The Innocents: a cop pursues a violent felon to avenge his father

by Nathan Senthil

“Petey,” Joshua called. “French fries.”

  Peter said something, but the pillow had muffled the sound.

  Joshua got up and turned Peter. “The fries. Where are they?”

  Even without anything obstructing his face hole, Peter’s words were unintelligible.

  Joshua thought for a moment. He could let Peter sleep. But where’s the fun in drinking if your buddy was just gonna lay on his crotch?

  “Oh, no you don’t.” Joshua hauled Peter to a sitting position and shook him. “The night’s still young.”

  Peter’s eyes opened asymmetrically as he got his bearings. He needed a push. Joshua opened the Skoal tin and placed two pouches in his palm.

  “What’s…”

  “A little boost.” Joshua showed him how to use them, and Peter followed suit.

  Thankfully, the nicotine visibly brought some sobriety in his friend.

  “Bad influence, indeed,” Joshua muttered and handed Peter a Miller Lite, before pouring himself the fifth round.

  Chapter 25

  April 10, 2019. 05:17. P.M.

  A strong urge to throw up awoke Joshua. Covering his mouth, he half-blindly rushed to the bathroom.

  But no draw.

  Dizzy and nauseated, he stood straight. Chapped lips, dry throat, and foggy vision. How irksome.

  And how… nostalgic. It reminded him of the spontaneity of his younger years.

  Also Joshua low-key welcomed these discomforts. It felt good—kind of dirty—to spoil oneself after decades of stoical abstinence. Anyway, as he splashed tap water onto his face, he promised he would quit drinking when he went back to New York. Jim had already claimed one angel from Joshua’s life, his wife, and he was not ready to lose another, his son.

  But here in Detroit, the drinking neither affected him nor his job. He and Peter were waiting for lab results. Lolly’s kerchief had been tagged as high priority. However it would still take at least three days for processing it. Though DNA was considered as admissible evidence from the second half of the 1980s, the National Level CODIS was only implemented in 1998. That had given Lolly ample time to have learned and taken precautions against leaving his genetic fingerprint.

  But no harm in trying, right? If the DNA didn’t match any criminal record from the past, it might match some case in the future. Anyone sharing Lolly’s genes, like his son or daughter, might get arrested.

  Since the lab was taking its time, he and Peter were bored.

  Yesterday had been fairly uneventful. The morning after their little party, Joshua had woken up, whizzed, and slept again, until noon. Later that evening, he had charged his dead phone and checked it. The browser had shown him the sort of porn he would never dare watch sober. What kind of demented fuck was he?

  Wincing, he had closed the browser and opened the call log. Only one entry was there. Gabriel. Holding his head, he’d tried to recall the conversation. He had told him that he’d mailed the notebook. But nothing else popped out. Embarrassed, Joshua had put off speaking to him.

  Then he and Peter had met the security guard who survived Lolly’s bridge robbery. He’d said he still remembered that day in minute detail. Particularly, the visceral memories of three kids with kerchiefs tied across their faces. Two bastards, one with dreadlocks and the other with bald spots, robbed while the third stood guard on the bridge. Except for the firsthand account of the survivor, there had been nothing to garner from the meeting.

  Both had returned to the room and started partying again, the binge stretching into morning. This time, Joshua had the mind to give the phone along with the car key to the receptionist. He hadn’t known that cell phones were as deadly to possess when sloshed.

  Joshua had been awake for five minutes, and he was getting ready for an important task. Peter had suggested something crazy when he was liquored up, and unlike most drunken ideas, this one looked promising even when sober.

  They were meeting another survivor today.

  Joshua came out of the bathroom and tossed four pouches of Skoal into his mouth before picking up the towel and going back again.

  The hot bath and the sudden nicotine rush should have curbed some of the hangover. But it didn’t. Feeling fresh and clean—only on the outside—he waddled to Peter’s room.

  His friend looked a lot better than Joshua. He had only consumed a few lite beers and held his own pretty well last night, unlike the one before.

  Twenty-five minutes later, he braked in front of a pair of intimidating mechanical steel gates. They were as tall as the palm trees surrounding the property’s peripheral wall. Joshua got down from the car and pressed the buzzer.

  “Hello. This is Joshua Chase from New York. I’d like to see Mister…”

  Goddamn it.

  What was his last name? Unable to recall it, he settled for, “Mr. Don.”

  A few seconds later, the gates parted automatically.

  The Audi cruised along a tree-lined driveway, which was longer than Joshua’s street back in Staten Island. As they drove onwards, lush branches receded, and a grand mansion came into view.

  Peter whistled. “Christ on toast!”

  Joshua didn’t share his partner’s awe. Criminals might live a life of luxury while good people barely had enough to get by, but it wasn’t about lavishness. No matter how rich a person was, inner peace could not be bought. Particularly by a guy like the one they were visiting, who’d exchanged his soul for ephemeral worldly pleasures.

  Most of the evil men Joshua had known and put away didn’t die peacefully. In that way, he thought, the ending was only the beginning. To some eternal destination. Paradise or damnation.

  Joshua’s wild ruminations halted when he saw three men standing under a canopy. Peter stopped near them and they both got out of the car.

  “Let me park it for you.” One man held his hand out.

  A valet?

  “It’s alright. Show us where.”

  He shook his head. “We don’t let strangers into our garage.”

  Weird rule.

  Peter handed the key, and two of them drove away with the car.

  The remaining man, a kid really, in beige shirt and chinos frisked them. Then he opened the largest teak door Joshua had ever seen and took them in.

  After crossing a smoke-filled lobby and spacious hall, they climbed the stairs at the end. A length of rail ran along the lower portion of the wall, and a stairlift chair rested on the landing, cobwebs drifting between its armrests.

  The kid led them through a corridor flanked by a dozen niches in the walls and each lighted recess exhibited a carnal figurine. Then the kid turned right into a room; they followed.

  As soon as Joshua entered, he was assaulted by the reek of cocaine, liquor, and barbecued chicken.

  The first thing that caught Joshua’s attention was Bugsy’s prosthetic arms. They sprouted from underneath the sleeves and hung limply. Bugsy was wearing an orange T-shirt and sitting back on his chair, behind a mahogany table.

  Could it even be called sitting?

  Joey had said that Bugsy’s legs had been amputated at the hip. How was it possible to sit without thighs? Were prosthetic legs competent substitutes? Joshua didn’t know, except for the fact that Bugsy’s weight was supported by his stumps. Propped on a chair like a half mannequin.

  Joshua had imagined that immobility might have rounded Bugsy’s physique. But it was not the case. Bugsy was prism-like. From his hairless head, jowls, and neck to flabby chest, every visible muscle sagged, giving his body the appearance of a melting candle or soft serve.

  But the most disturbing of all was not the plastic arms or the drooping torso. It was his skin. It was oily and had a yellow sheen to it. Like he suffered from caustic jaundice. How long had it been since he’d been out in the sunlight? The stairlift appeared as if it wasn’t being used anymore.

  Questions. So many questions.

  How did Bugsy shit, pee, eat, or bathe? How did he scratch an itch on the nose? What if a mosquito or a bug bit him? Even
to wipe off snot from a sneeze, he needed assistance. How cruelly embarrassing!

  No one deserved this kind of hell. Until now, Lolly seemed logical. A robber, just another hungry animal hunting for food. But now he appeared scary. A psychopath maiming a fellow man.

  And enjoying it. Why else would he do it four times?

  This was not an animal. It was much more dangerous. It was human.

  Bugsy, though a rotten soggy potato, controlled the Detroit Mafia. That should count for something, right? Joshua told himself it did, so the languid Don would appear somewhat less pathetic.

  “Thanks for seeing—”

  “Ah…” Bugsy grunted.

  Peter looked at the kid who shook his head.

  Bugsy acted weird. Biting his lower lip and rolling his eyes into his skull, before moaning loudly and arching his head back. As if he was having an erotic heart attack.

  A few seconds later, Bugsy’s wheelchair rolled back a little. How did he move it without help?

  And then a naked young Asian girl emerged from beneath his table. She crawled out on all fours, before standing to her full height, which was under five feet. She wiped the corner of her mouth and sashayed her way out, winking at Peter.

  “Thirty-seven seconds. Longest this year.” Bugsy smirked at the kid. “Pay her double.”

  As the kid nodded, Bugsy pointed his chin at a pair of chairs opposite him. Joshua pulled one back and sat, folding his legs below the rung. He’d much rather not stretch his feet under the table, where the girl had just been.

  Bugsy caught Joshua squirming. “I don’t bite, you know.”

  Joshua, wanting to avoid eye contact, looked around, at the photos on the walls. They portrayed a burly man trekking, swimming, kayaking, and doing other arduous but gratifying physical activities.

  Bugsy said, “That was me. Strong, handsome, and I lasted way more than thirty-seven seconds.”

  “I… I feel horrible, I’m sorry,” Joshua blurted. And meant it. “Why do you think Lolly… um… did this to you?”

  “That’s what’s been driving me nuts all these years,” Bugsy shouted, spittle shot in angry wisps. “I don’t fucking have a clue who the fuck he is and what his fucking beef with me is.”

  Joshua was at a loss of words.

  Panting, Bugsy slowly gained composure. “I’m desperately clinging to this useless body just to know the why. And then skin him alive, of course.”

  Peter said, “Tell us what you know. Even if it’s illegal. Any information you give can help us catch him.”

  “Illegal…” Bugsy laughed.

  Joshua said, “I’ve been after Lolly for twenty-six years. I could probably be the only person who knows a lot about him.”

  “I know who you are, Chase. I also know about your family.”

  Joshua blinked deliberately. “M-my family?”

  For the first time since their visit, Bugsy appeared menacing. His dark lips stretched into a bone-chilling grin, displaying two rows of yellow teeth. As if he knew a secret about Joshua that no one else did. “Thanks to you, I finally have a chance at Lolly.”

  Joshua said, “You do?”

  “Yes. With your help.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “You’ll know that in time.” Bugsy nodded to himself, then yelled, “Now fuck off, fuck off, fuck off!”

  “What?” Joshua was dumbstruck. Why would he throw a tantrum like that? Perhaps his body wasn’t the only thing that was melting. Maybe his psyche had, too.

  The kid walked towards them, and they both stood up. Joshua almost crossed the door’s threshold, the kid practically jostling them out.

  “Goddamn it,” Bugsy cursed aloud.

  “What?!” Joshua asked, holding the door frame, hoping to get something, anything, from the arrogant whale.

  Bugsy shook his head in vehemence. “That whore forgot to do the zipper.”

  * * *

  They had called it quits with the alcohol. Peter said enough was enough, and they weren’t college kids. He didn’t want to drink three nights continuously. Although Joshua was against the decision, he didn’t like to drink alone. That was the first gear in the fast lane to become an alcoholic.

  For the last two nights, he had slept harmoniously because he’d blacked out.

  Now the fear returned. With a vengeance. And Bugsy’s disfigured body flashed before his eyes whenever he closed them.

  Carrying his revolver, Joshua plodded to a couch. He switched the TV on and let his brain rest out of exhaustion whenever it could. Short fitful bouts were all he could manage.

  He slipped in and out of reality, until the sunlight glowed through the window, and he heard traffic outside.

  A message from Wheeler vibrated his phone on the coffee table. He read it quickly and resumed staring at the TV.

  An hour or three later, Peter knocked on the door and let himself in with a spare key.

  “Been up the whole night?” he said.

  “Don’t know,” Joshua said, tepidly. “Can’t remember.”

  Gun in hand, he pushed himself to his feet. But his hips cramped halfway, and he sat back, cursing. After placing the loaded weapon on the table, he twisted his torso, left to right and vice versa.

  A warm hand touched his shoulder and gave a gentle squeeze.

  Joshua looked up at Peter.

  “Don’t let your enemies wreck your mind,” Peter said with a small smile. “They can get your body, but your mind should always belong to you.”

  “Whatever.” Joshua sighed and got up. “Let’s go.”

  “Where?”

  “Wheeler texted me the address of a regular who knew Lolly when he was a kid.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Marcus Thomson,” Joshua said. “Street name, Congo.”

  * * *

  Joshua watched the side mirror as Peter exited the city through Michigan Highway. He was observing a black sedan coming up behind them. It flashed the headlamps and overtook his car.

  The driver didn’t don a ski mask or carry a big ass gun. The person behind the wheel was a redheaded white girl, in professional attire. She smiled at him warmly, before driving ahead and pulling over at a gas station. Joshua read Physician under her plate.

  Hating himself for being timid, he forced his mind to concentrate on something else. The green woods on the roadside might do some good.

  “Put your gun away.”

  “It makes me feel safe,” Joshua said.

  “Oh please,” Peter said. “This isn’t Die Hard, and you aren’t John McClane.”

  Joshua laughed. “Fine.”

  As he reached the glovebox, the car swayed.

  “What?” Joshua asked.

  “I don’t know. Something wrong with the car.” Peter parked up and got out while Joshua stayed inside the vehicle.

  For now, he would hold on to the weapon, he’d decided. Because a silver truck was approaching them from the opposite lane. He could feel his heart beginning to race as sweat escaped through his skin. He was uneasy until the truck sped past them.

  Sighing, he reminded himself to stop being unreasonably jumpy.

  “We got a flat,” Peter said, looking at the front left tire.

  “Shit.” Joshua placed the gun on his crotch, pulled out his Skoal tin, and used two pouches. Then he grabbed the gun.

  The black sedan, driven by the doctor girl, slowed as it reached them. And again, Joshua tensed.

  When it crossed the Audi, Joshua craned his neck and scanned inside her car. It was empty, except a few stuffed toys jammed near the back windscreen.

  Damn. I’m losing it.

  The girl pulled over in front.

  She got out, so did Joshua, the gun hidden behind his back. Waving, she walked towards them. Joshua returned the gesture with his free hand. As he did, he scanned her head to toe. She was wearing a pantsuit, and it had no bulge of a weapon. At least on her front side.

  Shut it. She’s just a good Samaritan.

>   “Got a flat?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Peter said.

  “Two at the same time?” the girl said. “That’s super weird.”

  “What?” Joshua asked.

  He hadn’t noticed until then, but the girl was correct. The front right tire was flat as well. What were the odds?

  Very fucking slim.

  The dull uneasiness at the pit of his stomach upgraded into full-fledged paranoia pounding his heart. He sat on his haunches and took a closer look at the tire. Some kind of metal protruded from the dusty rubber, fueling the paranoia.

  Pocketing the gun, he jogged to the trunk and rummaged through the tools. No pincers but he recovered a pair of pliers from it. Then he returned to the tire and yanked the metal out.

  Seeing the shiny item pinched between the pliers, his fears were validated.

  It was a caltrop, colloquially known as ninja road star. Basically, it was a metallic object with strong nails on all sides. Didn’t matter at what angle it rested on the road, one spike always pointed skywards.

  A device of ambush.

  Breathing fast, Joshua stood and surveyed the vicinity. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary.

  Except the girl, chatting with Peter.

  He quickly slid over the hood and grabbed her upper arm.

  “Ow,” she yelped.

  “Are you crazy?!” Peter said.

  “Shut up, both of you,” Joshua said and frisked her.

  “What the hell?” she yelled, but too shocked to move as Joshua’s desperate hands groped for a weapon.

  But they didn’t find any.

  “I’m extremely sorry.” He took a step back, confused.

  “Sorry?” The girl tied her arms across her chest.

  “Give me a sec.” Joshua took a long meticulous look around. Still nothing suspicious. The road was free, not a single vehicle in sight.

  But how long would it be that way? Gunshots might pierce the atmosphere any second now and rob the beautiful girl of her future. Life full of unexplored opportunities and unachieved dreams lost because she helped two pensioners stranded on a highway. They should hurry, and for that, he needed to calm the indignant girl first. So he played the guilt-trip card. “Please forgive the old man.”

  Tongue nudging at her cheek, the girl stared at him. “Fine,” she said. “I’ll let it pass as a senior moment.”