When the bagpipes began Amazing Grace it took every ounce of will and determination I had not to pull my gun from its holster. No Scotsman—no matter how long-removed from his history or his ancestors’ clan—can listen to a single note from the instrument without an outlaw deep within him crying out from several hundred years past.
They’re so haunting.
We had the same officer play at my father Paddy’s funeral. He had requested it.
Why do we humans cleave to sentimentality? I’m not excluding myself from that criticism. I do it, too. Perhaps it’s because we need some kind of catalyst to draw out our sorrow—pull it from us as leeches to our blood.
I had so much sadness in my heart. I knew I had to find a way back out.
I decided at that moment that nothing was going to stop me from getting Calypso.
CHAPTER TWELVE
CINDY WU did eventually get back to me about my question. What she told me didn’t make me feel any better about my current situation. I felt that I was easily toeing the fringes of pure psycho pension territory.
The ideas that were crawling around in my head were not those of a twenty-first century big-city cop. It wasn’t as if I was going to break into chanting or start wearing a garlic necklace around my person, but the dreams I had at night no longer felt normal. They didn’t really feel all that sane.
“Mac,” she said over the cell, calling me at home. “Ma was pretty taken aback by your question.”
“How’s that?”
“Shit, man, the woman turned whiter than you and needed to sit down. When she got herself composed again, she started chattering so fast I couldn’t understand a freaking word.”
“Okay. What gives?”
“Well, when she calmed down, I finally got her to give me what I wanted. She said ‘hei gui’ is a term the Chinese have considered taboo—unmentionable—for many centuries. At least the old codgers feel that way. She wouldn’t actually even say the words. And it was clear she didn’t want me saying them either. Not hard to guess why the younger generation appropriated them for insults on the street.”
“Wow.”
“Yeah. She told me the closest thing to an English translation was pretty much what I said before. Black ghost.”
“Hmm.”
“Or beast,” Wu said.
“She said that?”
“Said what?”
“Beast,” I repeated back to her.
“Yeah,” Wu said, already becoming distracted. “Black beast. Black ghost. Whatever.”
“Look, I know this sounds weird, Cindy. Did your mother literally say ‘beast’?”
“Yes, Mac. Literally.”
At that moment, my mind was carried back to the hellish jail cell where Ebony Durning had summoned me to share his theory. The man wasn’t talking about my partner at all. Jackson went after the store clerk because she recognized him for who—or what—he was.
The earth suddenly dropped out from under my feet and I was weightless.
The records on Calypso began at the INS. Before 1996, as far as the United States Government was concerned, the man did not exist.
Calypso appeared on the radar when he moved to New York City. He was flown in on a chartered cargo plane at John F. Kennedy, where the reports indicate he received a permanent work visa.
Conventional wisdom said someone in the government owed Calypso—or at least his family in Jamaica—a huge favor.
Ostensibly he came to America for medical reasons—to get away from the humidity of his homeland.
For this reason, New York did not appeal to him either. So in 2000 he moved to Denver for the drier air. Coincidentally, that was the year the ballot for legalizing medical marijuana passed, creating a huge supply vacuum that could be filled by anyone with the fortitude and the resources to front a legal growing business.
Legalizing any kind of marijuana growing changed the landscape of not only the earthen fields, but also that of the DEA. Now the main difference between a businessman and an illegal grower became a matter of paperwork:
Reportable quantities grown and sold. Before the new laws, all plants were illegal. It was black and white. If you grew buds, you were breaking the law.
Now there were permits, bureaucracy, businesses, attorneys, taxes, medical insurance, doctors—the mire through which those who battled the drug trade had to wade deepened fivefold.
And criminals like Calypso had the only rubber boots.
DEA knew that Calypso was a pot smuggler. They simply couldn’t prove it. In fact, they believed he and his organization were one of the top three or four suppliers to the U.S. marijuana market when he lived in Jamaica. So the timing of his arrival in the Denver market was more than a little suspicious.
Finding the illegal tunnels beneath the documented, legitimate businesses was always the biggest challenge when facing down organized crime—including smart drug dealers.
The best way to get to the tunnels?
A mole.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
DICKEY HOUSE was a registered informant, which meant that he was normally paid for any useful information extracted from his person. Beyond that, I considered him subhuman. House was a diseased, drug-dealing, part-time pimp—his street-side bordello opened up whenever he could exploit the utter desperation of enough homeless women.
Or men.
I managed to locate him in one of his favorite boxes, next to an alley dumpster off 17th.
“Macaulay,” he said, when I rousted him. “I didn’t know they let you out of the pederast home.”
“This coming from a man named Dickey,” I said.
“I think we both need some new material,” House said, and drew his unfiltered cigarette down to his grimy fingers. He looked less strung out than usual, but I hadn’t seen him in a while.
I had no illusions. He was still a class-A douchebag.
“You seem to be doing all right, Dick.”
“Like I said, I think we both need new material.”
“I need a contact name,” I said, and showed him a fifty.
“Big name,” Dickey said.
“If a guy wants to squeeze a little dirt out of the Calypso organization, who might be one of the weakest links?”
“Shit, Detective. You’ve been out of the Vice game too long. Cops don’t have to pay for that information.”
“Nah, I’m not looking for the weakest nibbler at the end of the food chain. What I need here is a nut that knows a few things. But a nut that can be cracked nevertheless.”
“Like I said, you should hit up your friends down on Avenue V.”
“V for Vice?” I said.
“You ain’t as dumb as you look,” said House.
“Bullshit,” I said.
“Cows shit, too, asshole. You asked, I answered.”
“I want a name,” I said. My patience with this vagrant dope hound was never very thick.
“Name like that is going to cost you two more Grants. I don’t need to be anywhere near here when your comrades in arms come kickin’ around, wanting to know who was the stool.”
I handed Dickey House a hundred and fifty bucks.
“The name doesn’t work out, Dick, I’m taking every dollar out of your hide. Then I bust you back to county.”
“You want my help or don’t ya?”
“Give it up,” I said.
“Since you left Vice, you know, there are a few fresh faces down at the old stationhouse.”
“A name.”
“Not new as in young, you know what I’m sayin’. Transfer fresh.”
“A NAME, Dick.”
“You might want to buy Detective Summerville a beer. Actually, you might need to buy that porky son-of-a-bitch a case.”
“Stay real, Dickey.” I turned and headed out of the alley.
“Next time you come down, Macaulay, bring your boyfriend.”
I stopped. “Come again?”
“Speakin’ of fat fucks," he said, "tell your portly partner
hello from me.”
Sometimes what a man needs is to deliver a good, solid ass kicking. I’m not being misogynistic here—just speaking from personal experience.
There are many remedies for what ails you, but there are times when nothing will bring the sunshine back into your world as quickly as removing it from someone else.
I don’t have to tell you what that means. If you’ve never taken off the gloves and extracted a pound of flesh, you likely won’t understand the feral nature of what I’m getting at. It’s primal. From the hunt or be hunted time of our species.
I reached Dickey House just as he was stuffing the money into the pocket of his greasy coat and standing up. He was still mumbling some bullshit insult. I grabbed the fringe of his canvas jacket and pulled it up over his head like a hockey jersey.
For a no-account street person, I knew Dickey was strong. I remembered this from the earlier days. He was a scrapper and a half, even stoned. So I made sure he was good and restrained before I went to work on him.
It felt good. It was a connection to an animal self that I hadn’t reacquainted with since about the time I got sucker-punched by the death of my wife. The workout was just what I needed. I broke a nice lathery sweat.
I took with me that day an appropriate measure of Dickey House’s pride when I left him whimpering in a crumpled ball against the side of his favorite dumpster.
The stoolie money, he kept.
The Vice squad was on the sixth floor of our building. I still knew a couple of the detectives up there. I was risking a reprimand, coming into the station, but I wasn’t planning on dropping by Homicide on the fifth floor. I figured if I did run into Shackleford, I’d tell him I left something personal at my desk. If he saw me upstairs at Vice? Well, I just hadn’t thought that far into bad luck territory.
My first detective tour was in Vice. It only lasted eight months. The Homicide Squad was short a detective and Vice was slow.
Dickey was right; I didn’t know Summerville from my short time in Vice Squad. I had, however, made his acquaintance once, years before.
I went to the sixth floor looking for Detective Erich Jones. He was a friend, so therefore was probably my best chance at foraging for a few undisclosed facts. Erich was good people and also a damn fine cop.
But he wasn’t there. Imagine my surprise, however, when I discovered the only cop home was Detective Bill Summerville.
Oh well, I thought. The primal self is still alive and kicking.
“Summerville,” I said.
Detective Summerville looked up from a stack of paperwork as tall as a roll of quarters.
“I know you?” he asked.
“By reputation only,” I said. “When I was a rookie on patrol, you busted my balls pretty good. My training officer was Mook Reynolds. Both our units responded to a domestic abuse on Federal.”
“Yeah, I remember. You were the boot who took his eyes off the prize; let that pissed off husband pull a knife. Macaulay, right?”
“Yeah, that’s right. Dumb mistake. You made sure everyone knew it, though.”
“You’re still alive and on the job, right?”
“Homicide,” I said.
“Yeah, I remember. I’ve seen you around. Doing the casual thing today, I see.”
“I’m off duty.”
“You don’t say. Aw, shit. Burke was your partner. Good egg, that one. I’m sorry, son.”
“Appreciate the sentiment,” I said.
“So, all the unpleasantness behind us, what brings a strapping young homicide dick all the way up here to the sixth floor? You come back to kick my ass?”
“No,” I said. “You care if I sit?”
“God bless America,” he said, and motioned to the chair on the other side of his desktop.
“I have a lead on someone I think your detail might be interested in.”
“Yeah? Well let me hear the name and I’ll tell you if your intuition got the better of you, or if it’s the other way around.”
“Informant I know gave me the address of a stash house for a dope dealer.”
“Type of thing might be of interest here,” he said.
“Kind of a big fish, I think. Name of Calypso.”
Now I’m no ringer, but I like to play cards. Texas Hold ‘Em, if you must know. But I can’t bluff for shit. Me? A lousy liar in general.
Summerville, however, was impressive. My guess was that pork-belly could play a mean game of poker.
Nevertheless, I saw him twitch. Not even enough to call it a mild case of Tourette’s, but I caught it.
Before he could put together a response, I got up to leave.
“You know what, you’re right,” I said. “Protocol. Shoulda learned it when I was a boot. I’ll give the lead to my Lieutenant. He can decide if he wants to talk to your Lieutenant, or take the glory for his own squad.”
“Give me the address,” he said. “I’ll run it to ground.”
“S’okay, Summerville. I just wanted to see if there were any good cops around up here. This place is like a freaking ghost town, man.”
“The hell you say.”
“You up for a beer after hours?” I said, walking out the door. “I could buy you one for saving my career.”
“Fuck you, Macaulay.”
I went outside and got in my car. It was parked two blocks down the street with a good view of the main doors, as well as the garage. About five minutes after I sat down, Summerville’s sedan pulled out of the garage and headed west, toward I-25.
I was pretty sure Summerville wouldn’t chance a call to Calypso. Certainly not from the station house. Were it a lesser player, he might have used a burner cell, but this was also the kind of information that would get him a bonus payday. No way was a guy like Summerville going to risk detracting from the moment by making a phone call.
Calypso lived in a subdivision called Legend Ridge, just northeast of Boulder, near Niwot. Once Summerville’s car exited I-25 to the Boulder Turnpike, I knew for certain that the bluff worked, but I wanted to follow the man anyway. At this point, who knew what I might see?
Summerville did end up at Calypso’s palatial home. There was no gate, and I parked several blocks down, under some shade. I figured “dirty” had long since replaced “instinct” in the fat cop’s repertoire, but it was too soon to risk being made. Summerville was never going to give me anything. When you shake a box of rodents, sometimes a mouse falls out. Other times, you get a rat.
And for now, it was the best lead I had. I was off the clock anyway, the brickwork in the back yard would wait, Greer was busy at school—what else did I have to do?
I pulled my Bemidji State cap low and entertained myself by wondering if Dickey House had to blow the whole hundred and fifty bucks on stitches.
Two vehicles left Calypso’s place an hour and a half later. I stayed a block back of the rear car, looping through the neighborhood streets and back to Highway 36 toward Denver. Around the mousetrap, the pair diverged; I let Summerville go southward and stayed with the other vehicle, a late model F-150 quad cab monstrosity of a pickup. The truck stayed on I-270 heading toward Commerce City. I stayed a few cars back. It looked like the driver was the only occupant of the vehicle, so the chances of getting spotted were significantly lower.
The truck left the Interstate at Quebec and drove to a house on 56th, across from Monaco Park.
The stash house.
Again I remained outside, a block or so down, between two other parked cars. After about twenty minutes, there was a lot of activity around the garage and the two cars parked in the driveway. Bags were being loaded into the trunks and eventually all parties—including the big F-150—departed.
I pulled the truck over ten minutes after it left the stash house, its driver having successfully warned the occupants to prepare for a raid that wasn’t coming.
“Hands on the wheel where I can see ‘em,” I said as I approached the truck on the driver side, gun drawn.
“W-what seems to
be the trouble, officer?” the driver said.
“Get out of the vehicle,” I said.
I frisked him and found a concealed .38. I looked at his ID.
“Wendell Worthy. Nice name. Not so worthy today, my friend. I’m taking you in for carrying a concealed weapon.”
“W-what’d you pull me over for?” he asked. “You g-got no cause, sir.”
I put the cuffs on him and on our way back to my car, kicked in his taillight.
“I’ll radio to have your truck towed to impound.”
As we drove along I-70 west, I looked in the back.
“Worthy, right? You have a redneck father up at the CSP? B&E guy?”
“I d-don’t need to answer that,” Wendell said.
“You should work on that stutter, Wendell. Might be an ice-breaker you just don’t want to let out in county lockup, you know?”
Silence from the back seat.
I drove to the mountains, instead of the station, and pulled off at the Vail exit. I knew a few nice secluded spots up there. When we arrived at one, I got out and took the cuffs off Wendell. Motioned to a rock in the distance.
“You sit over there. You run, I’m a helluva shot, Wendell. Might save me a lot of paperwork, I just dig a hole and put you down right here, right now.”
Wendell did as I told him, rubbing his wrists.
“Those c-cuffs was tight,” he said softly. There wasn’t any fight left in this one. My job was going to be easier than I thought.
“What would Calypso say if I told him it was you that gave up the stash house?”
“Wh-who?”
“You sound like an owl, Wendell.”
“I d-don’t know the name you is sayin’ to me.”
“Look, Wendell. That backwoods mumbly peckerwood talk might impress the ladies, but it’s just going to plumb get in the way of us having an intelligent conversation.”
“A-ask the question again.”
“Will he castrate you with a pair of bolt-cutters and suture you with a blowtorch, or will he be kind—you know—because of your years of service?”
Black Beast: A Hard Boiled Murder Mystery (A Detective Bobby Mac Thriller Book 1) Page 10
