Crime Song

by David Swinson

  I flick it out when I’m done. After a couple of minutes all it does is make me want a hefty pile on the back of my hand.

  Another swig of Jameson.

  We spend a couple of hours there, and it does seem to be hopping. The two mopes, Younger and Older, take turns. Sometimes they return from the deal with certain property, but most of the time they don’t. Just bills, like they’re dealing tens and twenties.

  Diamond’s cell rings a couple of times, but it sounds like he’s talking to friends or other cabbies.

  Diamond is able to identify a couple of the burglars he drives around, but not Biddy. I’m going to have to come here in my own vehicle and sit on it late, see when they come and go. I gotta go sit on R Street, too, so I ask Diamond to pull out.

  “Just a little while and we’re done. I won’t need you the rest of the day.”

  He drives to R, and we find an illegal spot to park, far enough away from the building to avoid a problem. The area has changed. The fourteen hundred block of R is not the same as it was when I was working. Drugs, burglaries, and robberies are still occurring, but not like before. This used to be a real hot spot. We’d get in a foot chase with a suspect who’d run into one of the buildings across the street, and that was it. Gone. Right now, I’m just hoping that Biddy will show. We’ll give it a bit, then I’ll let ol’ Diamond go.

  Thirty-Seven

  I’m feeling toasty—from the whiskey, not from the heat. It’s making me tired, and I’m all out of the cigs I laced with coke. I call it a day.

  “Go ahead and drop me off at Tenth and U.”

  Diamond rolls out, takes a right on 15th.

  He drops me off at the same corner. I count him out one hundred and fifty dollars and hand it through the little opening in the Plexiglas window. He counts.

  “You said an extra twenty-five for allowing you to smoke those sweet-smelling cigarettes of yours.”

  I hesitate, because that statement throws me, like he knows what burning coke smells like. I keep it to myself. Give him fifty instead.

  “Why the extra?”

  “You did good today,” I tell him.

  “I did nothin’ but sit on my ass.”

  “No. I got some good intel. And you remember to call me if any of your burglary boys gets in touch with you.”

  “Yeah.”

  “It’s still early enough for you to pick up some good fares. That should make this a really good day for you.”

  “It should. Do I have to say thank you or some shit like that?”

  “Not when it’s a mutual understanding.”

  I grab my backpack, but before I get out I say, “I might call you tomorrow just to check in on you. Always answer.”

  He nods.

  Diamond doesn’t hesitate to pull out. I watch him drive to 9th, where he makes a right.

  When I get to my porch, I stand and listen before unlocking the door, like I’m worried that whoever murdered Jeffrey will come back.

  The first thing I do when I get home is—hell, why even mention it anymore? I’ve got needs.

  I give Leslie a call to let her know I’ll be working a late surveillance gig I got hired for but will have my phone on vibrate if she wants to call or text. We get together on most weekends nowadays. This weekend is uncertain. It really depends on what kind of intel I get tonight, if I even can.

  “How about we play this weekend by ear?” she says.

  “I would like to see you, though. Get out of my house.”

  “Tomorrow night if you’re not doing a real late-night thing.”

  “Sounds good. I’ll talk to you later.”

  “Be safe with whatever it is you’re working. It has nothing to do with your cousin’s murder, right?”

  “No. Of course not.”

  “Frankie. I’m worried about you.”

  “There’s nothing to worry about.”

  “Frank.” She sighs. “Talk to you later, then.”

  “All right.”

  She disconnects first.

  I stretch out on the sofa to close my eyes and allow them rest. I certainly won’t get any sleep.

  I start to think about my mother for some reason. Never really knew her, but I do remember a little of what she looked like and the music she used to listen to. She loved music. When I was in my teens, about five years after her death, my stepfather finally opened up to me and said it was because of bad depression. That’s why she took her life.

  When I was on my own, after high school, when I was working for a landscaping company, my stepfather retired and moved south, somewhere in South Carolina now. His pension goes a long way there, I guess. My stepfather didn’t wanna lug all those records and the stereo equipment, so he left them for me. My older half brother got married and moved for work to Orange County, California. None of us communicates. An occasional Christmas card from my half brother, but that’s about it. I’m actually surprised that neither of them called me about Jeffrey’s murder. Maybe they don’t know. Dysfunction at its best. I don’t expect more, nor do I even want it. We’re all comfortably settled in our ways. Less clutter that way. I do have an odd attachment to my mother’s records, though, as well as my own records and the stereo equipment. Nothing that I can explain. Even if I could I wouldn’t. All I know is I want that shit back. I want to get to whoever killed Jeffrey first, before Millhoff. Didn’t think I’d ever see the stereo again, but I did, thanks to Hurley. The odds are very slim that I’ll ever see anything else, but the odds are good that I’ll find Biddy. Finding people is easy, long as you’re smart.

  Thirty-Eight

  Cicada shells are scattered about, leftover remains of some bird’s meal. Their delicate forms gently cling to the trunks of trees. Remnants of the past. The ones that still carry on are louder than normal. Their static-electric cry is everywhere.

  Their song stays with me, though, even now in my car with the windows up and the air conditioning low. It’s like being in the ear canal of someone who suffers from tinnitus.

  Or do I have tinnitus? Fuck.

  I love surveillance. It’s like a secret space, and if it’s done right you can make yourself invisible, mostly to regular citizens. They don’t pay attention. Drug boys do. They’re the opposite of cops, but they have the same weird ability to spot the other side.

  I find a tricky spot on the south side of the 1300 block of Riggs, right across from the cut leading to the alley behind their house. I adjust the rearview so I can see their stoop. If they do leave, I’ve got all angles except where the alley ends at 13th Street. I’m betting they keep a car on Riggs or in the parking lot behind the apartment buildings west of their house.

  I assume my comfortable position in the car. Not what I want, but again I’ve gotta keep it running for the air. I have everything I need in the seat next to me. Seriously well supplied this time, even water to stay hydrated ’cause of all the liquor I will more than likely consume. I’m good to go for as long as it takes.

  The sun sets late, maybe by 7:30. That’s almost an hour and a half from now. Lot of young business types live on this block. A lot of them walking. Few look my way.

  Several people take the cut throughout the evening. Most of them make their way to the neighboring parking lot, where shortly one of the boys will appear in good cheer.

  It’s not crazy busy, but they do have regulars. It’s enough to pique my interest.

  By 9:00 p.m. business seems to stop. Haven’t seen the boys for about an hour. I notice a few suspicious types roll in and toward the lot, but no Younger and Older. They’re either out of supply or they don’t work it after a certain time. I’m hoping for the latter.

  A few minutes after 10:00 p.m. I notice movement in my side mirror. The boys step out to the front stoop, lock the door behind them. They seem dressed for a night out. By that I mean their jeans are less raggedy and their sneakers are fresher. Younger shoulders a small backpack. Both of them are wearing oversize T-shirts with abstract patterns on the front that I can’
t make out.

  A car chirps half a block away, headlights flickering on what appears to be a black late-model two-door Honda. Older walks to the driver’s side while Younger slips into the passenger seat. I let them pass, readjust my rearview mirror, then wedge myself out. Turn the lights on when they hit the stop sign at 14th and turn left.

  I stay a couple of cars behind, thinking they’re going to continue south, but they take a right on R. When I make the turn they’re halfway down the block. Left on 17th. I start thinking they’re headed to the club on Connecticut because it’s right around the corner, but they continue, and once they pass K they slow down again. This time like they’re trying to find parking. It’s a fairly busy night. Lot of nightclubs in this area. I slow down and pull behind a parked car near the Mayflower Hotel. Turn my lights off. Watch the boys head in to one of the nicest joints.

  About an hour in, and my cell phone rings.

  Luna.

  “What’s up, bro?” I answer.

  “Just checking in on ya.”

  “Playing my big brother?”

  “Yeah. You need a good influence in your life.”

  “Well, that you are, my friend. All’s good here. Working a side gig with a bit of surveillance.”

  “Well, yeah, I know how much you love that shit. Don’t know how you can sit on your ass all that time, though.”

  “You should know, sitting on that chair at your desk all day.”

  “At least it reclines. And shit, I do get out on occasion. This gig you’re working, though. You sure it isn’t something that might interfere with a homicide investigation?”

  “Come on, Al,” I say so I don’t have to lie. “Any news at your end?”

  “They got some of our boys assisting with the drug angle.”

  “You mean at the club?” I ask him with a bit of apprehension.

  “I know you know, ’cause I talked to Hurley. That boy found dead on the fourteen hundred block of Rhode Island is a known drug dealer. Couple of the guys here are familiar with him.”

  Fucking hope it doesn’t lead to the house on Riggs.

  “You identify any of the other players yet?”

  “Not that I heard.”

  “You keep me in the loop, though, right?”

  “Yeah, brother. I gotcha. No worries.”

  “Thanks, Al.”

  “Be safe. You need anything, call.”

  “I will.”

  Fuck. I’m gonna have to be a little more careful, make sure no one from NSID is on these boys, too. That’s all I need.

  Thirty-Nine

  At around 2:00 a.m., the boys exit the club with a group of other people. They hang out, talking and smoking what appear to be blunts. The two then break off from the others and walk toward their car.

  I follow them back the way they came but continue driving when they make that left turn onto Riggs from 13th.

  Still wired when I get home. No television to watch, which is probably a good thing, ’cause it just makes me want more coke. I decide on stripping down to my shorts and getting into bed. First I down two Klonopins with a double shot of vodka. But even that isn’t enough to take the edge off a restless mind.

  So I wait.

  I don’t know when I fell out, but the buzzing iPhone snaps me up to a sitting position like I got springs in my back.

  It’s dark, but the phone casts a beacon of light from the nightstand.

  Fucking Diamond, and at fucking five in the morning!

  “Marr,” I answer.

  Diamond starts to rattle off something about office burglaries and a bunch of stolen laptops he has to help transport.

  “Is it Biddy?” I ask, because that’s all I really care about.

  He says, “No,” and goes off again.

  “Calm yourself, Diamond. Start from the beginning. The quick version.”

  He does.

  When he’s done I say, “Do not go there. Just sit tight, and I’ll take care of it. No. Don’t worry about that shit. I’ll take care of you. They’ll never know. I do this shit all the time. I’ll call you when it’s done. Sit tight.”

  If that’s possible.

  I disconnect, hop out of bed, slip into jeans and a T-shirt. I feel half dead. I secure my magazine pouch and my holstered weapon on the belt, grab the backpack, and rush to the car.

  Did I lock the door?

  I run back to the house to double-check. It’s locked.

  “It’s locked,” I repeat to myself like it’ll stick in my head that way. Pathetic.

  It only takes me a few minutes to get to the lower end of 11th Street. I drive past the alley Diamond was talking about and notice two guys sitting near a Dumpster, leaning against the wall of a multistory office building. I park at the next corner, where I can still see the opening to the alley. I grab the burner cell phone I keep in my backpack and call 911.

  I try my best not to sound like an ex-cop.

  The dispatcher answers, “Nine one one, what’s your emergency?”

  The location is the first thing she needs.

  “Two guys in the alley, rear of the seven hundred block of Eleventh Street, Northwest,” I begin, and then think, shit, that sounds like a cop talking. “They just broke into an office building and stole a bunch of laptops. They’re in the alley now.” She asks for a description. “Two guys. I didn’t get a close look. I think one is either white or Hispanic and the other one is black. They’re sitting there right now. They hid the laptops behind a Dumpster and are acting like they’re waiting for someone to pick them up.”

  She tries to get more information, including stuff about me.

  “No, that ain’t gonna happen. Just get the police here fast and quiet or they’ll lose them. I ain’t involving myself.”

  I hear her dispatch two units to the location, telling them something about “a concerned citizen.” I disconnect the cell and pull away from the curb, make a right on 12th to go around the corner. I drive slowly.

  It’s almost shift change, midnights to day work, so the primary unit on this call probably isn’t too happy. This is First District, so it’d be nice if the primary is Jasper. Just a little payback.

  By the time I get around to 11th again, I see a unit speeding south on 11th. No lights or siren. The cruiser looks like it’s occupied two times. Didn’t look like Jasper. I head in that direction as another unmarked unit comes from the other direction.

  I turn right again, pass the alley at a slow speed, notice the two guys up against the wall, face-first and legs spread. I make my way back home. It’s not my concern whether they find probable cause to lock these boys up. Like I said, I could care less. All I wanted to do is follow through for Diamond so he wouldn’t have to pick them up. Now he doesn’t.

  I call him on my phone.

  “Yeah, police got them,” I say. “We’ll just say it was an anonymous call from a concerned citizen.”

  I advise him that I appreciate the call and tell him to let me know the second Biddy calls.

  I find the same parking spot near home. It’s too fucking early, and I’m going to have another long night of surveillance on Younger and Older. I figure they gotta be good for a little something, maybe more. I’m enthusiastic for something more. I’m not gonna deny my need. My brain’s wired that way, ’cause if I run out I’m useless. I’ve been there, and I don’t want to go back. I justify these actions because there’s also the possibility that I might get good information outta that house. Something that might lead me to Jeffrey’s murderer.

  I strip back down to my shorts and hit the sack.

  Forty

  I wait for Younger and Older around the same time as last night. This time they step out a little early. Younger lights up a big blunt on the stoop, shares it with Older.

  I tail them the same way, but this time they slow to a crawl on 17th before Rhode Island Avenue. They take a right on Rhode Island. I get to the corner just as they’re making a U-turn a quarter of the way up the block. I pull up slowly, li
ke I’m gonna turn left, but I notice them park illegally alongside the curb behind some orange construction barrels. I make a left because I don’t want to pass them. I pull into the opening of a narrow alley, blocking the sidewalk. A couple of pedestrians give me a dirty look as they have to walk around my car. Not many other folks around this time of night.

  I cup my binos and observe them exit the vehicle and walk toward Connecticut Ave. Are they going to the club where Jeffrey used to go?

  I back out carefully, letting a couple of cars pass, then I drive slowly behind them. It’s a long block, so I have to stay back.

  They get to the corner and wait for the WALK sign before crossing Connecticut. I double-park farther back and tap on my hazard lights. I can barely make out the entrance to the club, but I can see enough of the steps to know whether they’re about to enter.

  They cross, and, sure enough, I notice them walking up the stairs, but I lose sight of them before the front entrance.

  Damn. The odds of winning the lottery are better than this shit.

  I look around, see if there’s anywhere to park so I can get an eyeball on their vehicle. Parking is damn near impossible. I opt to park behind another car, but I’m partially obstructing Saint Matthew’s Court, which is more of an alley than a court. I turn my lights off.

  Not even fifteen minutes later a cruiser rolls up behind me. Emergency lights go on shortly after. The driver and his partner approach my car. I roll down the window. Driver’s handheld Streamlight blinds me. I shield my eyes.

  He stays behind, near the rear passenger door of my car, so I have to turn to him. The partner’s Streamlight searches the interior of my car.

  Driver lowers his light a bit so I can see him, then says, “You’re not planning to park here, are you?”

  He’s a young guy. Fuck, they’re all young nowadays. I hardly know anyone anymore.

  My suit jacket is off, so I worry about whether my mags and sidearm are visible to him. Don’t want another situation like before, or worse.

  “I was hoping you officers would let me, just for an hour or so while I stay in the car.”