arm around her, and her head was on his shoulder.

  Also in the photo behind the restaurant’s counter was a blurry image of a younger man, probably the dead cook, and one other man behind the till.

  Temple took the frame and opened the back of it. He took the photo out and put it in his pocket. He figured it would be a while before it was missed. If she hadn’t even been in her dead father’s room yet to tidy it up, it might be a while before she noticed the photo was missing. By then, Temple hoped to have the case wrapped up, and then he could mail it to her. But for now, he wanted it. He didn’t know why.