The detective cracked a smile and tossed a hundred dollars to the kid, who quickly pushed it into his pocket.
“Now you get back to your shoe stand, oh and the same again every two weeks.” He looked round the room. “Tell you what, I’ll let you know if there are any changes.”
The boy shot off, using the side stairs.
“Steel, what the hell is in the bag?” Sam McCall asked.
Steel grinned and headed for the coffee room, followed by the detectives who’d been watching the incident, leaving the doctor standing alone, unwilling to move, trying to prove a point. Getting to the refreshment area, Steel took the jugs from the machines and emptied its nasty contents; he prepared the three machines then reached into the bag and took out a small black-and-blue vacuum-wrapped packet.
“Steel, what the hell is?” asked the Captain. “Is that what I think it is? Now don’t you mess with me.”
Steel just stood there and slowly nodded as he raised the brick up.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, tipping away the old coffee and replenishing the water in the machines. He opened the package and topped up the machines with the dark powder, then, after pressing the ‘on’ button he waited. Before saying another word he listened for the distinctive burrrr as the hot water was being passed through the coffee powder.
“I give you a little taste of heaven.” The machines stopped and the detectives poured into the room like some a zombie horde. Steel sought refuge beside the doctor who, as Steel approached, scowled at him.
“And what do you want now, detective?”
Steel bit his lip at the doctor’s unfriendly tone.
“Look, Doctor, we are both professionals and we are here to do a job. I’m here because I have to be, you are here because you need to be, so let’s just forget out differences and be professional.” And with that he produced two cups of coffee from behind his back, and giving one to the Doc he raised his as a sign they should clink them together in agreement.
The doctor paused, shrugged, and tapped his cup against Steel’s. McCall stood watching the display between the two rivals and shook her head. Every time she thought she had gotten a read on Steel he threw in a curve ball. She sipped her coffee for the first time; oh it is good, she thought as her eyes rolled back.
THIRTY-ONE
The hour was late and Steel said his goodnights. The sun had sunk below the horizon and washes of colour painted the skyline with purples, reds, and oranges. He decided that he would go and check on the boy. As he approached the spot where the boy’s shoe-shine box normally stood, there was just a blank space, and a sickening feeling crawled over him like a heavy blanket. He kept walking, hoping to see a sign of Luke but he saw nothing. The streets were silent as he ventured home and he hoped and prayed the boy was OK.
As his key slid into the door and Steel entered the apartment, he hung up his jacket, then moved to the drinks cabinet and picked up the bottle of Glendronach whisky, poured the golden colored liquid into a crystal glass, and took a hit. Putting down the glass, he poured another, and, the glass now half full, he moved to the window, and sat at the chaise longue that faced the window. He looked out across the expanse of the city and feared for the boy’s safety.
As the dawn came, everything appeared to be covered with a blue-grey tint. The air was fresh and moist, and a figure in a black hooded tracksuit pounded his way towards Battery Park. The streets were almost empty, with only the noise from the garbage trucks’ hydraulics echoing through the maze of buildings, cop cars raising here and there, sirens tooting now and then.
Detective John Steel liked to jog at this time of day; the coolness of the air cleared his airways from the filth of the previous day’s traffic. He stopped by the railings that overlooked the bay, the brown-coloured water lapped up the sides of posts that were sunk down into the murky depths.
Taking a bottle of water from the pouch on his belt, he popped the stopper top and took a mouthful of the cold liquid and swilled it in his mouth, then swallowed. Finding a bench, he sat and looked out across the bay and saw the blood red of the sun rise. He reflected that in ancient times a blood-red sky meant blood had been spent the night before. He hoped to God that was not the case, thinking back to the boy, Luke. Jumping up, he set off once more.
Sundays held a special place in McCall’s week. It was the one time she could go and see her mom in Boston. She would go every weekend if work allowed. Her mother had a small place in the quiet part of the city; it was a small residential area with white picket fences and kids playing in the street. The sun shone brightly, a breeze rustled through the trees, and as she stood at the front porch of her mom’s house she closed her eyes and listened to the nothingness, and it was great.
Reaching forwards she pressed the bell. A loud ding dong echoed through the house, and moments later a cheerful voice called from somewhere near the back of the house.
“I’ll be there in a minute,” was what she heard, then she saw through the small slits of glass embedded in the door a figure moving quickly towards her. Her mom opened up the door, a small elderly lady in a long white dress that had flowery patterns on it, reminiscent of the 1970s. Her hair was dyed brown and showed signs of a recent perm.
The two women embraced at the sight of one another.
“I don’t understand why you never use the key I gave to you,” her mother said, a big grin on her round face.
“You know why, Mom? It’s because I love the look on your face when you open the door. It’s great to be here.” Her mother dragged her inside.
“Leave your case there and come into the kitchen,” her mother told the detective. “I made some coffee and an apple pie.”
McCall didn’t need to be asked twice; as she entered the large kitchen a waft of freshly percolated coffee and cinnamon filled her nostrils and tickled her taste buds, causing her to stop and to inhale the rich smell of home. She sat down one of the wooden chairs in the middle of the room. The kitchen was quite large with old-style fittings, and Sam had always loved it here. The house was fitted with a lot of stained wood and brass doors and cosy furniture.
McCall’s mother passed over some cups, saucers and side plates, and Sam helped set the table . Her mother brought over a large bone-china pot filled with fresh coffee and a large pie on a plate that matched the tea set. The younger woman poured the coffee and her mother cut slices of the hot steaming pie and put them on plates. Placing mounds of fresh cream onto the side of her plate, Sam dug into the pie with a small fork, the hard-topped pastry cracking down upon the apple filling, causing chunks of apple and filling to ooze from the sides before the top broke with a mouth-watering crunch.
The two women talked about this and that, who was going out with who, and all the normal local gossip, which Sam so enjoyed to hear. Sometimes McCall thought, why didn’t she just quit and have a normal life like this? And then she remembered the reason she became a cop in the first place. Remembering something difficult, Sam’s face straightened and her mother held her hand, sensing that her daughter needed comfort. McCall snapped back to reality at her touch.
“It’s OK to remember him, dear, don’t let his death drive you along the wrong path,” The older lady said.
McCall looked puzzled for a second. “What? Oh no Mom, it’s not that I’m thinking about, it’s something else.”
Her mother had one rule: don’t bring your work home with you, and McCall liked it like that.
Steel made his way through the park. He had already run for miles but he found it was that he needed to get the past week out of his system. The path stretched on through the landscape, the leaves on the trees glistened with morning sunlight. He had caught the metro north to run in Central Park: the open space and the endless green gave him time to think things through without being under pressure.
As he ran down the dusty path he went under an overpass. The small red brick bridge echoed with the clip clop of horses working hard to carry tourists up and down the park. Reaching
the other side, he noticed a man slumped over. Steel stopped for a moment, and looked round, finding that he was alone apart from this person. As he approached he saw that the guy wore a tracksuit, its red colour reflected off the bright green paintwork of the bench. He approached the man cautiously. Using just two fingers he pressed against his neck, checking for a pulse. But before he could react, some material was flung over his head—it felt like a bag of some kind. He fought hard, but he felt a sharp pain in his neck. Then, just before he blacked out, he heard a voice that was deep and gravely:
“Nighty, night, princess.”
Then John Steel slipped into darkness.
McCall and her mother sat in the garden of her Aunt Peg’s house, attending a family barbeque. Sue McCall had moved to the area, closer to her sister Pegg, after the death of Sam’s father, because the old family home was too big and had too many memories. Pegg was on ‘salad duty’ and Martin, her husband, was on the ‘grill duty’. Sam watched as the tall grey-haired man stood in front of a large black grill that had been built into what appeared to be the old chimneystack of a house. The garden was in full bloom with an array of colours, and people were mingling, laughing and joking.
It was a glorious day; the sun was high and not a cloud spoilt the blue sky. The McCall girls stood talking with another group of people who were waiting for the food.
“So Beth tells me you’re a police officer, wow, that’s brilliant. Say have you got anything to do with those grisly murders?” said a tall balding man.
McCall looked him up and down.
“You’re a reporter, right?” she shot back.
The man seemed shocked at first, and then it came to him where he had seen her before. “Hey, are you the Detective McCall? Wow, I must say this is brilliant.”
She looked puzzled.
“Well, having you in the family,” he enthused, “well that could really be good for business, I can tell you.”
McCall was just about to put him on his ass when her aunt stepped in.
“Henry Pollack, you should be ashamed,” she told him. “Plus you know the house rules, no work talk in this house.”
She gave him a saver look, he apologized and moved on.
“Mother, who is that,” Sam asked her mom “Do you know him?” she said quietly, unobtrusively pointing in the tall man’s direction.
“That, my dear, is your cousin Beth’s new man, Henry Pollack.”
McCall searched her mind for the name and came up blank.
“Never heard of him,” Sam shook her head.
“No, nobody has. Apparently he’s new in the game and is aiming to make it big, as fast as he can, so I would watch it, kiddo.” Her mother tapped the side of her nose.
THIRTY-TWO
John Steel was woken by a blast of cold water in his face, some of which went in his mouth. He tried to spit out but his lips were blocked by something, it felt like some kind of cloth. That’s when he remembered the bag pushed over his head before the pain and the blackout. He knew he’d been abducted, but something else felt really strange about his predicament too. The bag was ripped from his head and then he realized why he had this weird feeling of disorientation. He was hanging upside down, his hands bound by what felt like handcuffs.
In front of him stood three large men, each wearing a blue shiny tracksuit. Another man, who was obviously the boss, was sitting on a bar stool. He was bald headed, stocky and had the beginnings of a straggly beard, and wore a black pinstriped suit.
“Good morning, Mr Steel, oh forgive me, it’s Detective now isn’t it? My name is Sal De Torre.” The seated man’s voice was as heavy as his build.
Steel felt a massive blow to the back of his head, but had no idea where it came from. As the momentum forced his body to turn, he noticed several others dressed in the same type of tracksuit, each of them as ugly as the next. The central man of the trio was obviously the hitter. Steel noticed that one of the others, who looked to be in his early twenties, , was dancing on the tips of his toes.
The detective took a moment to assess the situation, straining to see as much as he could:
A: he was upside down, tied in position by a rope that was attached to a large hook. The hook was on a chain that ran down from a movable crane device.
B: he was handcuffed.
C: there were around five goons guarding him.
He made a note of their weapons, the exits and more importantly, the best way he could get down. He had been stripped of his hooded top, and just his t-shirt remained covering his upper body; as he gently circled round, dangling as he was, he could see that the men were not heavily armed, which was always a good thing in this kind of situation.
“So it’s still morning is it?” he asked.
Again, he felt a blow, but this time it was to his back. He winced but didn’t show any pain in his face, just anger. He looked around to see the youngest of them with a large grin on his face. He looked like a kid, a bruiser trying to make his mark with the big boys.
“Indeed it is morning,” answered Sal de Torre. “I don’t believe in wasting time, do you?”
“Well now that you—”
Smack.
He felt another punch. This time the kid laughed aloud.
“Why am I here may I ask?”
Smack.
His ears rang after taking a kick to the head. He shook off the pain.
“We ask the questions here, got that?” The young man spat out the words, while the boss raised a hand to calm him down.
“Now, now, that’s no way to treat our guest. Detective Steel has a right to know why we have brought him here.”
“Thank you.”
This time he felt a kick to his lower back. The boy was skipping at the excitement of it all. As he swivelled on his chain, the attacker saw Steel’s eyes for the first time and felt the full intensity of a stare that nearly made him pee his pants.
“So, Mr Steel, it is true what they say about you?” De Torres laughed. “Please return Mr Steel’s glasses to him before young Stan loses his breakfast, will you?” A man walked forward and slid his sunglasses back into place.
“Now to business,” The large man went on. He was now playing with a pearl-handled stiletto blade, picking bits out of the chair beneath him. From his name, Steel assumed him to be Italian. “Why are you looking for Santini and why did you put several of my colleges in the hospital?” .
“For a start—”
He took a hit direct in the small of his back. Steel was now getting bored with this and just wished they would cooperate before he killed them all.
“Look if dick head is going to keep hitting me every time I open my mouth this may take some time,” he growled. “So you may need to order refreshments.”
There was another blow, this time to the back of his legs.
“Yes, you are absolutely right, Mr Steel. Stan can you lay off? Just until we are finished? Then you can have some fun, OK?” He looked at the kid, who was all ready to deliver another blow.
Young Stan reached above Steel’s handcuffs, and was relieved to find that the man’s watch had not been removed. Feeling behind the main body, he found the handcuff key.
“Your colleagues started hitting him,” Stan replied. “I just defended myself and my business with Mr. Santini. I wish to take it up with Mr. Santini.” The kid lost his frustration and kicked Steel in the back, but the detective had anticipated the move and had tensed his muscles. Instead of absorbing the blow, Steel was therefore pushed forward. As he swung backwards fast, he managed to use his body’s momentum to come crashing straight into the face of the kid. The air was filled with blood and bone as the boy’s face exploded from the impact. Steel used the momentum once more to try to swing across to the other side and even the odds a bit, but as the goon in front of him stood ready for Steel’s crashing body, all he felt was something thrown at his face.
He looked down to see a pair of handcuffs laying in the dirt. By the time the goon looked up at Steel h
e was ripped off his feet and thrown into the path of two others who were racing forwards to get the Englishman. All three men disappeared behind some old crates. There was a loud crash.
Steel was now swinging about like a clock’s pendulum gone wrong. Bullets flew all over as one man raced through with an automatic machine pistol. Sparks flew everywhere, and people started to dive for cover. Two men raced towards Steel brandishing baseball bats, planning ready to play pińata with his head; unfortunately for them, as he swung in their direction a stray bullet cut him free from his foot shackles. Maintaining his momentum and direction he clothes-lined the goons, then rolled to safety.
Steel found himself behind a group of bashed-up old lockers, which had been laid flat. He lay there hiding from the erratic gunfire from the man who had inadvertently shot him free. Hollow loud thuds filled the air as the bullets impacted against his shelter. Steel dared to risk glancing out, to see De Torre standing at the far end near a door, shouting for the others to kill Steel. He was suddenly pulled back as a hail of bullets impacted near his head.
“Nearly got you that time, you son-of-a-bitch!” yelled the man holding the machine gun. Steel heard a click then the sound of metal hitting the floor followed by another click: the man had reloaded the automatic weapon.
Steel knew he had to do something, but what?
The hail of bullets rained against the lockers again, but the firing sound from the weapon was getting louder, which meant he was getting closer.
Steel scanned the area in front of him and found a container, which was full of what appeared to be old metal fence rods; he saw the sharp points sticking out and judged that they might have been old church railings or something similar.
“Come out, Mr Steel,” called the man with the gun. “I will make it quick. OK, all you have to do is stand up and it will all be over.”
John’s enemy had the weapon held out in front of him, the butt of the gun dug into his hip for stability.
Rise of a Phoenix: Rise of a Phoenix Page 13
