Cop Job

by Chris Knopf

  A bit younger than me, with a weathered but handsome Waspy face and the type of brown hair that inflicted the term boyish, Burton Lewis was a big disappointment to women everywhere and an aspiration to every gay man. Wary as he was of gold diggers of all persuasions, he’d still had a few satisfying relationships, though at that moment he was on his own.

  Amanda was still in the city, alternating visits to Allison with Abby. She’d told me that Allison mumbled something, so she decided to hang in there for another few days in the hope she’d hear some coherent words. I expressed the hope they’d be the name of the bastard who did this to her, and Amanda said I’d be the first to know.

  After the political TV was over, Burton and his guests all went up to a big room with removable glass walls, tile floor, and two paddle fans languorously turning in the ceiling. Burton’s housekeeper, Isabella, had rolled out an industrial-sized chrome cart stocked with enough food to sustain us for the rest of the summer.

  “Do you think he has a chance?” Jackie asked Burton, when everyone but Harry was settled on the heavily cushioned wrought iron furniture. Harry was still piling assorted meats on a plate, forgivable given his colossal size.

  “Better than others in the race,” he said.

  “Better than Edith?”

  “Possibly. She’s never had to actually campaign before. Finds the whole thing tremendously distasteful. I can’t blame her, but it is an elected office. Campaigning comes with the territory.”

  “Veckstrom seems to think she hasn’t run a very tight ship,” said Harry, joining us in the seating circle.

  “Who knows what he really thinks,” said Jackie. “He’ll say what he needs to win. I’m no fan of Edith Madison, who considers defense attorneys a notch or two below rabid vermin, but I can’t say she’s been a lousy DA.”

  “How long do you think she can keep it a secret that all three people just murdered in Southampton were confidential informants?” I asked Jackie.

  “I can’t see how that would be much help for Veckstrom, either,” she said.

  “Unless he solves the case, or cases,” said Burton. “Given the timing of the election, and the usual period for a big case to go to trial, he might get to prosecute as well.”

  “If he figures out who killed Alfie, I’ll vote for him,” I said.

  “So no progress there,” said Burton.

  “Not sure, Burt,” I said. “Alfie himself thought the cops were after him. Joey Wentworth was worried about Greeks, and it turns out an undercover from Ross’s days in the South Bronx is embedded in the Town police force. They call him ‘The Greek.’ Sullivan was with me when I found out.”

  Burton didn’t like the sound of that.

  “Joe needs to be discreet,” he said.

  “I’ve got him busy with a cop in the city. Keep him out of trouble for the time being.”

  “He’s not in a good way,” said Jackie. “It’s worrisome.”

  “Loss of a spouse, however shrewish, can be unsettling,” said Burton. “Compounded by a loss of faith in his own police force, his only stabilizing influence.”

  “Except for Sam,” said Harry. Everyone looked over at him. “Sam can be a good influence,” he added, somewhat defensively.

  Burton took that moment to ask if everyone had adequate refreshment.

  “But you’re happy with Detective Fenton,” said Jackie, moving things along.

  “I am,” I said. “He’s the kind of cop who likes to chew on a bone.”

  “Allison may simply identify the perpetrator when she comes to,” said Burton.

  “She might,” I said. “Amanda will be there for that. I asked her to tell me, then Fenton, with the hope that he gets to the guy before I do.”

  “Don’t even joke about that,” said Jackie.

  “Nobody’s joking,” I said.

  Burton cleared his throat, ever the conciliator.

  “Has anyone interviewed people connected to Lilly Fremouth, the third CI?” he asked.

  “I’m having trouble there,” said Jackie. “With Sullivan out and Veckstrom in the lead role, I’ve got to be a little careful. I know it’s not like me, but I’m worried about Prick Cop with this campaign thing. If he wants to get political, I’m a sitting duck.”

  “Maybe I should pay a call,” said Burton.

  “That’s good of you, Burt,” I said, “but let me. I can’t get any worse with Veckstrom.”

  “Very well,” he said. “But don’t forget, I’m always available for assignment.”

  “We won’t,” said Jackie, who would rather sever one of her limbs than put Burton in a dangerous situation. “I’ll go with Sam. Between the two of us, we may manage not to fuck it up.”

  “There’s that can-do attitude,” said Burton.

  With little settled, but comfortably sedated by food and drink, I went home to the cottage on the Little Peconic and the dog, who held no rancor toward me for leaving him when I went into the city. In fact when I came home, he seemed glad to have me back. I’d say the easy forgiveness of dogs is one of their finer qualities if Eddie didn’t occasionally resent my decision to rot in an Adirondack chair and stare at the water instead of hitting golf balls on the beach for him to chase and triumphantly return.

  That night he likely sensed that rotting in the Adirondacks was the only option, so he joined me, lying shoved up against my feet and acting like this was a source of great contentment.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  I had to go into the Village the next day to buy some weird little fasteners you can only buy from the hardware store on Main Street. After several years in the construction trade in Southampton, I’d begun to think the place stocked at least one of everything that has ever been made.

  First, though, I stopped at the coffee place on the corner to resupply my giant travel mug drained on the ten-minute trip from the cottage. The shop was packed with the usual summer crowd, but I practiced patience and forbearance and got out of there after only growling at one young jerk in an exercise outfit who was too occupied with his smartphone to avoid bumping into me.

  At the hardware store, I caught up with the various Latinos, Poles, and craggy old Anglos who worked the place, suggesting that my five-dollar sale likely assured the owner’s mortgage that month.

  From there I walked across the street toward the bank and got hit by a big white van.

  I was at the crosswalk, where an urgent sign in the middle of the road should have provided enough warning to the driver, and in fact, I saw him slow down as he approached. But then a woman behind me on the sidewalk started losing control of the little dog she was holding. Her insistent commands and the dog’s yelping pulled my attention away and by the time I looked forward again the van was right on top of me. I jumped back, literally, but too late to avoid getting clipped by the big truck’s left fender.

  Even at low speed, the ballistic energy of a multiton vehicle is a lot more than the average human body is built to withstand. Even if you spend as much time in the gym as I do.

  I spun like a skating routine gone terribly wrong and landed hard enough to hear the crack of my jaw as it hit the pavement. I’d been punched there a few times during my boxing career, but it didn’t prepare me for the shock to the brain and special effects that lit up before my eyes. My elbows and knees were also involved, though I was more interested at that point in staying out from under the wheels of the truck. I heard screams from the sidewalk and the screech of tires. And somebody yelling “son of a bitch,” though I think that was me.

  When I stopped rolling I was hard against the curb. I looked up and saw a bunch of people staring down at me saying things like, “Is he dead?” One of the faces got a lot closer, and I recognized him as the driver. Jaybo Flynn, Jimmy Watruss’s young buddy driving Mad Martha’s refrigerated fish van.

  “Holy shit, Sam, I’m so fucking sorry,” he was screaming. “Are you okay? Oh man, somebody call an ambulance. My fucking foot slipped. Jesus Christ, are you dead?”

&nb
sp; “I’m not dead, Jaybo,” I said, pulling myself up. “I’m not even all that hurt, unless this blood means something.”

  I looked at the red smear on my hand that came from feeling around my chin.

  “Jimmy’s gonna fucking kill me,” said Jaybo. “I’m not even drunk.”

  “He’s not going to kill you,” I said, trying with some help from Jaybo and the other gawkers to get up on my feet. “Though I might.”

  “I don’t know what happened. I thought I was hitting the brake and I hit the accelerator instead. It’s not my truck.”

  Jaybo had another guy in the truck with him who looked even more shook up than Jaybo.

  “That’s totally what happened, man,” the guy said.

  “Forget about it,” I said. “I should’ve been more careful.”

  The crowd tried to help me to one of the park benches that line Main Street, but I shook them off and got there on my own power. I was suddenly aware that my ribs where the van hit were burning, and I knew I’d be pretty sore in a few hours, but thought everything else was still in working order. No breaks or strains among the moveable parts.

  “If you want to be useful, get that for me,” I said to Jaybo, pointing to the paper bag filled with my fasteners where it lay in the street. “I might never find those things again.”

  A Village cop I didn’t know sat down next to me on the bench. She was stocky and serious, her belt bristling with equipment, her face kind and concerned.

  “We need to get you to the hospital,” she said.

  “No we don’t. I’m okay.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “Yes I do. I’ve been beat up by bigger guys than that truck.”

  The little crowd around me dissipated with the arrival of the cop, much to my relief. Jaybo and his buddy were still there after retrieving my little paper bag. He looked even jumpier than usual, consumed with worry.

  “Jaybo, it’s all right,” I said.

  “Oh, fuck,” he said, looking away from me. I followed his eyes to where Jimmy Watruss was striding down the street.

  “Jimmy, I’m fine,” I said, drawing his attention away from Jaybo. “I did a stupid thing. Wasn’t Jaybo’s fault.”

  The young cop said to Jimmy, “Maybe you could convince Mr. Macho to let me take him to the hospital.” I looked at the name on her name tag.

  “I’ll go with you, Roza, if you tell Jimmy it’s no big deal,” I said.

  “It’s no big deal,” she said.

  Jaybo looked at Jimmy with a look that said, “See?”

  “His name is Sam,” Jimmy said to the cop. “Put him in cuffs and take his dumb ass to the hospital.”

  None of them knew, though, about my phobia of hospitals. All that soothing pale paint, blinking machines, people in blue outfits carrying syringes. Images of Allison in her bed all hooked up flooded my brain. Almost made me want to run out into the street and find another truck to finish the job.

  Instead Officer Roza Dudko gently dragged me up off the bench and toward a waiting patrol car, which took me to Southampton Hospital, only a few blocks away. I was met by the ER king, an oversized Jamaican doctor named Markham Fairchild, who’d seen me there before.

  “Not my fault,” I said to him, as he used his pizza-platter-sized hand to check my pulse.

  “Never your fault, Mr. Acquillo. What is it this time?”

  “Fish van hit him on Main Street,” said Officer Dudko.

  “I’m fine,” I said. “Both of you, go look after people who need looking after.”

  Markham stuck a tiny flashlight in my eyes and felt around my skull.

  “One of the harder heads in Southampton,” he said to Officer Dudko. “I’ve seen the X-rays.”

  She noted that, then agreed to leave us and go back to more useful work. Markham poked and prodded a bit more, and after a physician’s assistant put a few stitches in my chin, decided I was a waste of his time. I heartily agreed.

  “Of course now I’m at the hospital and my car’s in the Village,” I said.

  “Don’t worry, Mr. Acquillo. We have special transport for our repeat customers.”

  So a nurse just getting off shift had the dubious privilege of driving me back to my car. She didn’t seem to mind. On the way we traded names of people we knew in town and agreed that the world would be a better place if Markham ruled everything.

  “Can you have an ER-Docracy?” she asked.

  I LEARNED a few things about injured ribs. They get a lot worse a few days after the injury and then stay that way for a very long time. You can avoid the pain by not walking, sitting, standing, lying down, laughing, coughing, sneezing, or breathing. I still managed to resist the painkillers they prescribed, certain the evil things would’ve instantly turned me into a heroin addict.

  Part of the recovery plan was to avoid allowing people to hear me cry out in agony, so I stayed away from the public for about a week, though I spoke to Amanda every day on the phone.

  “As we thought, she doesn’t remember a thing,” she reported on the occasion of Allison waking up. “We had to explain everything to her. Nathan did the heavy lifting. He’s an interesting young man.”

  “How’s Abby taking it?”

  “She’s been good. I think Allison was glad to see everybody.”

  “But me.”

  “She doesn’t want you there, not in the condition she’s in. How did you know that?”

  “Because that’s what I would want.”

  “Though you are coming soon, I trust,” she said. “If the ribs allow.”

  “I’ll make it in tomorrow,” I said. “Better to surprise her.”

  “You can drive?”

  “The Grand Prix basically drives itself.”

  “So no progress on who did it,” she said.

  “Sullivan’s on his way back. He’s stopping by to tell me what they have, though I know what he’ll say.”

  “They got nothing.”

  “Probably less than that.”

  SULLIVAN DID stop by about an hour later. He looked as if his time in the city had done him some good. Brighter eyes and quicker movements. More irritation and less resignation, like the old Sullivan.

  He fussed over Eddie like he always did, then agreed to carry some beers out to the Adirondack chairs so we wouldn’t die of thirst while we talked. Given my ribs, it took awhile to get out there, so I had time to tell him what happened. He’d had a similar injury, so it pleased him to share the experience.

  “It’s a fucker, right?” he said.

  “It is.”

  “I did mine falling down the basement stairs carrying a stack of pizzas. Wish it was a better story.”

  “How did the pizzas come out?” I asked.

  “Worse than me, but we ate them anyway.”

  When we finally got to the breakwater, all I had to do was drop into the chair while stifling the usual little yelp. I was partly successful.

  “You really fucked yourself up, didn’t you,” he said.

  “Jaybo Flynn fucked me up. Though he didn’t mean to.”

  “I think that kid would fuck up signing his name if it weren’t for Jimmy Watruss.”

  Then he told me about Allison’s case, and as expected, they had bubkes, despite a lot of talk with informants and associates of Allison’s and people in the neighborhood.

  “Thing is,” he said, after downing half his beer, “this actually tells us something.”

  “You’ve eliminated first order variables.”

  “I would’ve said exactly that, if I knew what the hell it meant.”

  “The solutions to most puzzles are almost always the most obvious,” I said. “So you go there first. When those fail, you know you’re facing the nonobvious, which changes your approach.”

  “Where’d you learn that?”

  “Fixing oil refineries,” I said.

  “They break?”

  “Sometimes.”

  He concentrated on downing his beer and opening another
. The night was warmer than you’d expect, even for that time of the summer. The breeze off the Little Peconic had momentarily flagged, reminding me that nothing works all the time.

  “What’s obvious to me is that Allison knew her attacker,” he said. “That he wasn’t from the neighborhood. That it has nothing to do with money, which usually means it’s about sex or information. I’m crossing off sex after talking to the Hepner kid, who’s about as stand up as you can get. Sorry,” he added, remembering he was talking about my daughter.

  “No need.”

  “So what’s left is information. Somebody tried to waste Allison because she knew something she shouldn’t have. She’s only alive because he didn’t know how hard it is to kill an Acquillo. That’s my two cents, for what it’s worth.”

  “It’s worth a lot.”

  “Yeah?”

  “I’m grateful,” I said.

  He shrugged, dismissing the sentiment, though an even less sensitive person than I would have seen it pleased him.

  “Okay, good,” he said. “I better get back to my place. See if the help has restocked the wine cellar.”

  I let him go without leaving the Adirondacks. Eddie stuck with me, even lying hard up against my legs again, which was a little out of the ordinary. Maybe he was telling me he liked our arrangement as is, and not to screw it up by getting run over by any more trucks.

  I told him okay, though I wasn’t sure I could deliver on the promise.

  THE NEXT day the pain in my ribs was slightly less startling, so I took a chance on driving me and Eddie in the Grand Prix to the hospital in the city where they had Allison. Riding in the car is one of Eddie’s transcendent delights, proven by frequent trips to and from the rear seat and long periods with his head stuck out the window.

  When I first got him, he was startled by a big dog that barked at him from the bed of a black pickup. Since then, he barks at every black pickup, assuming it conveys its own threatening dog. Or maybe he thinks the truck is the dog itself. I’m not sure, but on the way to the city, no black pickup escaped his wrath.

  At the hospital, we made it past the battle-ax at the front desk and all the way to the nurses’ station in Allison’s ward before being told dogs weren’t allowed in the hospital. Eddie responded by putting his front paws on the desk so the nurse could reach over and scratch the top of his head. I told her he was a trained therapy dog, which she didn’t believe, but let me through anyway.