Blood Rust Chains
Page 8
Quinn laughed. “Hey, look on the bright side of gentrification, why don’t you? Sure, now it’s a little harder to buy dope on Sandy Boulevard, but I like eating dinner without worrying about food poisoning.”
“True that. Those were some great noodles. And it was good to hang with you before the meeting. It’s been too long. And it’s a good thing you had some dinner before the meeting. Two cigars at lunch and another one at the meeting. You’re turning into a slut for tobacco. Maybe you should be going to a different kind of meeting.” It was Paul’s turn to laugh.
“Yeah, it was a full day of herfing, that’s true.” Quinn’s thoughts drifted back to the events of the afternoon. “That thing with Lewis was unsettling, you know?”
“You’ve known Lewis a long time, right?” Paul eased the car off of I-5 and up the long curving ramp to the I-405 bridge.
“Yeah, more than ten years.”
“And you’ve never seen him react this way?”
“It’s more like I’ve never seen him react, period. I’ve never met anyone that plays it closer to the vest than Lewis. Don’t ever sit down at a poker table with him, that’s for sure. So yeah, to hear him admit that something scared him, that was a shock. It rattled me, for sure.”
“From what you told me, he gave you some solid advice. I would listen to him, you know what I’m saying? Slippery people and slippery places, Quinn. This guy Mo sounds like a shadow from the bad old days, like a bogeyman story. I say let him stay a story and steer clear. Not trying to take your inventory or anything, but you have that writer’s curiosity. We don’t need any dead cats, right?”
“I hear you loud and clear on that one Paul. I don’t need to know anymore than I already do. The whole thing was just a fluke, right? I mean, if Sonya hadn’t mentioned it to me, I would never have mentioned it to Lewis. Still, it is a curiosity.”
“Quinn, are you listening to what I just said, hello? Stop that shit. Seriously. And leave off with the neighbor as well. You’re not some street hood anymore, threatening to call in the bad guys. What were you thinking? What happened to Joe Good-Citizen, the guy you’re always bitching about becoming?”
“No, I get that. I’m heeding the advice on both counts. Steer clear of Mo Evans and play nice with the neighbor. Enough about this stuff, congratulations on acing the examining board. That is so cool. Talk about a good citizen. A full-fledged accountant you are.”
“Thanks Yoda. It has been an interesting journey, that’s for sure. Jenny is thrilled, of course. Things are looking good.” Paul dropped off the 405 onto the surface streets of the northwest.
“Hey, what’s up with that? Jenny is thrilled, great, but how about you? You worked your ass off to make this happen.” Quinn peered across at Paul’s profile.
“I know, I know. It’s just a little of that stinking thinking coming to the surface. I want something, something really important, you know? Then I work for it, work hard like you said. Suddenly, I have the object of my desire and life is good. But that old thinking, it wants to push me for the next best thing, right? Always looking to capture that first taste again.” Paul sighed. “But I recognize it, I do. I’m stoked about the job stuff and the test results. This is going to be a good thing for Jenny and me. Jesus, I have a career. Maybe I should get a new super hero outfit. Something with a cape sporting a big ‘B’ for Boring Man.”
“No capes Brother, no capes!” Both men burst out laughing. “Hey, this isn’t your first career. You were a hell of a pharmacy thief back in the day.”
“Yeah. Somehow I don’t think Jenny would be as pleased with that as she is with the accountant thing.” Paul piloted the vehicle around a tight corner and eased up one of the small streets of the Alphabet District. “Hey, I meant to ask you, are you really worried about this family history thing? I know those are some crazy stories, but that has nothing to do with you, right?”
Quinn looked off into the glow of the streetlights before he answered. “I know what you’re saying is true. But I have to admit that those stories are gnawing at me. I can’t quite explain it, but it’s buzzing around in the background, mixing up with the shit about my old man. It’s like bad Muzak in an elevator. Not worth listening to, but I can’t quite make it go away either. If that makes any sense.” Quinn turned his gaze back to the street in front of them.
“Yeah, the addict background channel. I hear it all the time. As long as you stay aware of it, no big deal right? Hey, what’s going on at your building?”
The blue and red lights of a Portland squad car jangled the darkness in front of Quinn’s building. The police cruiser was taking up the loading zone in front of the door. Paul eased the car to a stop, blocking the street.
Quinn peered through the glare on the windshield. “Huh, don’t know. It’s usually a pretty quiet building. Well, I guess you better drop me off here. Thanks for the ride and for the Bro time. I really needed that. Say Hi to Jenny for me, yeah?”
“Thanks yourself and I will. I’ll see you next Tuesday, right?”
“You know it. Can’t miss the home group. Later Paul.” The two men shook hands in the idling car. Quinn slipped out the door and slid between two of the cars parked in a tight line at the curb. From the sidewalk, he waved as Paul drove off through the flashes of the police cruiser. Quinn watched the car disappear, then headed for the front door of the building.
Despite almost twelve years on the straight and narrow, Quinn did not like cops. Old habits die hard, and some harder than others. He resisted the urge to throw his hoodie up over his head. You’ve got nothing to hide, Bucko. Just march up there like you own the place, which is almost true. Making sure his hands were in plain sight, Quinn walked towards the front door of the building.
The alternating lights dappled across the sidewalk as Quinn headed up the three concrete steps. He heard the door of the squad car open.
“Excuse me Sir, do you live here?” Quinn turned on the landing, key in hand. Next to the white police cruiser stood the biggest cop he had ever seen. The man had to be six foot six. A twinge of anxiety shot across Quinn’s stomach, lodging itself somewhere in his chest.
“Yes Sir, I do. How can I help you Officer?” Neutral voice, good. Calm and slow, helpful citizen. Breathe Man, breathe!
“There seems to have been a vandalism incident this evening. Do you mind telling me what unit you live in?” The cop’s voice was a deep baritone. Quinn recognized that the question was not a request.
“I’m sorry to hear that Officer. I live in number 302.”
“Right, 302. Just a moment Sir.” Quinn watched the huge cop shine a small flashlight onto a clipboard. “Is your name Quinn Boyd?” The cop looked up from the clipboard, turning his full attention to Quinn. The lights of the car caused the cop’s face to alternate, shadow, blue, red, shadow, blue, red. It was disconcerting.
“Yes Sir, I’m Quinn.” He swallowed hard, trying to keep his face neutral.
“Mr. Boyd, do you mind if I ask you a few questions before you head on up?” Quinn noted the tone again. Sure, like he had a choice.
“Sure thing Officer, whatever you need.” Bathed in the glow of the entry lights, Quinn tried to relax. Of course the cops knew his apartment number. They knew everyone’s apartment number. No big deal, relax. He watched the cop lean his head over to say something into the radio mic attached to the shoulder of his uniform. The cop listened to the mic and then straightened back to his towering height. This guy had to be the biggest black man on the entire Portland police force, thought Quinn. At least I haven’t run into him before. I’d remember this giant.
“Mr. Boyd, my partner will be down in just a second. He’s finishing up with one of your neighbors. We just want to ask a few questions if that’s alright with you.”
“No problem Officer. Would you like to talk here or upstairs?” Sure, invite them into the apartment. That seems honest and open. He thought he saw the cop smile, but he couldn’t be sure, just a quick flash in the glare of the lights.
Sure, maybe for you Goliath, but I’m not really digging it. “Yes Sir, not bad for middle of October.”
Before they could descend into small talk about the weather, the door behind Quinn opened. A second cop walked out onto the landing, half a head shorter than Quinn.
“Mr. Boyd? I’m Officer Drake and this is Officer Perkins. How are you doing this evening? Perhaps we can step down onto the sidewalk.” Drake turned to the street and called over to Perkins. “How about killing those lights Partner, they’re giving me a headache.” The tall man reached into the cruiser and flipped a switch. The horrible rotating flashes dropped to an alternating blue-red on the rear of the light bar. “After you Mr. Boyd,” said Drake. He motioned with a hand that also held a clipboard. Quinn descended the stairs as the tall cop walked away from the car. The three men stood on the sidewalk.
“So, Mr. Boyd, sorry to hold you up this evening. We had a little incident here at your building and we’re trying to get to the bottom of it.” Quinn looked at the two cops. Perkins was enormous, a towering black shadow of a man. This is no one to fool with Bucko. Drake’s head barely reached the height of his partner’s shoulder. He was older than his partner and looked as if he was chiseled out of stone, all angles and sharp edges. He had the air of a terrier, quick and attentive.
“Sure, Officer Drake, no trouble. Officer Perkins said something about vandalism in the building?”
“Not in the building, Mr. Boyd. One of your neighbors had his car vandalized. Back in the parking lot.” Drake’s speech was short and clipped. “A Mr. Watson. Do you know him?”
There was that twinge again. Quinn fought it down. “Yes, I know Mr. Watson. So what happened? Car prowls are a pretty common thing in this neighborhood, right?”
Drake gave Quinn a look. “They are Mr. Boyd, but this wasn’t a car prowl incident. This was something more along the lines of a personal attack. I just had a talk with your neighbor. He is very upset about this, very upset indeed. I believe he phoned this in, what, three times before we got over here?” Drake looked to Perkins, who checked his clipboard, nodding his head. “Yeah, three calls to 911. Used up a lot of emergency operator time.”
“Okay, here’s the deal Mr. Boyd. Are you and Mr. Watson on what you would call good terms? Neighborly and all of that?” Drake gave Quinn an expectant look. He’s waiting for the lie, Bucko. This is where Joe Good-Citizen comes in.
“No Officer Blake. I’m sorry to say that Mr. Watson and I are not what you would call neighborly. The truth is that he has voiced several complaints about me in the past.”
“Okay, Mr. Boyd. Thank you for being direct about this. Before we go any further, I need to say that this is just an informal talk, nothing more. My partner and I are just asking questions which you are free to answer or not. Are we clear?”
“Yes Sir, clear. I’ll help in whatever way I can.” Good answer, Quinn.
“Thank you, that would be appreciated. Okay, how did Mr. Watson put it?” Drake consulted his clipboard. “Right. Mr. Watson claims that you and he had an argument regarding his automobile and parking. Do you recall that conversation?”
“Yes Sir. James, uh, Mr. Watson is very protective of his Saab. Sort of his baby, you know? Our assigned parking places are adjoining. Mr. Watson complained that I was parking too close to his car.”
“And this argument about parking, it escalated I gather?”
“Yes, I’m afraid it did. I pointed out to Mr. Watson that the parking places are small and that my car was centered between the parking lines.”
“Okay Mr. Boyd, I’m going to go out on a limb here and suggest that maybe Mr. Watson got a bit vocal with you and you did not take too kindly to that. Would that be a reasonable guess on my part?”
“Look Officers, I don’t want to say negative stuff about my neighbor, okay? I’ve been really careful about parking my crappy old Honda near his vintage car. There is only so much space.” Great, be defensive, that will help. Good going Bucko.
Drake actually smiled, a small smile, true, but there it was. “Easy Mr. Boyd. I’ve just spent fifteen minutes with your neighbor. I take it that he can be a bit, what’s the word, overbearing. Like I said, this is an informal conversation, okay.” Quinn nodded, keeping his mouth shut.
“Mr. Watson had some less than flattering things to say about you, just to be clear. He said that you threatened him with something he called Med-Heads.” Perkins let out a snort of laughter. “Yeah, I know” said Drake to Perkins. “It’s your turn next time, Partner.” Drake turned his attention back to Quinn.
“Next assumption on my part, I’m guessing that your neighbor meant Meth-heads.” Another short snort from Perkins. “Mr. Boyd, did you threaten your neighbor with Meth-heads?”
Quinn looked down at this shoes, then up at the lights. “I’m ashamed to say that I presented James with a hypothetical situation which could have been implied as a threat. I got more than a little angry with him after he insulted my work.”
“And what do you do for a living Mr. Boyd?” The deep baritone resounded over the sidewalk. Perkins had joined the conversation.
“I’m a writer. Mostly for magazines and journals. Mr. Watson said he had read my stuff and that it was shit.”
Perkins let out a low whistle. “Well, I can see how that would piss a man off. So your reaction was, how did you put it, proposing a hypothetical situation that included Meth-heads? Did this have anything to do with your neighbor’s car?”
“I’m sorry to say that it did. Look, I was pretty angry and I said some things I shouldn’t have, I admit it.”
“Maybe not the best choice of words at that particular moment?” Perkins’ voice was soothing and smooth. I’m guessing the good cop, even though he’s as big as a mountain.
“Very much not, Officer Perkins, certainly not given the situation here.”
“Okay, we appreciate your honesty Mr. Boyd,” said Drake. “To be up front with you, I need to tell you two things. The first is that Mr. Watson is adamant that you vandalized his car. The second is that he is sure that the incident took place sometime between,” he looked down at his clipboard, “seven PM and nine PM this evening.” Drake looked at his partner. An obvious thought passed between them.
“Mr. Boyd, I saw you getting out of a car before you walked up to your building. As my partner said, this is an informal discussion, okay? You haven’t been charged with anything and we don’t have any plans on charging you with anything, right Partner?”
“That would be correct,” said Drake.
Quinn felt the tightness in his chest ease a bit.
“In the interest of clearing this up, would you mind telling us where you were this evening, and at what times? Again, you are not required to answer these questions.” Perkins’ smooth voice drained off into the night.
“No, no problem. A friend picked me up around six and we drove over to the Hollywood district. We had dinner together and then we went to a meeting. We hung out a bit after the meeting, the usual sort of thing, then we drove back here and he dropped me off.”
“Which put you here about,” looking down “nine fifty-two in the PM.” Perkins looked at his partner.
“Can you tell us what sort of meeting you were attending Mr. Boyd?” asked Officer Drake.
“Um, sure. It was an AA meeting. My regular home group. Every Tuesday.”
Quinn noted the look that passed between the two cops. The tension in the air seemed to dissipate. Drake folded his clipboard under his arm and motioned to the squad car. “I’m going to write this up, Partner. How about escorting Mr. Boyd around back. Maybe he can spot something we missed, since it’s his building and all. Thanks for your cooperation Mr. Boyd. You have a good rest of the evening, okay?” And with that the smaller man walked away. Quinn watched him climb into the squad car and then turned to look up at Perkins.
“Escort me around back?”
&
nbsp; The big man’s laugh bounced off the building, deep and full. “Relax Mr. Boyd, any rough stuff that happens, Drake handles that. I don’t usually have to bother, if you catch my drift.” Still chuckling to himself, he motioned towards the shadows of the narrow walkway along the side of the building. “After you.” Quinn shrugged and led the way. As he entered the shadows, light pooled around his feet, cast from Perkins’ flashlight.
The walkway led along the east side of the building, under the small balconies that jutted from the upper units. Where the walkway joined the parking lot, the two men had to squeeze past the dumpster and the recycling bins. An arc light over the alley illuminated the cars parked in the small lot. The two men walked to the alley side, away from the covered parking attached to the building. Perkins trained his flashlight onto the rear of Quinn’s dented Honda.
“That would be your car then?”
“Yes, that’s it. Still running believe it or not.”
“Old but paid for. That’s not the worst thing in the world, Mr. Boyd. And this, of course, is Mr. Watson’s Saab.” The black car was backed into the narrow space. The polished hood gleamed under the alley lights, but something wasn’t right. “And here is our problem.” Perkins aimed the flashlight directly onto the hood of James’ car.
Something was written across the expanse of the car hood, something that stood out dull and white-grey against the shining black. In bold block letters, inscribed across the hood of the Saab, were the words:
Not Polite
“What the hell?” Quinn was at a loss. Broken windows, keyed paint, that was what he expected, not etched block letters as tidy as a sign painter’s work. He looked at Perkins and then back at the Saab. “What the hell?”
“Yes, it’s a bit out of the ordinary. And from what I can gather, not exactly inaccurate either.” Again the deep chuckle. “And it’s a neat bit of work at that. Someone took their time doing this, and that someone knew exactly what they were doing.”