“Where’d you grow up?” Slade cleared his throat. “Around here somewhere?”
“I was born in Los Angeles.”
“We hear you,” I said, “but where’d you grow up—where’d you pop your cherry?”
“What does that have to do with—”
“Please, Mr. Applewhite. Indulge us.”
Applewhite uncrossed his legs, rolled his chair closer to the desk. “I spent most of my childhood in Mexico. In Juarez. My father worked in El Paso. It was cheaper living across the border.”
We both nodded.
Slade said, “No need for a man to apologize about where he comes from.”
Applewhite scowled. “I wasn’t apologizing for it.”
“Of course not,” I said. “Why would you?”
“Do you two jerks have something you want to discuss aside from half-formed ideas about political corruption?”
Slade acted surprised. “Oh, wow. Who the hell ever said anything about political corruption?”
“Not me,” I said.
“Me neither,” Slade said.
Applewhite pointed a gaze at each of us and shook his head. He sighed and said, “You two get the fuck out of here—I don’t want to hear about this again. And I’ll be giving captain…”
“Jackson,” I supplied, “Captain Jackson.”
“I’ll be giving Captain Jackson a call about this.”
Me and Slade stood. Applewhite didn’t move. I bowed like a karate fighter. “It’s been a pleasure, Mr. Applewhite. Thanks for your time.”
Applewhite said, “The pleasure has been all yours.”
About that, he was right.
Chapter 29
Back outside, with the receptionist watching us through the glass doors, Slade sniffed hard and said, “The man’s from Juarez. You believe that?”
“We are a nation of immigrants.”
“What I’m thinking about is the witness from Chato’s murder.”
“The gangbanger?” I coughed and taco meat bounced in my stomach.
“Didn’t he say something about the vehicle, the sticker on the back window was—”
“That’s right,” I said. “Fucking Juarez.”
We followed the sidewalk around the building, found a covered parking lot accessed via ramp from the street. There was no gate. Me and Slade strolled right in and started to look for a silver Mercedes. It didn’t take long. In the back row of spots, all reserved for lawyers according to the placards, was a dusty silver Mercedes with a large sticker on the back window. The sticker spelled Juarez in a lightning bolt font.
Slade stood with his hands on his hips and shook his head.
I wandered over to the car and squinted to see through the tinted windows.
“We need to get us a warrant, Frank.” Slade peered into the windows on the passenger side. I couldn’t see much inside but the shape of the front seat and a center console. I tried the front door, jostled the handle.
“Frank, dammit. Don’t touch it.”
“Just want a quick look,” I said.
And then Applewhite’s voice echoed across the parking garage. “Look with your eyes and not your hands, Detective.”
Slade said, “Fuck me, man.”
Applewhite walked up on us and laughed. “If I fuck you, Detective…it’ll be in a courtroom. Now you two get the fuck out of here. I just had a civil chat with Captain Jackson—he thinks you might want to reimagine your puny theory about these murders.”
“Is that right?” I stomped over to Applewhite and put my face next to his. “You think some wannabe DA has sway over a hard-nosed cop?”
“Could be,” Applewhite shrugged. “If not, there are lots of ways to persuade him.”
“Oh, really?”
“Really, Detective Pinson. Now, please…” Applewhite pivoted and lifted his hand at the exit. As we walked out onto the sun-bleached street, Slade had his cell to his ear.
We needed to call Jackson.
We’d been summoned.
Jackson pinched the bridge of his nose, like he did the day before when he showed me the video. His desk was covered with the day’s newspaper edition and a stack of manila folders. The desk looked like Jackson had dumped everything on its surface at once. Mixed in were random notes on lined paper and two paper coffee cups. He planted his elbows in the mess and said, “You two numbskulls are going to fuck me. If it’s the last thing you do, you’re going to fuck me.”
“Captain,” Slade said, “we need a warrant on the Benz. That’s all.”
“That’s all? Fuck you, Ryerson. I need a warrant for your ass.”
“That’s odd, Captain.” I smiled as I said it.
Jackson stood and swept his arms across the desk. The papers and coffee cups fell to the floor in a rustling wave. He slammed his palms down on the desk. “You assholes are fucking with my life, goddammit!”
“How the fuck is that?” I didn’t mark Jackson for crooked, but now I wondered.
“Applewhite’s gonna be the new DA, assholes.”
Slade said, “On some corrupt campaign donations.”
Jackson’s face reddened and shimmered with sweat. “And it’s all legal, fuckwad. You fuckers realize Applewhite didn’t squeeze a fucking trigger in these murders. He didn’t cut off our dead man’s junk. He didn’t chop off the man’s fingers—he didn’t do a fucking thing.”
I stood and smoothed down my shirt. “Maybe not, but he knows who the fuck did. And why.”
Jackson pointed a fat index finger at me. “You, Frank, are done here. You’re fucking—”
“I’m done? How’s that?”
“You’re fucking suspended, Pinson.”
“Captain, what the—”
“Go to hell, Ryerson,” Jackson said.
My own face got red. I felt the heat burn up to my eyes. “You wouldn’t dare.”
“I got two minutes of police brutality that says I will.”
“You know that video’s a personal fucking thing.”
Jackson shrugged. “What do we call it…Conduct unbecoming? Is that how you want me to write it out in the report? I’m open to your interpretation, Pinson.”
My stomach swirled against itself. I thought I might vomit.
“You’re a drunk, Pinson. You couldn’t solve a ten-piece jigsaw puzzle.”
“Twenty-four fucking years,” I said.
“Me too, Frank. And you’re trying to fuck me.”
Slade stood and moved to the door, rested his hand on the latch. He looked back at Jackson and said, “How much?”
“How much what?” Jackson kept his fat eyes on mine while he spoke.
“How much are they paying you to keep Applewhite out of it?”
“Good luck trying to prove that.”
“Fuck proof,” I said. “There’s truth and lies—they’re all that matter.”
Jackson sank into his chair. He laced his hands behind his head and sighed. He licked his plump lips and kept staring at me. “It’s you or me, Frank. That’s all I got to say.”
I nodded.
Slade opened the door and walked out cursing.
Jackson said, “I got kids, man. A wife. I got shit I want to do and it’s only a few more months until I get out of this. It’s not personal, Frank. I swear it’s not—”
“You’ll die a sad death,” I said. “I can see it for you. Sad and lonely.”
Jackson unlaced his hands and placed one on his service weapon. “Is that a threat?”
“No. It’s just a little bit of truth for you. Consider it a gift.” I left my badge on his desk.
Chapter 30
Slade stood in the bathroom doorway and stared at my home improvement wreckage. “You still haven’t installed this damn toilet? What the hell, Frank? Where you do you take a shit, partner?”
“Used to be the station,” I said from the kitchen where I poured us both some bourbon. I walked into the living ro
om and handed Slade a glass. He followed me and we sat. I took the couch and Slade took the easy chair in the corner. “Now I’m going to have to try the public library.”
“Or you can install the toilet.”
“You know what brand that is? American Standard. Think about that, Slade. What the fuck is an American Standard?” I sipped bourbon and tried to suppress the anger boiling up through my belly. I wanted to kill Jackson. And not for the suspension, but because he was so clearly corrupt. I couldn’t believe it—the surprise was the closest I’d felt to when I got the news about Miranda.
Vague numbness followed by incredible nausea.
And anger.
“Depends what American you’re talking about. And what standards. You know?”
“So, what now?” I finished my glass, got up for more.
Slade lifted his hand to stop me. “We have work to do, Frank.”
“You have work to do.”
“The fuck I do. This isn’t over. And now it’s about this.” Slade tapped the badge dangling from his neck. “It’s about right and wrong, all the shit in between too.”
I sat back down, clanged my glass on the coffee table. “If Jackson killed it…Shit. We got shit.”
“We tried Applewhite, Decassin. I say we take it back to the streets. Where everybody knows everything, but nobody says anything. We need to find that Rambo kid again. He can get us somewhere. I know he can.”
“We already tried to—”
“The legal fucking way,” Slade said. “But you, Frank…You’re off that motherfucking clock.”
I sat there and stared at the open bathroom door, the new toilet gleaming white and porcelain beside it. I’ve been pissing down a hole, I thought. Like a monkey in the fucking jungle. I shook my head, leaned back into the couch. I took a long breath and closed my eyes. “You saying we do what we need to do, however it needs to get done?”
Slade’s voice sounded hollow across the room. “I’m saying you’re independent and I’m a trusted advisor. If, of course, that’s how we need to do it.”
Yeah, right. I opened my eyes and leaned forward, stared daggers at my former partner. His badge shined in the late afternoon sun. “Back to the street. Rambo, then,” I said. “Let’s go and find his ass.”
Back on the streets of the downtrodden. Slade slid alongside a place called Reggie’s Strip Palace. I’d never been, but Slade had a CI who ran numbers in the back, a guy named Cid. According to Slade, Cid had his fingers on all the low-level action in the city. If anybody knew where Rambo was hiding, or whether he was still alive to be found, it was Cid. Or Cid knew who the fuck would know. Me and Slade both checked our weapons and holstered up. I was curious about where all this was going to take us, but I wasn’t nervous.
I said, “You think Cid’s going to try and do us wrong?”
“I been knowing Cid for a long time. The man works for money.”
“But we don’t have any to give him.”
“Not like he has to know that.”
“Right,” I said. “A little white lie.”
“Or two,” Slade said as he exited the car.
We nodded at the bouncer as we walked into the place. I knew he radioed our presence right away. It was easy to see we were cops. Not easy to see? That one of us was no longer acting as a cop. You know, suspension and all. We walked down a dark hallway scented with vomit and pre-ejaculation. I tasted bile on my tongue and Slade coughed until we entered the strip club’s interior. There was a large stage with two stripper poles in the center. A low bar with cracked leather seats surrounded the stage. There were two smaller stages—platforms, really—off to each side, both with single gold poles. The bar ran along back, next to a wall of purple curtains that I knew must lead to private rooms. Sparse lighting from a strobe and loud hair rock through the speakers. No girls on the side stages. But there was one girl on the center stage. She had her ass in the air and it jiggled until she stood, arched her back, and swirled like a vixen. Her tits were tan with dark nipples. Her G-string might as well have been dental floss. When I finished memorizing her body, I squinted through the darkness and tried to see the girl’s face. “Wait a minute, Slade.”
“What’s up, Frank?”
I moved forward through the empty cocktail tables and grimy booths. There was a step down toward the stage and I nearly stumbled over it. I caught myself and cleared my throat. Ten or so creepy losers surrounded the stage, almost all wearing bent trucker hats or flat-brimmed baseball caps pulled low over prying eyes.
“What the fuck, Frank? You falling in love?”
I could feel Slade close behind me and I shook my head. “You’ve got to be shitting me.”
“What, man?”
“It’s her,” I said. I knew the pink hair. And that pouty teenage girl look. Our conversation about her lawyer daddy echoed somewhere in my head.
“Who?”
“Celeste fucking Richards. Turner’s girlfriend. That’s who.”
“You gentlemen need some assistance?”
I turned around to face another bouncer, this one made of hard muscle and prison terms. He had a buzzcut, but I saw his prison facial expression even in the dark.
Slade crossed his arms and said, “We’re here to have a chat with Cid. He around?”
“Who the fuck are you?”
My mind raced and my blood thickened. I stepped in front of Slade and looked the bouncer up and down, clenched my fists. “The guys who are going to do your dental work.”
Slade placed a hand on my chest, stepped in front of me. “Hey, look, I’m an old pal of Cid’s. Just tell him Skinny came in for a chat. It’s nothing serious. I promise, he knows me. Forget about my buddy here…He’s having a bad day.”
The bouncer glared at me over Slade’s head. “Threaten me again, and you’ll have yourself a bad life, asshole.” He looked down at Slade and said, “Give me a minute.”
I watched him walk past the bar and vanish behind one of the purple curtains. Slade turned and nodded at the stage. “You’re sure that’s her?”
I turned around, sank into a booth. I watched Celeste as she shook her ass some more, did a naked pirouette—hair waving all around her face—and dry-humped the stripper pole. “Jesus H fucking Christ, Slade. It’s her…yeah, it’s her.”
Slade took in the girl’s body and shrugged. “Sometimes you got to shake your moneymaker.”
I watched Celeste and swore she put her eyes on mine. She rubbed her midsection up and down the pole, slow-pranced across the stage, and disappeared as the song ended. A bunch of guys threw dollar bills onto the stage and another girl in tight jeans and a halter top appeared on stage and scooped the bills into a bucket. I closed my eyes and breathed as deep as my lungs allowed.
The bouncer reappeared from behind the purple curtain and waved to us.
Slade said, “Let’s go, Frank. Try to forget about the girl.”
Cid Miser wore a silver grill in his teeth, talked like he knew one too many rappers, and didn’t take his eyes off the calculator in front of him. One of those calculators accountants use—it had a roll of white paper on the top and kept churning out numbers and equations. He didn’t look up at us as he greeted Slade. “What up, Skinny? My boy said you want to chat.” He kept punching numbers. His bouncer leaned against the wall to my left, beside a large flatscreen television tuned to ESPN. “Busy with business,” Cid said, “get to it.”
“Looking for somebody,” Slade said. “It’s important.”
“How important?”
“Five bills important.”
The number punching stalled for a second, started back up as Cid said, “If it’s worth five bills to you, it’s worth a G to me.”
“Consider it done. If you put us on the right trail.”
“This someone got a name? Or a street handle?”
“Goes by Rambo,” I said. “Like the movie.”
“Who the fuck’s your friend here, Sk
inny?” Cid wagged a finger at me.
Slade said, “This is my partner, Frank.”
“That right? I hear he got an attitude.”
“That’s fair.” I moved closer to Cid’s desk, sensed the bouncer close beside me. “And I hear you got an underage girl working the stage.”
“Hey, Reg,” Cid said, “what’s goofy dude’s name plays basketball down at the Y?”
“Sunday, open gym?”
“Yeah, man.”
The bouncer said, “Call him Rambo, on the streets.”
“That right?” Cid stopped punching the calculator and his eyes looked like obsidian in the dark office. “Funny, what’s today?”
“Sunday,” I said.
“The goddamn sabbath.” Cid smiled at me and the silver grill flashed. “Day of rest, man.”
Skinny’s hand dug into my shoulder.
I straightened. “What about the girl?”
“You want to save her ass, go on and be my guest, five-oh.” He went back to punching numbers on the calculator.
I swiveled and threw my right fist into the bouncer’s stomach. He doubled-over with a grunt and I brought my knee to his forehead. I swung my left elbow like a sledgehammer and it connected with the back of the bouncer’s neck. He crumpled up like tissue, lay gasping on the floor.
Slade said, “Fuck, Frank.”
Cid finished whatever numbers he was punching and leaned back in his chair. There was a long silence as the bouncer gasped for air and Cid stared at me. He looked at Skinny, raised his eyebrows, and looked back to me. “You a big boy, huh? You looking for a part-time job? I got a lot of tough motherfuckers come in here and try to grab the girls. I pay—”
“Go fuck yourself.”
“Hey, whatever, man. Don’t come crawling back to me when that fucking pension ain’t enough.”
Slade grabbed at me again and said, “Thanks for the lead, Cid.”
Cid went back to punching numbers. “I’ll take that G by the end of the week.”
To Bring My Shadow Page 16
