SK01 - Waist Deep

by Frank Zafiro

  Matt didn’t seem to have grown into a man’s body. He still had the slight frame of a seventeen year old late bloomer. Only the whisper of gray at his temples and the lines near his eyes gave away his age.

  “You don’t remember me,” he said.

  “No, I do.”

  “Nah, you don’t. It’s okay. I get that a lot. I wasn’t exactly Mister Popular back in high school.”

  “I do remember you.” I waved my hand at the cell. “I guess I’m just embarrassed to be here.”

  He nodded his understanding. “I heard you became a cop. Is this going to be a problem for you?”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Mullet-man’s head whip around to stare at me. I could almost hear his worried thoughts. I decided to let him sweat for a little while longer.

  “It’ll work out,” I told Matt.

  “I hope so.” He bit the inside of his lip and looked at me. Finally, he said, “Kinda weird running into you now.”

  I shrugged.

  “Maybe…” he said, “Maybe you can help me with something.”

  I didn’t answer right away. Behind Matt, a uniformed officer approached the security station. All hockey games have an extra duty officer working for instances like the one I just got involved in. It’s a good gig and pays well. The waiting list to get on the detail is about eight years long.

  I recognized the officer right away and he recognized me a moment later. Glen Bates had been a Field Training Officer when I came on the job. He probably had at least five years on then. I did a quick bit of math and figured him to be near twenty years on by now. And he still had a toothpick stuck in the corner of his mouth.

  He squinted at me. “Kopriva? That you?”

  Mullet-man was at the door as soon as Bates came into view. “I want to make a complaint, officer.” He pointed at me. “This cop attacked me. Look at my face. I think he broke my nose.”

  Bates looked back and forth between Mullet-man and me, shaking his head slightly.

  “I mean it,” Mullet-man continued. “I want to make a complaint against the police department!”

  Bates removed the toothpick and glanced at it briefly before tucking it back into the corner of his mouth. “Really? A complaint, huh?”

  Mullet-man maintained his polite façade. “That’s right, officer.”

  Bates thumbed towards me. “Against him?”

  “Yeah, man. Look at me.”

  Bates nodded and made a sucking noise with his teeth. Then he glanced over at Matt. “What’s the story here?”

  Matt waved Bates over. Bates strode to him. He watched us while Matt whispered to him. I wonder whose account ending up being accepted as truth. Mullet-man’s cronies? The bus driver? Or did they manage to get a couple of uninvolved witnesses who saw Mullet-man come barreling over the rows of seats to get to me?

  Bates gave no indication as he listened carefully to Matt’s report. After about two minutes, he nodded and clapped Matt on the shoulder. Then he walked back over to our cells.

  “How about that complaint, officer?” Mullet-man asked, but Bates ignored him.

  “Here’s the situation, gentlemen. By all accounts, this was a mutual assault. That means we have three options.”

  “Mutual?” Mullet-man’s voice was incredulous. “No way, man.” He pointed at Matt. “That guy said he’s a cop. I wanna file a comp—”

  “He ain’t no cop,” Bates interrupted. “Not anymore. So shut up and listen to your options or I’ll decide for you. My decision involves jail, not holding cells.”

  Mullet-man shot me a dirty look, but remained quiet.

  Bates nodded. “Good. Now, option one goes like this: you both press charges against each other and you both go to jail for assault. Any takers?”

  Neither of us replied. A tickle of anger sparked in my gut.

  “Didn’t think so,” he continued without missing a beat. “Option two is I take you both to jail for disorderly conduct. Anyone interested in that one?”

  Again, neither of us answered. The tickle ignited into a flame. I struggled to will it down. Bates’ words were familiar, even after ten years. I couldn’t count how many times I’d used them myself to solve similar situations.

  “No? Okay then, that leaves option number three. You both leave the Arena and go your separate ways. Simple as that.”

  Mullet-man spoke first. “You sure he’s not a cop?”

  Bates nodded.

  “You could be covering up for him,” Mullet-man muttered, not looking directly at Bates.

  “I guess I could be,” Bates told him. “Why don’t you come down to Internal Affairs tomorrow. Talk to Lieutenant Alan Hart. He’ll show you a picture board with every officer on the department. You won’t find this guy there.” He jerked his thumb toward me.

  “Maybe I will,” Mullet-man said.

  Bates shrugged. “Knock yourself out. Meanwhile, which option are we going with right now?”

  “The last one,” Mullet-man said. “But this isn’t over.”

  “It better be tonight,” Bates warned. He turned his eyes to me. “Kopriva?”

  I slowly nodded.

  Bates motioned for Matt to unlock the cells. Mullet-man exited his, but Bates held up his hand and stopped me. “You wait. This guy goes first.” He took Mullet-man by the arm and started for the door. Matt stepped into the cell doorway and handed me my jacket.

  “Thanks for the rhythm, Glen,” I said after Bates, my voice dripping with sarcasm.

  Bates stopped and gave me a look I couldn’t quite decipher. “You used to be a good cop, Stef. Now look at you.”

  I felt that flicker of anger again. “What about me?”

  He shook his head. “Getting into a fight? With this guy? Come on.”

  The flicker flared. “Kiss my ass, Glen.”

  Bates’ face flushed. He let go of Mullet-Man and took a step in my direction. Matt moved between us. “I’ll walk him out, Glen. We’ll take a different exit. That way, you don’t have to come back.”

  Bates considered. Finally, he nodded. “Fine.” He looked at me again and shook his head. “What happened to you?” he asked, then turned and walked away, dragging Mullet-man with him.

  My mouth was open to reply when Matt gripped my arm. It was firm but not too hard. “Let it go,” he whispered.

  I took his advice and as soon as Bates was out of sight, I regretted it.

  4

  Matt led me through the tunnels that the teams used to go from the locker room to the ice. After we cut through a few doors and an office, I was lost.

  “Where’d you park? I can let you out a door near your car.”

  “I didn’t drive,” I told him. I didn’t tell him it was because I didn’t have a car.

  “Okay. We’ll go out the exit by the statues.”

  We emerged from the tunnels and into the main concourse. Aside from concession workers and security, only a few fans milled around. I wondered how the game was going.

  “If it was up to me,” Matt said, “I’d just move you to a seat on the other side of the arena. But I’m only the assistant team leader. Besides, we’ve got a zero tolerance policy on fighting. I’m sorry.”

  “Not your fault. I’m the one who got in a fight.”

  We walked in silence for a few yards. A loud, collective “ahhh!” from the crowd drifted through the walls and I guessed that the Flyers had missed a scoring chance.

  A shot of pain, stronger than the rest, blasted through my knee. Our pace had been quick, at least for me. My limp became more pronounced, forcing me to slow down.

  Matt noticed and slowed, too. “You get hurt in the fight?”

  “Old injury,” I told him. “Fight didn’t help, though.”

  “You want to stop for a second?”

  “How far is it?”

  He pointed at a set of doors where the corridor curved left. It was about forty yards away.

  “I can make it,” I said.

  Matt nodded and kept walking, but
he had slowed down even further. I didn’t complain. My knee felt like shattered glass grinding together. I heard another outburst from the crowd.

  “So is it true what Glen said?” Matt asked me quietly. “That you’re not a cop anymore?”

  “It’s true.”

  “What happened?”

  “Long story,” I told him. “Not one I can tell in twenty-five yards, even if I wanted to.”

  “Fair enough. So what kind of work do you do now?”

  I stopped walking and turned to face him. “What’s with the interrogation, Matt? Couldn’t you have done this back at the cell?”

  Matt swallowed hard. “No…I mean, sorry. I just –“

  “I’ll show myself out the rest of the way,” I snapped at him. I turned and began striding purposefully toward the doors, ignoring the pain in my knee.

  It took about three seconds for Matt to catch up. “Wait,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

  I ignored him and kept walking. I’d already had to deal with Bates and his condescension tonight. I wasn’t about to spill my life story to some guy I hadn’t seen in almost twenty years just because we went to the same high school.

  “Stef, wait. Please.”

  Something in his voice made me slow down. Maybe it was the hint of panic that rang out when he said my name. Maybe it was the desperation that turned his words into a whine. I don’t know for sure. But I stopped and looked him dead in the eye and waited.

  He seemed surprised. “I…I need your help. I need you to look into something.”

  “I told you. I’m not a cop anymore.”

  “I know. But you were, right?”

  I nodded.

  “Then maybe you can still help. I don’t know who else to ask.”

  I watched his eyes as he said it and knew he was serious. I didn’t know what he needed, but decided right there that the least I could do was listen to him.

  “Okay, Matt. Ask.”

  He took a wavering breath. “It’s my daughter. I’m worried something bad has happened to her.”

  “Like what?”

  “Well, she—”

  His radio squawked, “-21 to -2.”

  “Damn,” Matt muttered. Then, into the radio, “-2, go ahead.”

  “ We’ve got a code 9 to deal with in 114,” came the reply.

  Matt keyed the radio. “Copy,” he said, then looked up at me. “Some fan heckling the visitor’s bench that needs to be removed,” he explained.

  I shrugged.

  “Listen, do you have a card or something? I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  “No. No card. No phone, either.”

  He gave me a strange look. “You mean no cell phone?”

  “No. I mean no phone.”

  Questions came into his eyes and I cut them off.

  “Look, Matt. I usually eat breakfast at the Rocket Bakery at 1st and Cedar. We can talk there.”

  Matt thought about it, then nodded his head.

  We walked the remainder of the distance to the doors and he swung them open. Cold air spilled in through the opening, making my knee hurt worse.

  “All I’m promising is we’ll talk,” I told him.

  “That’s all I’m asking,” he said.

  I stepped out into the cold and began the long limp home.

  5

  The next morning, I woke early after a fitful night’s sleep. The throb in my shoulder and arm and the needles in my knee kept me always on the edge of wakefulness. I took two extra strength pain relievers from my giant jar of three thousand, which I’d bought in bulk when I still had a membership to Costco.

  The hot water from the shower helped work out the stiffness in my shoulder, but my knee wasn’t going to cooperate. Not yet. I flexed it slowly under the steaming water, wincing. The jagged exit wound in the center of the knee was in marked contrast to the straight, surgical lines all around it. I had matching exit wounds on my left arm and left collar bone, courtesy of a gang member who took a personal dislike to me one night in late August almost eleven years ago.

  Looking at my knee made me start to remember and remembering everything from that time in my life made me want to drink. Drinking was a bad idea, so I finished washing up before the hot water in my little apartment gave out.

  After my shower, I slipped on some jeans and a t-shirt. I found my running shoes and put them on. Walking, even the seven blocks to the Rocket Bakery, required preparation. The running shoes were the only expensive thing I owned.

  As I tied the laces, sitting in the only chair in my tiny living room, I looked around at the place. For the first few years, I’d been disgusted and embarrassed that I lived here. I’d been a cop, making good money and living in a nice, new apartment on the north side of town. Only losers and college kids lived in Browne’s Addition then. Now, it was losers, college kids and me.

  I put on my leather jacket and slipped out of the apartment. I hadn’t bothered to look at the time, but the sun wasn’t up over the downtown buildings yet, so I figured it was around eight. The air was crisp, but not deadly cold and the streets and sidewalks were bare of snow, except for a few small salt-and-pepper patches that used to be large piles.

  In its early days, Browne’s Addition was a wealthy part of River City. Built on a large spur at the edge of downtown, its large homes were near the downtown core. Perfect for the socialites of the time. They could live in an exclusive neighborhood, do their shopping to the east and drop down the hill to the west and be at the Looking Glass River, all in less than a mile. It must have seemed like paradise to them. But time marched on. The wealthy moved into newer houses on the south hill or the north side of town. Slowly, the large houses in Browne’s Addition were sub-divided into apartments. True apartment houses sprung up on any spare lots. Over time, the entire neighborhood became Renter Land. The rich abandoned Browne’s Addition to the peasants.

  The Rocket Bakery sat on the southeast corner of 1st and Cedar. I started coming to the coffee shop while I was still on the job. I’d been assigned to work light duty in the detective’s division while I recovered from my shooting injuries. A group of detectives went daily to the Rocket Bakery for coffee. Or tea. Or to ogle the young baristas. They always frequented the new trendy places, so their loyalty to the Rocket Bakery was short-lived. But I liked it and stayed.

  The smells of fresh baked goods and hot coffee met me at the door. Light jazz played over the speakers. The place wasn’t as intentional as a Starbucks about atmosphere, but in the end, they were the same. For all their pretensions and being eclectic and hovering almost off the grid, they were both businesses that had numerous branches in River City and both were there to make money.

  I put some of mine down on the counter. The barista behind the counter had her back to me, wiping down the espresso machine. Her dark hair was in a loose, single braid and hung between her shoulder blades. Her short-sleeved shirt was white and fit loosely. I’d seen her wear it before and knew that when she turned around, it would have buttons on it that only went to mid-chest and that you’d wonder if she was wearing a bra.

  Cassie turned and noticed me. She flashed me a mysterious smile, the same one she’d been giving me for years now. I’ve watched her sometimes to see if she gave that smile to everyone, and to a certain degree she did. It was the kind of smile that hinted at what you both might know or were about to discover.

  Her face was almost square and one of her upper teeth at the edge of her smile was crooked. I noticed that I was right about the buttons and maybe about the bra. The shirt hung loosely off of her. Cassie had the look of a thirty year old, but I couldn’t be sure. That was some of what I found mysterious about her. Several of the other baristas were little vixens in their own right, nineteen or twenty year old spinners with their tattoos and defiance of gravity. They commanded the attention of most of the patrons.

  Cassie commanded mine.

  “Your usual, Stef?” she asked me. Her voice was soft, but it carried through the store.

 
“Yeah. But a double shot this morning.”

  She nodded, casting that slight whisper of a smile at me and making my Americano. It was the closest thing to regular coffee that they had and it was in my price range. Her braid shifted and jumped as she worked the machine, making it hiss and spit out my coffee. The place was almost empty, but that was temporary. The traffic flow came in fits and starts, then continued in spurts. It made the baristas job look easy, but in reality, they were never still.

  Cassie slid my coffee across the counter and pulled a cranberry bagel from the display case. She took my money and tried to give me change, just like every morning.

  “It’s yours,” I told her.

  “Thanks.”

  “It’s only a quarter,” I said, a little embarrassed.

  She shrugged, that enigmatic smile playing on her lips. “Every little bit helps.”

  The ease of her words and her Mona Lisa smile were supposed to make me feel comfortable about giving her a small tip, but mostly I felt poor.

  I moved over to the table in the corner and commandeered one of the chess boards. I set up the pieces, thinking about Matt Sinderling. I wondered if he’d show up or not and if I even wanted him to. I wondered what the hell he wanted and how I was going to tell him no.

  6

  Adam arrived fifteen minutes later. He hustled in, gave Cassie a wave and a nod when she asked if he wanted the usual. I watched for her smile and she gave him a business-friendly one, but he didn’t notice.

  “You been here long?”

  I motioned toward the chess board with all the pieces set up and then to my half-empty cup of coffee.

  “Damn,” Adam said. “My guess is twenty minutes.”

  “You should’ve stayed a cop,” I told him.

  He grinned and sat down. Adam came on the job about a year after I did and worked the street for about five years. When a civilian job in Special Services came open for a technician, he turned in his badge and took the position. Now he handles all the video evidence, surveillance gadgets, phone traces, and anything technical. He was one of the few people from my old life that I still had contact with. Or maybe I should say he was one of the few who had contact with me.