Tales of River City

by Frank Zafiro

  “What’re we gonna do?”

  The theatre manager hesitated a little bit when he saw Andy’s beat-up face, but I flashed my badge. I snapped the wallet shut before he could read the word ‘retired’ emblazoned across it, but he didn’t look that closely anyway. He remembered me from patrol.

  “Just don’t let them see you,” he said, issuing the same warning he always used to. “Those animals will vandalize my theatre and scare off my customers.”

  “We’ll be careful,” I assured him.

  “Like ninjas?” he said with a hint of a grin.

  In spite of everything, I grinned at the familiar banter. “Exactly.”

  Up on the roof, I pulled out my binoculars and scoped out The Block. Dopers, hookers and dealers were scattered all along First Avenue, each keeping a healthy distance from the other. I strained to make out a familiar face, but found none. That surprised me. On patrol, it seemed like I always dealt with the same old people over and over again. I wondered briefly if the faces had changed quickly, though, and maybe my perception was based on how often I had to deal with them. Even so, I marveled at how much had changed since I left. And how much was the same.

  I lowered the binoculars, handing them to Andy. “Take these. Find the guy you bought from.”

  Andy scanned The Block with the binocs. “He’s not there.”

  “What’s this guy’s name?”

  “I only know his initial. It’s D.”

  “White, black, brown?”

  “Black.”

  “Banger?”

  Andy lowered the glasses. “Probably.”

  “Which gang?”

  “Crips. He wore blue.”

  I started to reply, but closed my mouth. Of course D was a Crip. River City was a Crip town, ever since the mid ’90s. The Bloods never managed to get a toe hold up here in Eastern Washington. So the Crips maintained an uneasy truce with all the Crip sub-sets and warred mostly with the Hispanics and the Russians.

  We stood on the roof as the afternoon heated up. The sun reflected off the white brick that rimmed the edge of the roof. I stood and sweated and waited while Andy searched the street through the binoculars.

  “Back when I worked patrol,” I told Andy, “I used to come up onto the theatre roof several times a week.”

  He grunted.

  “I’d watch the drug dealers and hookers do their deals and then radio down descriptions to the other patrolman. They’d swoop in and hook them up.”

  He grunted again.

  “Without me sweating my balls off up here, we’d have never caught half the dealers we did…” I trailed off, and Andy didn’t reply.

  I was quiet for a moment, remembering the few times I’d taken him fishing as a kid. We drove up to Fan Lake, eating fried chicken along the way and then fished the day away. We sat for hours, not speaking a word. It was a comfortable silence, unlike this one.

  “The funny thing was,” I told him, “none of the dealers ever believed me when I testified in court about seeing everything from up here.”

  Andy glanced over, then back through the binoculars. “Why’s that?”

  “I guess since they never spotted me up there, it easier for them to believe I was lying rather than up on the roof.”

  Andy didn’t reply right away. An uncomfortable ten minutes passed in silence.

  “Black guys selling meth?” I finally asked. “Isn’t that a little out of character?”

  “What do you mean?” Andy asked.

  “Meth is more of a biker drug, that’s all. The black gangs tended more toward selling crack.”

  “Meth is the new crack, I guess,” Andy muttered.

  I didn’t reply. We fell silent again.

  “There he is,” Andy said, almost two hours later. “That’s him.”

  He handed me the binoculars and directed me to the corner. I spotted a black male I didn’t recognize, dressed in baggy, casual clothes and leaning against the wall. A blue bandana hung from his pocket.

  “That’s D?”

  “Yeah.”

  I scanned the rest of The Block for his boys. The first was easy to spot, because he stood right on the corner—a wiry guy in a blue t-shirt. He’d be the salesman, I figured. Sure enough, within minutes a car pulled up for a short exchange and then drove off.

  “Where’s his muscle?” I muttered.

  “It’s just him and the skinny guy,” Andy said.

  “No women or wannabes in sight,” I said. “No one to hold his guns or extra dope.”

  “He holds it. No one messes with D.”

  “Still, he wouldn’t want to be holding a gun or dope if the police contact him.”

  “The police don’t touch him.”

  I lowered my binoculars and looked over at Andy. I didn’t like the inference. “What do you mean?”

  He shrugged. “The police don’t touch him,” he repeated. “That’s all I know.”

  I chewed on that while watching an hour’s worth of business transactions. I couldn’t believe D was being protected by cops. Not in River City. Not if he was able to move the kind of weight Andy described.

  Could he be a confidential informant?

  No way. All CI contracts have a clause that forbids the CI to break any laws while working with the police. Cops have been known to look the other way for some minor violations, but not for major drug trafficking.

  We watched for an hour, and then I nudged Andy. “Let’s go.”

  He gave me a confused look. “Why? I thought—”

  “Just come on.”

  He shook his head and followed me.

  When we passed through the lobby, I gave the manager a wave. He gave me two thumbs up.

  “I thought you were going to help,” Andy said to me once we were outside.

  “I am.” I unlocked the truck and slid behind the wheel. Andy remained on the sidewalk, staring at me. His hair hung over a sullen face. I rolled down the window. “If we’re going to do this, you’re just going to have to trust me.”

  His gaze didn’t soften.

  “Get in,” I told him and started the engine.

  Reluctantly, he walked to passenger side and got inside.

  I drove to Madison. As soon as I turned the corner, I pulled the old truck to the side of the street and parked.

  “Lean back in the seat,” I instructed Andy. “And don’t move around.”

  We sat in silence from over a block away and watched Wiry sell while D watched. After another twenty minutes, the pair decided to close up shop. A cab arrived at the corner and both men got inside.

  I started the truck and followed them from a distance. The cab turned onto the Birch Street Bridge and headed into the West Central neighborhood. When the cab pulled to the side to let the two passengers out at a small blue house, I continued past. After two blocks, I flipped a U-turn and parked on the side of the street. I turned off the engine.

  “What are we doing?” Andy asked.

  “Watching.”

  “For what?”

  “Make sure they’re staying put.”

  We sat in the car for twenty minutes before I started the engine again.

  “Now what?”

  I drove to Cannon Park, right in the heart of West Central. “Get out,” I told him.

  “What?”

  “You heard me.”

  Andy shook his head. “No way. Whatever you’re going to do, I’m helping.”

  “No, you’re not.”

  “I am. I—”

  “Andy!” My voice rang out in the truck cab. He jumped in his seat.

  “Jesus,” he muttered. “You scared the fuck out of me.”

  I looked across the bench seat at him. I wanted to tell him I was sorry for letting his mother get away with all the lies she told. Sorry that I didn’t try harder to break through all the bullshit and be his father. Sorry for the Christmases and the birthdays and every other goddamned thing.

  “Andy, you’re a junkie,” was what I said, and the col
dness in my voice made me cringe.

  “No, I’m not—”

  “You’re no good to me. Not for what I have to do.”

  His eyes brimmed with tears.

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  He brushed them away in two brisk motions. “I’m not a junkie,” he said.

  “Wait here.” I pointed through the windshield. “At that bench. I’ll be back soon.”

  He glared at me. “I am not a junkie,” he said.

  “I know,” I whispered back. “You’re my son.”

  He sucked at his teeth and his mouth made a clacking noise. Then he opened the door and got out.

  It wasn’t a party house. Parked a half block away with my windows open, I’d have heard the thumping of bass if a party were going on. No one else came or went while I watched and planned.

  I finally decided that the longer I waited, the greater the chance people would show up. I got out of the truck and popped the seat back forward. The oversized flannel shirt was nestled into the corner. I picked it up and unwrapped the sawed-off shotgun. With the barrel cut down to eight inches and very little handgrip, it didn’t look like much, but it was deadly at close range.

  I slipped on the flannel, checked to make sure both barrels were loaded and tucked the shotgun into my waistband. I used my elbow to pin the weapon to my body while I strode to the little blue house.

  At the door, I listened carefully and only heard the muffled thump of heavy bass. No voices. My hands and feet tingled as the zing of adrenaline flooded my body. For a moment, I thought about what I was about to do. There were a hundred good reasons not to do it. Most of those faded, though, now that I was retired from the job. I had so much less to lose now. All that kept coming to mind was Andy’s scared, bruised face and the sucking, clacking sound he made with his teeth.

  I slipped the shotgun out of my waistband and gripped it tightly in my right hand. With my left, I check the doorknob. It was locked. By force of habit, I counted to three, reared back and drove my foot into the door just below the knob.

  The flimsy door flew open with a loud crack.

  D and his wiry pal sat on the couch, game controllers clutched in their hands. The huge TV screen in front of them displayed video game soldiers.

  “What the fu—” Wiry said, his eyes widening. He sat closest to me, perched on the edge of the couch. I took two long strides and cracked him across the jaw with the butt end of the shotgun. He grunted and collapsed forward onto the floor.

  D stared at me, surprise registering in his eyes, but no fear. He lounged against the back of the couch in an exaggerated pose of relaxation.

  “Who else is here?” I demanded.

  D continued to stare at me. Wiry moaned and stirred.

  I touched the shotgun barrels to the back of Wiry’s head. “Who else?”

  “No one, man,” D answered. “Just us.”

  I nudged Wiry with the shotgun. “Get up.”

  Wiry groaned, but rose to a knee and then fell sideways onto the couch. He looked up at me with unfocused eyes and rubbed his swelling jaw.

  D appraised me. “You all by yo’self, pig? Where’s yo backup?”

  I glared at him. “I’m not a cop.”

  “You look like five-oh to me,” he said. “And I done paid you motherfuckers already.”

  Wiry shifted in his seat, coiling himself to spring. I pressed the barrel of the shotgun against his forehead. “Relax,” I growled.

  He sighed and sank into the cushion.

  I turned my attention back to D. “You sold a package of crank to a white kid last night. He paid you five large.”

  D gave me a dismissive shrug. “If you say so.”

  I stepped forward and smacked Wiry in the back of the head with my open hand. He yelped. My eyes never left D.

  “I do say so,” I told him, “because that’s exactly what happened. But then you pulled a Compton Shuffle.”

  “Say what?”

  “You sent your boys to jump that white kid and his pal and you stole back the merchandise you’d just sold him. So now you’ve got the five thousand and the dope.”

  “You a crazy motherfucker, man.”

  I gave him a manic grin. “Not crazy. Just nothing to lose.”

  A flash of fear touched his eyes and they widened. The corner of his mouth twitched.

  “Here’s how it’s going to work,” I said. “Wiry here is going to get the money and bring it out into the living room. If he comes back empty-handed or with anything except the money in his hand, you get the first barrel and he gets the second.”

  D stared at me, his eyes searching mine for an answer to whatever question he needed answered. I guess he saw some truth there, because he shrugged and said, “Aw’ight, if dat’s how it is.”

  “That’s how it is.”

  He gave Wiry an upward nod. Wiry rose from the couch, still rubbing his jaw, and walked toward a short hallway.

  “Keep your hands where I can see them,” I told him.

  Wiry kept walking.

  “Why’d you do it?” I asked D.

  “Jus’ bidness,” he answered, his eyes flat.

  We waited in the living room, the low bass from the stereo thumping. D still held the videogame controller in his hands.

  A few moments later, Wiry emerged from the hallway, both his hands held up at shoulder level. His left was empty. His right held a wad of cash.

  “Put it on the table,” I ordered him.

  He set it on the table next to an ashtray and an open bottle of malt liquor.

  “Count it.”

  “It’s all there.”

  “Good. Now count it.”

  Wiry counted out the hundreds first, reaching forty-five hundred. Then he counted out the last five hundred in twenties. It was all there.

  “I told you it was all there.”

  “Sit back,” I ordered.

  Wiry did as he was told. I reached down and picked up the money, stuffing it into the breast pockets of my flannel. D watched on, his eyes cool and appraising.

  When I finished buttoning up the pocket, I motioned to Wiry with the shotgun. “Now go get the dope you ripped.”

  “What the fuck?” D demanded.

  “You heard me,” I told Wiry. “Get the crank.”

  “Dat’s bullshit,” D snapped, his voice a growl. “You got yo’ money back. We even.”

  I shook my head. “No. You left them with no dope and no money and that’s how I’m going to leave you. That’s even.”

  “Aw, man, dat’s fucked up.”

  “That’s the way it is.” I motioned at Wiry with the shotgun. “Go get it.”

  Wiry hesitated until D gave him a reluctant nod. Rubbing his jaw, he disappeared down the hallway.

  “This isn’t personal,” I told him. “Just business.”

  “It’s fucked up.”

  I shrugged. “I’m just doing what Paco ordered.”

  D’s eyes narrowed. “Dat boy was Paco’s?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Shit. I din’t know dat. Give him back his money, yo? Den we be cool.”

  “I’ve got my orders,” I said. “It’s the money and the product.”

  “Dat shit’s unreasonable.”

  “That’s what Paco said to do.”

  D cursed under his breath.

  “Of course,” I said, “his woman didn’t help matters much.”

  D cocked his head and regarded me. “How’s dat?”

  I shrugged. “She pushed him, is all. Said there was no way Paco could let some stupid niggers get the better of him.”

  The change in D’s face was palpable. His eyes widened at the epithet and then narrowed to slits. “Bitch said dat?”

  I nodded. “If it was up to her, this would’ve been a hit instead of just a recovery. She said the only way to deal with niggers who didn’t know their place was to put ‘em down, just like a rabid dog.”

  D clenched his jaw. “Who you callin’ dog?”

  “He
r words, not mine. This is just a one time deal for me and I fly back—well, you don’t need to know that part, do you?”

  “Don’t care,” D grunted. “My bidness is wit dat motherfucker Paco and his bitch.”

  Wiry returned to the living room holding a manila envelope. He extended it toward me.

  I shook my head. “On the table.”

  Wiry dropped it on the coffee table.

  “Sit.”

  He obeyed.

  I lifted the package and looked inside at the baggie full of yellowish-white powder.

  “You tell Paco,” D said, his nostrils flaring, “he wants a war, he got himself a motherfuckin’ war.”

  I tucked the package under my free arm. “He said if you niggers don’t play nice, he’d listen to his woman and cap the whole lot of you.”

  D’s eyes flashed. He dropped the game controller and jabbed his finger toward me. “You tell him. He a dead motherfucker now. His bitch, too.”

  “I’ll tell him,” I said, backing toward the door. “But he said you don’t have the balls.”

  “We see about dat shit,” D said.

  I backed through the doorway and pulled the door shut behind me. Then I ran like hell.

  “Jesus, you got it?”

  I drove north, watching for cars that might be tailing us. So far, none.

  “How’d you do it?”

  “I just did it.”

  “Oh, Jesus,” Andy muttered. “I can’t believe it.”

  At Franklin Park, I pulled into a parking lot and turned off the car. The motor cooled, ticking.

  “Here,” I said, handing Andy the money.

  He took it, his eyes brimming with tears. “Thanks, Dad. Thanks.”

  “Don’t thank me yet. You remember our deal?”

  “Yeah. I gotta get clean.”

  “Exactly. And I want you to leave town to do it.”

  “Leave town?”

  “You’ve got to get away from what you know if you’re going to get clean.”

  “But I don’t have any money.”

  “I just gave you five grand.”

  He blanched. “No, that’s Paco’s money. I can’t—”

  “Don’t worry about Paco,” I told him. “Just take the money and go. Today.”

  “You don’t understand. He’ll come after me. He’ll—”

  “No, he won’t. He’ll leave you alone, because I’m going to see that he gets his dope. Okay?”