Yes.
GITTENS
Do you have any idea why your friend was killed?
OHANION
My understanding was that he was robbed. Skylar didn’t carry much cash on him. Could be that the gunman didn’t like the small take, and shot him out of anger. That’s the way it is in this town.
MAHONEY
Now you’re going to tell us about our town. How long have you lived here, that you know so much?
OHANION
I’ve been here a few months.
MAHONEY
That long, huh? Bet you’ve done a few ride-alongs, too.
OHANION
I went on one. I watched your jump-out boys entrap some kid and put him in bracelets.
MAHONEY looks at GITTENS, then back at OHANION.
MAHONEY
One ride-along. That makes you some kind of law enforcement expert?
GITTENS
(sarcastic)
Give him a break, Dennis. The man writes about crime. He knows what he’s talking about.
(to OHANION)
Looks like you make a good living at it, too. That’s an expensive watch you got on your wrist.
OHANION makes no comment.
MAHONEY
I’ve watched your show. With all those pretty police and detectives. All the dirty ones, too. So many dirty police officers on our force. Who knew?
OHANION
It’s a television show. Corrupt cops make good drama. We’re not going for realism.
MAHONEY
Okay, then. Let’s get real.
GITTENS leans forward.
GITTENS
Here’s the thing, Mr. Ohanion. Maybe Mr. Branson was killed in the commission of a street robbery. Maybe. But we found some interesting items when we went through his hotel room. Do you know what I’m talking about?
OHANION
No, I don’t.
GITTENS
There was a large amount of marijuana stashed in his room safe, along with a digital scale, distribution materials, and a ledger. It’s safe to say that the pot wasn’t for personal use.
OHANION folds his hands atop his desk and says nothing.
GITTENS
You don’t seem surprised.
OHANION
People smoke marijuana. They like to get outside their heads.
GITTENS
I’m talking about the fact that your friend was a dealer.
OHANION
I don’t know anything about that.
MAHONEY
I find that hard to believe.
OHANION
So?
OHANION looks MAHONEY over in a way that no man likes to be looked at. MAHONEY’S jaw gets tight. It looks like he’s going to get up and go over the desk at OHANION.
GITTENS
(to MAHONEY, sotto voce)
Dennis.
(to OHANION)
You’re protecting your friend’s reputation. I get that. But it’s not going to help us find his killer.
OHANION
You said there was a ledger.
MAHONEY
A notebook. Initials, with dollar amounts beside the initials, some crossed out, some not. We’ve got a list of your crew members, and we’ll match the initials to those names. Then we’ll talk to those people and see what we can find. You don’t want to cooperate, fine. We’ll figure it out on our own.
(beat)
Branson had a girlfriend on the crew. What was her name again?
OHANION
You know her name. It’s Laura Flanagan. She works in the wardrobe department.
MAHONEY
Right.
OHANION turns to GITTENS, ignoring MAHONEY.
OHANION
Detective Gittens, despite what you might think of Skylar, he was a good guy. Hard worker, always looked out for his crew. Do you know what I mean?
GITTENS
Sure.
OHANION
His parents are coming into town. I wouldn’t want this thing you found to deplete him in their minds.
GITTENS
I’m not an idiot. I have kids my own self. We’re not going to mention what we found in his room to his folks, unless it’s absolutely necessary.
OHANION
Thank you.
MAHONEY stands.
MAHONEY
One more thing, Ohanion…
OHANION
Don’t leave town?
MAHONEY walks from the room, red-faced. GITTENS places his business card on the desk, shoots OHANION a look, shakes his head, and exits.
ON OHANION, unmoved.
When I was a teenager, growing up in a multiethnic neighborhood just outside the city, my friends and I had an adversarial relationship with the law. Though all of us got high, none of us were into anything that had violence attached to it. Many of the guys I knew or ran with got busted at one time or another for marijuana possession, or low-level distribution, and paid a price. Some got put into the system and never recovered.
The cops in my hometown were devious about it. They hid in the woods, waiting for kids to light up. They arrested kids and turned them into snitches. The younger police on the drug squad posed as buyers and jacked kids up like that. The black and Hispanic kids suffered worse than the whites. They were pulled over more frequently in their cars, were handcuffed and sat down on the curb in the dead of winter, and were assigned disinterested public defenders when it came time to go to trial. They didn’t have a chance.
Six months ago, I went back home to visit my mother. A curfew on teenagers had recently been enacted in that part of the county, and there had been some complaints that minority kids would be unfairly singled out. The chief of police wrote an editorial in the local newspaper defending the curfew, saying no particular race or ethnic group would be targeted, claiming that his young police officers were of an enlightened generation who didn’t “see color.” When I read that, I laughed out loud.
Gittens was all right; maybe Mahoney was, too. But it didn’t matter to me. I was nearly forty years old, a long way from my youth, and still, because of what I’d experienced growing up, I didn’t trust police. I wasn’t about to talk to them about my friend.
That night, I drove downriver to a part of town that was once a low-income, borderline dangerous district and was now a burgeoning neighborhood of newly arrived college graduates, folk resurgents, visual artists, and film production crew who were trying to make a living year-round.
Laura Flanagan lived in an old narrow-and-deep house with two young women who worked as prop and wardrobe assistants on other productions. I parked my rental on the street near one of the city’s ubiquitous neighborhood markets and walked to her house. Skylar’s electrics and rigging gaffers were grouped on the front lawn, and there were many people, some from our crew and some I didn’t recognize, standing on Laura’s porch and seated on her front stoop. They were drinking beer, wine, and liquor, playing guitar and percussion instruments, and passing around weed. Marijuana wasn’t legal in this city, but its use was tolerated. The police had bigger issues to contend with here, like murder, rape, and internal corruption.
It was an impromptu wake of sorts and I moved into the crowd. I took a pull off a bottle of Jack that was offered to me, then grabbed a beer from a cooler. I could see that people were getting twisted in the go-to-hell way that is common after an unexpected death. We had a six a.m. call in the morning. It would be a rough day for those who were going hard at it.
I found Laura inside her house, a typical artist’s lair, illuminated by candles and Christmas lights. Fish netting had been strung from the ceiling, and magazine photos were taped to the walls. Marijuana and cigarette smoke hung heavy in the room, where Laura sat on her couch, talking to friends. She was wearing her aviators, a loose flannel shirt, skinny jeans, and checkerboard Vans.
Laura stood as I approached. She came into my arms unsteady and we embraced. I held her tightly and for a long while. Her tears were hot on my fac
e as she pressed her cheek against mine.
“It’s gonna be okay, Laura.”
“You think so, Vic?” Her tone was odd.
“Sit with your friends. I’ll talk to you in a little bit, when the crowd thins out.”
She went back to the couch. Out in the front yard I joined up with Skylar’s crew, who were standing around, quietly getting wasted. They were telling stories and sharing memories about their beloved boss. The talk went from Skylar to counterpunches and defensive stances, firearms they’d recently purchased at shows, and back to Skylar. They were gun enthusiasts to a man, and Skylar, a martial artist, had gotten them into a regular training regimen at a local dojo. Though they weren’t the show-muscle type, and none had flat stomachs, all of them were work-strong and knew how to go with their hands. They’d be hard to hurt. I pitied anyone who looked at them the wrong way tonight.
After midnight, Laura and I sat down on the edge of her bed and talked. Her twin mattress lay on the floor, separated from a roommate’s bed by a curtain strung across the room. It wasn’t the ideal spot to converse, but it was the only place in the house where we could find some privacy. I wanted to get to her before she got too sloppy, and it didn’t seem that any of the visitors would be leaving anytime soon.
“The detectives spoke to you today?” I said.
“Yes. They asked me if I knew anything about Skylar’s marijuana operation. That’s what they called it: an operation.”
“They found his stash in his hotel room. His scale and the ledger book, too. They’re going to match the crew list names with the initials in the ledger.”
“Why?”
“They’re going to talk to people on the crew who you and Skylar were selling weed to. They’re trying to determine if Skylar’s murder was a random robbery or if it had something to do with his side business.”
“Oh.”
“Someone will tell them you were selling it as well.”
“I don’t care about that.”
“Just deny,” I said, and strengthened my tone. “I spoke to Skylar before we wrapped last night. I know he was in some kind of trouble.”
Laura looked away and dragged on her cigarette. “I can’t talk about this right now.”
“You have to.”
She was just a few years out of high school. Grieving, of course, and also confused. She’d gotten into the sales thing with her lover as a lark, not for profit. Their “operation” simply provided them with free smoke. In her mind, she and Skylar were providing a service for the crew.
Thursday was payday, and on Friday the out-of-town workers were given their per diem. So, every week, on Thursday and Friday, Skylar and Laura sold weed to the crew. Eighths for fifty, quarters for a hundred, three-fifty for an ounce. It was common knowledge to damn near everyone, except for Bruce, Ellen, our few straitlaced coworkers, and the crew members who were commonly thought of as untrustworthy.
“Laura, if I’m going to help you, I need to know what’s going on.”
“Why would I need help?”
“Look at me,” I said, and she did. “If Skylar’s murder was connected to what was found in his safe, make no mistake, you’re in danger, too.”
Laura tapped ash on the thigh of her jeans, though there was a foil tray beside her on the bed. “What do you want to know?”
“Tell me what’s been going on.”
Laura hit her Marlboro and exhaled a stream of smoke into the room. “Skylar was all jammed up.”
“I know he was in trouble.”
She nodded. “He fronted a pound to someone, and that guy couldn’t pay. Skylar owed the connect about five grand…”
“And?”
“He had most of the cash he needed to settle up, but he was short by twenty-five hundred. He put the legitimate cash together with some phony money.”
“Phony money. Why?”
“He made a mistake, Vic.”
“What the fuck.”
“Counterfeit. It looked real. Our connect had sent a couple of guys to collect, and Skylar paid them off. When they figured out that some of the money wasn’t right…” She shook her head.
“What? Say it, Laura.”
“They threatened us. Skylar put them off. He’d sold one package, and he was hoping to off the last pound…the one that the detectives found in his safe. He planned to make it right. He was going to tell them that he’d been duped, and that he was good for the rest of the cash.”
“He took too long.”
“Yes.” Laura’s hand shook as she brought her cigarette to her lips.
“Who did Skylar front the pound to? Where would he get counterfeit money?” When Laura didn’t answer, I said, “Was it people on our crew?”
“I can’t tell you,” she said. “Skylar wouldn’t want me to. He didn’t want to involve anyone else in this, including you. You know him. Skylar was honorable. He told me that he’d gotten us into this, and he’d get us out himself.”
It sounded like him. I’d offered him money, but he’d declined. Pride and his notion of manhood had done him in. That was who he was.
“Tell me how this works,” I said. “How you two brought the stuff into town.”
“Normally it got FedExed in from California. We had an arrangement with a guy Skylar had met on a show in Los Angeles. We always paid him within a week, also by overnight mail. One time a package got seized in the process, and Skylar made good on it. So there wasn’t any problem with this dude. But this time, when the problem did come up, Skylar was light on cash.”
“If that was the deal, why’d the connect send in a couple of guys to collect the payment?”
“We’d bought three pounds on this go-round. Three pounds is about ten thousand dollars at wholesale. For that kind of money, he felt the need to send couriers.”
“They worked for him?”
“I got the impression they were freelance. Local collection agents.”
“You saw them?”
“They came here one night to meet with Skylar and pick up the money. Two white guys, brothers, in their twenties. I think they were twins. They were okay that night, on the surface. You know how someone can smile at you, but there’s nothing friendly there? It was…”
“Laura. Do you know their names?”
“Wayne and Cody. That’s what they said.”
“And after they figured out the money was fake, what happened?”
“They told Skylar he had a day to make it right. Two days passed, and Skylar got killed.”
“You have no proof it was them, do you?”
“No.”
“Skylar could have been robbed and shot at random.”
“I suppose so.” I watched her take a last drag and crush out her smoke in the foil tray.
“You have a cell number for this Cody or Wayne?”
“I captured one, yeah.”
“They phoned you?”
“Not since Skylar died.”
“What did they say when they called you?”
“Wayne called me. It wasn’t about business. He said he liked to look at me. And what he’d do to me if he got the chance. Shit like that.”
“Give me Wayne’s number,” I said. Laura read it off her phone and I typed it into the notes app of mine. I stood up. “Hold on a minute and stay right here.”
I left the house and walked outside. Skylar’s crew had left, but there were still some people up on the porch. I went down to the yard and called Bernard, the night manager of my hotel. When you live in a hotel, the desk people, the bartenders, the housekeepers, and the valets become friends. Some become family. I got hold of Bernard and told him what I needed. He said he’d hook me up for the production rate.
Walking back into the house, I tried to get my head around the situation. I wondered who Skylar had fronted the pound to and where Skylar had gotten the counterfeit money. Back in Laura’s bedroom, I found her where I’d left her. She’d lit another cigarette.
“Pack up some things,” I sai
d. “Enough to last a few days at least.”
“Why?”
“You can’t stay here. It’s not safe.”
“Where am I going?”
“To my hotel.”
“I’m staying with you?”
“No.”
“Annette, then.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Everyone knows you two are together, Vic.”
“Let’s go.”
It was almost three a.m. by the time I got Laura settled in her room. I went up to my suite, where I found Annette in my bed. Her breathing was deep and there was that clicking sound. I stripped naked and got under the covers and spooned myself against her. She was on her side and she reached back to touch my thigh. I knew she preferred to wake up in her own room. She had come here, unselfishly, for me. Annette was everything I’d wanted to find in a woman since my divorce. The physical and the emotional, all in one. I stroked her arm softly.
“I’m here,” I said. “Go back to sleep.”
I only had two and half hours before I had to get up for call. When I closed my eyes I saw Skylar, lying on a morgue slab, his skin gray and marbleized, his scalp removed, his once healthy body cut up and autopsied.
I was sick with grief and anger. I couldn’t stop thinking about my friend.
We were shooting on the soundstages the next day, located in the warehouse space of a Sam’s Club, now shuttered, in an industrial area outside the city limits. For budgetary reasons, we’d built sets there that we used with frequency: the Homicide offices, the ADA’s office, the courtroom, Tanner’s apartment, and others. We didn’t have any moves on stage days, which was convenient, but the hours were typically long. Once inside the walls of the warehouse, where there were no windows, it was easy to lose track of time. Here, we typically worked fourteen- to sixteen-hour days.
The Martini Shot Page 19
