by Mark Hazard
“You know where a cop bar is?”
“No, but I figure maybe we could start going to a bar, and then get our other friends to come, and then it would become the cop bar.”
“In this fantasy, does the bar have cop-themed drinks?”
“Why didn’t I think of that?”
Chu skipped to the bed and flopped backward onto it, bouncing to a rest with a sigh. “What are we doing tonight?”
“Boundaries exist, Chu. I know you don’t believe that, but they exist.”
“I’m technically on Karen’s side of the bed, and she adores me.”
“She likes that you annoy me.”
“Too bad neither of us are big drinkers. Forget the cop bar. Let’s scrapbook our law enforcement memories and milestones.” He pulled a plastic bag out of his jacket pocket. “Here is one of the carbon copies from a citation I wrote today. Failure to stop at a crosswalk. Page ten of my scrapbook is shaping up nicely.”
“Page ten?” Corus managed to raise his head off the sheet. “We haven’t even been cops for ten days.”
“You’re right,” he said with alarm. “At this rate, I’ll run out of space in my first month. I’m gonna have to graduate to the Excelsior, biggest book on the market.” Chu chortled. “Whoa, this is getting intense.”
Corus pushed his face into a pillow and screamed.
They sat down at a sports bar nearby called Henry T’s which served basic American fare. As they waited for their food, Chu told Corus about the old lady he helped by the side of the road, the old lady he helped with directions to the nearest bus stop, and the old lady who had the cute golden retriever.
“What did you help her with?”
“Oh, nothing. I just wanted to pet her dog.” Chu pointed to a spot on his chest. “This badge is pretty sweet.”
“Your day was all nice old ladies? Even the person who blew through a crosswalk?”
“That was a teenage girl with a tongue piercing. I gave her a stern talking to. Probably changed her life.”
“Oh, yes. Good.”
“How about your day? What do you have for your scrapbook?”
“Let me see. I’ve got nothing. Because I’m not a seagull who needs to collect shiny things.”
“Okay, what happened?”
Corus told Chu about the law office debacle.
“A wooden stake through the chest?” Chu said. “Guess we know he’s not a vampire. Gotta be a good lawyer joke in there somewhere, but I’m too hungry to think.”
“It was the abdomen, not the chest. What happens if you stab a vampire in the abdomen?”
The server gave Corus a funny look as she set his food in front of him.
“Anyway, Jameson and I had barely unwrapped our sandwiches when dispatch ordered us to a vehicle collision. We roll up, and no one’s hurt, but one driver is clearly wasted. She offers to perform carnal favors if we let her go. After we politely declined, she called Jameson a fascist and me a communist homosexual and cussed us out all the way to the precinct.” Corus sipped his drink. “It was a full day.”
“Have you talked with Detective Cummins much?”
“No.”
“I thought you were going to learn at his knee.”
“Need to get broken in first, get my rookie flubs out of the way. Once I can stand on my own two feet, I’ll start bugging him.”
“I need to update all my online dating profiles,” Chu said. “Which do you think sounds like a better tag line: Cop who cares, or Love Enforcement Officer?”
“Save you time and trouble if you took a vow of celibacy.”
“You kidding? Now that I’m a cop? Girls like cops. I’m a hungry man who’s been watching other people eat at a restaurant. It’s my turn to sit at the table. It’s my turn to feast!”
Corus regurgitated iced tea into his glass. “Ugh, Sweet Jesus.” He wiped up his mess with a napkin, then did a double-take at the broad-chested, rosy-cheeked man who slid into the booth next to him.
“Jameson?”
“Hey, Rook. You gonna eat that?”
Corus passed over the rest of his waffle fries. “How’d you find me? What’s up?”
“Had Collins put a tracker on Chu’s car. Was gonna pull a huge prank on you guys in a couple days, but something came up.”
“I’m not sure we’ve formally met.” Chu extended a hand. “I’m Chu.”
Jameson reached out, snatched the ketchup bottle and shook it over Corus’ leftovers. Chu awkwardly retracted his hand.
“Wife and I had a big one,” Jameson said. “Not big big. But you know that tremor the day before the 8.0 quake hits? She knows it’s coming. I know it. Don’t have the goddamned energy for it tonight, so I left. And we’re getting shit-hammered, Rook.”
“Sorry. I have plans.”
It was true.
“Tomorrow’s a day off!”
“Still.”
“I saved your life today.”
“Excuse me?”
“That drunk broad was gonna do nasty things to you. Woulda given you all kinds of diseases if I hadn’t been there.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Solicitation is frowned upon,” Jameson said with a mouthful. “But it sure beats whining. Respect.”
He flagged down their server. “Miss? Gonna need a pitcher of Bud Light and a round of Jamesons.”
“You got it.”
“Wanna see my ID?”
“No, sir. I think you’re safely of drinking age.”
“What’s that supposed to mean. Come on, look.”
He fished out his ID and the server took a moment to get it.
“Oh, Jameson. So, you’re gonna tell me you own the Jameson distillery?” She handed it back with a tired smile.
“Well, what if I was?”
“I’d laugh at you.”
“Make that four Jamesons. Come have one with us.”
“That’s sweet, but I get better tips if I don’t vomit inferior Irish whiskey on the customers.”
“What do you like to drink, then? Daiquiris?”
“I like Bourbon.”
“No, you don’t.”
“You’re right. You still want those Jamesons?”
“Since I’m not trying to impress you anymore, make them well pours.”
She left, and he polished off the last of Corus’ fries. “Spunky. I like that. Life is too damn short.”
“Do you have a lot of success with the ladies?” Chu asked.
“I’m married,” Jameson droned.
“Well, yeah, but…” Chu motioned at where the server had been standing. “You were just so winning and smooth with her.”
“I should really be going.” Corus got up to leave, but Jameson clamped stone fingers on his jacket sleeve.
“You’re not going anywhere. It’s your duty as an American to get rat faced with me.”
“It’s not.”
“I’m your mentor. Show some respect.”
Corus rolled his eyes. “One beer.”
“That’s the spirit.”
“It’s happening.” A silly grin stretched across Chu’s face. “The cop bar was in our hearts all along.”
Corus would’ve figured Jameson for an angry drunk, especially given the tangle of unresolved issues he was actively repressing, but with every drink he became more of a cut-up, holding court with anyone in earshot. He told jokes, stories, musings, chatted with young and old, gave compliments. With each drink, his face grew redder, his voice grew louder and his charisma mounted. After only an hour, he tried to order more drinks, but the server said, “Sorry. I can’t serve you anymore.”
“What? I thought we were friends.”
“Not my call. Manager’s decision.”
“The fat guy with the goatee and the rat tail?”
“His name’s Todd.”
“Of course it is.”
“Listen, don’t cause a problem.”
“I haven’t caused nothing but a good time. Todd has the problem.
”
“Don’t cause a scene, so that way you can come back.” She clutched his bicep. “I want you to come back.”
Jameson went silent then waggled a finger. “You’re good.”
She handed over the check. Jameson passed it over to Corus. “Rookies pay for drinks. Finish your beers, fellas. We’re out of here.”
The server mumbled something, her gaze pinned to the slim black folder the check came in.
Corus opened it. Inside, the customer receipt lay on top with a phone number scrawled across it in big numerals.
Jameson grabbed Corus’ beer and drained it.
Corus made eye contact with her as he handed the check back with his debit card. Motioning with his ring finger, he nodded at Jameson’s back.
She shrugged and walked off toward the till.
Jameson bought a bottle of cheap blended whiskey and made Corus drive to a lookout. He stood at the edge of an escarpment that dropped about seventy feet to the rocks below, taking swigs off the bottle and passing it around. Corus only accepted it to keep it out of Chu’s hands, as he was already looking wobbly.
“You ever had to kill anyone?” Chu asked.
“Only myself, slowly.” Jameson reached for the bottle and took another belt. “Ah, just kidding. I’ve killed people, but not as many as Rook, here. How many notches in your rifle stock, young gun?”
Corus looked out over the hills at the distant glow of an industrial plant.
“Drink if you’re not gonna talk.” Jameson pressed the bottle into his chest.
“I’m driving.”
“That’s not why you’re not drinking. You in the program?”
“I’m driving. That’s all.”
“We can get a cab?”
“Out here?”
Jameson turned to face him. “I don’t know many guys who’ve seen the shit who don’t drink.”
“I drink when I feel like it.”
“Then drink, now. That’s an order.”
“I’m driving.”
“You’re a prude.” Jameson stepped to the very edge of the cliff and took another drink, tipping his head back to the sky. Corus had seen guys take one too many big drinks and keel right over. He reached for Jameson’s belt.
Jameson produced a lighter and lit it in one motion, then spewed cheap whiskey across the flame, sending a plume of orange into the night air.
Chu hooted, and Corus pulled Jameson away from the edge. He corralled them into the backseat of Chu’s Kia and ignored Jameson’s pleas to head to a strip club.
Corus didn’t have the time to drive them both back to Covington so he drove straight to the one place he’d planned on going that night.
Jim Cummins opened at the knock. “You’re late.”
“I was delayed by an unhappy coworker.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the car. If Jameson knew Jim’s house, he was too busy rocking out in the back seat to realize where they were.
“Wife troubles again?”
“Apparently, sir.”
Jim squinted. “Is that Chu in the back with him?”
“Again. I’m sorry.”
“They seem occupied. Come in. This won’t take long.”
Jim’s front door opened to a foyer that felt more like a mudroom, with lots of storage and coat hooks. This led to a beautiful kitchen with a long island running its length. Most of the appliances sat to the right, where the wall on the left was almost entirely glass, looking into little courtyard.
Jim’s wife, Loretta, walked in from the more secluded wing of the house. She spotted Corus with mild surprise. “Oh, hello.”
“Hello, Loretta. Sorry it’s late. Jim asked me by for a word.”
She set a stack of mail down on the end of the island and fetched a glass out of a cupboard. “Jim, if you’re going to have people over for business, have them come for dinner first.”
“She likes to cook,” Jim said in an aside. “Good cook.” Then to Loretta, “We can do dinner soon.”
“I’d love to meet your wife,” she said.
“She’d love to meet you, too.” Corus tipped his head. “Just make sure you hide the good silverware.”
“We’ll be in the garage for a bit,” Jim said.
“All right. Holler if you need anything.”
Out of the kitchen, Jim led Corus to the right and through a door to the garage, a clean space wide enough for two cars but with extra depth where Jim kept skis, plastic storage bins and his woodworking equipment.
He pointed to a stump on a pedestal that was taking artistic shape as he carved away at it. “Can you tell what it is?”
Corus frowned and angled his head. “Richard Nixon?”
“Nixon?” Jim whined. “It’s a bear’s face. Supposed to be, anyway.”
“You’ll get there.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
He waved a hand over to another table, a desk of sorts, with tiers of shelves above bolted to corner walls, all filled with different colored binders and accordion files. After pulling a manila envelope from between two binders, he eased into the cheap rolling chair that cracked and groaned under his modest weight. He sifted through photographs, then passed one over.
“This is her?” Corus asked.
As part of Manuel Ferdinand’s deal, he’d agreed to hand over the information he’d gathered about the mysterious figure he suspected to be his narcotics supplier.
“Irina Ionescu, AKA Princess, AKA Iris Tanner. Three names for the same woman.”
Driver’s license photos were not often flattering, but it was hard to imagine she’d be comely in any light.
“Details are sketchy, but she’s fifty-eight years old, a Romanian by birth, now a US citizen. Married to Rodger Tanner, the president of the Washington Onion Growers Association.”
“Onions?”
“Red, white, shallots, scallions — everyone out here calls them green onions — but the real prince is the sweet onion. They don’t grow better anywhere on earth. Ask me ten days ago, and I didn’t know that. But now I do.”
“They farm? How many acres?”
“They own just under a thousand, but they also direct a syndicate of growers who all distribute out of a facility on Tanner property.”
“I think it’s called a co-op.”
“Either way. Ten thousand acres under their purview across twenty farms in Oregon, Washington and Idaho.”
“That distribution sounds familiar.”
“Same states as where the drugs end up, true, but that distribution is much wider. These farms are all clustered within forty miles of one another where the borders meet.”
“Onions?” Corus said.
“That’s what has you baffled?”
“I guess so. This is a nightmare for jurisdiction.”
“We have to pass it up the food chain, the only question is when and in what condition.”
“FBI? How do you mean?”
“Cases are constantly getting pushed up to them. They have to prioritize the cases with the most impact and best evidence leading to convictions. If they don’t prioritize this case, it gets buried under more pressing concerns. They may never get to it.”
“What did you have in mind?”
“This operation shifting out of our backyard is good and bad. We lack local knowledge and connections, but no one is looking for us. No one knows us as law enforcement.”
“You want to familiarize yourself, or you want to gather evidence?”
“One could lead to the other.” Jim bobbed his chin. “You ever taken up a mission with a low chance of success and dubious implications?”
“A time or two, sir.”
“Well, doesn’t that skill set come in handy.”
“Will you tell Ruiz?”
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “I think she’ll actually be helpful. She’s hard to deal with because she’s territorial, but that makes her very respectful of other counties. She’s diplomatic that way. Wide connections.”
“Which county should she make entreaties to?”
“Good question.”
Corus brushed wood shavings off a stool and sat. “We need to get a lay of the land.”
“We do. There’s no crime in tourism.”
“Onion tourism?”
“No use packing deodorant, I’m guessing.”
“I take it Ferdinand’s interview went well.”
Jim stood and took a closer look at his stump carving. “I’ll let you watch it. It was illuminating.”
“The thought of him getting a pass… Makes my skin crawl.”
“Maybe he thinks he is, and maybe that’s the idea. Even if he does get a pass on the drug charges, doesn’t mean we forget about what he did to Yair Gonzalo.”
“Roger that. About that other matter?”
Jim had asked Corus, weeks before, to make a list of people who might go to lengths to harm him. Then he’d started the investigation by accounting for the whereabouts of everyone on the list, so far locating all but three.
Jim’s mustache twitched. “Nothing interesting came back on that Simmons guy. Captain Felder has been with his unit this whole time.”
That left only one man who couldn’t be easily located, one of the top two names on the list along with Major Hubert in Leavenworth.
“Joller.”
Frederick Joller, former Army cop, had not had a pay stub issued to his social security number in five months. His last debit card usage had occurred three months previous, a car rental at the Oakland airport the same day Corus started at the SeaMAP Academy.
“Did you find out any info from the car rental company?” Corus asked.
Jim gave the Nixon Bear a forlorn pat on the head. “I made a call, mentioned I was law enforcement, then got put on hold for twenty minutes before I had to go put out a fire. We can try again.”
“Theoretically, Joller could have driven here from Oakland, then returned the vehicle there.”
“That’s a long drive, like driving through six states on the East Coast.” Jim ran a hand over his graying hair. “Any other suspicious activity?”
“Had my head on a swivel for two months. Nothing.”
“Maybe he took his shot with Ferdinand and missed. That’s it.”
