by Brent Pilkey
“So, mahn, how much will it be?” Deval was still smiling like a used-car salesman.
“Just forty. Can’t afford no more.” Jack licked his lips then wiped them again.
Deval studied him momentarily then shrugged. He selected two pieces of crack — the two smallest twenty pieces Jack had ever seen — and tucked the rest back down his pants.
Excellent. Don’t want you throwing away all the evidence.
Deval offered up the rock, but when Jack reached for it, he snatched his hand away. “Money first,” he chided, as if Jack had just committed a heinous social blunder.
Jack patted his pockets, keeping an eye on Deval as he stepped closer. Deval’s eyes narrowed in suspicion then flared wide in sudden understanding and panic.
Jack reached for the hand holding the crack. “You’re under ar —”
Deval jumped off the bike as Jack’s hand clamped around the dealer’s wrist. Deval pulled against Jack’s grip and Jack stepped forward, but his legs became entangled in the bike. Jack fell onto the bike and one of the pedals jammed painfully into his hip. He managed to hang onto Deval and dragged the dealer to his knees.
Deval heaved once more and his sweat-slick skin slipped free from Jack’s grasp. He scrambled to his feet just as Jenny hit him from the side. He stumbled, dragging Jenny with him and she wrapped her arms around his thighs in an attempt to bring him down. Deval caught his balance and drove a fist down into Jenny’s face. She hung on and Deval cocked his arm back, a sinister smile on his lips.
Jack charged Deval and hit him with an outstretched arm across the throat, slamming him into the hard ground. Jenny pounced. What air was left in Deval’s lungs after Jack’s clothesline blasted loose when Jenny dropped both her knees into his chest and stomach.
Gasping for air like a landed fish, Deval offered no resistance as Jenny flipped him onto his belly. She pulled her cuffs out of her back pocket and snapped them on.
Kneeling on Deval’s back, she smiled up at Jack. “I got to admit, Jack. Working with you sure isn’t boring.”
“Hey, Jack, I forgot to tell you. You won’t believe this but I went in there yesterday.”
Jack looked up from the keyboard; he could type well enough but still needed to look down for the number keys. “Went in where?” he asked Connor.
Jack and Jenny had been in the detective office for the last hour doing up the paperwork — why do we call it paperwork when it’s on a computer? — on the dealer Deval, better known as Peter Richardson. Connor and Paul had come in a few minutes ago with a whining suspect — soon to be a whining accused — and Jack had had a brief shock when he thought it was Dean Myers in for his third count of domestic assault. It wasn’t him, just another cowardly piece-of-shit wife beater.
“The Second Cup, man. I went inside! Tell him, Paul.” Having just finished his prisoner’s strip search, Connor was pulling off the blue latex gloves. He dumped them in the garbage then dropped himself in the chair across from Jack, looking quite pleased with himself.
“It’s true,” Paul confirmed. “The Pest actually dared to step foot into the dreaded Second Cup. And emerged alive.”
“Congratulations, Pest. And it doesn’t bother you that you were probably in a bunch of fantasies that night?”
Connor paused, giving Jack a petulant look, then, “You would have to say that, wouldn’t you? Anyway, I was going to say it wasn’t bad inside. It was like a . . .”
“A coffee shop?” Paul proposed.
“Yeah! It was just like a coffee shop,” Connor declared, sounding rather amazed.
“Imagine that,” Jack commented, turning back to his paperwork.
Detective Mason stuck his head in the CIB. “Jack! How much longer you two going to be?”
“The body’s already been lodged, Jenny’s submitting the drugs right now and I’m just finishing up the show cause.” Jack did some quick guesstimations. “Say twenty minutes, half an hour, for us to finish the paperwork and do up our notes?”
“Sounds good. Tank and Kris will be waiting for you in the MCU.”
Jack reached for Deval’s criminal record and managed to keep from gasping at the pain as his cracked rib screamed at him. He huddled in the chair with his arms wrapped protectively around his side. Falling on that fucking bike then hitting Deval with a clothesline had hurt like bloody hell and only his pride had stopped Jack from puking after the brief fight.
At least I didn’t let that fuckhead see how much it hurt. Wouldn’t want Deval thinking he caused it. And I don’t think Jenny saw how bad it was, so that’s good.
He tried a tentative deep breath and when the rib only groaned, he went back to typing.
Jenny gets punched in the face — she’ll have a helluva shiner — I fall on a bike and the pedal digs a hole in my hip. What more could go wrong today?
I wonder what else can happen today?
Jenny studied her reflection in the mirror. The skin around her right eye was a swollen, angry red.
On the plus side — she smiled — I bet it helps me scoop more johns today. Who’d expect a copper to be sporting a black eye?
Drugs submitted — Deval had had a rather substantial cache tucked away in his shorts — she headed to the lunchroom to grab Jack and herself something cold to drink.
I hope we don’t get into another scrap today. I don’t think Jack’s rib can take much more. She smiled again, partly amused, partly pissed at her partner’s attempts to hide the pain he was feeling. Damn macho stupidity. He won’t say anything’s wrong until he’s in the hospital.
Mason was in the lunchroom ahead of her, at the vending machine, selecting one of the cold, measly hamburgers the prisoners were fed. “You two just about ready to go?” he asked, taking half the burger in a single bite.
“Ugh,” she grimaced. “How can you eat that?”
“Desperately.” He wagged the half burger at her. “You going like that?”
“Hang on.” Jenny hiked up her white T-shirt and tied it off just under her breasts. “Better?”
Mason nodded, swallowing. “But lose the gun. It clashes with your pink thong.”
“Duh.” She ducked as the detective took a playful swing at her on his way out. She pumped the pop machine full of coins, grabbed two Diet Cokes and headed back to the CIB. Instead of going up the stairs by the lunchroom, she headed for the front desk, intending to pick up a new memo book — the one she had was just about finished. At the last second she veered away from the staff sergeant’s office, remembering Staff Greene forbade anyone lower than himself in rank to use the office as a passage from the hall to the front desk.
I wonder how long it took him to get the puke off of his shoes?
The public’s access to the station was a square of worn, scuffed linoleum far too small for such a pretentious word as lobby. Jenny cut across this diminutive wasteland — no one, coppers or civilians, hung out in the lobby for long — with the half flight of stairs to the outside on her right and the front desk to her left.
“Alton, what’s that on your face?” Sergeant Rose was at the front desk, a concerned scowl on her face.
“Nothing major, Sarge. He missed the eye.” Jenny leaned on the counter to let Rose take a closer look.
The sergeant tilted Jenny’s head to catch the light. For a big, solid woman, she had a surprisingly gentle touch. Beneath her spiky black hair, her scowl deepened.
“I don’t care if this happened on the job or off,” she growled, “the fucker better be suffering payback.”
“I think he learned his lesson,” Jenny ventured. “And he’s sitting in a cell right now.”
“That the one you brought in from Regent Park? I didn’t hear you call for an ambulance,” Rose criticized. “And aren’t you two supposed to be doing a sweep with MCU?”
“Yeah, but they were tied up on something.”
“Hm.” Rose eyed Jenny. “Watch your ass, Alton. We’ve got some asshole out there beating up the working girls.”
Jenny nodded sombrely then smiled as she tapped her injury. “My shit quota’s full for the day. What else could go wrong?”
What more could go wrong with our marriage?
Karen stood on the sidewalk staring hatefully at 51 Station. This wasn’t her first visit to the station; she’d picked up Jack a few times when his Taurus had been in the shop, had even taken a tour of the place with Jack once, an experience she had no desire to repeat. The building was old and decrepit, dirty and confining, and even the brilliant summer sunlight could not detract from the aura of gloom that hung about it. Instead of brightening the brick surface, the light threw all the disfiguring scars and flaws into harsh clarity, like a dying cancer patient stripped of concealing makeup.
A cancer. That’s what this place is. A cancer and it’s eating us alive.
But how to cut it out before it killed them? That the cancer, this division and ultimately policing entirely, had to go was brutally clear to everyone except Jack. He had to get out before he was killed doing a job no one cared about. Or worse, in Karen’s opinion, before the man he was inside, the man she had fallen in love with and married, died.
That man was already dead in her father’s eyes and today when she had met her parents for lunch, he had openly urged Karen to divorce Jack. Her mother, who had always encouraged her to stay committed to the marriage, who had convinced Karen that Jack could be changed — for his own good, of course — with the proper guidance and support, had remained quiet, and her silence had spoken copiously.
But Karen had inherited her father’s unflagging fortitude and her mother’s sheer stubbornness. She would not give up on Jack, on them, until she had no other choice. She would fight for her marriage and nothing, not this godforsaken station or Jack’s new slut of a partner, was going to overwhelm her. If the marriage died, it would be when Karen said so and not a moment sooner.
So she was here to see her husband, would even apologize if that’s what was needed to open his eyes. Drawing a deep, fortifying breath, she headed up the short walk to the front doors. She was momentarily lost after stepping from the intense sunlight into the station’s fluorescent dimness. Once her eyes adjusted, Karen mounted the few stairs leading up to the lobby.
Lobby? Mom’s shoe closet is bigger than this.
There was a large female officer — pw, I think they’re called — behind the counter and judging from the disapproving look on her face, she was not happy with the tramp she was talking to. The tramp was leaning on the counter, her butt sticking out behind her impertinently. Karen had never seen a prostitute but she was sure she was seeing one now.
The woman’s overly long hair was swept to the side to bare her midriff, a look that was no doubt meant to be luring and exotic but came across as cheap. Karen was surprised there was no tattoo on the tramp’s lower back — she could put her price list there — but the prostitute had the sides of her thong underwear tugged above the waist of her jeans.
I suppose that passes for sexy down here. God, Jack, you want to work in this place? I just got here and already feel like I need a shower.
Karen approached the counter and waited. The tramp was showing the officer her bruised eye and Karen felt a brief pang of sympathy for the woman then abruptly squashed it. If she wasn’t giving herself to every man with a fistful of change, then things like that wouldn’t happen.
“Hang on a sec, Jenny.” The officer turned from the tramp and focused her scowling visage on Karen. “Help you?” she said, rather rudely in Karen’s opinion.
“I’m here to see Jack Warren.” Out of the corner of her eye, Karen noticed the tramp look at her at the mention of Jack’s name. Probably some hooker he’s arrested, that’s all.
“He’s busy with a body right now. And you are?” the officer asked brusquely.
“I’m his wife, Karen Warren,” Karen gave back, just as icily.
The officer’s features softened a bit. “Oh. Like I said, he’s busy with an arrest right now.” She cocked her head at the tramp. “But Jenny might be able to help you.”
The tramp was holding out her hand to Karen and for the first time, Karen noticed the gun on her hip.
Jenny? Jennifer? Please, God, no.
But it was true.
“Hello,” the tramp was saying, a smug smile on her whorish face. “I’m Jennifer Alton, Jack’s partner. I’m so happy to finally meet you.”
Finally? But you’ve only been his partner for a few days. So how long have you two been . . . together?
It was all so clear now, all of Jack’s lies. An icy pit opened in Karen’s stomach and her legs trembled, threatening to dump her on the filthy floor. But deep inside, Karen was an iron core born of her mother’s stubbornness and, as the truth crashed over her, that stubbornness refused to yield, refused to let Karen fall.
She drew herself erect and stared the tramp in the eye. “I can see why Jack likes working here.” The tramp’s smile faltered. Karen wanted to smash it from her face but would not stoop to violence. Violence was Jack’s way, his answer to troubles, and she was better than that. Ignoring the outstretched hand, she faced the uniformed officer whose scowl had become an angry thunderhead. Karen didn’t give a shit.
“You needn’t bother Jack,” Karen said, her voice cool and controlled. “But please tell him he needn’t bother coming home.” With that, she strode from the police station and back into the light.
The sun was slipping behind the city when George Hawthorn left his office at the University of Toronto. The lengthening shadows did little to dispel the heat and he could feel his shirt clinging to him beneath his suit coat. He took the offending coat off and folded it carefully over the BMW’s passenger seat before easing in behind the wheel. The powerful engine started without complaint and Hawthorn flicked the air conditioning to high, luxuriating in the icy cold as it chilled his sweat-damp body.
Another late evening at work, and he was going to have to commit to many more of them if he was to finish his next book in time for the publisher’s deadline. He could write at home, he knew, but lately Evelyn had been stalking about the house like an agitated feline and concentrating with that much palpable tension in the air was currently beyond his abilities. His wife was infuriated with their daughter’s husband and what she interpreted as a flagrant offence to Evelyn herself.
Hawthorn slowly shook his head. Evelyn refused to see the truth. She believed Jack could be moulded and guided, developed like one of her social projects, but she was wrong. Jack could not be improved simply because he had reached the limits of his potential. And by working in that division, he was, in effect, devolving. His primal instincts were rising to the foreground and Hawthorn, for one, was ecstatic that those genes would not be mingling with his family’s.
That was another source of friction between him and Evelyn these days: the ploy she and Karen had fashioned to control Jack with an unexpected pregnancy. Hawthorn had not known of this plan until after Jack had confronted Karen about it, had, in effect, been the last one to know of it. No doubt Evelyn had presumed her husband would have abandoned his hopes for Karen divorcing Jack once he learned he was to be a grandfather.
Hawthorn nearly felt a twinge of sympathy for his brutish son-in-law. Had the women’s plan succeeded, Jack’s destiny would have been written, his future plotted out for him. No matter how he detested the man, Hawthorn would not have wished that fate upon him. It would be equivalent to caging a proud, feral beast. In an extremely small cage.
Hawthorn was not so naïve as to believe society did not need its lower echelon of human resources; someone had to maintain the machinery of civilization, keep the body alive in order for the brain to function. He appreciated how a career in policing would be appealing to someone like his son-in-law. The physical challenge,
the rush of adrenalin. The simple hands-on approach to solving problems. Alone with his thoughts, Hawthorn could even admit to himself a touch of . . . envy? Surely not.
Curiosity. That’s all it is.
There had been a time, a brief time long ago, before he had learned that to change the world one had to change the future leaders and thinkers — the brain cells, in other words — that he had toyed with the idea of becoming a police officer. He had envisioned himself as an immaculate role model to his fellow officers, an unblemished example of intelligence and professionalism. He would alter how the police operated by his mere presence as he ascended through the ranks. A realistic superhero, unlike the costumed crime fighters in the comic books he had so rightfully scorned as a child.
Foolish dreams of a foolish young man.
The young Hawthorn had recognized his fanciful dreams for what they were and had moved on. Now it was Karen’s turn to face reality. Over lunch today he had presented his argument for divorce: Jack would never leave his division, let alone policing; he was a man drawn to violence. How many more people would he have to kill for Karen to see that? Did she really want to raise a child with a man immersed in a life of blood? How long before he personally brought that violence home?
Miraculously, Evelyn had not voiced a single objection and Karen had allowed him to finish before raising her counter-arguments and even then, her defiance had sounded habitual and without conviction. Perhaps she was finally allowing herself to see the truth.
Scott Goss and his wife, Lillian, crossed the faculty parking lot, waving politely as they spotted Hawthorn in his car. Hawthorn waved back. Scott and Lillian were dressed for an evening out. The young professor had changed into a fresh suit from the one he had worn during the day, but it was Lillian who captivated Hawthorn’s attention and imagination.
Her silky black gown clung intimately to the curves of her figure and the plunging back left no doubt she was braless beneath the fabric’s caress. The gown’s slit revealed the full length of her right leg and hip and Hawthorn wondered pleasantly if the panties matched the bra. Thoughts flowed to fantasy and Hawthorn grew hard picturing Lillian sitting on his desk, the gown twitched open to reveal that she was indeed naked beneath it.
