And the Tide Turns

by Timothy Dalton

  Finally, Art spoke and Ethan heard with relief the assent in the other man’s voice. “What do you need me to do?”

  Ethan took a moment to compose his thoughts and glanced around to double check that he wasn’t being watched. “Okay, but this is going to sound weird, so just bear with me.”

  “I’m here,” Art said. “Lay it on me.”

  “Can you check and see what the word is on the street about any sort of Russian activity?”

  There was another beat of silence before Art’s voice boomed through the receiver, heedless of being overheard. “Dammit, Ethan – I told you to stop joking around!”

  “I’m serious, Art. I think something big is up, and Tobias might have been involved. That’s why he was killed.”

  On the other end Art took a slow breath, calming himself for a softer tone. “Listen to me, I know it may be hard to come to terms with, but it was a suicide and -”

  “Look, before you say anything, hear me out. I know something strange is going on, I can feel it. Remember the trash cans outside?”

  “The what?”

  “The trash cans outside Tobias’s place, sitting curbside. They were full. Why would Tobias bother taking out the trash if he was planning to kill himself?”

  There was a heartbeat’s pause before Art hissed, “Is that all you’ve got? You want me to believe that just because he took the trash out, he may not have eaten a bullet? That’s a stretch, Ethan. It would be like saying anyone who’s ever killed themselves wouldn’t even consider brushing their teeth that day because what would be the point, right?”

  “Hold on, that’s not all,” Ethan said. “He left a message on my answering machine. Yes, I admit it did sound like he was about to end it all, but just before the recording finished he spoke out to someone else in the room.”

  “Look, man, I know you want to believe – wait. What do you mean he spoke out?”

  “Before the line disconnected he clearly said, ‘What are you doing here?’ to someone. Art, I’m not making this shit up. Are you sure Bagowski hasn’t come up with anything yet?”

  “So far nothing points to anyone being there except your uncle,” Art said. “And no, I still haven’t heard back from Bags. We’ll have more when the ballistics report comes in. You’re certain he was speaking to someone?” Before waiting for an answer, he added, “You should bring in the tape for Fredericks. He’ll want to hear it.”

  “I, uh, kind of erased it,” Ethan said, feeling like an idiot.

  “You kind of erased it. Or you did. Why would you delete the damn thing?”

  Ethan huffed out a sigh. “I don’t know. I had a million things going through my mind – and Tobias practically left the combination to his safe on the message. What if there’s a leak at the station?”

  “I think you’re taking this spy shit a little too seriously.”

  “After seeing what happened on the front lawn of the mansion, I’m taking everything seriously.”

  “Except your own antics. You need to buckle down, son, and think with a clear head.”

  Art was right. A few seconds ago, Ethan had been lobbing wisecracks at his partner, just like any other day. Maybe his subconscious wanted to pretend things were still normal, but recent events indicated anything but the norm. “Okay, I hear you, Art, but you have to trust me.”

  There was another sigh from across the line, but this one was not filled with skepticism. “So you’re serious. Your uncle was mixed up with Ruskies? And they’re in New York?”

  “Not sure, maybe even more than just New York.”

  The doors of the library opened and Lucy Nevares exited the building, trotting down the stairs with her head buried in her book. He hoped she made it safely home without crashing into a light pole or something. Must be a really good book. Maybe he should check it out sometime.

  “Alright, I’ll put some feelers out,” Art was saying, but his voice held a tone that said Ethan shouldn’t expect much from his efforts.

  “Thanks, man. So, has anything else been happening?”

  “Fredericks is pissed that he doesn’t know where you are, and your uncle’s lawyer called several times.”

  Ethan frowned. “Why?”

  “Why? Your uncle had a fortune, and guess who gets all of it – minus the government’s share?”

  “Oh yeah, right.”

  Art grunted his annoyance at Ethan’s cavalier attitude in the face of overnight wealth. “Anyway, he wants to talk with you soon to discuss the transference of Tobias’s assets.

  “It’s J.B. Wilcox and Sons right?”

  “Yep, that’s the one. Do you need his office number?”

  Ethan hefted the duffel bag higher on his shoulder. “Nah, I have it somewhere at my house, but if he calls back just tell him to send everything to me at my post office box.” He hesitated, then decided to tell Art about what happened at the Elysium Terrace. “Some guys were searching my apartment this morning and I won’t be going back. They gunned down a man right there on the street like it was just a normal Tuesday morning.”

  Art sucked in a breath. “Jesus, man – are you okay? What the hell?”

  “I’m fine, but I’m not going back there for a while yet. I know it’s not your jurisdiction, but if you get a moment, can you check into that too?”

  “Will do,” Art said. “So when I comb the streets how do I get in touch with you, or are you going to keep up this cloak and dagger crap?” The words were lighthearted, but Ethan could hear the undertone of concern in Art’s voice.

  “I’m staying at The Cozy Clam.”

  “Sounds unsavory.”

  “It is. I’m pretty sure my room came with a dead hooker under the bed, but at least I have someone to keep me company.”

  “I feel sorry for the dead working girl already.”

  “At least you didn’t lose all your humor with old age along with your hair.”

  A soft hmpf came over the line and Ethan smiled. The banter felt good, however brief.

  “I’ll be back at the Clam tonight,” Ethan said. “I’m staying under the name of ‘Cash’; call when you find out anything.”

  “Sounds good.”

  “Thanks, Art, and one more thing … I’m not kidding when I say this, but be careful.”

  14 Juan Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest

  April 22, 1986, 8:11 PM

  Why was he even here at this hour? Was there any credibility to Ethan’s claims? These were the questions that kept coming to Art as he drove to his destination. The answer was always the same. Despite Ethan’s younger age, the man had an intuition that couldn’t be ignored. As outrageous as it sounded, Ethan seemed convinced, and Art knew he would never have lied about that message. That, and Art’s loyalty to his partner was the deciding factor; he would labor into this for him. It would be the first time, however, that he hoped Ethan was misguided. Art prayed it was just the turmoil of losing a loved one that was bringing Ethan to these strange conclusions, and he was hopeful he could deliver a message that would quell his partner’s fears.

  The wheels of his Crown Victoria brushed against the curb as he came to a stop. He pushed the driver door open with his leg as he stepped out of his vehicle into the cool night air. Because he was in the Bronx, he made sure to lock the door before crossing the street to the trashy looking apartment building that was his destination.

  Almost the instant his heel made contact with the sidewalk, a member of the local talent initiated conversation.

  “Hey sweetie, mama’s got something that’ll make ya forget all ‘bout dat wedding band,” a husky voice called out to him.

  “Get lost sister, I’m a cop,” Art growled, not even bothering to flash his badge.

  At the word cop, she spun on her clunky ten dollar heels and stumbled away as fast as her bony and bruise-mottled legs could take her. She rounded the corner – to plague another intersection, most likely. Art shook his head in disgust. He didn’t have the time to take in a street walking tramp. The sad thi
ng was, it wasn’t jail that would do her harm, but the beating she would get from her pimp for soliciting a cop that could get her killed.

  In the few seconds it took him to cross the street to the tenement building, Art had witnessed numerous illegal activities. Fighting crime was practically a losing battle – like the plant life around the city attempting to take back the concrete jungle. Police officers throughout New York struggled to lay their claim on promoting civility and obedience of the law to all residents, legal or otherwise, but when gangs were pushed out of one locale, a new turf would be established mere blocks away.

  As it had many times before, frustration surged in him at the hopeless situation. Would it always be this way? Did his service matter – was it worth anything? He had to believe it was; if even one life was saved from his efforts he’d keep going. How many had been lost already? He’d stopped counting years ago. But he hoped that before he retired his shield and hung up his holster the scales would be balanced.

  He entered the rundown complex and climbed four sets of stairs before coming to the door he needed: 4D. It had taken him less than an hour to track down the scumbag he was looking for; now here he was, pounding on the door. Art waited a full twenty seconds before doing so again with more urgency.

  “I’m comin’, I’m comin’!” a heavily accented voice said from inside the apartment.

  The door cracked open, and instant recognition flashed on Juan Bracamontes’ face at the sight of Detective Arthur Hansen standing in the hallway.

  “Oh shit!” The door slammed closed, its dead bolt snapping into place. Art heard the clumsy scramble of feet moving across the room.

  He’s running! Art withdrew his Colt .45 and smashed the heel of his shoe into the old door, shattering the lock from its frame. Why do they always run?

  15 B*A*S*H

  April 22, 1986, 9:36 PM

  The musty smell of old cigarettes permeated the air and clung to the walls of Interrogation Room Two. Art stood by the metal table in the middle of the room, perusing some papers in a dark brown dossier that was clasped in his meaty hands. At six foot six, he struck an imposing figure and had a reputation of effective intimidation when he questioned suspects. Size was relative here in the confined space of the low-ceilinged room, and Art’s hulking shape alone was often his most effective tool.

  The overhead lights gleamed across his shaved head as he glanced from the page to Juan Bracamontes, who had occupied IR-2 on countless occasions. Art suspected this wouldn’t be Juan’s last visit.

  Bracamontes’ small, beady eyes were in constant motion, surveying the area. Art knew what he was thinking – that something was different this time around. After all, Art had rolled up alone, slapped him in cuffs after a short chase and drove him in without explaining the purpose of the arrest.

  Juan reached an arm up to scratch the back of his stubbled head but was stopped short by the handcuffs that were shackled to the metal table. He made brief eye contact with Art before his glance darted away again. “How long is this gonna take, man?”

  Art ignored the question and looked back down at the information in his hands. He heard Juan let out a dramatic sigh. He waited before speaking, letting the silence and Juan’s anxiety grow. The shackled man was about to usher another complaint when Art finally said, “Well, this is quite the list of accomplishments you’ve got here Juan – breaking and entering, assault, assault and battery, assault with a deadly weapon, possession of narcotics, possession with the intent to sell, grand theft auto, assault, violation of parole, assault, and wow – Holy Christ, this is just the past five years!”

  Juan pursed his lips. “Yeah, but I ain’t did nothing, so I don’t know why I’m here!”

  “Ain’t did nothing, huh?” Art laughed at the idiocy of Juan’s comment. “I should just lock you up for what you’re about to do, since looking at your list of priors tells me you’re intending to update this file any day now.”

  “It don’t work that way – I know it, and you know it,” Juan sneered. “That damn gold shield tells you whatta’ do, ‘cause you its bitch.”

  Art knew he wasn’t the gem of the station. He’d had to help people like Juan give the right answers on more than one occasion. It was times like this that he’d rather spend twenty minutes beating his frustrations out on these jackasses instead of adhere to the rule of law. Despite his heavy handed reputation Art never threw the first punch, but he made sure to throw the last.

  However, Art needed this perp to be lucid for their conversations, not missing teeth and vomiting blood. He’d cuffed Juan’s skinny ass to the table just in case he was dumb enough to try something stupid. Judging by Juan’s vacant expression and obvious underachievement in the area of English language, this was a definite possibility.

  Art placed the file down beside a tape deck that sat in the middle of the table. He planted his palms on either side of Juan’s handcuffed wrists, towering over the other man. “Look, shitbag, it wouldn’t take much to get a warrant for your apartment and I’m sure I could find something that would stick. It would be like shooting fish in a barrel.”

  After a short pause, Art pulled out a photograph from one of the folders on the table. “Prison life is getting more dangerous by the minute. It’s not as cozy as it once was. You still with Los Siete Reyes? Or is it Los Abandonados now?” Even though he had a Latin wife, Art’s Spanish was nowhere near perfect, but he knew the words were understood.

  The stubborn man feigned disinterest and shifted his attention to the corner of the room, studying the wall tiles with great interest.

  “Look at the picture.” Art left it on the table and began again, “In case you’re wondering, the man in this photo is Salvatore Larios. Or should I say – was the man.”

  Curiosity beckoned Juan and he finally glanced down at the black and white image. It showed a naked man lying on what could only be a shower room floor. Puncture marks ran along his side where the rib cage was and a few others where his kidneys would be.

  Art’s footsteps echoed in the room as he paced slow circles around Juan, watching him as he spoke. “Larios made one too many enemies this time around. He was attacked by a group of twelve men. After he was beaten, some in the crowd sodomized him before killing him.” Art let that sink in a moment and continued. “There are others too, up close ones. Put it this way, if he hadn’t been murdered, he would never have a problem taking a shit ever again.” Again Art allowed the full weight of the story and the photograph to marinate in the man’s mind before he spoke. “I wouldn’t put too much faith in your prior tenure; Sal was a veteran, even by your standards. He’d seen more cells than the Pope has absolved sins.”

  Juan shrank back, cast his shifty eyes down and fixed a stare at the tabletop as though looking for help within its gleaming metal surface. The only answer given was a distorted reflection of his tattooed face and arms. He was no doubt trying to remember if there was anything at his place that could implicate him. Art knew at least half a dozen things must have come to Juan’s mind.

  He looked at the colorful designs on every part of the shackled man’s body – not even his face and fingers had been spared the onslaught of ink.

  Some of the artwork was well crafted and pristine. Others were a faded black, misshapen where the ink bled at the corners or poorly blended. One arm sported celestial bodies: planets, comets, stars, a moon peppered with craters, and a sun that shed tears of light in every direction. The mirrored arm bore oceanic life: crustaceans, seashells, coral spikes, and tendrils of sea anemone floating through a blissful watery current, all plastered against a dark blue backdrop.

  As delicate and appealing as those depictions were, the cruder tattoos stuck out the most; those that had been inked from within the walls of prison life. Juan’s shirt had been torn from the earlier scuffle with Art, and a portion of lettering was revealed on his chest. Art didn’t have to be a detective to know that the large Old English letters spelled the word ‘BRACAMONTES’.

  The
re was also the infamous web just behind Juan’s ear, and an ugly looking skull with cracked and broken teeth on the back of his head. Finally, the solid black gang sign of Los Siete Reyes: a large number seven took up the length of Juan’s neck, its bottom nearly touching his collar bone. Atop the seven was a regal crown.

  It was Juan’s general appearance and the amount of time he’d spent in prison that gave way to the nickname ‘Cell Block Juan’. Word on the street was that over time he’d come to feel proud of the moniker and used it often when referring to himself. Once you’d been in and out at least three times, you were a seasoned member.

  Silence stretched in the room, but finally Juan found courage to speak. “You got nothin’ on me, man,” he grumbled.

  But Art noticed the slight tremor in his voice. Juan might make himself out to be a badass, but he was just another pussy who beat women and harassed others with guns. Guns were the great equalizers; without them, this little rat was just some punk loser. Tonight’s chase had solidified that point. If Juan was indeed the tough-as-nails thug he pretended to be, he wouldn’t have tried to run.

  Art had played his hand and nailed it, putting the pieces together and coming to his conclusions. Juan’s file stated that he’d given up circumstantial evidence against Raul Salazar – AKA ‘El Chino’. Since being released the last time, Juan must have become affiliated with yet another gang; it was the only way he could get some quick protection from Los Siete Reyes. Each one of The Seven Kings had a district cut into the map. El Chino was one of the lower tier kings in the department’s eyes, but the higher ups would be gunning for Bracamontes. Juan must have offered up more for shelter too – a cache of drugs, money, or both – but Art didn’t care about any of that.

  Up to this point his guess had been a loose gamble, but it was the only one that seemed to fit. Art picked up Bracamontes’ file and began sifting again. He was short on time, but if it came down to it he would start his fishing expedition. Juan had tats for more than one rival gang and everyone knew that didn’t go over well in general population. This was just the leverage Art needed, but if Juan called his bluff it would only waste time. Or worse, he’d get nothing at all if Juan ended up dead while they did their search.