by Edward Lee
“How was the rednecking tonight?” Susan asked from behind her radio console.
“Not bad,” Phil told her. “Maybe I really am a redneck at heart; I’m fitting in just like the real McCoy.”
“I was getting a little worried,” she said. Her bright blue eyes glittered up at him. Her blond hair shined. “I didn’t hear from you over your portable all night.”
Worried about little old me? Phil thought. Well, that was a good sign. “It’s hard to whip out the police portable when you’re driving on a pickup run with two PCP peddlers,” he proudly replied.
“You’re kidding. Who?”
“Eagle Peters and that guy Sullivan, the one who filed the missing persons a while back.” Phil smiled. “They’re both dust peddlers, and I’m their new driver.”
“That’s great!” Susan exclaimed. “Jesus, you’re really getting in deep, and fast.”
“It’s just my well-proven expertise, my dear. I can’t help it—I’m a supercop.”
“Yeah, well, Supercop better be real careful. The closer you get to these people, the more dangerous it gets.”
“Danger,” Phil said, “is my middle name. Oh, and you were right; I had to prove myself tonight.”
“What?” she asked very speculatively.
“I had to smoke some dust.”
“What was it like?”
“I only smoked a little, but it put a whack on me pretty fast, made me feel kind of mellowed out but hyper at the same time. I don’t know what the big deal is, though. The crap just gave me a headache after the buzz. But, anyway, these guys think I’m legit now, so I’m in.”
“What are you going to do now?”
“I’ve got a good idea, I think. What I need right now is for you to punch up Sullivan again.”
“Why?”
“I need his address.”
Susan looked doubtful. “What have you got cooking, Phil?”
“Just trust me, okay?”
She wavered at her console, then, reluctantly punched up Sullivan’s name on the county mainframe-link. Then she gave Phil the guy’s address.
“All right, see you later.”
“Wait a minute.” Susan got up and came toward him at the door. “You’re really spooking me. What are you going to do?”
“Hey, I told you, don’t worry about it. Let’s just say that I’m going to spin some grease and see how fast I can turn a tough guy into a stool pigeon.”
“Phil, I don’t like the sound of this. You can’t be screwing around with these people. At least let me go with you.”
“Forget it. I’ll talk to you tomorrow,” he said and turned for the door.
But before he could leave, she grabbed his shoulder and urged him around.
Then she kissed him.
“What was that for?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” she replied. “I guess I just felt like it.”
“Well, you can feel like it anytime you want.”
“Besides, my kisses are good luck, and I have a feeling you’re gonna need it—whatever this hare-brained scheme of yours is.”
Phil paused a moment, and took in the vision of her beautiful face. Don’t turn into a sap, he commanded himself. “Like I said, don’t worry about it. Talk to you tomorrow,” he said and left.
The kiss tingled on his lips. Yeah, I must be doing something right, he thought. So make sure you don’t get yourself killed now…
Sullivan lived in one of the big trailer parks just out of town; Phil drove straight to it. Hope Paul’s an early riser. It was close to four-thirty in the morning when Phil pounded on the flimsy aluminum storm door.
“Who’s that?” came Sullivan’s rocky voice after a good five minutes of knocking.
“It’s me, Phil.”
“Who?”
“Phil. You know, your new driver.”
“Whadaya want?”
“Come on, man. Open up. This is important.”
With further grumbling, Sullivan undid several safety chains and opened the inside door. He stood there groggily, dressed only in boxer shorts. “What? Ya find that bastard Blackjack?” he asked.
“No, man,” Phil said. “Sorry to wake you up, but this really is important.”
“Yeah, bub, ya already told me that.”
“I need to ask you something.”
Sullivan’s muscled chest flexed when he thumbed the sleep out of his eyes. “Ask me somethin’? What?”
“Well, I need to know which side of your face do you want me to bust first, the right or the left?”
Sullivan’s beady, sleep-puffed eyes stared at him. “What the fuckin’ hell you talkin’ ab—”
Phil punched right through the flimsy storm screen; his fist slammed into Sullivan’s big, wedgy face with a sound like a baseball bat to a heavy bag. Sullivan reeled backward, arms pinwheeling, and stumbled over a tacky armchair. He landed flat on his back.
Phil invited himself in. “Wow, Paul, great place you’ve got here. I love the Dart Drug furniture, and those carpet tiles?” Phil whistled. “I’ll bet they cost you a buck a piece at least, huh?”
Sullivan dizzily tried to rise; Phil kicked him in the chest with his pointed boot. “Oh, by the way, Paul, your previous trepidations were quite on the mark. I’m a cop. And one more thing… You’re under arrest for possession of and intent to distribute PCP.”
Sullivan looked up from hands and knees. “A cop? You chump motherfucker. I knew there was somethin’ fucked up about you.”
“Congratulations on your perceptivity,” Phil said. “And, let me make it perfectly clear—” Phil rammed the heel of his palm into the top of Sullivan’s head —whap!— “that you have the right to remain silent” —whap!— “and anything you say will be used against you in a court of law.” Whap! “You also have the right to an attorney. If you can’t afford an attorney” —whap!— “the state will be happy to appoint one to you at no cost.” With that, Phil picked up a flimsy, fiberboard coffee table and promptly broke it over Sullivan’s head—
crack!
Sullivan collapsed.
Phil looked around. The place was a dump, but that’s pretty much what he expected. Porno magazines were spread over the kitchen table; empty beer cans filled a plastic trash can. When Sullivan came to, he rose again on hands and knees.
“I got my rights, bub,” he growled. “You can’t just walk in here and assault me.”
“Yes, I can,” Phil said, and swept his pointed boot right up into Sullivan’s belly. “Please pardon my lack of proper law enforcement protocol, but you know, it’s a two-way street? I get great pleasure out of kicking the shit out of a dope-dealing scumbag like you. And you can tell the D.A. that I violated your rights till you’re blue in the face, but who’s he gonna believe? As for the bruises and, hopefully, broken bones, well…you should be more cooperative with the local constables, Paul. It’s not nice to resist lawful arrest.”
Phil then punched Sullivan in the side of the head so hard his knuckles hurt. Then he straddled Sullivan, and cuffed his wrists behind his back.
“Listen to me, Paul. I don’t like PCP, and I don’t like guys who sell it. You’ve been to the joint already, and I guarantee you, this bust will send you up for five to ten. I think the cellblock boys will be happy to see you again, wouldn’t you say?”
Phil grabbed Sullivan’s mussed hair and gave it a good hard twist.
Sullivan shrieked. “You can’t do this, man! You’re torturing me!”
“No I’m not, Paul.” Phil gave Sullivan’s hair another twist. “I’m ‘interviewing’ you, for relevant information concerning a local police investigation.”
One more twist, and Sullivan was a ludicrous sight, squirming flat on his belly in his boxer shorts with his wrists handcuffed behind his back. “But there is one thing you should know, Paul,” Phil went on. “There are times when I am mysteriously given to acts of leniency. In other words, you start running that ugly mouth of yours and tell me the stuff I want to know,
then maybe, just maybe, I’ll drop the distribution charge and see to it that you don’t get more than eighteen months in the can. They’ll drop it to nine if you show them some good behavior, Paul. So what’s it gonna be? Nine months or ten years?”
Sullivan continued to squirm on his belly. “Why should I trust you?”
“Because to a lowlife, scumbag, two-time loser like you, I’m the most trustworthy guy in town.” Phil laughed. “I want to know who your supplier is, and I want to know where he makes his product. But more than any of that, Paulie, I want to know about your competition, this other local supplier you and Eagle are trying to undersell.”
Sullivan slackened. “I ain’t tellin’ you shit, bub.”
“Aw, Paul, don’t call me bub. Let’s try to cooperate, huh? Who’s that local dust supplier? Where’s his lab?”
“Fuck you,” Sullivan replied,
“Okay, be like that.” Phil got back up, kneeling on Sullivan’s back in the process. Sullivan shrieked again, then shrieked even more when Phil hauled him up by the handcuffs.
“Guess I’ll just have to get what I want out of Eagle,” Phil remarked, hauling Sullivan toward the door. “I’m taking you to jail now, that’s right, in your boxer shorts. How do you like that…bub?”
««—»»
Phil booked Sullivan into the county lockup, with an isolation request pending investigation—no visitors, in other words. He didn’t want Paul telling Eagle or any other cronies that Phil was the law. Let him sit in the lockup for a week or so, he’ll change his tune once he remembers what it’s like to be back on the cellblock. And as for Phil’s overall conduct—well, he didn’t feel too badly about it. If he’d learned anything at all on Metro, it was this: When dealing with scumbags, you sometimes had to be a scumbag yourself. Nor was he worried about Sullivan filing any brutality charges. The judge would take one look at Sullivan’s rap sheet and laugh harder than Slappy White, and Sullivan knew this. Pretty soon that lesser-charge offer Phil had made would be looking better than a pile of ground round to a wolf that hadn’t eaten in a week.
He was dog-tired when he pushed through the rickety front door at Old Lady Crane’s boardinghouse. What a night, he thought. Then his heart skipped…
Just as he passed the stairwell, a figure stepped out.
“Phil?”
“Jesus, Susan!” he nearly yelled. “Don’t sneak up on me like that—I was about to go for my piece!”
“My, aren’t we jumpy today,” she said. “I heard your car pull up, so I came down.”
Phil let his heart return to its normal beat, then smiled. “Didn’t mean to yell,” he apologized. “But I’m getting so deep into the local dope circuit, it’s making me edgy.” Only then did he take full note of her. Her bright-blond hair was tousled, and she stood bare-legged and bare-foot, dressed solely in a long white nightshirt. Her blue eyes looked at him groggily; she’d obviously been sleeping, and this only reminded him of the ludicrous schedules night-workers kept. “It’s almost ten a.m.,” he joked. “Isn’t that past your bedtime?”
“I couldn’t sleep. I was too worried about you getting your ass shot off,” she came back. “What happened with Sullivan?”
Again, Phil was flattered that she actually worried about him. What did that mean? “I busted him,” he told her. “Come on, I’ll fix us some coffee and tell you all about it.”
She padded behind him to his room. “My room’s hotter than a steambath. How about ice water instead?”
“Coming right up.” He went to his cubby of a kitchen and plunked ice into two glasses. “Anyway, like I was saying, I went to Sullivan’s place and busted him on a distro charge. You should’ve seen how ridiculous the guy looked standing in front of the booking sergeant in his boxer shorts. It was great!”
“Did he give you any trouble?”
“Not after I broke the coffee table over his head.” He gave her the glass of water, then they both sat down on his busted couch. “They took me on to drive for them, and Eagle verified that they’re trying to undercut another dust distributor in the area—”
“Natter?”
“I’m sure,” Phil said. “And they also told me their point people have been disappearing right and left, so that just verifies our suspicions even more. We were supposed to meet some drop-man named Blackjack last night, and the guy never showed. I’m convinced now. Natter’s putting contracts out on anyone trying to move dust on his turf.”
Suddenly Susan looked distressed. “Phil, you’re getting too close too fast, aren’t you? This is really getting scary.”
Phil wasn’t sure what she meant. “How so?”
“How so? Natter’s hitting the outside competition, Phil, and with you driving for Eagle, that makes you as big a target as any of them. If they catch you with Eagle, they’ll kill you.”
“And if I flash my badge—”
“They’ll kill you anyway.”
Phil shrugged at the undeniable reality. “I’ve been doing stuff like this for years. And I’m very careful.”
“You better be,” she whispered more to herself than to him.
It seemed strange, the way she was acting, but by now it was occurring to Phil very clearly that something was up. As always, her plain, honest beauty was tuning him up. Here she was, in an old nightshirt, her hair mussed, and her eyes puffy with fatigue, but she still seemed more beautiful to him than a thousand centerfolds. She’s gorgeous even when she’s a mess, he thought. He could tell she was braless beneath the nightshirt, and probably pantiless too, judging by her obviously conscious effort to keep her legs closed. Any other guy, he knew, would be making a move now, but Phil also knew that Susan was not a woman men made “moves” on; she didn’t live by typical social games and sexual tactics. He’d like nothing more right now than to take her to his bed and make love to her. But…
“You look tired,” he said.
Her sleepy blue eyes fluttered. “Yeah, I guess I am. Getting used to midnight shifts is harder than I thought. Anyway, what’s your next step with Eagle?”
“I’m supposed to meet him tonight at Sallee’s. He doesn’t know that Sullivan’s busted—I’m betting that he’ll think the guy ‘disappeared’ like the others.” Phil grinned. “I can’t wait to see his reaction.”
“What did Mullins say about you busting Sullivan?”
“He—” Phil’s train of thought collided with a brick wall. “Damn it! I’m supposed to be keeping him posted on this, and I haven’t even told him yet. Be right back.”
Phil rushed to the den and dialed the station. The last thing he needed was the county detention center calling Mullins and asking him about the jurisdictional processing of a prisoner he didn’t even know had been arrested.
Fortunately, Mullins was at his desk when he called, and Phil gave him the rundown.
Mullins, once Phil explained his plan, was ecstatic.
At least I’m making things happen, Phil told himself. Hope it works out.
When he came back to the main room, Susan was asleep on the couch. He didn’t want to wake her; she’d been up for hours, worrying about him. So he put her legs up and turned off the light.
Before he went to bed himself, he went into the bathroom to take a quick shower. And while he was showering…
Susan, nude now, came into the bathroom. She didn’t utter a word when she got into the shower with him.
— | — | —
Twenty-One
Ah-no-prey-bee…
Ona-for-blood…
Gut shuddered.
The dream-words siphoned round his head. His eyes bugged open. He felt cold and hot at the same time; he felt drenched in sweat yet dry as pumice.
It was always dark in here, and the darkness was his nemesis. It seduced him with its comfort, then dropped the memories into his lap like freshly severed heads.
The darkness whispered the dream-words again and again as he lay helpless and churning…
But they weren’t really dream-words, we
re they?
Ah-no—
They were real…
prey-bee…
The hideous face, like a cracked mask, was always there, hovering in the dark. Day or night, asleep or awake—it didn’t matter.
It was simply…always…there…
Gut shuddered fiercer this time.
He peed his pants again.
The screams were there, too. How could he forget them? And how could he forget what they’d done to Scott-Boy?
Christ…Scott-Boy…
“Fergive me, God,” he whispered.
It had to be God, sending demons after ’em for their sins. Gut knew they’d done terrible things, all the razzin’ and dope-sellin’, sellin’ all that shit ta kids just ta turn a buck. Not ta mention all the rape and throat-cuttin’. He’d rucked plenty of guys for their green, and he’d laughed right along every time Scott-Boy busted some chick’s coconut with that hickory pick handle of his.
We deserved it.
Yeah, that was fer shore. He and Scott-Boy, they had done some down-an’-dirty things all right, and now God was gonna fix their wagons fer it, an’ He was gonna fix ’em so they’d never roll again. Tears streamed down Gut’s blubber face, glistening like slug trails. Aw, shit, God, I’se really sorry fer all the razzin’ we pulled an’ all the splittails we fucked with, an’ all them poor folks we hooked on the dust so’s we could git reg-ler scratch out of ’em. Yeah, God, I’se really shore’s shit sorry fer it all.
It was a fine time ta get religion. But maybe God had fergiven him ’cos, if not, weren’t He have let the same thing that happened ta Scott-Boy happen ta him, too?
Oh, yessir, Gut remembert what they up and done to Scott-Boy. One thing he remembert expressly was how one of ’em got ta whittlin’ the flesh offa Scott-Boy’s fingers like he was just plain whittlin’ bark off a pine switch…
Gut’s sweat turned rank as dead fish gone belly-up in a swamp. He felt grimy in his layin’-down-goin’-nowhere-sheer-fuckin’ terror, like somebody had throwed him smack-dab in a shithole and made him roll around in it fer awhiles.
And the memory of the face hovered.
