Juan was still whining about something. When Art tuned back in, he heard the wannabe gangster saying, “Come on man, I got kids.”
Art’s eyebrows quirked. “A few here, it says. Looks like you got a couple sets of Irish twins, but I don’t think you should worry about them – they grew up without a father in their lives, which is probably a good thing for once. You aren’t exactly an ideal role model.” His mouth curved into a sardonic grin. “Are you even sure half of them are yours? I mean, if you do the math on some of these kids, they were probably conceived while you were on the inside doing one of your tours.”
Art knew his distaste was evident, but he didn’t care. He still couldn’t understand how people fucked up their lives so badly that they weren’t ever intent upon – or capable of – fixing their mistakes.
“What’s it going to be? You going to answer some questions for me, or do I have to play hardball?”
Juan’s face was a mask of fear and confusion. After all, Art still hadn’t told him why he’d been brought in. The uncertainty of the situation was advantageous for Art. Juan remained silent, weighing his options. By his expression, he’d come up short.
“I guess a warrant it is then!” Art boomed, standing up straight in one quick motion. The action made Juan jump. Art continued speaking like he hadn’t noticed. “God knows what sorts of drugs are stuffed in your walls, or how many dead presidents we find under your mattress.”
Juan’s lip curled, a feeble attempt to play the cool con. “Last I checked, Franklin won’t no prez’dent.”
Art was surprised Juan would even know such a thing, but he wasn’t about to let it show. And he’d grown tired of playing this game. “Shut the fuck up!” he bellowed, slamming his palms on the metal table. In a brief loss of control, he belted a smack across Juan’s face. The motion was so quick Bracamontes didn’t even see it coming – hell, Art barely had. The bone in Juan’s nose was no match for the force of Art’s massive hand. It cracked easily and blood spurted out over Juan’s lips.
Juan had been so caught off guard he was knocked out of his chair, but the shackles hooked to the table’s cross bar kept him from falling all the way over. Juan groaned as the cuffs dug into his wrists from the weight of his leveraged position. A fall would have hurt less.
Art rounded the table and glared down at him. “I don’t have time for your jokes or anything else you find funny, but I’ll show you what I think is funny.” He kicked the chair out of his way. It skidded against the floor with an ear piercing squeal before bumping to a stop against the wall. He brought up his foot and let it hover a moment before pressing it down on Juan’s chest. Art continued, “When little piss ant gang bangers get royally screwed by the strong arm of the law, that’s what I think is fucking hilarious. How are you going to defend yourself inside the pen without the use of your goddamn hands?”
Juan looked terror-stricken. Art knew the worm had dodged the judge’s gavel about as many times as he’d seen the inside of a cell. He gave Juan a look that promised there would be no skipping by on this one; Art would find some way to bring down the swift hammer of justice and seal Juan’s fate if answers weren’t forthcoming.
When Bracamontes took a second too long to respond, Art applied more pressure to the man’s chest and collar bone. Juan’s face contorted in agony as the motion intensified the wrenching in his arms, but Art didn’t care anymore. He’d break this piece of shit’s arm and change the report later if he had to. It would be easy enough to say Juan broke it during their foot chase earlier. Even if the claim could be medically disproven, there weren’t likely to be many questions asked, given this dirtbag’s reputation.
Juan grunted against the pain and then screamed until audible words formed. “Okay, okay man – fuck! – I’ll talk!” Art removed his foot, ending its wrath on Juan’s body. Bracamontes panted and struggled to get up. “You nearly broke my wrist!” he choked on a held-back sob. “What you wanna’ know?”
Art bent down and seized Juan by the collar of his shirt, the fabric tearing just a little more as he was hefted to his feet. He retrieved the chair he’d kicked against the wall and set it behind Juan, who sat down obediently.
“I need to know why my partner feels there’s a suspicious amount of Russian activity on the streets of New York. He’s puzzled, so I’m inclined to be puzzled with him.” He moved around the table and leaned against the edge. “At any point during this conversation if I feel you’re fucking with me or holding anything back, I promise you, I’ll finish what I started.”
Somehow, the tape deck had managed to stay on the table during the scuffle. Art pressed the record button.
“Start talking, Bracamontes.”
16 The Seven Year Snitch
April 22, 1986, 10:14 PM
Art walked in slow circles around the room as the tattooed man began talking. He’d become extra skittish after Art’s unveiled threat. Of course, Art moving like a predatory shark around its next meal was a heavy contributor to Juan’s anxiety. He’d been speaking long enough for the dried blood on his nose to flake off each time he swiped at it with his hands.
“So you’re certain there’s a group of Russians in New York, and not just the Mafioso type?”
Juan threw him on incredulous look. “Man, ain’t you been listenin’? I done told ya – these cabrones are dif’rent. They ain’t bringin’ in weapons and they ain’t slingin’ no drugs – not even coke.”
“And they’re definitely just looking for someone?” Art continued his pacing, deep in thought.
“Simón,” Juan nodded vigorously, all cooperation now. “My cuz’ Smiley – he know all the players in town. Word I heard was, they was lookin’ for him too.”
“And what’s so important about Smiles?”
“It’s Smiley, ese.”
Art scowled. “Cut the shit. When I ask a question, just answer it. You punks give Latinos a bad name, thinking you’re all Scarface and shit. News flash, asshole: that movie was crap, and Pacino had some sick-ass incest fascination with his sis. So you can drop the tough guy act.” He stopped for breath before finishing, “And I ain’t your ese.”
“Look homes, Smiley can find people, even ones who don’t wanna be found.” Juan shrugged. “Es what he does. I don’t know all the fools he does, but he’s the one who can track a fucker down.”
Art stopped and faced the shackled man. “So how can I find your cousin?”
“I talk with him every couple days, man. He usually swings by.”
“Moving drugs for you? That’s odd, isn’t he with Siete Reyes? How is it he still associates with you after what you did? Whatever happened to ‘Kings for Life’?”
“He keeps it on the low,” Juan said. “Blood is thicker than water.”
“Uh-huh. So where is he? I want to have a little talk with him.” Art loosened his tie for effect.
He had Bracamontes backed into a corner. If he told where his cousin was, there would be nowhere he could run. Juan’s allegiances were coming up on their expiration date, but if he didn’t spill the beans he was bound to die on the inside in a few short hours. Art could smell it in the air like a thick musk. Any second Juan was going to make a choice, and just like before it was going to be for self-preservation, however temporary.
Juan scowled and looked away, jaw clenched like he was fighting some sort of skewed right or wrong gangster inner conscience. “Ah, shit. I ain’t heard from him in over a week,” he finally said in a quiet voice.
“Out of town?”
“Don’t know. He mighta bounced. I called and I paged his ass, but I ain’t heard back.”
Art thought about this, wondering at Smiley’s possible whereabouts.
The silence seemed too much for Juan and he interjected, “I’m tellin’ ya, these Russian dudes are no joke – they are some scary ass motha’-fuckers. Seems like every hombre they wanna find end up disappearing forever.” Juan crossed himself and glanced around nervously. “Madre de Dios.” He was getting shaki
er by the minute, as though just the mere mention of these Russians would bring them crashing into the room.
As if on cue the door burst open, and Juan recoiled in his seat. Deacon Maznicki popped his head inside.
“Hey Art, I got a call from – whoa, holy crap!” Deac said when his eyes found Juan. “Who’s the princess with the pretty face?”
“Shut the fuck up,” Bracamontes said, looking anything but threatening.
“Oooooo, and she has such a dirty little mouth on her too.” Deacon turned to Art. “So, some Wilcox lawyer guy called for Ethan again. What should I tell him?”
Art glanced at his watch. They were closing in on 10:30 pm. It seemed late for Tobias’s lawyer to be on telephone duty. This guy must be getting a serious percentage on the estate settlement or he was vying for lawyer of the year. “Get his number; tell him I’ll try to call him back.” He emphasized the word try with a raise of his brow.
“Got it.” Deacon winked at Juan and pursed his lips.
“Asshole!” Juan hollered as the door closed.
“Who exactly are these guys looking for?” Art asked, routing Bracamontes back to the line of questioning.
Juan’s attention refocused. “They lookin’ for two jokers – guy named Kane and some other fool.” Juan squinted at the ceiling as if trying to pull the words out of his memory through the air. “Stanton, Stenner, Stoner … ”
Art went cold. He leaned over the table again to peer into Juan’s twitchy eyes. The guy was still bouncing around in his drugged brain, attempting to recollect the right name. Art enunciated his next words. “I need you to think very clear; were the names Tobias Keane and Ethan Tannor?”
Like a lightning flash frying what was left inside Juan’s skull, his eyes quit moving and fixed on Art. “Yeah! Those the ones.” He bobbed his head and grinned, clearly proud of his powers of recollection.
Puzzlement settled over Art, clouding his thoughts. It occurred to him then that perhaps Tobias really had been murdered. That idea faded away quickly, though; forensics had pointed too strongly at suicide. Still, he hadn’t heard back from Bagowski on the report yet. Would something unusual turn up after all? He began to wonder how safe his partner really was. Sure, Ethan could handle himself, but what if he was caught by surprise?
An unknown force had been scrambled to Tobias’s estate and then left like a pack of ghosts – in and out with precision. Were these Russians the same guys? With that question, Art’s fear for Ethan escalated; even with the pedigree he had, the chances of surviving against such military might were low.
Stan Bailey’s frantic account came back to him: “They were just there, sailing out from the chopper like some hit squad in black masks and then I was down, and everything went dark quick. But before I passed out, one of them was standing over me – the bright white against black … it was the face of Death, I tell you, with a gleaming row of teeth that smiled back at me. I thought I was dead.”
“Hey man, I’m talkin’ to you! Can I go or what?”
Art snapped back to the present, shaking his head to cleanse the imagery of Stan’s account from his mind. He pushed away from the table and stood erect once again. “Is there anything else?”
“Es all I know, I swear.”
Art stopped the recording. There was a faint click as the tape ground to a halt. He fixed a steely gaze on Juan that the other man couldn’t hold.
“You’ve bought yourself a reprieve, Bracamontes. Consider your time here tonight as …” he paused, “… rehabilitation.” Art reached for the tape recorder. “But I swear to Christ, if you’re fucking me on this I’ll find you, and I’ll end you. There will be no Miranda rights. There will be no penal system; just you and me.” He jabbed a thumb at himself to underscore the point. “And a bullet that has your name on it.”
Juan felt like his chest was caving in with each word thrown at him from across the table. Was it the adrenaline finally ebbing from his body, or the crippling pain of their earlier encounter returning to his ribs?
The detective continued, “I’m cutting you loose, but I’m going to keep my ear close to the ground. If I hear so much as you leaving the toilet seat up after you take a piss -” He made the universally understood neck slashing motion.
Detective Hansen’s words had come out cool, collected, and thick with promise. Juan believed him. He’d heard rumors about Arthur Hansen. But they ain’t rumors if they true, right? Juan didn’t care if they were or not; at this moment, Hansen had his dick on the chopping block – theoretically speaking. Juan hadn’t been circumcised when he was a baby – gracias a Dios – and he wasn’t about to start the habit of letting sharp objects near his genitals.
He was a survivor – he’d been one all his life. Flipping on someone for a shorter term in prison and letting another person take the fall came naturally to him. Cooperation was the key. Maybe his brother Miguel would give him a job and another chance at the tire shop. He could change – no, he had to change. His life depended on it, and that wasn’t theoretical. Juan knew what the man staring down at him was thinking. Not just thinking, hoping. Hansen would let Juan go, sit back, and hope for the day he fucked up again.
17 The Bad Lead
April 22, 1986, 10:52 PM
The Cozy Clam was always open for business. Ethan felt like he was becoming a regular, but not in the regular sense of the word as it pertained to the normal clientele. As usual, the perverted motel manager, Jeffrey, sat behind the desk skimming through the last issue of a porno magazine. Creepy noises emanated from his mouth.
It took a few seconds before Ethan’s presence was noticed. “Oh, ahhhh – how can I help you, Mr. Cash?” Jeff said with a wink.
“I’ll need a room for the night.”
“Your previous room is, ah, occupied at the moment. Would you like a different room, or do you wanna wait?”
“New one.” This place disgusted Ethan. If he wasn’t so preoccupied with the current goings-on in his life he’d have the building bulldozed for safety and health code violations.
“Twenty bucks,” Jeff said, then turned to the rack of keys on the wall and lifted a pair off its hook. “Looks like you’ll be upstairs this time, Room 202. You can take the elevator or those stairs across the lot.”
Ethan dropped the money on the countertop so he wouldn’t have to touch the revolting man. Jeff mimicked Ethan, dropping the key on the counter as well. Ethan looped a finger through its ring, wishing he was wearing his crime scene gloves.
***
An hour later, he was stuffing the last remnant of a Sno Ball into his mouth. The bite was oversized and his cheeks bulged as he chewed, savoring the tasty goodness of chocolate and shredded pink coconut.
The phone blared, and Ethan jumped. He wiped his hands on his jeans and swallowed the last bite of dinner before reaching out to answer, but not in time to stop another ringing blast.
He snatched up the receiver, ending the racket. “Yeah.”
“It’s me,” Arthur’s voice came through from the other end.
“Whatcha got?” Ethan sat up and pivoted to face the bedside table, grabbing his notepad and pen.
“I’m still at the station, but I wanted to get this to you before it got much later. I took your old pal Cell Block Juan in and gave him the ‘Hansen Special’. His facts were sparse, but he tipped us in the direction of his cousin, Alejandro Cortez – AKA ‘Smiley’.”
“Okay, so what did Smiles Davis have to say?”
Art grunted. “Well, his corpse wasn’t too talkative. He had several distinguishing tattoos so I got word pretty quick. He was a member of Los Siete Reyes. Before I could even put out the full APB on him, I got a call from the county morgue; GSW and his throat was slit.”
Gun shot wound and a slit throat. This news held Ethan silent for a moment as he pondered the information. “Well, those neck tattoos are hideous, but killing him seems a little unnecessary. All kidding aside, though, it’s too bad you couldn’t get him breathing.”
&
nbsp; “I wouldn’t waste too much upset on this guy. He’s been in the drug trafficking business for a long time and murdered more than a handful of innocent women and children. As far as I’m concerned, if it was these Russian guys you’ve been talking about who took him out, they did us a favor.”
“I guess you can consider myself not upset then,” Ethan said.
“I’m more concerned that any information he might have had died with him. So you wanna guess the sixty-four thousand dollar question? Where do you think his body was found?”
“What do I win if I have no clue?”
Art hesitated before saying, “In a back alley near your apartment. Two of his buddies had a set of gunshot wounds as well.”
“I guess they got a little too close to the sun with the Ruskies. Karma will catch up to everyone in the end. So what’s the deal on this Russian epidemic?”
There was another pause before Art spoke. Ethan heard him take a deep breath. “You can’t pretend this isn’t serious. These guys are very close to you. Did you hear what I said? They were practically in your back yard. I sure hope you know what you’re doing.” It wasn’t the wavering tone in Art’s voice that Ethan picked up on, but the genuine concern.
“Trust me Art, I know what I’m doing.”
“Okay, so yes – there is some sort of Red Scare crap on the streets. It looks like they’re on the hunt for a certain someone in particular; there was no mention of them slinging drugs or any arms trafficking.”
And the Tide Turns Page 7
