by Brent Pilkey
I know the feeling. “Is he okay?”
“Oh, sure.” Tank swigged back his Coke. “He just sits and talks to his wife.”
“Tank,” Kris hissed and the big man flinched as if he expected to be hit, and judging from the dark look in the bodybuilder’s eyes, it wouldn’t have been a simple love tap.
“I didn’t know he was married.” Jenny looked at her partner and Jack lifted his hands to say, Me neither.
Tank, embarrassed by his slip, turned to Kris. “You started it,” she told him.
The big man sighed and set down his Coke. “He was married, a long time ago.” Tank sighed again and rubbed a hand over his scalp. He looked from Jack to Jenny, silently debating with himself. At length, he made his decision.
“Not many people know this and it has to stay that way. Don’t even bring it up with Rick, all right?” He waited until both officers had agreed. “Rick got married to his first wife right before he got hired.”
“That was what, twenty-five years ago?” Jack asked.
“Twenty-seven,” Kris said. She nodded for Tank to carry on.
Tank leaned past Jenny to check the hallway before continuing. “Yeah, a long time ago. Anyway, it didn’t work out and she left him. The divorce was pretty messy from what I gather and after that, Rick had a jaded view of marriage.”
I know that feeling, too. Jenny glanced at Jack as if she had read his thoughts. Jack pretended not to notice. Instead, he interrupted again. “Did Rick tell you this?”
Kris emphatically shook her head as Tank breathed, “God, no. Sy told me. He and Rick were partners here in 51 back then.”
Jack was surprised. “I didn’t know they were partners. I knew Sy worked in the MCU with him but he never mentioned being partners.”
Tank nodded. “They were paired up for nearly seven years, I think.” He waggled his fingers in the direction of the front desk. “If Rick hadn’t been transferred out when he got his stripes, he’d be on the quarter-century plaque. He came back to take over Major Crime. Anyway, he was working with Sy before he got cranked. Now, about four years before he got promoted, Rick met Marcie and bam!”
“Bam?” Jack asked dubiously.
“Bam,” Kris confirmed. “Sy said he’d never seen Rick so happy, not even with his first wife. He said if he didn’t hold Rick down, he would have floated away.”
Tank chuckled. “Like Mary Poppins.”
Jack smiled at the movie reference. That’s Sy, all right. He paused, trying to picture the burly slab of a detective bouncing around on his toes, madly in love. Would he have looked like Manny?
“A year after they met, Rick and Marcie,” Kris picked up, clearly unable to resist telling this part of the story; her smile was joyful yet terribly sad as she gazed fondly at Tank. “A year later, they were married. Sy was Rick’s best man.”
Jack cocked an eyebrow. Sy had never mentioned anything remotely resembling a friendship with Mason, let alone standing up for him at his wedding. If anything, Sy had given the impression that he really hadn’t trusted the Major Crime boss.
Jenny tapped Jack’s leg with her foot and looked a question at him. Later, he mouthed and she nodded.
“They were trying to get pregnant,” Kris said, her smile subdued yet whimsical. “They were beginning to think one of them might not be, you know, functioning right and then, about two years later, Marcie tells him she’s pregnant.”
“Was Rick happy?” Jenny piped up, catching Kris’s enthusiasm.
“Ecstatic. Sy said he was like a kid with Christmas, Halloween and his birthday all rolled into one.” Tank checked his watch. “Better make this quick. One day shift, Sy and Rick ended up with overtime. It was nothing major but he and Marcie were supposed to be going to a dinner party or something when he got home so she told him she’d walk over and he could meet her there.”
An icy hole began to form in Jack’s stomach. I’ve got a feeling this is going to get bad quick.
“She got run over,” Tank said simply, sadly. “She never had a chance.”
“Impaired?”
Tank nodded at Jenny. “That’s what they thought and the driver was done with impaired causing death.”
“What they thought?” Jack asked, not liking the sound of it.
“Yeah.” Tank was fiddling with the empty Coke can, passing it between his hands on the tabletop. “Apparently, when the cops got there, the guy could barely stand and didn’t even know he had just killed someone.”
“But?” Jack prompted, but already knowing the outcome.
“Yeah, but.” Tank caught the can and crushed it. “The guy was diabetic and had an insulin shock or something like that. Made him look and act drunk. The charges got tossed.”
Jack and Jenny just stared at Tank. There was nothing to say to that.
After a moment of silence, Tank continued. “That was the beginning of the end for their partnership. After Marcie was killed, Sy said Rick kind of changed —”
“Who fucking wouldn’t?” Kris muttered.
“— and they kind of fell apart. Rick got promoted, transferred and they didn’t speak until he came back to take over the MCU. They sort of patched things up, but not really.”
Tank double-checked his watch. “Time to go,” he declared, pushing back from the table. “Remember, not a word. I only told you guys ’cause Rick likes you.” He cracked a big smile. “Now let’s go peddle Jenny’s ass.”
The Jarvis Street Baptist Church lorded over the intersection of Gerrard and Jarvis streets, a Gothic remnant from the late 1800s. Salvation and redemption were promised within the confines of its heavy stone and painted glass. And before the imposing, brooding house of God, Jenny strutted her stuff, her bejewelled belly bared to the sun, her ass wrapped in jeans snugger than a lover’s embrace. Or a john’s.
The intersection was common ground for the cleaner — and therefore, higher-priced — prostitutes. The girls were protective of their turf and crack whores were definitely prohibited. Undercover police officers were another matter and the hookers had willingly ceded the sidewalk to Jenny after she had explained who she was fishing for. They may have been prostitutes but that didn’t mean the women were stupid; they knew it was to their collective benefit and health to get a predator off the streets.
Rush hour was long since done but traffic was still heavy and the three northbound lanes of Jarvis were packed. Gerrard wasn’t the major artery Jarvis was but it, too, was jammed bumper to bumper, from red light to red light. The slow-moving traffic gave Jenny plenty of opportunity to study the drivers as they crawled past her. So far, some interested-looking men and a couple of women, but no one matching the description of their boy.
A scout car, its white paint scarred and battered like all its fellow 51 cars, pulled to the curb on Gerrard. The passenger window slid down as Jenny strolled over, moving her hips in a pronounced sway. Coppers were always disrupting sweeps as they cruised by to check out the pws in hooker dress. It seemed Paul and Connor were no exception.
“Aw, I was enjoying the view,” Connor complained when Jenny squatted by his door.
“Don’t whine,” she admonished. “It doesn’t become you. No offense, guys, but let’s make this quick; the heat from your engine is damn well killing me.”
“That’s not the engine. It’s my desire for you,” Connor told her with a sincere smile.
Jenny glared accusingly at Paul. “Are you encouraging him?”
Paul shook his head. “Nope. You know me, Jenny. I’m much more subtle and chivalric in my flirtations.”
“Chivalric? Flirtations?” Connor stared at his escort in disbelief. “Have you been reading the dictionary again?”
Jenny reached through the window and angled the vent up to her face. Paul obligingly cranked the AC. “Thanks,” she murmured, luxuriating in the cold air. “What are you guys doing here?
You know B platoon is off today.”
“Doing a call back,” Paul explained. “There’s four of us in and we were supposed to concentrate on the dealers at Queen and Sherbourne but A platoon is so short manpower that the sergeant dumped us in a car to answer the radio.”
“Thanks again,” she said as Paul passed her a bottle of water. She rubbed the plastic against her forehead, enjoying the icy touch of the condensation on her hot skin.
“Better be careful doing that, Jenny,” Paul cautioned her. “You might give Pest here a stroke.”
“He couldn’t afford a stroke from me,” she joked. “And neither could you,” she added when the big cop opened his mouth.
“You wound me,” Paul declared, pressing a hand to his massive chest. “I was going to ask if the rumours were true. Are you and Jack paired up?”
“Sorry, big fella. We are.”
Paul’s face fell. “You didn’t even tell me you were available,” he moaned. “Well, if you ever tire of the little white boy, you come calling on Hot Chocolate, baby.”
“And that’s why you’re riding with Connor.” Jenny cracked the bottle and drank deeply. She pretended not to notice the stares. “Is this a social visit, guys? I ask because Tank and Kris will be finished with the last john in a few minutes and I’ll need to get back to work.”
Paul turned serious. “You’re doing johns? I thought you were out here for the asshole beating up the girls.”
“We are. We’re just laying paper on the persistent johns.”
Connor twisted in his seat, scanning the area. “Where are they?”
Jenny nodded up Jarvis. “The parking lot on the north side of the church. It’s out of sight but close enough if our boy shows up.”
It was Paul’s turn to look around. “I don’t see Jack.”
Again, Jenny gestured behind her with a bob of her head. “The front doors to the church. He’s just inside.”
Connor whistled appreciatively. “Nice. With the shadows, you can’t see him at all.”
“We cruised Allan Gardens on our way over and didn’t see anyone like your guy,” Paul advised her. The church sat in the southwest corner of the green oasis, almost connected to the greenhouse.
“Shouldn’t you be set up on one of the side streets?” Connor asked. “This seems too busy.”
Jenny shook her head. “Only one of the attacks was off the main streets. Three of them were along Gerrard from here to Church.” A horn sounded impatiently. “That’s my cue, guys.”
“Stay safe,” Paul counselled. “In between calls, we’ll be in the area. Not too close to spook your guy but close enough in case you need us.”
“I appreciate it, guys.” Jenny blew them both a kiss.
As the scout car pulled away, Connor leaned out his window and, for the sake of the pedestrians, shouted, “Are you sure you won’t take a cheque?”
Taylor met Rico in the parking lot down and across from Filmore’s. The big bodybuilder leaned against his car, his black dress pants and snug T-shirt complementing the Corvette’s glossy exterior. Rico uncrossed his muscular arms to hold out a hand and a greasy smile for Taylor.
“No hard feelings about last time, man? Hope it don’t muck up our business relationship.”
Taylor studied the outstretched hand for a moment then took it in his own. “No,” he conceded. “No hard feelings.”
Rico’s smile widened into a pleased grin. “That’s my man.” He gestured to the back of the sports car. “C’mon. I got the stuff you wanted.” He led Taylor around the car. “You working tonight, man?”
“Yeah. I’m on break now.”
“That’s cool.”
The Corvette’s rear was draped in shadows and in the privacy the inky darkness provided Rico dug into his pocket. He pulled out two small baggies and dropped them on the trunk.
“As ordered, my man. I think your friend is going to be real happy with that.” Rico stepped back and waved Taylor forward to inspect the merchandise.
Each baggie contained a generous quantity of white powder. For all Taylor knew about cocaine, it could be baking soda, but Rico had never wronged him before. At least, not about product he was selling.
“Looks good. Listen, Rico, I told you I couldn’t pay you up front but I’ll get the money to you tomorrow, day after the latest.” Taylor straightened up and something cold and hard jammed the back of his head. He froze.
“I trust you on the money, man. You ain’t stiffed me yet.” Rico chuckled and Taylor knew it was a gun barrel pressing on his skull. “But this is business, man,” Rico went on. “So I think I should get some kinda down payment. You know?”
In the hot, muggy air, Taylor’s skin suddenly chilled. Never again. “Forget it, Rico. I’m not doing that again.”
Rico snickered and bore down on the gun. “Don’t worry, man. I don’t want your mouth.” He leaned in and whispered in Taylor’s ear. “This time I want your ass.”
The chill on Taylor’s skin sank in to freeze his bones. “Fuck you, Rico,” he spat, his voice cold with anger. “Never again.” As he spoke, he palmed a small folding knife from behind his belt.
Rico gripped the nape of Taylor’s neck and dug the barrel in deeper. “I wasn’t asking, man,” he snarled. “Drop your fucking pants, motherfucker.”
“Taylor?”
Taylor and Rico turned in unison at the tiny, scared voice. Sandra stood in the parking lot, a light jacket thrown over her scant outfit. Her fingers twisted over themselves as she peered hesitantly at the two men.
“Fuck off, bitch,” Rico ordered, his words raspy with excitement. “Taylor and me got some business to take care of.”
“What’s going on, Taylor?” Sandra took an indecisive step back.
Rico shifted to point the gun at Sandra. “I said, fuck off, bitch.”
Taylor struck. He twisted, broke free of Rico’s hold and with all his rage and strength behind it, thrust the knife for Rico’s chest. But the big man’s arms were awkwardly crossed before his chest and the knife slammed home into Rico’s forearm. Rico grunted and tried to throw Taylor off but Taylor twisted and dragged at the knife, eliciting a drawn-out gasp of pain.
Before Rico could recover, Taylor wrapped his arms around the drug dealer’s gun arm and forced it down. Too late Rico realized what Taylor was doing. Taylor slapped a hand over Rico’s and squeezed the trigger. The gun went off inches from Rico’s knee and this time the big man screamed.
As Rico fell, Taylor ripped the gun from his hand. Rico hit the ground, both hands clutching his shattered knee.
“You shot me, you bitch! You motherfucking —”
Rico’s words gagged on the hot barrel of the gun as Taylor jammed it into his mouth. “I told you, never again.” He cocked the gun and in the sudden silence, it was a cannon shot. “Never. Again.”
“Taylor? Don’t do it, Taylor. Please.” Sandra inched cautiously forward, her hand held out beseechingly. “Don’t do it, please. You’ll go to jail, Taylor. I can’t lose you. Not like that.”
Taylor knelt over Rico, the hand grasping the gun quivering, quivering with hate, loathing, rage. He pushed on the gun, forced Rico’s head back. The big man stared defiantly at Taylor over the steel of the revolver.
“Please, Taylor. Don’t kill him.” Sandra was close enough to lay gentle fingers on Taylor’s shoulder. “Please.”
Taylor tore his eyes away from Rico’s hateful gaze. Sandra’s eyes were soft and shiny with tears. She smiled and tears spilled down her cheeks. Taylor could feel her concern, her fear. Her weakness.
But she was right. Killing Rico was not the answer. It would rob Taylor of his freedom, rip open the wounds he had burned closed and expose his shame to the world. He eased the gun from Rico’s mouth.
“You bitch!” Rico spat at him. “You’re nothing but a little fucking bitch. I’ll fucking
kill you for this, man. I’ll kill you.”
Taylor drew his arm back, then swept the gun down at Rico’s head. The steel slammed into Rico’s skull, the front sights tearing open a gash over his eyes. Taylor brought the gun across again and this time teeth flew with the blood.
He rammed the gun under Rico’s chin, forcing the man’s mouth shut. “If you ever come near me again —” he dug at the tender skin with the barrel “— I’ll blow your fucking balls off.”
Taylor slowly stood up and when Rico rolled to his side, Taylor smashed the heavy heel of his boot into Rico’s face. The big man flopped limply onto his back and moved no more.
Sandra watched as Taylor straightened up. His shoulders slumped as he stared at the man on the ground. She had no idea what was going on. Had the other man, a grotesquely huge bodybuilder bigger than any of the bouncers in the club, been trying to rape Taylor? That’s what it had looked like but it didn’t make sense. Taylor wasn’t gay. He was a good man, one Sandra felt could take care of her, and the relief she was feeling was overwhelming.
“Oh, thank God, Taylor,” she sobbed. “Thank God, you didn’t kill —”
Suddenly, Taylor grabbed her by the throat and shoved her against the chain-link fence. “You’re useless,” he snarled an inch from her face. Spittle hit her cheek and she could feel — actually feel — the hate radiating off of Taylor’s skin. “If you weren’t so fucking weak and useless, this never would have happened.”
“What?” she gasped, forcing the word out past the clamp on her throat. “I don’t under —”
He pulled her to him then slammed her back against the fence. “Shut up, bitch. You’re weak. Weak and useless. Just like the rest of them. Sara’s dead because of you, you useless cunt.”
Taylor’s hand squeezed tighter and the last of her air whistled shut. Darkness bulged and grew at the edge of her vision. She stared into Taylor’s fevered eyes and she knew, as unconsciousness crept closer, he wasn’t talking about her. With the last of her strength, she tried to say I love you but if the words came out, she couldn’t hear them over the roaring of blood in her ears.
