KOP Killer k-3

by Warren Hammond

  I nodded.

  “Fuck! I hate you, Juno. You know that? I’ve always hated you.”

  Their phones rang, both at the same time. A holo blinked into existence just beyond the rail. Captain Emil Mota’s feet floated high over the water. “You two running this investigation?”

  “Yes,” they responded.

  “I just got a tip. A credible tip. I want Juno Mozambe brought in for questioning.”

  Seven

  I flew through holo-Mota, diving for the river, my shades gripped in my left. My hands punctured the water, next came a slap to the top of my head, and then I was under. I plunged deep below the surface, my ears feeling the pressure. I kicked deeper, waiting for the mad spark to ignite inside me, hoping it would come so I could end this miserable existence.

  No such luck.

  It was cold down here. My ears hurt and so did my strained lungs. Not so rapturous after all.

  I needed oxygen. Aiming straight up, I flutter-kicked for the surface. Breaking through, I sucked air into my lungs. I couldn’t believe this shit. Damn river spat me out. Bitch didn’t like the taste of me.

  I looked up. Maggie was there, looking down at me, her expression unreadable from this distance. She gave me a wave. Josephs was there, too, flipping me a double bird.

  Holo-Mota reappeared as Maggie must’ve called him back. She’d hung up with him as soon as he mentioned my name. From there, things had gone quick, her saying I better get out of here, Josephs saying they couldn’t just let me walk away with all these cops wandering the pier, and me solving the problem by swanning overboard.

  Soon they’d be telling Mota how they’d just tried but couldn’t find me. I must’ve already left the scene. No, they didn’t know where I’d gone. Now what was this tip all about?

  I scanned the ship’s rails. I couldn’t see anybody but Maggie and Josephs. Nobody else had seen me. I quietly breaststroked away, aiming for a set of docks just downriver.

  Water dripped from my clothes, forming a puddle on the tile floor. I shivered under the blasting aircon. From behind a long row of glass cases, a sharp-eyed woman stared at me with one brow cocked in puzzlement.

  I held out my shades, drops of river water falling onto the glass counter. “Sorry.” I tried to wipe off the water, but wound up smearing it around. Under the glass, rows and rows of earrings and necklaces glinted through the resulting blur.

  I unfolded my sunglasses so she could see how one stem had bent when I hit the water. Through chattering teeth, I asked, “Can you fix this?”

  I lay on the bed, wearing a brand-new set of cheap whites that I’d bought with some soggy pesos. My good-as-new shades covered my eyes.

  Maria sat in the sex swing, her bare feet on the floor, her toenails painted pink to match her bra, which peeked out from under a tit-hugger top. My wet clothes hung from the cables that supported the sex swing. So did my drying pesos, two dozen bills clipped on like tiny flags, each held in place by a nipple clamp posing as a clothespin.

  We didn’t speak. She seemed to sense I wasn’t in a conversational mood. My mind was grinding and churning, processing and plotting. Mota had overplayed his hand. The guy was a suit, and suits had no business poking around in a murder investigation. Not when they worked in PR. Shoving his weight around with Maggie and Josephs was an overreach. They didn’t report to him.

  I never doubted Maggie and Josephs would let me go. Tense as things were between Maggie and me, we had a history. And Josephs, he was an everyday cop, and everyday cops had a long tradition of anti-suit sentiment. He’d let me go on principle. The SOB didn’t like being told what to do.

  But Mota would keep pushing. He was already trumping up a bullshit tip to turn KOP against me and my boys. KOP was too fractured for his plan to work in full, but he didn’t need complete success. Shit, all he needed was a single kiss-ass. Just one trigger-happy uniform with designs on currying suit favor and I was fucked.

  Whether Mota killed Froelich or not, he had to be corralled. And fast.

  But he hadn’t responded to my threats. Or a pair of broken legs.

  I knew what I had to do. It was the only way to get the mission back on track. There was no other way to be sure my new protection business would succeed.

  The competition had to be eliminated.

  I had to kill him.

  I tried to tell myself I shouldn’t feel guilty. I ran tired, old rationalizations through my head. Things like, It’s his own fault for not backing down. Or, Anybody stupid enough to buck me isn’t worth the air he breathes. Eye for an eye, tooth for a tooth. You fuck with a monitor, you get an assful of teeth.

  I had a million of them, but none helped, the familiar pit of guilt-tinged self-loathing making my stomach ache.

  I had to kill him.

  There it was.

  “You met my sister yet?” asked Maria, her lashes gunked up with so much mascara that her lids and upper cheeks were dotted with semicircles of mascara tracks. I couldn’t see the bruise I’d given her. Whether it had faded or had just been covered by a few coats of foundation, I couldn’t tell.

  “No.”

  “She works here. She’s got a pretty face. She’s gonna do good at this.”

  “How old is she?”

  “Fifteen, but she looks older. Most people think she’s seventeen or eighteen. I’ve been saving up to get that doctor I was telling you about to do some work on her.”

  “I thought you said she was pretty.”

  “She is. She’ll get regular business, but we have to think long-term. Most of these girls don’t think like that. They spend their money as fast as they earn it. They never think about what’s going to happen when their tits start sagging. What are they going to do then?”

  Somebody less jaded would’ve told her to get her sister the hell out of here. The girl was only fifteen. It wasn’t too late to get her back in school.

  Instead, I told Maria her sister was lucky to have her looking out for her.

  “She’s a smart kid. Someday we’re going to start our own house. If we’re really good about saving our money, we can do it in ten years or so.”

  “You think a new set of tits will earn her that much?”

  “It’s not just the tits. She’s gonna get some work down below, too.”

  “What kind of work?”

  “This doctor can insert motors and stuff down there so she can give her johns a ride they won’t forget.”

  “Motors?” I asked, disbelieving.

  “Not that you can see. They’re all internal, small little things. But they’re powerful as hell. I mean they’ll vibrate your wang off. And there’s other settings, too.” She counted fingers. “There’s roll, and jerk, and squeeze, and twist. Oh, and they lubricate.”

  My jaw was on my chest. Robo-fucking-snatches? “Guys dig that shit?”

  She nodded emphatically, her teased hair bowing up and down like a tree in a windstorm. “I know a girl over at the Red Room who got the procedure. She has to turn ’em away. Now I admit there’s some who aren’t into it. She says she gets johns who come in for a curiosity fuck and never come back, but she also says there’s tons more who won’t do regular girls anymore. She has a waiting list.”

  “How long have these things been around?”

  “Not long. Offworlders have had ’em for years. I don’t even know how long. But they’re new on Lagarto. As far as I know, that offworld doctor was the first to offer the procedure down here.”

  “Does Chicho have any girls who have one?”

  “Why? You wanna try it out?”

  Surprised at the question, I stuttered a no.

  She cocked her head to one side like she was confused by my reaction. “I think I’m starting to get you.”

  “You are?”

  “You’re one of those sentimental types, aren’t you? You can’t separate sex from love. Big and bad on the outside, but soft and squishy on the inside.”

  Soft and squishy? Try twisted and tortured.
r />   “Don’t look at me like that,” she said. “I wasn’t trying to insult you. I think it’s sweet, really.”

  Christ. Don’t tell me she’s coming on to me, this ex-hooker with the big hooters, and the big hair, and the big perfume.

  The room’s phone rang.

  I answered quickly, jumping at the chance to escape this conversation. Deluski appeared, the badge on his holo shining extra bright. “It’s Wu, boss, he just went into the Beat.”

  Any relief I felt was instantly erased. I was up, shoving my feet into my shoes. “I told you guys to lay low. Why didn’t you stop him?”

  “We tried, but he wouldn’t listen. He’s in there looking for Mota.”

  Eight

  April 22–23, 2789

  I hustled from the back of the cab. Deluski waited on the curb outside the longtime cop bar. A flickering lamp blinked across his youthful face. Together, we barged through the double doors. The place was quiet. Unusually quiet.

  Heads turned our way, uniforms and brass, badge bunnies and bartenders.

  Wu stood by the bar, crocked off his ass, swaying to and fro, a bottle in one hand, a half-full glass in the other. “Where are you?” he shouted, the words sloshing out his mouth. “Where is that fucking faggot?”

  The crowd gave him plenty of room. Other than some hushed muttering, nobody spoke. They appeared to be waiting for his tirade to run its course. Any normal night, a guy disrupts everybody’s good time and somebody would’ve dragged him out back for a thumping. But Wu had just lost his partner. They were in a generous mood.

  Wu brought the bottle to his lips, forgetting the glass in his other hand. He tipped his scarred head back for a swig, and his body followed, back arching, feet backpedaling-but still drinking-until he smacked into the bar. Glasses jumped, and bar stools tumbled.

  I wished I could laugh like some in the crowd, but my heart was racing, my pulse double-timing. I scanned the clientele, searching for threats, searching for agents of Captain Mota. Did he have a crew like I did? Was his influence bigger than I thought? He wanted me brought in for questioning. How far had the word spread? How many of these jokers were ready to smooch some suit ass?

  I spotted both Kripsen and Lumbela. They looked relieved to see me. I gave them each the eye. Let’s do this thing.

  I approached the bar, Deluski riding shotgun, Kripsen and Lumbela joining from the sides, a four-man show of force.

  “Where is he?” yelled Wu. “Where is that bastard? I just wanna ask him some questions. I wanna ask him if he killed my partner.”

  We passed cop tables, brandy in glasses, tin cups full of shine. Badge bunnies watched us pass, their faces painted with rouge and lipstick. The hairs on my neck prickled, and sweat broke on my brow.

  I stepped straight up to Wu and took a fistful of his collar. “Let’s go.”

  I turned and made for the door, my boys fanning to the sides, me dragging Wu along. My boys walked with purpose, their hands on their pieces, putting out a pure don’t-fuck-with-us vibe.

  Wu’s garbled protests sounded behind me. Dumb fucking undisciplined piece of shit. He’d put us all at risk tonight. His drunken posturing was a colossal show of stupidity, though I had to admit he couldn’t have stumbled into a more effective means of putting out word that Mota might’ve killed Froelich. True or not, the accusation would pass from cop to cop on whispered breath until the whole of KOP was infected.

  I eyed the last couple tables. I felt a tug on my improvised leash, fabric slipping through my fingers. Wu tried his escape, but I recovered in a hurry, my hand seizing a tighter hold on his collar. Buttons popped off his shirt as he tried to pull free. Stumbling, he went down, his body falling on top of the brandy glass in his left hand. The muffled crunch of glass made me wince.

  I yanked him upright. His hand was bloodied, his pants torn. He held the bottle tight to his chest with his other hand like it was a baby. I told him to heel by giving his collar a rough yank. The door. I had to get him out that door.

  Wu threw the bottle. Heads ducked to a chorus of startled screams. The bottle exploded against a wall by the door. A shower of brandy and glass rained down on a table of cops and their dates. They jumped up in unison, the women looking at their stained dresses in disgust, the men aiming steamed stares at us.

  Christ. The men were approaching.

  I glanced at Wu, at the fear creeping into his eyes-he knew how bad he’d fucked up. A group of four brandy-splashed beat cops met us, their chests out, their nostrils flared, testosterone flowing strong. Three more cops joined from another table, one of them a woman.

  “That boy’s gonna apologize,” said the one in front.

  My crew stood their ground, their hands gripping their undrawn weapons. I let go of Wu and stepped up to meet the uniform in a cop face-off. Nobody in my crew was going to fucking apologize. I’d never allow us to look so weak. I didn’t care how in the wrong Wu was. He was one of mine.

  “Tell him to apologize,” said the uni.

  Four on seven. Make that eight now that another cop had joined their ranks. I took my sunglasses off, folded them, and shoved them in a pocket. I pulled my piece out of my waistband real slow and deliberate. With the handle pinched between thumb and forefinger, I held it up in my swaying hand.

  This was what I needed. A good fucking fight, consequences be damned. If Mota had one of his agents in the crowd, so be it. My enforcer juices couldn’t be tamed.

  Somebody came and collected my weapon. And everybody else’s too. The air hung heavy with anticipation. Badge bunnies hopped away. Suits hung in the corner, spectating from afar. A pair of uniforms joined our side, and I recognized them as a couple of late arrivals from the riot. Two of Wu and Froelich’s boys.

  A bartender yelled from behind the bar, “Take it outside. You want to be welcome in here afterwards, you take it outside.”

  The stiff opposite me turned his head to talk to his newly formed gang. “Yeah, let’s move it outside.”

  That was when I hit him, dropped the fucker with a right to the jaw. I ran over him, my shoe stomping his balls on my way to bull into the next hump. I drove my shoulder into his chest and ran him backward until we tumbled over a table, and the gates of hell broke loose behind me.

  The gates of glorious hell.

  I was on my back taking shots to the face, my hands covering and taking the worst of it. I tried to buck the bastard off me, but my strength was sapped. Nothing to do but take it. He snuck one through my guard, my head going dizzy.

  “You can’t hurt me,” I spat. Another fist came down. “That all you got?”

  Somebody pulled him off, telling him it was over. “Easy. Take it easy,” said a voice.

  I couldn’t see straight. Too much blood in my eyes. I wiped my face with my shirt. Hands picked me up and ushered me toward the door. I bumbled over collapsed tables and broken chairs before being ejected out to the street. Finding a lamppost to lean on, I rubbed my eyes clear and took a long look at my scraped and already swelling knuckles. I grinned. I could still throw a punch.

  Looking down, I found Deluski and Kripsen sitting in a patch of weeds, their lungs heaving, their faces bloodied like mine. Behind them Wu lay passed out with geckos crawling all over him. I swept at the flies buzzing around my head. The smell of blood must’ve been driving them mad.

  Lumbela was across the way, his arm draped over the shoulder of the uniform I’d dropped, the two of them laughing. The uniform’s girl stood nearby, arms crossed, her impatient foot going tap, tap, tap. That stiff had another fight coming later tonight. I laughed, deep and hard. I’d forgotten the joy of genuine laughter.

  Somebody handed me a can of fly gel. “You’re gonna need this.”

  “Yeah. Was that you pounding my face?”

  “That was me.” He flexed his fist. “You got one hard face.”

  I scooped out a gob of gel and slathered my brow to kill any eggs that were already there. “See any other cuts?”

  He tilted my hea
d back in the lamplight and gave me a good once-over. “I don’t think so, but I can’t tell for sure.”

  I rubbed gel over my knuckles. “Good fucking fight.”

  “Shit, yeah.” He patted my shoulder and brought the gel to Deluski and Kripsen.

  I walked over to them. “Can you guys get Wu home?”

  “You bet, boss,” said Kripsen.

  “Let me borrow your phone.”

  Kripsen handed it over. It took me only a few seconds to get the address before I tossed the phone back to him. Fun as it would be to buy everybody a round, it was time I shoved off.

  I found my piece in a pile of weapons on the walk and tucked it into my waistband.

  “Where you going, boss?” asked Kripsen.

  “I got something I gotta do. You guys get Wu home.”

  Suddenly remembering, I reached for my shirt pocket. Good. My shades were still there. I pulled them free and gave them a look. They’d made it through just fine. Smiling, I slipped them on.

  I started hoofing, purpose in my gait. I didn’t care that my head ached, didn’t care about my ribs and knuckles either. I wore the wounds like badges, something to be proud of. I’d kicked some ass and tagged myself a fucking force.

  I didn’t want to think about where I was going. I wanted to enjoy the moment. Good fucking fight.

  I was back.

  Nobody would care that I’d taken a beating at the end. What they’d remember was me not backing down. They’d remember how I threw that nasty sucker punch, how I’d stomped that hump’s nuts.

  Confidence surged through me. The tattered mission was restored, achievable. I’d take back KOP. My will was too strong. My desire was too great.

  I was putt-putting the river on a rented skiff, a breeze drying the blood on my face.

  I was very aware of the fact that nobody had made a move against me at the Beat. Even when I was down, catching facefuls of knuckles, nobody tried to arrest or kill me. That told me Mota’s influence over KOP was minimal. Captain or no, he couldn’t turn the police against me. He was a middle manager, a bureaucrat, nothing more. He didn’t send a crew to guard the alley last night. The best he could do was to get a single uniform posted. A clueless uniform. Jimmy.