Cop Town

by Karin Slaughter

  Lee waved, but Maggie pretended not to see him. All she needed was for Terry to get the wrong idea. He was obviously spoiling for a fight.

  “Hey, mama.” Gail pushed open the passenger-side door. Her eyes were bruised from the whore yesterday, but she still had a grin on her face. She was dressed in her regular clothes. Her yellow skirt was hiked up so she could hold her flask between her legs. She wore matching gold lamé ankle boots with pointy high heels. A vivid blue fedora was tight on her head. Her dry black hair hung like straw around her shoulders.

  Gail said, “Deathly’s givin’ you the eye. Ain’t ya, son?” She turned to Kate in the back seat. “Maggie’s secret boyfriend. Deaf as a doornail.” She raised her voice. “Ain’t that right, Deathly?”

  Maggie burned with shame. The only thing to do with Gail was ignore her. She dropped the equipment on the floorboard.

  Gail revved the engine several times. “Hold on, chickies!”

  Maggie jumped in before she was left on the street. The car burned rubber as it streaked away from the house. Gail roared with delight. She turned up the radio—Rolling Stones—and lit a new cigarette off the old one.

  “Here.” Maggie passed back Kate’s utility belt, a pair of Jimmy’s old shoes, and one of his hats. “Sorry about the smell.”

  Kate quietly laid the items on the seat beside her. She looked pale and weepy. Terry had obviously pushed her buttons. Or maybe it was the way Bud Deacon stuck his hand down his pants. Or the stench of puke coming off Jett Elliott. Or Cal Vick’s inability to look anywhere above a woman’s chest. Or the way Chip Bixby had leered at Kate like he wanted to drag her into the woods and ravage her.

  Maggie couldn’t worry about other people right now. She had her own wounds to nurse. She was embarrassed by her family. Mortified by her house. Terrified that Terry would take the clues she and Kate had scraped together and bust open the Shooter case.

  It was supposed to be her and Jimmy. He’d said so last night. They were going to take all the Shooter files and go over them together. Work together. After what Jimmy had said to her in the hospital—apologized, no less—Maggie thought it was all going to be different. For the first time in her adult life, Jimmy was actually going to treat her like a fellow officer.

  And then he’d woken up this morning with his same shitty attitude, and Maggie had realized it was all a dream.

  Gail whooped as the car fishtailed around a turn. Maggie gripped the sides of her seat. The Mercury Cyclone was an expensive car for a cop. Knowing Gail, she’d probably stolen it from a pimp. Trouble, her husband, had souped up the engine and added a sound system that shook the windows. The seats were upholstered in white leather. Red shag carpet was contoured around the dashboard and glued to the ceiling. A pair of dice hung from the rearview mirror. Or mirrors, more precisely. Instead of one, there were six mirrors across the top of the windshield that offered a one-eighty view of everything behind the driver.

  Gail took a swig from her flask. There was a wide smile on her face. She was like every cop Maggie had ever met. No matter what came at her, she pretended it didn’t matter. This was Gail’s one true talent: perseverance. She got up every day and took on the world no matter how bruised and broken she was from the day before.

  Maggie wanted to be that way. She strived for that level of self-denial. Unfortunately, the reset button was only passed through the male side of the Lawson line. For Maggie, everything accumulated. Kate was obviously the same way. She was still staring out the window. Her hand shielded her eyes, though the sun was on the other side of the car.

  “Shit.” Gail turned down the music. “What’re you two gals sulking about?”

  Maggie silently enumerated the list. Five cops had been murdered. Her brother had been shot. Her uncle was determined to drum her out of the police force.

  “Jesus Christ, what a waste.” Gail took a swig of whiskey, then tossed her flask onto the dash. “Both of y’all need to find a man worth shaving above your knees for.” She playfully pushed Maggie’s arm. “Come on, kid. They ain’t so bad once you get their clothes off.”

  Maggie thought of another list: Jimmy had kicked her in the teeth. Terry was a raging sadist. Jett Elliott was a disgusting drunk. Cal Vick was incompetent. Bud Deacon and Chip Bixby were practically Nazis. Even Rick Anderson had barked at her when she’d walked back into the house.

  Gail said, “You know ol’ Deathly’s cute in the right light. Got a Jagger thing going, but not in the face.”

  “Gail, please.” Even if Maggie wanted it, there was no way anything would ever happen with Lee. Their families despised each other—the Lawsons because the Grants thought they were better than everybody else, the Grants because they knew that they actually were better. The situation was less like the Capulets and Montagues and more like the Hatfields and McCoys.

  “I gotta treat for you.” Gail grabbed a cassette tape from the sun visor. “This’n’s a good one. Trouble’s brother recorded it out in LA a few weeks back.”

  Maggie fought an eye roll. Trouble and his brother had a side business illegally recording concerts. The quality was always poor. Trouble was a drinker. His brother was a pothead. Most of their tapes captured their own stoned voices singing along with the musicians.

  Gail reached back and patted Kate’s leg a couple of times. “I picked this’n just for you, Sulky Sheep.”

  Maggie didn’t bother checking on Kate again. She stared out the windshield as the sound of a cheering crowd filled the car. Trouble’s brother said something about having to take a piss. Gail laughed so hard she slapped the steering wheel. She turned up the volume. No one would mind. They were in Cabbage Town now. The area had been devastated years ago. The brick factories looked as empty inside as Maggie felt.

  “Come on!” Gail started banging out the beat on the dashboard. She didn’t know the opening lyrics, but she belted out the chorus. “ ‘Poor, poor pitiful me!’ ” She nudged Maggie. “ ‘Poor, poor pitiful me!’ ”

  Maggie smiled despite herself.

  Gail bellowed, “ ‘Poor, poor pitiful me!’ ”

  Maggie shook her head, but her fingers started tapping to the beat. She let Gail’s good mood take over. Maybe this was how to do it: listen to a stupid song about feeling sorry for yourself so that you stopped feeling sorry for yourself. The only other alternative was to drink too much or turn into the kind of angry bitch nobody wanted to be around.

  Clearly, Kate wasn’t thinking along these lines. She was hunched against the window. Her head was in her hand.

  And then the chorus came back on and Kate gave a desperate wail.

  “Jesus.” Gail turned down the volume. She stared at Kate’s reflection in the mirrors.

  Maggie did the same. Kate’s shoulders were shaking. She wasn’t just crying. She was weeping uncontrollably.

  Gail asked, “She ever do this before?”

  “No,” Maggie answered, which was partly true. Kate had cried last night when the shift was over. That was nothing compared to her big, gulping sobs now.

  Gail said, “Poor kid. She’s really going at it. What set her off? Jett start telling his stupid Irish jokes?”

  “Jett was passed out.”

  “Had to be something. Did Terry start in with his Helter Skelter bullshit about the coloreds taking over the world?”

  “We missed most of it.” Maggie racked her brain. “The Kennedys. The mayor. Edward Spivey. The war.”

  “Bingo.” Gail slowed the car. The wheels hit the broken sidewalk as the Mercury came to a stop in front of the old cotton bag factory. “Her husband was killed in Nam.”

  “What?” Maggie heard her voice go up in surprise. “She was married?”

  “You didn’t read her personnel file?” Gail pushed open the car door. “He got killed in Bang Phuck Mi or wherever the hell.” She threw the driver’s seat forward and climbed into the back with Kate. “Come here, sweetheart.”

  Kate practically fell into her arms. “I’m s-s-sorry.”

&
nbsp; “It’s all right, mama.” Gail stroked her hair over her ear. She rested her boots on the back of the folded seat. “Those ass hairs spent half the war in whorehouses and the other half in VD clinics.”

  For some reason, this made Kate cry even harder.

  Gail rolled her eyes at Maggie, but she hugged Kate tighter. “That’s okay, sugar. Just let it out.” She snapped her fingers at Maggie and mimed taking a drink.

  The flask felt half-empty. Maggie unscrewed the cap and handed it back.

  Gail took a small portion, then offered the flask to Kate. “This’ll do ya.”

  Kate didn’t have to be cajoled. She took a healthy drink.

  “Don’t be greedy.” Gail pulled away the flask. She helped Kate sit up. And then she finished the whiskey. “You all cried out now, chickie?”

  Kate wiped underneath her eyes. Her hands still trembled, but at least her tears had stopped. “I’m sorry,” she managed. “I tried not to. I don’t know what came over me.”

  Gail said, “We all get that way.” She winked at Maggie, acknowledging that none of them ever got that way—especially in public.

  “I’m sorry,” Kate repeated. She straightened her shirt, adjusted her shoulder mic. “I must look a mess.”

  Gail shrugged it off, but she warned, “Don’t ever let those bastards know they got to you. They see you cry, that’s the end of it. They’ll never take you seriously.”

  Kate nodded, but she obviously didn’t get it. The hardest battles didn’t take place on the streets. They happened inside the squad room. Every time a female officer took a step forward, a male officer felt like he was being pushed back. The guys pounced the minute you showed weakness.

  “Shit, you gals don’t know how easy you got it.” Gail threw the empty flask back on the dash. “My first week on the job, every morning I’d open my locker and there’d be a fresh pile of shit inside.” Her lip curled in disgust. “Terry, Mack, Red, Les, Cal, Chip, Bud—all of ’em took turns trying to outdo each other. They jizzed in my purse. Pissed in my shoes. Crapped in the trunk of my car. And I leave one bloody tampon on your uncle Terry’s dashboard and suddenly I’m the crazy bitch.”

  Maggie must have heard wrong. She looked at Kate, who was equally perplexed.

  “Talk about a smell,” Gail said. “Middle of goddamn August. Hot as hell. He’s lucky I was at the end of my period.”

  That was all it took.

  Both Maggie and Kate exploded with laughter. Maggie couldn’t stop. She grabbed the back of her seat to steady herself. Her stomach cramped. Her throat ached. She couldn’t get it out of her head—the look on her uncle Terry’s face when he climbed into his squad car and saw the gift that Gail Patterson had left for him. She hoped he threw up a hot stream of bourbon. She hoped he still gagged every time he thought about it.

  Gail wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “Yeah, they didn’t fuck with me after that.”

  Tears were streaming down Maggie’s face. Kate had her head in her hands again, but this time she shook with laughter.

  “All right, gals.” Gail slid toward the door. “Enough lollygagging. Let’s get this show on the road.”

  Kate looked at Maggie and they both started laughing again.

  Gail sighed as she climbed behind the steering wheel. “Come on, now. Wind it down.”

  Maggie took a deep breath. Her stomach still hurt from laughing. She wiped her eyes. Shook her head.

  Gail took off her fedora and wedged it between the dash and the windshield. She lit another cigarette. The Mercury went into a wide curve as she pulled back onto the road.

  Maggie finally managed to stop sputtering with laughter. The trick was not to look at Kate. She wiped her eyes. She settled down into the seat and stared out the side window again.

  The scenery rolled by, depressing in its monotony. The abandoned factories gave way to run-down houses, which reverted back to empty factories. Gail was taking the back way to the West End. Jimmy had been in CT yesterday. Maggie doubted he had asked for permission, which was probably why he’d been shot. She wondered what he was really asking his snitch about. Maggie got the feeling that there were things about Don Wesley’s murder that no one but Jimmy would ever know.

  Gail asked, “You got any new intel on these mothers?”

  Maggie shook her head. She had filled Gail in before roll call this morning: a tranny pimp nobody had ever met and a psychopath henchman who liked cutting white women.

  “Listen to me, Sheep.” Gail directed her words to Kate’s reflection in the mirrors. “You know why the colored girls are so high on themselves?”

  Kate seemed offended by the question. “I hadn’t given it much thought.”

  Gail said, “Black men. That’s why. You hear ’em in the halls, on the street, in the diner. They see a black woman, even one got a face like a shovel, they’re all, ‘Hey, good-lookin’. Lemme take you to dinner. Lemme buy you some coffee.’ They tell them they’re beautiful, flirt with them all the time. You know what I mean?”

  Kate looked mystified. The black men in her life were probably all holding rakes or pushing elevator buttons.

  Gail said, “Black girls tune it out, easy. They been hearing that shit all their lives. Now, a white woman hears it, and she’s all, ‘Oh, golly, he must think I’m pretty!’ ”

  Kate’s eyes narrowed. Gail had done a pretty good imitation of her froo-froo accent.

  Gail said, “That’s how pimps are. They hurl out compliments like it’s a business. Because it is. They’re in the business of tricking out women.”

  “You’re saying all pimps are black men?” Kate still sounded haughty, so Maggie took this one.

  She framed it as a syllogism. “Not all black men are pimps, but all pimps are black men.”

  Kate raised her eyebrows.

  “Stop playing, you two, ’cause this ain’t no joke.” Gail checked over her shoulder before passing a truck. She told Maggie, “Tell her how they trick ’em out.”

  Maggie had gotten the depressing lesson off Gail a long time ago. She hoped that Kate paid as careful attention as she had. “The pimps get the girls when they’re twelve or thirteen. They’re runaways or addicts or something bad happened back home. The pimps seduce them. They pretend that they’re in love with them. They shoot them up with dope. It doesn’t take long to hook them. Then they turn them out, or sometimes it’s called tricking them out, into the streets.” Maggie shrugged, because it really was that simple. “The girls have sex with twenty, thirty strangers a day. The pimps keep all the money.”

  Gail finished, “And then when the girls get too old, twenty, twenty-five, the pimp either sells ’em down the road or he slits their throats and tosses ’em in a ditch.”

  Kate said, “Violet’s around that age.”

  Gail wasn’t irritated by the observation. She just nodded. “You wait for it, mama. One day you’re gonna roll up on a ten-fifty-four and it’s gonna be Violet’s dead face staring back at you.” Gail shook a cigarette out of the pack. “You know our objective?”

  “Maggie’s been incredibly forthcoming.”

  Maggie took the dig because she deserved it. “We’re going to talk to Sir She and see if he’ll let us speak to his girls.” She told Kate, “He runs older women like Violet, probably because he’s new to town. The area where Don Wesley was shot in Five Points, that’s where the hags work.”

  “Whitehall,” Kate said. She’d done a good job studying the Shooter files.

  “Each part of the Five is divvied up by the pimps.” Maggie tried to frame it in a way that Kate would understand. “Think of the area as a shopping mall for sex.”

  Gail barked a laugh. “Good one.”

  Maggie continued, “You want black girls? Go down the Marietta spike. There’s some Asians down Decatur. Mixed gals are on Peachtree. Prime real estate is north of Edgewood near Woodruff Park. That’s your Saks Fifth Avenue. Big money. Pimps are always fighting for that patch. It’s where the young white girls work. They get
the easy customers—businessmen, lawyers, doctors. The freaks go straight to Whitehall. Think of it as a J.C. Penney catalogue store. The girls are older. Their pimps don’t take care of them. The freaks like to beat on women, they’re looking for a discount, they don’t care so much what her face looks like or how old she is.”

  Gail said, “That’s why we wanna talk to ’em. Them gals’ lives depend on figuring out who’s gonna hurt ’em, who’s safe to go with. They watch everybody, see everything. I’d bet my left tit one of ’em either saw something or has a regular she knows for sure’s got a grudge against cops.”

  Maggie added, “There’s a lot of freaks out there who watch cops. You see them at the station sometimes. They just hang out for no reason. They go to crime scenes. They have police scanners.” As she talked, Maggie felt a weight being lifted from her chest. After reading the Shooter files, she had been worried that the killer might be a cop. The more she thought about it, the more it made sense that they were looking for some freak wannabe. “Somebody like that would know codes and routines.”

  Kate said, “Or maybe they washed out of the academy or didn’t last on the streets?”

  Gail couldn’t resist. “You makin’ a confession there, Sheep?”

  Kate didn’t laugh. “Jimmy said the man who shot Don was black. Wouldn’t you notice a black civilian hanging around the station house?” She added, “I mean, if he’s not already there because he’s a pimp.”

  Gail made a face. “Depends on the house. The commissioner’s moving all the checkers around the board. That’s what happened to Bud Deacon. He got moved to an all-black house. He tells ’em to go fuck themselves. They fire him; he sues ’em. Judge puts him back on the job pending the trial.”

  “They should’ve moved Jett Elliott,” Maggie said. “He doesn’t know where he is half the time anyway.”