Dead Man Walking

by David Carter

  “State your motherfuckin’ business,” Skinny-Jay demanded.

  “Where can I find the one you call Blaze?”

  Skinny-Jay’s deep voice chuckled. “Who’s fuckin’ asking?”

  “I’ll ask you one more time,” Lucky sneered. “Where—is—he?”

  Skinny-Jay marched up to Lucky and roughly shoved the barrel of his Desert Eagle under his chin. “Tell Scarface not to send his bitches to do his motherfuckin’ bidding. Or I’ll be more than happy to even things up for him if he tries to pull this shit again.” Skinny-Jay’s posse kept their pistols firmly locked on the crowd of intruders.

  “Don’t make things hard for yourself,” Lucky replied. “You should think about the lives of your crew before your black-ass pride. Or maybe the tentative truce we currently adhere to may have to be reconsidered.”

  “Don’t you be disrespectin’ me or my crew on my motherfuckin’ turf.” Skinny-Jay bared his row of golden teeth in Lucky’s face. He pressed the barrel of his pistol even harder beneath his chin as he said, “Tell Scarface to come sit down with me, face to face. You have my word he’ll walk outta here alive if he comes alone. And be sure to tell him that if he wants me to release my number one fighter from his contract, he’s gonna have to pay top motherfuckin’ dollar.” Skinny-Jay removed the pistol from his chin.

  “Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” Lucky replied, and motioned for his brothers to leave.

  An hour later Skinny-Jay received a message on his cell phone: I’m here, it read.

  Skinny-Jay boldly waddled to the entrance of his club, escorted by two of his loyal bodyguards. The tail lights of a large, black Chevy pickup glowed in the dark city street as it slowly rumbled away, leaving a lone figure standing on the footpath beneath a flickering street-lamp. The man scratched the grotesque scar tissue on his neck as one of Skinny-Jay’s bodyguards patted him down. “He’s clean,” the bodyguard said.

  Skinny-Jay opened the inside of his jacket—just enough for Scarface to see the grip of his Desert Eagle protruding out.

  “Are we gonna do this on the street or are you gonna invite me in?” Scarface said with a slight grin, relieving the tension between the two bitter rivals.

  “After you,” Skinny-Jay replied, ushering him through the doorway.

  You could have heard a pin drop as Scarface confidently strolled through the club and sat at a private table near the back wall. “What are you drinking?” Skinny-Jay asked him.

  “Whisky,” he replied.

  Skinny-Jay held up two fingers to his bodyguard, who returned promptly with a bottle and two tumblers filled with ice.

  Scarface removed his shades and looked his rival in the eye as he sipped his drink. “I want your boy to join the brotherhood.”

  “Now why would I agree to that?” Skinny-Jay scoffed. “I’m making so much money outta him I don’t know how to motherfuckin’ spend it.”

  “Name your price.”

  “He’s not for sale.”

  “Everything is for sale.”

  Skinny-Jay’s giant torso wobbled as he leaned back on his chair, rolling a chunk of ice around his mouth so it clinked against his golden teeth. He knew he held the upper ground. “What are your intentions with him?” he asked curiously. “You’ve already got enough white-ass motherfuckers beating down my homies on the streets.”

  Scarface slowly poured another shot of whisky into his tumbler, keeping his eyes pinned on Skinny-Jay as he replied. “He won’t be anywhere near the streets should we come to an arrangement. But as for the reason for his recruitment, that’s none of your concern.”

  Skinny-Jay matched his rival and indulged in another drink. “In that case, I think we can do business. But I have two conditions.”

  “Name them.”

  “You tell your bitches to stop beating down my homies on their corners. We had a motherfuckin’ deal: you sell your shit on your turf, and we sell our shit on ours. That way we all make some motherfuckin’ green; you feel me?”

  “I’ll take care of it.”

  “All right. And if you want my boy, I want a clean three-mill.”

  Scarface nearly choked at the absurd proposal. “I’ll give you one. But only because I want him so bad.”

  Skinny-Jay slammed his tumbler down on the table. “Make it two, motherfucker, or you’re leaving this club in a motherfuckin’ hearse! Or would you like me to torch the other side of your motherfuckin’ face?”

  Scarface kept his cool as Skinny-Jay needled his ego, but on the inside he was seething. He wanted nothing more than to burn him alive for what he’d done to his face. He leaned across the table and offered his hand. “We have a deal: two-mill. I’ll have Lucky deliver the green within the hour.”

  Skinny-Jay accepted and told him where he would most likely find his new purchase at this time of night.

  Scarface called the driver of his Chevy and left the nightclub with all his limbs still intact, and went in search of his newly acquired prize.

  Chapter 7

  Scarface’s Chevy pulled up outside of Jimmy’s Corner, located near the heart of Times Square. He climbed out of the passenger’s side and walked towards the tiny no frills bar that most people walked right on by. He could see why the moment he opened the front door. It was cramped and dingy, completely lacking in style for its location in Manhattan. The long, narrow interior was packed with patrons. The walls were literally covered in boxing memorabilia: photos, trophies, old pairs of gloves and trunks; cluttered chaos. Then Scarface noticed why the eyesore of a watering hole was jam-packed with satisfied punters: three-dollar beers and cheap liquor. The feel-good atmosphere burned through his tough-guy exterior as he boldly made his way through the crowd in search of Blaze. After momentarily thinking he had been sent on a wild goose chase by Skinny-Jay, he spotted him—sitting at a table by himself—right in the back corner of the narrow room, his back turned on the world. He cautiously approached him. “Mind if I join you, Blaze?”

  Blaze didn’t acknowledge his presence.

  “What are you drinking? I’m buying,” Scarface offered.

  “Whisky,” Blaze muttered.

  “A man after my own heart.”

  Scarface returned moments later with two half-full tumblers. “My friends call me Scarface,” he introduced himself as he sat down opposite Blaze. “You’re new around here?”

  “More or less.”

  “Do you like New York?”

  “It’s a fucking shithole.”

  Scarface nearly sprayed his mouthful of whisky over Blaze in amusement. “You know, you’re probably right,” he chuckled.

  “There’s no probably about it.”

  Scarface paused a moment, then asked, “So where are your friends?”

  “I don’t have any fucking friends,” Blaze answered with his head down, then took a swig from his tumbler.

  Scarface become further intrigued. “So where are you from? By your accent I’d say...Australia?”

  Blaze scoffed. “Typical fucking yank.” He gulped down the remainder of his whisky. “You think we’re all fucking Australians.”

  “Ah, I see,” Scarface realised his mistake. “You’re a kiwi; a New Zealander. I hear you’re bitter rivals with your Australian counterparts.”

  “You got that fucking right.”

  Scarface chuckled, then changed the subject. “I saw your bout against Jermaine Miller last night. You were damn-near indestructible.”

  “I bleed red the same as anyone else.”

  “But the way you fought…” he paused and shook his head to emphasis his admiration, “It’s like nothing I’ve ever seen. The way you overpowered him on the ground and savagely beat his face in—”

  “What’s your fucking point?” Blaze cut him off, and finally looked him in the eye.

  Scarface’s crusted lips smirked as he slowly sipped his whisky, then he said, “You know, you’re not so hard to decipher. Take a look at yourself: drinking alone in this shithole, in the middle of New York Ci
ty, with no friends or family. You’re running from something— something that’s torn your heart out to the point you either want to fight to the death so that you still feel alive, or alternatively, end your pain and suffering.”

  Blaze couldn’t believe his ears. Is this guy for real? It’s like he can read my fucking mind.

  Scarface continued. “I would like you to join my family. The initiation is tough, but the rewards are worthwhile. Perhaps it’s exactly what you need: some structure and a sense of belonging.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Why not?”

  “My loyalties lie elsewhere: I’m a member of an MC back home. Unfortunately due to circumstances I was forced to take an unscheduled hiatus as president.”

  “So what’s stopping you from going back? You don’t seem to be the kind of guy who takes a backward step.”

  “It’s complicated. For the moment I’d be better off dead.”

  “Then join me and the brotherhood,” he coaxed. He took of his jacket, revealing his many Nazi swastikas and white power tattoos.

  Two dark-skinned patrons at the adjacent table suddenly stopped talking and stared at Scarface. He glared back at them with a look of disgust. They quickly looked away and resumed their business.

  Blaze stood up to leave. “I appreciate the offer, but I ain’t no fucking racist, and I’m happy fighting for Skinny-Jay,” Blaze replied.

  Scarface let out a raspy chuckle. “You don’t work for that overweight piece of shit anymore. I paid him out; you’re free to join the brotherhood. I don’t want you getting yourself killed for no good reason. You’re a rare jewel.”

  Blaze growled with rage. “You don’t fucking own me!” He grabbed Scarface by the scruff of the neck, eyeballing him, nose to nose across the table.

  “On the contrary,” he replied calmly. “I paid top-dollar for you to that wanna-be gangsta. And believe me when I say I wouldn’t do that for just anyone.”

  Blaze thrust him back in his seat. “Then you’re a fool; you wasted your time and money.” He turned around to leave.

  “New York’s a dangerous place,” Scarface called out as Blaze walked away. “There’s nothing worse than having to look over your shoulder every five minutes. I’ll give you some time to think it over.”

  “Whatever, Scarface.” Blaze replied without stopping, and left Scarface drinking alone in the back of Jimmy’s Corner.

  Chapter 8

  Ryan entered the MCHU boardroom with Hampton and took his seat opposite a panel of three grim-faced men: newly appointed Police Commissioner Jerry Marshall, Assistant Commissioner of Investigations Mike Chambers, and Commissioner of International and National Security Richard Tims. They were all presented in immaculate full dress uniform; a row of hard-nosed officers of the law. Their stern features bored through Ryan as he took his seat and poured himself a glass of water from the silver jug placed at his table.

  Commissioner Marshall was first to stand and address the otherwise vacant room. He was in his mid-to-late fifties, sporting a thick crop of silver hair. Ryan couldn’t help noticing there was no media present for the hearing. They’re not even recording this, he thought. Perhaps this isn’t as bad as I first imagined.

  Commissioner Marshall cleared his throat. “Detective Cameron Ryan, you have been summoned to answer some questions in regards to the death of former Commissioner of Police, Peter Stuart. I want you to understand this is merely a preliminary hearing, and that you are not required to say or do anything without a lawyer present. But let me make one thing perfectly clear: your credibility as a detective and seeker of justice in this country will most certainly be brought into question should you not choose to be forthcoming with answers at this hearing today.”

  Ryan nodded his understanding.

  Commissioner Marshall took his seat, handing proceedings over to Richard Tims. He was the tallest of the three officers, stocky, around the same age as Commissioner Marshall. “Detective Ryan,” Tims began, “As Commissioner of National Security, it is my sworn duty to protect the people and servants of this country. Not only do we have to be mindful of offshore threats, but internal risks as well. And as you are surely aware, there have been two recent bombings in Brighton city. Firstly, you will remember back some two months now, an attack was made on a classroom at Sheffield Primary, in which, thanks to the Lord Almighty, the school was closed on the particular day of the bombing. Then there was the attack made on former Police Commissioner Peter Stuart and his daughter, Charlotte, who were casualties of a premeditated bombing at the commissioner’s private residence some three weeks later. Our squad of experts had a difficult time in detecting the source of the explosion, but eventually they discovered the remains of what appeared to be an extremely complex, homemade device in the wreckage. The bomb blast destroyed the entire second-storey. Furthermore, an unnamed witness came forward in relation to the bombing, claiming they saw a yellow courier van deliver a package to the commissioner’s residence only minutes before the explosion. The witness also described that the van had remained parked on the street within viewing distance and drove away moments after the fireball erupted from the residence, leading us to believe the terrorist stayed to verify that the targets were neutralised.”

  “I don’t see what that has to do with me,” Ryan interjected.

  “Then perhaps this will jog your memory.” Tims produced a folder containing a small wad of documents, then asked the third and youngest of the three officers, Mike Chambers, to hand them over to Ryan. Tims continued. “What the Commissioner of Investigations is now giving you is a document recovered from the wreckage of Commissioner Stuart’s home—from his personal safe to be exact.”

  Ryan’s eyes almost popped out of his head as he saw the legally binding agreement that he had signed, along with Commissioner Stuart and Ryan’s former detective associate, Sandra Gibson; a three-way blackmail agreement to bury the events of the previous few months.

  Tims continued. “It is highly disturbing to know that the former commissioner of this great nation would disgrace the uniform and betray the very people he swore to serve and protect. But it is gutless on your part to bury the knowledge that our leader was a murdering crook. Yes, he had you by the short and curlies—holding you to ransom with your somewhat minor offences compared to his crimes, but nevertheless, you should have come forward.”

  “I assume you have already spoken with Detective Gibson?” Ryan asked.

  “Indeed we have. Apart from admitting to breaking and entering the commissioner’s residence in search of the missing evidence connecting him to a double homicide, she is squeaky clean and subsequently she is of no further interest in this investigation.”

  “So why am I in the hot seat, then?”

  Commissioner Jerry Marshall stood up and took over. “Because you are a known associate of Bobby Blaise and the Sinners and Scarecrows Motorcycle Club. And after discovering the commissioner was responsible for the murder of Bobby’s grandparents, it makes sense that Blaze and the MC is the likely party responsible for the bombing. We are more than aware that retribution is never an option within MC rules. We think they might also be connected with the attack on Sheffield Primary.”

  “That’s absurd,” Ryan scoffed. “The MC would never bomb a school of innocent children.”

  “Where there’s smoke, there’s fire, detective.”

  “But it’s impossible,” Ryan retorted. “Bobby’s dead. It was all over the news when he crashed his Mustang into the Stirling River after a high-speed police chase went wrong. Hell, I went to his memorial service. It all happened after the commissioner discovered Blaze was partly responsible for the death of his wife in a drive-by shooting some eight years ago. She was an innocent victim. The commissioner took his revenge by murdering Blaze’s grandparents and framing him for it. But that plan went south when Detective Gibson and I conclusively proved Blaze’s innocence. The commissioner wouldn’t rest until he was dead. I believe he accomplished his goal, sir. This
is a closed case as far as Bobby Blaise is concerned.”

  “Detective Gibson seemed to think otherwise,” Commissioner Marshall replied.

  “On what grounds?”

  “Well, two things came to mind: the fact that Bobby’s body was never recovered, and something you said to her when you last parted ways.”

  “Something I said? Care to elaborate on that?”

  “She claims you alluded to the fact that Bobby is still very much alive. Do you deny it?” The look on the commissioner’s face was like hardened volcanic rock. The prominent, deep wrinkles beneath his eyes didn’t budge as he held his stern gaze. Ryan felt he was getting in over his head. After all, these were three of New Zealand’s most powerful men in law enforcement. What if they have proof Blaze is still alive? If I lie, I’ll be digging myself a deeper grave. He decided that if he had any chance of coming out of this without a prison sentence, he had better come clean. He hung his head before he replied, “What you say is true. Bobby Blaise is still alive.” He sighed. “I know for certain he faked his death, and is most likely responsible for the attack made on the commissioner and his daughter. But for the record, I have no actual knowledge of the bombing. I haven’t seen or heard from Blaze since I brokered a deal with the commissioner and Detective Gibson to keep everyone’s proverbial asses out of jail. At the time it seemed like the best course of action; we all had enough dirt on each other to make things difficult.”

  The commissioner took a deep breath and let it out slowly through his bushy nostrils as he pondered over the situation. “Based on your excellent solve-rate and reputation in the force, I’m inclined to believe your version of events. Detective Gibson couldn’t speak highly enough of you and how you dealt with being blackmailed by the former commissioner and dismantling one of the largest crime syndicates this country has ever witnessed.”