RCC03.3 - No Good Deed

by Frank Zafiro

  After the fifth contact, Bates said, “Tell me something else.”

  “What?”

  “No,” Bates said, “I mean, tell me something else about what’s going on down there.”

  Romeo watched for another two minutes, then shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  “Who have his customers been?”

  “Guys in cars.”

  “What kind of guys?”

  “Young ones, I guess.”

  “You guess?”

  “Young ones,” Romeo said. “Except for the guy before last. He looked about forty.”

  “What color?”

  “Color?”

  “What color of guys?”

  “Oh. White, except for one.”

  Bates waited while Romeo thought some more. When he didn’t say anything, Bates asked, “See any women?”

  “No.”

  “Any walk-ups?”

  “No.”

  “So what’s he selling?”

  “Crack, right?”

  Bates narrowed his eyes.

  Romeo thought some more. No women meant no hookers. Most hookers were stuck on crack. Or heroin. He opened his mouth to say heroin, then paused. How many crack or heroin addicts had cars?

  “Get it yet?”

  Romeo chewed his lip. Maybe it was just suburbanites coming downtown for a rock of crack.

  “You had it before,” Bates told him. “Earlier.”

  Romeo thought for a moment longer, then his face broke into a smile. “Weed. He’s selling weed.”

  Bates nodded approvingly. “Number one cash crop in Washington, even with the B.C. bud coming down from Canada to compete. And even though selling marijuana is the same charge according to the law as selling crack—”

  “The judges don’t come down as hard,” Romeo finished.

  “Exactly. So now what?”

  Romeo watched Antoine through his binoculars. The man shifted his stance and leaned against the stop sign.

  “I say we get one more contact and then go arrest him.”

  Bates nodded his head. “That,” he said, “is a good choice.”

  They didn’t have to wait long. A Honda with two college age white males pulled up next to the stop sign and made a quick purchase. Romeo repeated the license plate back to himself and pulled out his notebook to write it down.

  “Oh, shit,” Bates said while Romeo scrawled.

  “What?”

  “Shit,” Bates repeated.

  Romeo brought his binoculars up to his face and found Antoine on the corner. A police car pulled up next to him and a young officer was out of the car. Wild Afro walked away from them and the officer waved his hands in that direction.

  “No way has he been watching him,” Bates muttered. “There’s no vantage point.”

  Romeo brought his glasses in tight on the officer. He recognized Lee Vickers from their platoon. He was pretty sure Vickers had barely a year on the job. Vickers gave up on Wild Afro and concentrated on Antoine. The black man eyed the officer coolly and slid his hands out of his pockets, holding them in plain view. Romeo imagined the conversation.

  You got warrants, Antoine?

  Nope.

  You holding?

  Nope.

  What are you doing down here?

  Just kickin’ it.

  After a short exchange, he heard Vickers come over the air with a name check.

  “You see that?” Bates asked him. “That’s the young bull, right there.” He shook his head in disgust. “He’s got nothing or he would’ve already put him in cuffs.”

  “Should I radio him to hook him up for us?”

  “Hold on,” Bates said. “Maybe he has warrants. I didn’t check.”

  Romeo didn’t respond, but he knew that Bates had made a mistake. If Antoine was wanted and Bates hadn’t checked, they’d wasted a lot of time watching him when they could’ve been arresting him.

  The dispatcher called Vickers on the air. When he answered, she told him Antoine was not currently wanted.

  “Go ahead,” Bates said. “Radio the stupid shit.”

  Romeo reached to depress his radio mike when unrelated traffic spilled out of the speaker. He waited for clear air, watching as Vickers seemed to reprimand Antoine and head back to his car.

  “Goddamn Chatty Cathys,” Bates grumbled. “They think the radio is a telephone.” He sighed. “Might as well wait now. Let Vickers take off. We’ll go hook him up ourselves.”

  Romeo watched as Vickers climbed back into his patrol car and sped off. He noticed Antoine watched the car, too. As soon as the Vickers drove around the corner, he straightened up suddenly and started walking in the opposite direction.

  “He’s hoofing it,” Bates said.

  Both men trotted to the roof access door. Romeo reached it first by several yards and flung it open. Three stories worth of stairs yawned beneath him. Romeo started down them and Bates followed behind. The training officer spoke once to warn him not to fall and break his head, but then he started breathing too heavily to speak.

  They reached the bottom floor and emerged into the lobby of the movie theater. Romeo felt a light sheen of sweat on him, little more than from standing in the hot sun on the roof. He glanced back at Bates, whose breath came in ragged breaths. The older officer wiped his sleeve across his forehead, brushing away huge droplets of sweat.

  “What…the fuck…are you…looking at?” he gasped at Romeo.

  Romeo bit the inside of his mouth to keep from smiling and shook his head.

  The patrol car was parked directly in front of the State Theater. Romeo fished keys out of his pocket and unlocked the door. Once inside, he hit the power locks and Bates opened the passenger door.

  “Don’t…get in a…wreck,” Bates told him.

  Romeo started the engine and pulled away from the curb. Five seconds later, he was at the corner where Antoine had been standing. The drug dealer was nowhere in sight.

  Bates had slowed his breathing some. “Drive around,” he said. “He can’t be far.”

  Romeo cruised down the length of The Block, past the greasy diner called Primo’s, a Laundromat and two bars. An assortment of hookers and dopers hung out on the sidewalk. All either deliberately ignored him or gave him a hard stare. He ignored them and drove on.

  He took a left and drove another block with no luck. Two more lefts and he was back at the same corner he’d started at.

  “Try alleys,” Bates told him. The training officer fiddled with the buttons on his door. “And unlock my goddamn window. I’m burning up in here.”

  Romeo hit the window unlock and flipped a u-turn. Bates rolled down the window and hacked out a wad from his lungs.

  At the first alley, Romeo turned right and crawled down the narrow passage. He ignored two winos seated against the rear of the Laundromat door, sharing a bottle wrapped in brown paper. They returned the favor.

  When they reached the end of the alley, he checked both directions. No Antoine. He goosed the accelerator and zipped across the street and into the next alley and resumed crawling. Next to a dumpster behind a restaurant, another transient stood, urinating on the wall. Both officers ignored him.

  “He is one sly cat,” Bates said.

  Romeo wondered what he meant, using the word ‘cat.’ Before he had time to think about it, he saw a flash of yellow and Antoine turned the corner at the opposite end of the alley. He took two steps into the alley. Then, without breaking stride, he wheeled around walked back out, disappearing the way he’d come.

  “There he is!” Bates pointed. “Go!”

  Romeo punched the gas before the words were all the way out of Bates’s mouth. In three seconds, he reached the mouth of the alley and slowed. Up the street, already almost a half block away, Antoine walked at a rapid pace.

  They were on him in another two seconds, pulling up along the curb and stopping just behind him. Romeo jammed the car into park and got out of the patrol car, but Bates was already at the front tire.

>   “Hey, Antoine!” he shouted. “Come back here!”

  Antoine slowed and turned reluctantly. A bored, slightly put out expression was plastered on his face. “What the fuck, Officer B? I ain’t done shit.”

  “Come over here,” Bates directed him.

  Antoine rolled his eyes and sauntered toward them.

  Bates pointed at Romeo. “Talk to my partner here,” he said.

  Antoine turned his gaze to Romeo. “Partner? Shit.”

  “Take your hands out of your pockets,” Romeo ordered.

  Antoine removed his hands in an exaggerated motion, reminiscent of his earlier encounter with Vickers.

  Romeo pointed to the push-bar at the front of the patrol car. “Stand there.”

  Antoine gave him a look, shook his head and swaggered to the front of the car. “Partner, huh? Dat’s bullshit, Officer B. Nigga is a fucking Rookie, dat’s what he is.”

  Romeo tensed at the epithet, but chose to ignore it.

  Antoine took up his position at the front of the car and crossed his arms. “Whachoo want, Rookie?”

  Romeo could sense Bates standing on his side of the car, watching them both. He met Antoine’s condescending gaze with his best professional stare. “I just wanted to introduce myself.”

  Antoine cocked his head at him, then glanced over at Bates. “What’s dis, B? Social hour?”

  Romeo watched Bates expression and saw that the veteran wasn’t sure what he was doing. He didn’t care. Romeo McClaren listened and he learned. His Moms taught him that.

  “I wanted to tell you something else, too,” he said.

  “What’s dat?”

  “That you owe me one.”

  Antoine looked him up and down, then back over at Bates. “Nigga is crazy, B. I’m telling you. Where you get dese muthafuckas, anyway? Boy is big and all, but he don’t look too smart, at all, you feel me?”

  Bates didn’t reply, only watched and waited.

  “Don’t talk to him,” Romeo said. “Talk to me.”

  “Talk to you?” Antoine repeated. “Talk to you? Man, fuck you, nigga.” He jabbed his index finger in Romeo’s direction to punctuate his words.

  Romeo moved quickly, stepping toward Antoine and grabbing onto his arm at the wrist and elbow. In one fluid motion, he cranked the arm and planted Antoine face-first into the hood of the cruiser.

  “Motherfuck,” Antoine grunted. “Dis is police brutality, bitch.”

  Romeo leaned down and spoke quietly. “No, it isn’t. You haven’t seen anything close to police brutality. Not yet.”

  Antoine’s eyes widened and his nostrils flared, but he said nothing.

  “Like I was saying,” Romeo continued. “You owe me one, and I’ll tell you why. I’ve been watching you sell your weed for the last hour. I got six contacts on you and I’ve got them all on videotape. My camera’s got a zoom lens and I’ve got you labeled.”

  “Bullshit,” Antoine said, weakly.

  “It’s true,” Romeo insisted. “You know it and I know it. I could take you in for delivery of a controlled substance right now if I wanted to. And you aren’t a juvenile any more, so the judge would drop a load on you.”

  Antoine didn’t reply.

  “All that ‘I’m a poor street kid’ rap won’t work anymore, Antoine. You get the full five years at Walla Walla.”

  “Ain’t no judge giving five years for chronic.”

  “Not for possession. And not for some piss ant case selling it, either.” Romeo increased the pressure on Antoine’s arm and pressed the dealer’s face hard into the hood. “But I’ve got six contacts. And six license plates, all on videotape. You think that when we go arrest those potheads you sold to, they won’t roll over on you in a heartbeat?”

  Antoine looked around wildly for escape.

  Romeo pushed down harder, making the dealer grunt. “I’ve got you cold,” he said. “But I’m going to let you go.” Then he released him.

  Antoine snapped upright and glared at Romeo. He rubbed his wrist and then his cheek before turning to Bates. “What the fuck, B?”

  “His play,” Bates grunted back.

  Antoine returned his gaze to Romeo. “Whachoo mean, let me go?”

  “I don’t care about weed, Antoine. I care about crack. I care about heroin.”

  “What the fuck I care whachoo care about?”

  “Because you’re going to make sure I get lots of it. Make my boss happy.”

  Antoine’s eyes narrowed. “I ain’t no snitch.”

  “No, but you’re a businessman. You play your cards right and you get rid of some competition.”

  Antoine sniffed condescendingly and regarded him. “How I know you and yo’ other cops don’t roust me when I’m working?”

  Romeo shrugged. “You don’t. But it beats knowing we will.”

  Antoine stared hard at him for a long moment. Then he said, “Yeah, fine. I give the word when I know, a’right?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “What?”

  “Tomorrow,” Romeo said. “I’ll pull up and make it look like I’m hassling you. You can tell me details while I’m patting you down.”

  “Fuck,” Antoine muttered, then nodded. “Yeah, okay.”

  Romeo nodded back. “That’s it, then.”

  Antoine looked up and down and shook his head. “Look at you,” he said, “All dressed up yo’ Gestapo shit. Fuckin’ shame when a brutha throws in against his own kind.”

  Romeo didn’t bite.

  Antoine turned and sauntered away, swinging his legs and bobbing his upper body to show as much contempt as he could.

  Romeo looked over at Bates. The training officer gave him a cool look.

  “Why didn’t you arrest him?”

  “Let me ask you something,” Romeo said. “If I cuffed him and searched him and found no dope at all, what would happen to the case?”

  Bates shrugged. “He’d go to jail.”

  “But not prison.”

  “Not a chance. But we know he’s holding.”

  Romeo turned and walked away, re-tracing Antoine’s steps down the block. He checked a public garbage can and looked under two parked cars, but found nothing.

  Bates watched on, and when he glanced at the veteran over his shoulder, he saw Antoine watching from the corner.

  Romeo spotted a pile of bricks against the wall. He nudged them with the toe of his boot, pushing them aside. Underneath were five tightly rolled baggies of marijuana.

  He reached down and picked them up off the ground and held them up for Bates to see. Antoine turned and ducked around the corner.

  Back at the patrol car, Romeo handed the dope to Bates.

  “He dumped it, huh?”

  Romeo nodded.

  “How’d you know?”

  “You told me.”

  Bates gave him a confused look.

  Romeo shrugged. “I just listened to what you told me about him. And I knew he’d dump the stuff once he saw us.”

  Bates gave him a strange look. “You just knew,” he repeated flatly.

  “Yeah. That’s why I didn’t arrest him.”

  “But you rolled him, anyway?”

  Romeo smiled. “I think it was the part about the videotape that did it.”

  Bates shook his head. “Unbelievable,” he muttered and got into the car.

  Romeo joined him, closing the door and glancing across at the veteran. “What’s the matter?”

  Bates chuckled. “Nothing,” he said. “Let’s go put this shit on the property book, Rook.”

  Romeo McClaren smiled and put the car in gear, feeling a little more like an old bull.

  Take a Hand

  “Dad? I need help.”

  The voice on the other end of the telephone line was tremulous, on the edge of frantic. He sounded like a little boy who somehow got in over his head but was still playing at being big, which was usually the case.

  “Andy? What’s wrong?” I asked him. “Are you all right?”

  He la
ughed. He might have been trying for sarcasm, but all that came out was a nervous, forced sound. “Oh, yeah. I’m fine.”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “I’m at the hospital.”

  A stab of fear hit me in the gut. “Are you hurt?”

  “Not bad. Just beat up. Trevor’s worse.”

  “Who’s Trevor?”

  “My best friend.”

  I pressed my lips together and suppressed a sigh. “I didn’t know.”

  “Yeah, well there’s a lot you don’t know.”

  That wasn’t a conversation I wanted to have over the phone. “Which hospital?”

  “Sacred Heart,” he replied.

  “I’ll come get you.”

  He was waiting outside the ER when I pulled up. I reached across and unlocked the passenger door of my truck and he slid in. The blond tips of his black hair hung past his collar and covered his eyes.

  He slammed the door and cast a sideways glance at me. “Thanks,” he muttered, pushing his hair out of his face.

  “Sure,” I answered. He looked thinner than the most recent picture I had of him. His mother’s features dominated his face, especially in his large, blue eyes and thin, elfish nose. A large, purple bruise spread across his left cheek and a small bandage covered a cut on his chin.

  My eyes narrowed. He had my chin. I’d never noticed before.

  I drove and said nothing.

  After a few blocks, he cleared his throat. “I—I didn’t know who else to call.”

  “It’s all right,” I told him. “You did the right thing.”

  He scowled and looked away.

  I turned into a diner and parked. “Let’s get some coffee.”

  Inside, I waited until the waitress had filled both cups and walked away before asking, “What’s going on?”

  Andy stared down at his coffee and shifted in his seat.

  “What kind of trouble are you in?” I asked him, my stomach uneasy.

  He sipped his coffee and looked away. I stared at the bruise on his cheek.

  “Andy, I can’t help you if you don’t talk to me.”

  His jaw clenched.

  “You called me—”

  His eyes snapped to mine. “Yeah, well maybe that was a mistake.”