by Lee Lamothe
Ray Tate and Djuna Brown went to the local Sector and muscled a car. Chief’s special, Fuck You. In a new fleet Ford 500 they headed out to Bradshaw’s.
Aaron Bradshaw was a predator. He preyed on the new immigrant, the down-and-outer, the guy needing a job for bail or probation or parole. He worked them like dogs. It was said he turned the better-looking young females over to a cousin who ran a chain of massage parlours. If anyone complained about anything, Bradshaw dropped a dime and the worker was back in Mexico or the clink or on his ass on the street in record time. Ray Tate had run into Bradshaw several times over the years.
Bradshaw’s Pork was just outside town. It was a huge facility of metal huts and loading docks with picnic tables scattered around the property. Bradshaw processed a lot of pigs and nothing went to waste. A rendering house was away to the edge of the property.
When they pulled up in front of the offices, the air smelled like a fresh and bloody crime stage.
Inside, Aaron Bradshaw was consulting with a secretary. He was big with a huge pot belly that held his trousers down near his crotch. His hairpiece was bright red with grey sideburns down into his jowls. The secretary had big breasts, looked Central American, and was biting her lip and shaking her head as he whispered into her ear, his hand moving on her shoulder.
“Bradshaw.” Ray Tate moved quickly to the desk. “Back off her.”
“Warrant? No? Then get out.”
“I’ll get a squad of Homeland guys in here, shut you down.”
“And in a fucking hour I’ll have full roster, at a quarter of a buck an hour cheaper each. Do me a favour.” He leered at Djuna Brown. “You looking for a job, dear? Big pay, short hours. Overnight shift.”
Djuna Brown gave him a saucy smile. “Another time, maybe. Looks like a cool place to work. You actually get anything done here besides boning?”
Bradshaw laughed. “That’s more like it. This guy? No sense of humour. Ready to believe the worst lies about anyone.”
“Well, he’s a city guy, right? Me, I’m State. To me, all people come fresh.”
“What can I do for you? You looking for a wetback did a robbery? How many you want? I got a bunch.”
“No. We’re interested in John Smith.”
“Johnny?” Bradshaw’s mode changed. He licked his lips. He became cautious. “I had a guy with that name. Long time ago, month or maybe two. He came, he went.”
“He have any friends here? Guys he hung with?”
“Well, no. Not I can recall. What’s he done?”
“Can’t say. We’re just looking around at his shit.”
Aaron Bradshaw looked at Ray Tate, then back at Djuna Brown. “I’ll talk, but not in front of both of you.”
Ray Tate went to the door. “Stay in the window where I can see you both. Djuna, if you have to plug him, plug him. In the nuts.”
“Fuck you.”
“Soon, Bradshaw, you fucking deviate.”
“Get the fuck out, the both of you.”
“C’mon.” Djuna Brown patted the air. “C’mon. Ray, go the fuck outside, man. Let us talk.”
Ray Tate went out. He stood on the walkway looking in the window.
Ray Tate was pissed off and Djuna Brown insisted on driving. She made sure his seatbelt was fastened. “You know, Ray, in this down economy more people eat pork than anything except pasta and chicken? And macaroni and bird get old, real fast. The worse things get, the better it is for Bradshaw. Busier it gets, he said, the more poor migrants he can help make new, prosperous lives in America, giving them work, feeding their families. He’s a humanitarian; guys like you just don’t see the big picture.”
“That’s always been my drawback, why I’m stuck at sergeant. I just don’t dig it. But you did, right?”
“Sure. Perfect economic sense, once you have a pro explaining to you. He provides jobs, he provides nutritious food. A good guy, that guy. Unless, of course, you’re a victim. Then, maybe not so good. We didn’t get into that part.”
“So, Johnny Smith.”
“Interesting, our Johnny. In the pens he was the guy who got ’em out, sent them on to the next step. The butchering, the rending. Easy job, white man’s job. He kept on top of the pens, made sure everything was okay. He did the separating. No dirty bloody jobs for Johnny, that stuff was for the beaners. Did a good job. Great employee.”
“So, why’d he let him go?”
“Great employee, except for one teenie weenie habit. He’d get a young pig, string it up by the neck, and have some fun with it.”
“He fucked them?” Ray Tate looked at her, amazed. This was choice. “He’s a pig fucker? Holy shit, Djuna, I’ve heard of that but never met one of those guys before. Banging a pig. That’s a little odd, even in this town. I once busted a sheep shanker, funny story. This guy —”
“Some other time, Ray.” She was happy he’d calmed down and was having fun. “No, he didn’t jam them. He hung them up and went to work on them with his fists. Just demolished them. How long it went on, Bradshaw didn’t know. But he caught him at it when one of the inside guys refused to work with Johnny. How come, Bradshaw asked, how come you’re risking going back to Guatemala in handcuffs? Because, the guy said, he beats the poor animals.”
“Fuck.”
“Yep. He just hung ’em up and pulverized them. Bradshaw caught him, booted him.”
“The hogs. Eve Evans said he called her a dog. Maybe he said hog.”
“I like this guy, Ray.”
“Djun’, I love this fucking guy.” He sat back, watching the streets. “You know, he wants to be a TV weatherman.”
“He got a big head?”
Marty Frost loved John Smith, too. He was viable. She listened to Djuna Brown tell about the interview with Aaron Bradshaw.
“How you want to handle it, Marty?” Ray Tate signalled a waitress. “It’s all of ours’ case, but the poor dead ladies are your weight.”
They sat at a corner table in the hotel bar, drinking cold beers. Each round, the waitress said, “Compliments of the house.”
Martinique Frost thought about it. “First, we should confirm he’s got a gunshot wound. Then we get the vampires to do a quick blood type, his and the stuff off the sign at the Riverwalk. DNA will take a while. Djuna, can you work that Gail girl a little, somehow find out if he’s wounded, hurting?”
“Lemme think on that. She might be off shift by now.” She got up and went into the lobby area.
Brian Comartin said he had an idea. “Stroke of midnight, the discretionary period passes on the last parking violation. We can take him.”
“For traffic?” Marty Frost stared at him. “Brian? We want him for multiple murders.”
“And failure to attach seatbelt. I noticed he drove off unsecured this morning. Maybe he’s got a bad habit.”
Ray Tate said, “That’s heavy, heavy shit. Unsecured. Yikes.”
Djuna Brown came back into the bar. “She’s just going off shift, he’s picking her up. I got her chatting, said me and my man here want to go bowling, did she know a place? She said up on Chester. I said, ‘Hey, you want to come with us?’ She said she dug bowling, but her beau got hurt at work the other day, his arm was fucked up.”
“Okay,” Ray Tate said, “okay, that’ll do it.”
Chapter 29
When Gail the receptionist got into the Buick and pulled out of the roundabout, Brian Comartin and Martinique Frost, in the Chrysler, and Ray Tate and Djuna Brown, in the 500, played them loose. The Buick went directly to the Eight and headed north.
Brian Comartin went on the air. “Eight to Park, west to Harrison Hill, his place. Eleven minutes, traffic flow and road conditions.”
The dispatcher came on. “Rambling units out there, identify.”
Ray Tate went on the radio. “Desk, we’re chief’s specials running an op. Two vehicles, four officers. Assign a band, please.”
“Ten-four, chief’s special. Dial over to channel nineteen. It’s all yours.”
&n
bsp; “Ten-four, Desk. Official time check?”
“Nine-forty-two at the twin tones.” She waited until random units came on with various ding-dongs. “Thank you, children.”
They dialled over and came up to make sure both units were in sync.
“Brian, put him through again, make sure he didn’t go pay the ticket today.”
“’Kay, Ray.” He came back a moment later. “Still open.” There was a moment of silence. “You know, when he got in, I’m pretty sure he didn’t secure his safety belt. If we don’t want to wait until midnight.”
“Can you roll up on him, take a peek? Wait for a pod of traffic and get inside it?”
Ahead, Ray Tate saw the Chrysler change lanes into a cluster of cars. It went up beside the Buick, held the same speed for a few seconds, then dropped back. “Unsecured, Ray. Moving violation. Ejection of a motorist through the windshield in event of collision? Public hazard.”
The Buick was four exits from the Park Avenue exit.
“Okay, we let him take the ramp. Remember there’s a gun outstanding. Eve Evans’s twenty-two. We’ll get in front. At the top of the ramp, Brian, you put the sunrise in his mirrors. When he’s over to the side, we’ll roll back, hold him. You bumper him up.” He dialled over the Desk. “Desk, chief’s special, we’re doing a traffic stop at the top of the Park eastbound ramp off the Eight.” He read off the descriptors of the Buick. “Monitor the band, please.”
“Channel is being monitored by a supervisor.”
Ray Tate went back to channel nineteen. Two lonelys came on and said they were in the vicinity of Harrison Hill and might drop by.
“Be aware there might be firearm onboard.”
The monitoring sergeant came on. “Chief’s special? Cause to stop?”
“Seatbelt violation. Vehicle operator observed unsecured while in motion.”
“Got it.”
“Marty, Brian. I’m going up front, you guys put the sunrise in his mirrors. When he rolls to a stop, I’ll reverse to block him tight.”
“Yes,” Marty Frost said. “Ray, if we find Eve’s gun …”
Ray Tate swung out and passed the Chrysler and then the Buick. Djuna Brown obscuring her face, sat sideways as if talking to Ray Tate. He got into the exit lane, watching the Buick’s lights in the rear-view mirror. It swayed over the broken white line without signalling.
“Fail to indicate a change of lanes on marked roadway,” Brian Comartin said. “Hundred bucks and demerits. This guy’s a crime wave.”
Ray Tate led the way up the ramp. The traffic signal at the top was red and there was minimal traffic. The Buick stopped behind him, indicating a right hand turn. In the rearview, he could see John Smith and Gail laughing. The Chrysler came up behind the Buick. He went on the air. “This is perfect right here, Brian. You light ’em up and Marty you sweet-talk them out. Put them on the road.” He undid his seat belt and took his gun from his ankle. He wished the 500 was equipped with a shotgun. A good shotgun was a mood-setter. “Arm up, Djun’, showtime. We get out, you go wide. Watch for crossfire with Marty and Brian.”
She pulled her little automatic and put her hand on the door latch.
He saw she was wearing only one earring, the dangly one, in her left ear. He smiled. She was weird.
The grill lights on the Chrysler began flashing. Brian Comartin gave the Buick a shot of roof music, then crept right up on the bumper. Martinique Frost got out with a microphone on a long curly cord and stayed behind her door. She told Brian to rotate around the back of the car and watch the passenger’s hands. When he was in position, she announced over the loudspeaker, “Driver of the black Buick, put your vehicle in park and shut off the ignition. Good, now, throw the keys out onto the roadway. Good, now, driver and passenger put both hands out the window and wait. Keep those hands out. You don’t want me to not see both hands. Very good, people.”
Ray Tate climbed out, with his gun up on the Buick. “Djuna, tell Marty to get them out, driver first, onto the road, knees then face. You chain him up.”
Through the windshield he saw John Smith looking at him. His mouth moved and he smiled.
Over the loudspeaker, Marty Frost called, “I’m missing a driver’s hand.”
John Smith stretched his hand out, as if to touch Gail’s face.
There was a snap of noise and a flash of light off his fingertips.
Ray Tate saw her slump against the passenger door.
There was another flash and snap and John Smith’s head jerked back against the headrest.
After the Homicide detectives were done with them, they were each sent to wait in Hambone Hogarth’s office. When they were all gathered, he took them across the street to a greasy spoon. They sat at a round table in the back. The cook brought down a carafe of coffee and left them.
“Well, it looks like you guys got the right guy this time. Took you a while, a bit of a body count, but Smith looks good for all the women. The twenty-two belonged to the surviving victim. Blood type on the sign matches with Smith, DNA pending. He had a gunshot through and through in his shoulder. With the murder in the car, that’s four up and four down. But I sent some guys to do some prelim work. Seems Smith wanted to off his wife, hide her in a crowd of dead black women. She was too uppity, he told a guy at the local bar. He spent all his time building her up, getting her to go to night school, being supportive. And then she starts to outclass him. She’s on the rocket to management in the hotel chain, he’s beating pigs to death and laying plumbing. He told the bar guy he created her and she forgot that it was him that carried her, that made her what she was. He was going back to white chicks who appreciated him. We wouldn’t have looked at him too hard at all if the first body had been found first. As it was, when the third popped up it looked like a nut on a run. We were off him.” He shrugged. “It’s all been done before, but we would have circled back on him eventually.”
“That’s it?” Marty Frost sipped her black coffee and shook her head. “That’s it? A domestic? He was just an asshole?”
“Yep. No race killer. No right-wing crackpots. Just a guy with a wife that pissed him off.”
Djuna Brown said, “But why kill Gail? She was crazy about him.”
“We went through her apartment. There were new clothes in there, still with the tags on them. Business suits, new shoes. There were brochures from the university with some courses, hotel management, public speaking, that kind of stuff, circled. She was improving herself to death.”
“Gail was good people,” Djuna Brown looked sad.
Brian Comartin patted her hand.
Martinique Frost was still dazed. “A fucking domestic.”
“C’mon, Marty.” Brian Comartin said they had to go pack. “We leave tomorrow, we’re so outta here.” He stood up and said to Ray Tate, “This is no place for people like us.”
Ray Tate wondered who he meant.
Epilogue
The Center for Disease Control people isolated Patient Zero, an elderly woman who’d come across the river from Canada. She was dead when they found her, long-dead in a rooming house owned by one of Willard Wong’s front men. By then most of the plague had evaporated from the city. Willard Wong paid for a traditional funeral for Patient Zero and had her ashes shipped home to Fujian Province. He built a shrine on California Street at the gates of East Chinatown and every day he stopped and lit incense.
Joseph Carr sent long letters to Martinique Frost. No one told him she’d retired and moved to Barcelona. But he wrote the letters to her daily, care of the Jank, and never realized he was actually writing to himself.
Sally Greaves entered a plea of insanity. It was accepted by the judge, who had an older brother with bad habits involving teenaged girls and party drugs.
Hambone Hogarth had a search team and locksmith with a blowtorch in Sally Greaves’s home within hours of her arrest. When the detectives doing the follow-up investigation went to gather evidence for the case file the following week, they found a hidden compartment
in the back of the closet had been burned open with an acetylene torch. Pious Man Chan appointed Hogarth deputy chief in charge of SPA, Sally Greaves’s vacant job.
Evening Evans only went home with her father long enough to undergo rehabilitation at a clinic. After eight months of rehab she headed back to the city and began her project on the illegal migrants, getting used to her eye patch and her cane, which she thought made her look daring and mysterious. “I am,” she said to a colleague, “truly a camera on a tripod.”
Cops slowly drifted back onto the duty roster. Administration staff were gradually taken from the streets and put back on their asses behind their desks. They had stories to tell. They’d seen shit and didn’t mind if they didn’t see it anymore in their current lifetime.
Ray Tate received in the mail a folded menu from a Barcelona restaurant. On the back of the menu, written down the middle of the page, was a ragged poem, written in pencil. The title was “This Is No Place for People Like Us.”
The poem reminded him of a recent call from George Meyers. “Kid,” he had said, “that fat guy, the traffic guy you was with? Comartin, right? You ever find out where he was, September nine, nineteen ninety-four?”
Ray Tate booked his accrued vacation.
The State Police wanted their lone volunteer, the midget black sergeant from Indian country, back. She couldn’t be located. When the bills from the Whistler hit State accounting someone noticed two inspectors, which the State cops hadn’t sent, had gone deluxe.
When, in the following month, hotel bills from the Elysees Mermoz Hotel in Paris came in, the all-in State card was cancelled.
In the taxi to Charles de Gaulle to catch their flight to Chicago, Djuna Brown looked out the window at the cafés and intersections and people dressed in cool chic clothing, at the deliverymen hauling goods from vans, the shopkeepers hosing down their sidewalks, and the waiters setting up tables on patios.
