The Good Cop

by Brad Parks

“A what?”

  “Never mind. I guess I’m just asking if you thought it was possible for a civilian to have gotten his hands on Fusco’s gun.”

  “Possible? Sure. Do this job long enough and you’ll swear anything is possible,” Pritch said. “But maybe if you put something in your paper about it, it’ll embarrass the brass enough that they’ll actually do something about it for a change.”

  “That sounds like a magnificent idea,” I said, then asked the following question facetiously: “You want to go on the record with that, Detective Pritchard?”

  He snorted. “Yeah, about as much as I want to be hanging out with you the next time that Mercedes comes around.”

  * * *

  The tow truck and Tommy arrived within a few seconds of each other, so I ended the call with Pritch and watched as my Chevy Malibu, the car that had served me for more miles than its busted odometer knew how to count, was winched onto a flatbed and taken away, all forlorn and dented. If this was truly its end—and I can’t imagine it’s very hard to total a car that doubles in value every time you fill the gas tank—it had served me well.

  I said good-bye to Baldy Jones, who acknowledged me by slightly lifting his head from the form he was filling out and then immediately putting his head back down. I suspected we wouldn’t be swapping cute text messages later.

  “You know, if you wanted to pimp your ride, I could have found someone to do a better job than that,” Tommy said as I lowered myself into his car, an import that was a bit on the small side for a strapping American male such as myself.

  “Yeah, but you’d probably send me to a guy who would outfit the seats with pink slipcovers.”

  Tommy said something in Spanish, which is his go-to move when he wants to deliver a withering putdown that I simply cannot match.

  “I accept your compliment,” I said.

  He snorted.

  We drove for a moment in silence, giving me a chance to appreciate how nice it was riding in a car that wasn’t being assailed by bullets.

  “Your little car chase went out on BNN, you know,” Tommy said.

  BNN was the Breaking News Network, a company that paid people to listen to police scanners and then report the good stuff to nosy journalists like me. In the old days, BNN subscribers got broadcasts sent out on a pager; now it was an Internet site.

  “Too bad they don’t use names on BNN,” I replied. “It would have been good for my street cred.”

  “Yeah, yeah. But just … be careful, okay? You’re a newspaper reporter, remember? We write about this sort of stuff happening to other people. I’m worried about you.”

  “Oh, I’m fine,” I said, even though I really wasn’t.

  “You’re only ‘fine’ because those hombres can’t shoot straight. I mean, what the hell is going on?”

  “I just talked to a cop source who said it’s just a group of guys pretending to be the Black Mafia Family street gang.”

  “Whoever that is. What did you do to piss them off?

  “I’m not sure, actually. I guess I should at least try to find out before they come back, huh?”

  “Sounds like a good idea. Because, you know, if they start shooting at us between here and the office, I’m going to kick you out of the car and let them have you. I just got this thing paid off, and I don’t want it getting all full of bullet holes.”

  I wished I had a ready repertoire of Spanish insults with which to counter him. Instead, I pulled up Tee Jamison’s name on my phone’s contact list and hit the Send button.

  Tee answered the phone the way he always does, with a short, “Yeah.”

  “What is up, my brother?” I said, intentionally overenunciating each word.

  “You know, you sound like them politicians who only come into the ’hood when it’s time to hustle votes. They teach you white people to talk like that?”

  “It just comes naturally,” I assured him, then spent a few minutes telling him about my new propensity for having to duck bullets, thanks to my sudden association with guys masquerading as Black Mafia Family.

  “So you beefin’ with BMF?” he said when I was done. “You mean them guys who were hooked up with Young Jeezy?”

  “And that is…?”

  “A rapper. For you people, that’d be like, I don’t know, Neil Diamond or something.”

  “Well, sweet, Caroline.”

  “Huh?”

  “Never mind. I just need to figure out what these guys are into and why they’re after me.”

  “Oh, well, I don’t really know those niggas. They sound like they a bunch of younguns, frontin’ like that. I don’t know the new generation that well. But you know who would?”

  “Who?”

  “Uncle Bernie.”

  It was a good thing I wasn’t drinking a Coke Zero. I would have snorted it out my nose. “Come on, he’s so old I think he resold warrantied merchandise to Moses.”

  “I’m telling you, that dude has got feelers everywhere. I mean, he’s getting boots from me, luggage from someone’s mom. He’s probably getting something from those guys, too. People in the ’hood know Uncle Bernie will give you quick cash for the right stuff. And who don’t like quick cash?”

  Uncle Bernie did mention something about knowing everyone from the bubbas to the machers. (Whoever they were.) Maybe he’d know a few bangers, too. It was worth a try.

  “Good thought, thanks,” I said.

  “No problem,” he said. “And, hey, if you see Lil J, get his autograph, will you?”

  “Yeah, right after you get me Neil Diamond.”

  I ended the call, then told Tommy, “You mind making a little detour? It’ll take us maybe twenty minutes, and you might be able to get some new Pradas out of it.”

  “I’d love to, but I have to be at a stupid ribbon-cutting at four o’clock. I wouldn’t want to miss the North Ward councilman congratulating himself for something he actually had nothing to do with.”

  “All right. Then can you drop me somewhere? It’s just on Irvine Turner Boulevard.”

  Tommy heaved a melodramatic sigh, the kind only gay guys seem to be able to pull off with the needed gusto. “And then, what, you’re going to be on the street, thumbing a ride back to the office when BMF comes back?”

  “No, I’ll call Ruthie, have him pick me up.”

  Tommy let out a groaning noise. “I don’t like that kid. He’s such a brownnoser.”

  “I know, I know. But he’s actually not too bad once you get to know him. And I think he might be a pretty good reporter. We’re going to work on a story together as soon as I can get my plate a little cleaner.”

  “Yeah, assuming you live that long,” Tommy said, but he had already started making his way toward Irvine Turner. I gave him the cross streets, then called Ginsburg to arrange for my ride home. He didn’t answer, so I sent him a text with the details of where to find me. He seemed like the kind of guy who wouldn’t ignore a texted plea for help from someone he thought might help his career.

  After a quick stop at an ATM machine—this story was growing expensive, but at least I would be getting good bargains—Tommy pulled up to the curb outside the anonymous cream-colored building with its one-way glassed bodega and its insides stocked with the finest warranteed merchandise. I just hoped Uncle Bernie would again be chatty.

  As I departed, Tommy called out, “Be safe, all right?”

  “I’ll be fine,” I said.

  “Okay,” Tommy said. He seemed to want to linger or maybe say something else, but talked himself out of it. Though as he drove away, I thought I saw him shaking his head.

  * * *

  The alley was just as strangely clean as it was the previous time I visited it, although at least I understood why this time. Gene seemed like the type who would want things tidy. I rang the bell and was immediately greeted by the sound of Uncle Bernie’s voice pouring through the speaker. “You changed your mind about the briefcase! I knew you’d change your mind.”

  “Yeah, that’s right,�
�� I said. Why not? My current briefcase was beginning to look like it had been sat on by a few too many elephants.

  “I told you he’d change his mind,” Bernie said at slightly lower volume, like he was talking to someone else in the room, probably Gene. Then he returned to me: “Hang on. I’ll be right there.”

  I stuffed my hands in my pockets and idly glanced up at the building. It turned out the camera above the door wasn’t the only one. There were also cameras high on each corner. They looked like the kind that could be controlled remotely. I guess Uncle Bernie didn’t want anyone sneaking up on him. He had thousands of dollars of product that had warranties against material or manufacturing defect but not, I suspected, against theft.

  The same large, taciturn black man greeted me at the door. He led me down the hallway, punched in a numeric code on the inner door, and ushered me into the merchandise warehouse, where Bernie was already waiting for me.

  He was dressed in a half-buttoned Hawaiian shirt that had too many colors to possibly catalogue. His pants were pink, perhaps the only color not represented in the shirt. The small wisps of his barely there, chemically enhanced blond hair were slicked back into their usual position. He was wearing the same yellow-tinted glasses as last time, though I thought perhaps he had changed pinkie rings.

  “How are ya, kid?” He greeted me with a handshake.

  “I’m good, Uncle Bernie. How you been?”

  “I’m good, I’m good,” he said, then began patting my cheek, which I pretended wasn’t awkward. “Look at this kisser, heh? So young. You look good, you look good. You get a little sun since the last time I saw you? You go down south? Miami? I love Miami. We go to Florida at least once a winter. I could never live down there. I’d just be another one of those schmucks playing shuffleboard all day long. But it’s nice to visit, it’s nice to visit.”

  “Yeah, Miami is great,” I confirmed. “Where’s Gene?”

  Bernie made a dismissive gesture. “Eh, he’s upstairs, forging a receipt for the Cuisinart people. They’re very picky, those Cuisinart guys. You gotta get it just right with them. After he does Cuisinart, he has to do Best Buy. Another tough one. He’ll be here all night.”

  “Sure.”

  “So, briefcase, briefcase,” he said, walking quickly toward what I recognized as the luggage section. “You like Coach? I got Coach. Black or brown. The brown is nice, the leather is softer. Like butter. But you young guys, I know how you are, you like the black shoes, the black belts. Maybe you like the black better, huh?”

  “Actually, Uncle Bernie, I was hoping you could help me with a story I’m working on.”

  That stopped his white nurses’ shoes in their tracks. “What, you don’t want the briefcase? I got Kenneth Cole, too, if you don’t like Coach.”

  “No, no, I’ll take the briefcase. The black one is fine. I was just wondering … my pal Tee thought you might have heard of a gang called Black Mafia Family.”

  Bernie looked at me like he was mystified as to why I would care but said, “You mean those balegoolas who drive around in that Mercedes? Yeah, I know them. BMW makes a better car, you ask me. But, yeah, they’re all right. They’re a bunch of pishers, but they’re sweet boys.”

  “Sweet boys? They’ve tried to kill me twice today.”

  “Eh,” he said, waving it away like it never happened. “They’re not so tough. You want tough? Try Fat Lou Larasso. Back in the day, he’d have someone cut out your eyeballs if you looked at him the wrong way. Those boys? Puppies. Kittens. They try their best. But I think their source dried up—sad, very sad. You need to have a good supplier in that line of work or else you’re tot. For me? They mostly do electronics. Televisions. Vizio. Vizio was the last thing they got for me. Vizio is good. Sony is better, but Vizio is good. You want to see it? It just came in. I could give you a deal.”

  “Actually, I was hoping you could, I don’t know, arrange for me to talk to them somehow?”

  He recoiled. “What do you think I am, a shadken? They’re business associates. This is a business I’m running here, not a dating service.”

  “I know, I know. I was just … look, they keep shooting at me, and I’d sort of like to figure out why before I catch a bullet in the ear.”

  “All right, all right. Hang on. You’re a customer, I don’t need my customers getting killed. Bad for business,” he said and produced an iPhone from his pocket. Cutting-edge guy, Uncle Bernie. He held it as far out as his arm could go, muttering to himself all the while, tapped at it a few times, then brought it to his ear.

  “Yeah, yeah. Don’t give me that ‘yo’ stuff. It’s Uncle Bernie.”

  He listened for a moment. “Yeah, the Vizio worked out nicely. You get any more, you bring ’em to me, you hear?”

  Another reply. “Okay, okay. Listen, I know a goy, says you keep shooting at him.”

  Pause. “Yeah, tall skinny white guy. That’s him.”

  Uncle Bernie nodded, then pulled the phone away from his ear and put his hand over the mouthpiece. “Yep, they’re shooting at you. It sounds like they’re a little pissed they keep missing.”

  “Can you ask them why they’re shooting at me? What did I do?”

  Bernie returned to the phone and said, “He wants to talk.” He furrowed his brow as he heard the reply, which went on for a minute or so. Finally, Bernie cut it off with “Okay, okay, I got you.” He then addressed me: “It doesn’t sound like they want to talk to you. Someone hired them to kill you, so they have to kill you.”

  “Can you ask them who they’re working for?”

  “He wants to know who you’re working for,” Bernie said into the phone, waited, then announced, “They can’t tell you.”

  “Is it a church?” I asked.

  “They said they can’t tell you,” Bernie objected.

  “Just ask. C’mon.”

  Bernie gave an exasperated grunt. “Fine, fine,” he said, returning to his phone. “Is it a church you’re working for?… Okay, okay, I’m not deaf. I hear you … Well, that’s very nice of you, I’ll be sure to tell him … Yeah, Panasonic is good, too. The bigger the better. I don’t bother with anything much under forty these days. No market for it … Right then, I’ll see you by the end of the week.”

  He hung up, then turned to me. “They said they can’t tell you who they’re working for, but that you shouldn’t worry for the rest of the day because they lost their best gun trying to kill you the last time, and they won’t be able to get another one until later. See? I told you they’re nice boys.”

  * * *

  Uncle Bernie was just turning his attention back to briefcases when a chiming sound echoed throughout the warehouse. Bernie looked around, annoyed.

  “Meh, what is this, Grand Central Station?” he grumbled, then shuffled over to an intercom on the wall. He pressed a button, then said, “Gene, who is it?”

  I heard Gene’s slightly static-garbled voice reply, “He says he’s here to pick up Mr. Ross.”

  Bernie looked at me, “You expecting someone? What is this, your mommy coming to pick you up from baseball practice?”

  Before I could reply, Gene said, “He says his name is Geoff Ginsburg.”

  “Ginsburg. Ginsburg?” Bernie said. “Sounds like a mensch. I probably know his grandfather. Let him in. Maybe he wants a nice pen. I got Cross, you know. Silver or gold. Very classy. I got a guy who engraves them, too. Makes a good gift.”

  The black guy went back through the entrance, and Bernie turned back to me. “So, the briefcase. Retails for three hundred. Uncle Bernie gives it to you for two hundred. I’m going to have to ask for cash, though. Normally, returning customer like you, I’d let you open up an account. But it sounds like you might not be around long enough to pay it off. So we’re going to have to make it cash.”

  “Fair enough,” I said, digging the bills out of my wallet just as Ruthie appeared.

  Bernie was on him like twists on challah bread. “Come in, come in, my friend. Mr. Ginsburg. Fine, fine young
fellow you are. A real kluger, this one. I bet you like to read. You look like a reader. You want a Kindle? I got the latest. Give you a good deal.”

  I hadn’t prepared Ruthie for this, and he was looking around the warehouse with the same slack-jawed wonder I did when I first saw it.

  “Geoff is an intern, which means he makes about five hundred bucks a week,” I said. “I’m not sure he’s in the market.”

  “Fine, fine,” Bernie said. “When you get a raise, call me. I got some Farberware that I can tell your mother would just love.”

  I put myself in between Bernie and Ruthie, if only to help stop the sales pitch.

  “Hey, thanks for coming to get me,” I said. “I’m having a little car trouble.”

  “Yeah, no problem,” Ruthie said. “I actually have to talk to you anyway. I got some amazing stuff on red dot. You’re going to want to move it up on your schedule.”

  “Oh yeah?” I said. I hadn’t even told Ruthie about my close encounter with a red dot gun.

  “I went back and talked to those corner boys a little more. At first they were giving me a hard time, doing all that ‘I ain’t no snitch’ stuff. Then I sorta made a deal with them…”

  He glanced down and toed the concrete floor of the warehouse a little bit. “What?” I asked.

  “Well, we got talking a little more. And it turns out they’re aspiring rappers.”

  “Okay,” I said. This was not surprising: I think roughly two out of every five young men in Newark identifies himself as an aspiring rapper, the same way two out of every five parents on a suburban travel soccer team thinks their kid is going to get a college scholarship. In each case, the chance for even a modest fulfillment of the goal is roughly the same.

  “So they were saying they were having a hard time getting noticed and … I promised them I’d do a Good Neighbors about their group.”

  “A Good Neighbors? About kids who are hanging out on the corner selling drugs?”

  “Well, they said that was just temporary until the stuff they have on iTunes takes off. Besides, they said they rap about positive themes—don’t get your girlfriend pregnant, don’t shoot anyone who doesn’t deserve it, that sort of thing. I thought that’d be good enough. Besides, it was the only way I could get them to talk to me. Trust me, it was worth it.”