Superbia (Book 3)

by Bernard Schaffer

  "I know," Ophelia said. She reached between his legs and cupped his groin, squeezing it through his pants as Sapphire turned around and began to slide her g-string down over her round buttocks.

  The undergarment hit the floor and Sapphire stepped out of it, just as Ophelia reached down and began to fumble with Frank's zipper. The two of them leaned forward and pressed their lips together, opening their mouths and intertwining their tongues. When they stopped, they looked back at him with feral, hungry stares. "Oh shit," Frank whispered.

  A half hour later Frank emerged from the private room staggering and trying to adjust his pants. His shirt was on crooked and his legs as weak as if he'd run ten miles. He slumped into the bar stool and said, "I need a drink."

  One of the old salts sitting nearby laughed at Frank with an open, toothless mouth and said, "I'm buying that guy a beer. Good for you!"

  "Thanks," Frank mumbled.

  The music started up again and he saw Ophelia march across the floor to get up on the stage. She wiped the pole down with a damp cloth, then slithered around it and stuck her leg in the air to give the audience a wide view of her crotch. Frank ignored the way the crowd talked about her. He was trying to get used to it.

  "So, you aren't married?" a woman said, jumping into the seat beside him.

  He turned to see Sapphire drop her blue Crown Royale bag on the bar and drag an ashtray in front of her. She didn't ask if he minded if she smoked. Considering what had just happened between the three of them behind the curtain, he figured she had the right to give him a little cancer.

  "No," he said.

  "Any kids?"

  He smiled, knowing this was a trick question. A guy his age, with a job and a car and all the things that went with a respectable lifestyle should have some sort of an established family life. Otherwise, he was gay, or had been in prison, or was simply too much of an unrepentant asshole for any woman to put up with. "I've got two," he said. "Their mother and I are divorced."

  "I hear you," Sapphire said. She raised her hand to light another cigarette and Frank saw the tattoo scrawled on the inside of her wrist that read, Ralphie P. Forever loved, forever missed. There was a date inked at the bottom of the memorial that stuck in Frank's mind like a sliver of a popcorn kernel stuck between his molars. That date, he thought. Ralphie P.

  He turned to look at Sapphire again, this time trying to place her among the thousands of contacts he'd had with strippers, junkies, losers and all manner of assorted scum. It didn't work. He sipped his drink and played it cool. "Who died?"

  "Huh?"

  "That tattoo on your wrist?"

  "Oh," she said, shaking her head sadly. "My boyfriend. He was killed last year by these bumblefuck cops up in Potter County."

  Frank saw the small, fragile figure with twisted arms curled up in her wheelchair. Her legs were strapped down to the kickplates. There was blood spattered on the far wall of her room, under the framed pictures of horses and puppies and cartoon characters. He could still see the Disney pillowcase pulled over her head, covering the misshapen lump Ralph Polonius had turned it into. Blood seeped through the fabric and dripped down her arms, leaking onto the floor.

  Frank drank again. "No kidding?" he said, stiffly.

  "It was a tragedy. His ex-wife murdered their disabled daughter while he was up at his mountain house. They thought he did it and killed him."

  Frank drained his beer and stared down at the empty bottle, "I think I read about that. Didn't the ex-wife die too?"

  "Yeah. She must have fell down the steps or something, or threw herself down out of guilt. The cops tried to say he did all that, but that's bullshit. I mean, he was up in the cabin when they found him! How the hell could he be in two places at once?"

  "It's a mystery," Frank said softly. He raised his hand for another beer, hoping it would quell the flood of bile pouring into his gut.

  Sapphire leaned close to his ear and said, "I hope you don’t get the wrong idea about Ophelia from what happened back there. She's a good girl, and deserves a good man in her life. She just wanted to do something special for you because I think she really likes you."

  Frank looked up and saw Ophelia dance, saw her long, dark hair sweep the floor. She caught him looking and her large, almond-shaped eyes widened as she smiled. "Good," Frank said. "I really like her too."

  Sapphire spun in her stool and got up, reaching down to squeeze the inside of his thigh, "But if things don't work out between the two of you, you better give me a call. Shit, I need a good man."

  Alone at the bar, he tried to calculate when the last nightmare he'd had about the Polonius job had been. A month? Two months?

  You know exactly when it was, he thought. It was right around the same time you asked Ophelia to meet you, except that time it wasn't to talk about a job, it was to talk about the two of you. He watched Sapphire stop at the bottom of the stage and toss a handful of singles at Ophelia's feet, then press herself against the stage to ask for a kiss. Her tattooed wrist bearing a memorial for the man Frank had hated so much he'd wanted to kill him. It was like Ralph Polonius was laughing at him from the depths of hell, telling him they were expecting him.

  The crowd went nuts as the two strippers kissed.

  Frank turned around and headed for the rear exit, keeping his face down as he went through the door.

  Chapter Five

  Frank tapped the steering wheel impatiently, waiting in the station's parking lot. He looked at the clock on his dashboard. 8:15 AM. Finally, he saw Reynaldo's car turn down the long driveway and rolled down his window. He stared at the younger officer through his dark sunglasses and said, "You're late."

  "I'm sorry, boss," Reynaldo said as he jumped out of his car and threw the door shut to hustle toward Frank. He waved a blue binder in the air and said, "I had to finish this before I came."

  Frank watched him get in and said, "What were you doing, your homework?"

  "Exactly. I was up all night creating my undercover identity."

  Frank tried keep a straight face, "You're not serious."

  "I decided that I would be Guatemalan. We had plenty of them in my neighborhood and I know all the little details. I picked out what town I'm from, what my parents do for a living, everything. I'm ready, Frank. That son of a bitch can ask me anything."

  Frank held out his hand and said, "Can I see that?"

  "Of course. You want to quiz me?"

  Frank took the binder from him and tossed it over his shoulder into the back seat, sending a flurry of pages scattered across the seats. "Forget all that. Your name is Reynaldo, you live in the area and are looking for a job."

  "But what about the identity?"

  "What identity?" Frank said. "Listen to me, this isn't some goddamn movie. You start spouting off all sorts of details about shit that's made up, you're going to forget them."

  "No I won't."

  "You say that now, but just wait until your mind is spinning a thousand miles an hour. Listen to me, criminals are not dumb. They are like creatures in the jungle. They prey on people, and their instincts at reading them are just as good as yours and mine. When you are on their home turf, they're reading you. You can't afford to give them any advantage."

  Reynaldo sulked in his seat and said, "Fine."

  Frank took a deep breath as he shifted into drive. "So what city did you pick? The one you wanted to be from?"

  "Villa Nueva," Reynaldo said.

  "Sounds nice. You ever been there?"

  "No."

  "Is that the place they have sex with donkeys?"

  "What?"

  "I watched a news report about some towns in South America where the locals have sex with donkeys. Some kind of belief that it makes their penises big enough to have sex with women. It was pretty disturbing."

  Reynaldo turned to look at him, "That's disgusting. No, they do not have sex with donkeys in South America. That's bullshit."

  Frank turned the steering wheel, "I'm not saying all of South America.
I'm just saying that in the countryside, in this particular town, it's a local tradition to fuck donkeys."

  "Typical American. You think that just because people don't have as much money as you or live more simply or traditionally, they are dirt."

  "I never said that," Frank said. He squinted to see the sign for Burgorff's on the building at the end of the block. "I said it was something I saw on the news."

  "What about this country, huh? Every day some little child is raped or stolen or murdered. Just like those pendejos in Florida who shot that baby. Sometimes I think this entire country is in the grip of Satanas."

  Frank pulled the car up to the curb a block away from the store and said, "Do you watch Fox News?"

  "What about it?"

  Frank lowered his seat back, "They must do some kind of subliminal messaging to make all you people into lunatics."

  "Hey, at least they are fair and balanced."

  "If you say so. Anyway, listen up. Do you understand what your goal is today?"

  "Yes. To make contact with the manager, Fred Phelps, and to see if they have cameras in the kid's changing room as described by the CI."

  "No," Frank said. "Your goal is to determine whether or not he still works there. Contact is not necessary. After that, you can worry about the cameras."

  Reynaldo nodded, starting to get nervous again. He touched his chest and felt the badge dangling from a chain tucked beneath his baggy sweatshirt and then the gun on his hip and took a deep breath, "I'm ready."

  Frank pointed at Reynaldo's chest, "You always wear that stuff?"

  "Sure," Reynaldo said. "Just in case."

  "Let me guess, that's what they told you in the academy?"

  "It's better to have it and not need it than need it and not have it."

  Frank nodded, "That's good. Perfect for a streetcop. My dad was a streetcop his entire career. Every report he ever wrote probably said, 'Saw bad guy, arrested same.' Streetcops go out every night and bust heads, collar drunks, all that. A streetcop would walk into that store, see somebody doing something wrong, and arrest them right there. Boom."

  "Is there something wrong with that?" Reynaldo said.

  "Nothing," Frank said, "if all you want is the satisfaction of putting handcuffs on someone and watching them get sent to jail for a month. Detective work is slower. More methodical. But if you do it right, and really build a case against someone who deserves it, you can put them in jail for twenty years." He watched the young man squint at the front of the store and take a long, hesitant breath. "Undercover work isn't for everybody, Rey-Rey. It's about blending in. Hiding that police part of yourself that makes people pick you out of a crowd and say, 'That guys a cop.' A lot of guys can't do it. Being the cop in the crowd is too much of their identity."

  Reynaldo reached into his shirt and tugged the chain up until he was able to slide it off his head. He unsnapped his gun and holster from his side and handed them over to Frank without a word before he popped the car door open and was headed down the street.

  Reynaldo dabbed his forehead with his shirt cuff as he entered the store and saw moisture on the sleeve. He forced himself to steady as he walked through the front doors and looked around at the dozens of clothing racks and bargain bins of shoes and assorted sale items. Dark-skinned women wearing full Muslim coverings moved through the aisles, their brightly colored Nike sneakers swishing under their long, dark robes. Reynaldo headed for the customer service counter.

  A bored twenty-year-old girl looked up from her US Magazine and popped her gum at him. "Welcome to Burgorff's. Can I help you?"

  "Is Mister Phelps working?"

  "What can I help you with, sir?"

  Reynaldo paused, "I was told to speak with him about a job."

  She reached under the counter and came up with a clipboard and a pen, "Fill this application out. Make sure you put your address and three references."

  Reynaldo took the clipboard as the girl went back to her magazine, studying the glossy two-page layout of the Kardashian sisters. "Excuse me, is Mr. Phelps here, though?"

  She huffed and looked back up at him, voice thick with impatience, "No. He isn't here."

  He picked up the pen and was about to write something, stalling to gather his resolve. "Do you know when he will be back?"

  "He's off today. He'll be back tomorrow. Okay?"

  "Okay," he said. "I'm going to take this application with me and fill it out at home. I'll bring it back in if that's okay with you."

  She was already back into her magazine, looking down as she said, "Whatever you want."

  He folded up the application and slid it into his jeans pocket, stepping back from the counter as he congratulated himself on his first successful completion of an undercover assignment. He turned around to look for where the dressing rooms and suddenly froze in place at the sight of Marissa from the ambulance crew, staring directly at him. She threw her hand in the air and called out, "Officer Rey!"

  Reynaldo glanced back at the Customer Service counter and saw the girl look up at him curiously. He turned back to Marissa and hurried forward, reaching out to catch her by the elbow as he hissed at her to "Be quiet."

  She pulled her arm away in surprise, "What's the matter with you?"

  "I'm working," he mumbled.

  She looked at his sweatshirt and jeans and said, "You quit being a police officer?"

  "No," he said. "I am working. Doing something. Keep your voice down."

  She instantly looked at the people around them and lowered her voice, "You mean you're undercover?"

  Her eyes lit up like dark galaxies of glittering stars as she looked at him and Reynaldo smiled slightly, "Yeah."

  "In here?"

  He nodded. "You want to help me?"

  She grinned at him, "Hell yeah. What do I have to do?"

  He took her by the hand and said, "Come in the dressing room with me."

  Marissa yanked her hand back, "You ass. Goodbye."

  "I was being serious," he called out to her.

  "I know you were, but I'm not that kind of girl, jugador."

  Reynaldo waved his hand at her as she walked away but stopped to scope out the way her round backside looked in the tight, low slung jeans she was wearing. He caught the briefest glimpse of her purple thong peeking just above the waistline. "Madre de dios," he muttered to himself as he headed for the sign marked: Dressing rooms, three clothing items at a time.

  He snatched a few shirts off the nearest rack without looking at the sizes and turned into the hallways, seeing a series of dressing rooms lining the walls. Beige paint peeled off their metal surfaces and on the one closest to him, Reynaldo could see the shredded white backing paper where a dozen stickers once covered the door. He opened it and walked in, throwing the shirts down on the bare bench. There was a mirror and a few hooks but nothing else in the room, save for a tall string of thumbtack holes that lined the corners of the walls from the floor to the ceiling. Reynaldo ran his thumb over the holes, imagining where they'd once fastened the stuffed animals Paul Moses had described.

  He looked up at the ceiling, searching the tiles for missing pieces where a camera could peek down, but there was nothing. He stepped back to inspect the mirror, wondering if Phelps' camera was recording him from the opposite side of it at that very moment. Reynaldo quickly pulled off his sweatshirt and picked up one of the shirts from the bench and went through the motions of trying it on. He was glad he'd ditched the gun and badge after all.

  "Well?"

  Reynaldo slid into the passenger seat and shut the door as Frank shifted gears and pulled out into traffic. "He still works there. The girl at customer service was a bitch, but she said he'd be in tomorrow. I grabbed an application. I figure I can drop it off to him tomorrow and talk to him if you want."

  "Smart," Frank said approvingly. "How about the dressing room?"

  "It wasn't set up anymore, but it definitely used to be. Maybe Phelps got spooked after the incident Moses was talking about. I looked
around for other cameras, but I didn't see anything."

  "That doesn't mean much," Frank said. "God knows what kind of surveillance shit you can get on the internet nowadays."

  "Well, I tried."

  Frank nodded. "Anything else happen in there?"

  Reynaldo instantly thought of Marissa and decided it was better left unsaid. "Nope. Everything else went fine."

  "All right, good. Congratulations, Rey-Rey. You successfully pulled off your first undercover operation. It was glamorous wasn't it? Just like in the movies, right?"

  Reynaldo laughed, "Yeah, the really, really boring ones."

  "Listen, one more thing about this kind of work. It's important, so pay attention. You cannot tell anybody, and I mean anybody, about your operations. Not your girlfriend, not your mom, not your fellow police officers. Especially not your fellow police officers."

  "Why? Do you think there is corruption?"

  "Not necessarily," Frank said. "Sometimes there is, but what's far more dangerous is stupidity. See, everybody likes to be a big shot. Everybody likes to be in The Know, right? As sure as I'm sitting here, they'll be at a bar somewhere and after a few beers, they'll start running their mouth. I've seen drug investigations go up in flames because a cop said the wrong thing to the wrong person who ran off to make a phone call. It wasn't out of malice or greed or any of that. Just complete ignorance. Do yourself a favor, Rey-Rey. Save that dummy from himself and don't tell anybody shit."

  "I understand."

  As Frank spoke, Reynaldo pictured Marissa running back to the ambulance squad to tell them all what had happened. He pictured one of the medics picking up a phone and calling his good friend Freddie Phelps, or his brother-in-law Freddie Phelps, or his fellow pedophile child porn addict Freddie Phelps, and saying, "You're not gonna believe this. Some asshole cop was in your store doing an undercover operation. They're onto us. Burn everything."

  "But that's nothing to worry about for now," Frank said. "You did good. I'm proud of you."

  "Thanks, Frank," Reynaldo said. He shifted in his seat and turned to stare out the window.