Crime Song

by David Swinson

  I turn on my Streamlight and head to the rooms at the other end of the hall. The one on the left first.

  I enter but don’t turn on the overheads. The light I carry is more than enough. Smells like lilac. Nose-piercing lilac. I don’t know if this is Younger’s or Older’s room. Doesn’t really matter. I’m going to hit both of them.

  It’s a small room. One closet. No bathroom. Clothes and shoes clutter the floor. I have to walk on them to get around. It does act as padding to muffle the creaky floor.

  I check the nightstand first.

  Nice 9mm Sig. No holster. Box of ammo, lighters, little baggie of weed, which I pocket. I leave the gun, ’cause it’ll be more useful if I leave it here.

  I check under the bed to find several shoe boxes, more dirty laundry, and a couple of CDs. I look at the titles. Not mine. I check the shoe boxes. Most of them are empty. Two contain brand-new sneakers, still tagged.

  I move around to look under the other side of the bed. Nothing worthwhile, so I lift all sides of the mattress and find only a large chef’s knife. I guess that would be the last resort if the gun doesn’t work.

  I tear the closet apart, find another baggie of weed, maybe an ounce. Slip that into my pack.

  Sweat is starting to seep through my shirt now, beading on my forehead. He’s got an air conditioner in the window, but turning it on would muffle any sounds from outside.

  I pull the blinds up to look out the window. He has the view of Riggs. I don’t see their car. Lot of headlights streaming along 14th, both north and south.

  I go back to the closet, lift his coats off the hangers, and check the pockets before tossing them on the floor. Couple of live 9mm rounds in one, but that’s it. After I go through everything on the shelf, I stand back to survey the room, see if there’s anything I missed. Maybe, but I still go to the room across the hall. I can always come back if there’s time. I’ve blown a little over twenty minutes in here already.

  Oddly enough, the next room is tidy. He has two laptops with power cords beside them. I check the machines. Not mine.

  He has his own bathroom and a larger closet.

  I tear the room apart, but all I find is a lot of drug paraphernalia, like assorted zips of all sizes, a scale, and two more guns, one a .357 chrome revolver with duct tape wrapped around the grip and the other an old 9mm Taurus. I leave them.

  Shit. Maybe downstairs in the living room, kitchen, or one of the closets. Maybe they’re fucking out. I don’t want to waste much more time here.

  Then something comes to me. It’s worth a shot, ’cause you never know. If I were executing a search warrant here with a few other guys, we’d certainly check every room out. So why not?

  Fifty-Three

  I knock lightly on the old lady’s door. Nothing, so I rap harder.

  Hear a faint “Huh.”

  I open the door and step in.

  “You up, ma’am?”

  “I’m never up,” she says, as if taking me literally.

  “I can’t get outta here and deal with those good-for-nothin’ boys until I get what I came here for.”

  She doesn’t respond.

  “Do you know what they do to make their money?”

  “I may be dyin’, but I ain’t a fool.”

  I’m beginning to think she’s been dying for a long time.

  “How often do they come in your bedroom here?”

  “More than I care for.”

  “Where do they go in here?”

  “They take care of the bucket, but not enough.”

  “Is there any spot they go to often?”

  It seems like she’s hesitating.

  “You said you have no mortgage, right? Home’s bought and paid for.”

  “I said that.”

  “Do they do anything for you except to empty the bucket on occasion?”

  “Sometimes I have to eat.”

  “Doesn’t seem like you eat enough.”

  “Not hungry most of the time.”

  She stares back at the ceiling.

  “I’d like one of those new big television sets, the ones that look like picture frames.”

  Fuck, what do I say?

  “That won’t be a problem,” I say, but I think I’m lying.

  “They spend a lot of time goin’ in and out of my bathroom, even when there are two other bathrooms in this house.”

  “You see them bringing anything in or carrying anything out?”

  “Don’t pay attention.”

  “I won’t be long,” I tell her, then walk toward the bathroom.

  She doesn’t say anything.

  I step in and turn on the light. It’s relatively clean. Old fixtures. Three nicely framed watercolor landscapes on the wall in front of the toilet, a large wooden cross on the wall behind it, and a pink shag bathroom carpet in the middle of the floor.

  I look under the sink and see a large wooden jewelry box to one side of the drainpipe, well away from everything else under the sink—old cleaning supplies, couple other newer boxes that contain cutting agents, a small scale, and a hair dryer. I pull the jewelry box out to open it.

  “Oh,” I say under my breath. “Yes.”

  What I see has gotta be at least half a kilo of what I’m sure will test positive for cocaine base. It’s tightly wrapped. And then beside it are three large rocks and several little ones that probably amount to over a hundred grams of crack.

  I grab a tester from my pack. I made sure to stock up on quite a few testers before I left the department. I cut a tiny slice in the wrapper with my knife, pull out just enough on the tip to drop into the plastic testing vial. I close the vial, squeeze it so that another smaller glass vial on the inside cracks, releasing another liquid agent.

  Fucking beautiful blue.

  I drop the vial back in my pack, then use the knife to dip into a snort for myself.

  Fucking shee-it!

  Incredible, like it hasn’t been stepped on once. I’m sure these boys will cut the hell out of it, though. Damn fine. In fact so damn fine I don’t know what to say.

  I tear off a little piece of duct tape, which I also carry in my pack, and seal the slit back up. I carefully stuff the half brick into my pack, but not the crack.

  I turn the light off as I exit. The old lady looks like she’s dead. Probably still awake. I tread lightly and close the door to her room after I step out.

  I carry the large amount of crack into the room with a bathroom and slide it under the mattress. I’m assuming Older sleeps there. That amount of crack and the guns in both rooms should be more than enough to fuck them up when I’m done.

  I’m walking down the creaky stairs back to the living room when I get another rushing neural-wave crash and, with that, a great idea. It’s like a thunderclap. Sort of gives me the chills.

  Fifty-Four

  I check the time again. Almost 2:00 a.m.

  I snort some more of my own shit up, ’cause I don’t want to chance spilling any of the new stuff on this filthy carpet. I’ve never had to resort to picking coke bits off the floor before, and I’m not about to now. So I leave it wrapped and in the backpack, where it’s safe.

  I find a wooden chair that I wipe off and move close to the front window so I can peek through the blinds and catch them walking toward the house. I got everything I need at the ready—stun gun, zip ties, and duct tape. I have the face mask off until they come. Too damn hot with it on. I’m still wearing my suit jacket, because I don’t want to drape it over anything in this pit. Who knows what’ll cling to it? I’m definitely going to have to drop the suit and shirt off at the dry cleaner first thing tomorrow, maybe even toss my shoes. Damn—it’s like the smell is wrapped around me now. How can these mopes live with that? The thought of that pisses me off even more.

  Can’t deny that I’m a little excited, mostly because of the blow I’ve been snorting. I finish what’s left of the whiskey in my sport bottle, secure the top, and stick it back in the pack. I look around the living room, sp
ot the bottle of Jameson I saw when I first came in, get up, and bring it back to the chair. I unscrew the cap to smell it. Seems okay. I click on my Streamlight, shine it into the bottle, and don’t notice anything floating in there, so I take a small swig. It’s good. Another swig. Better out of glass than plastic. After a couple more drinks I feel more relaxed.

  I notice car headlights turning onto Riggs from 13th. The car slows, passes the house. Not them. Got my heart racing again for a second, so I take another drink. All of a sudden it comes to me—what if they bring some girls home or, even worse, a few people to party with? That’ll fuck everything up.

  I work it out in my head some more, how I’m going to do this. Feels good. Even better is that I have no doubts after I’ve run it through my head a couple of times.

  After 2:30, another car rolls around from 13th.

  It looks like their car.

  It is their car.

  It passes the house, takes a right into the cut that leads to the parking lot on the left and the alley at the rear of their house on the right. I lose sight of them.

  Are they going to come through the back?

  I put my face mask on, grab my pack, set it at the other end of the sofa, and move the bottle of Jameson to a cleared-off spot on the coffee table, in front of the sofa. I leave the wooden chair where it is. I got the zip ties rolled up and in my back pocket and the stun gun at the ready. I take another peek out the blinds and wait.

  A few minutes later they appear from outta the cut, walking toward the house. It’s just the two of them. I stand behind the door, against the wall. The door will open inward and block me. I hear one of them chuckling, then talking about some girl. “Fuckin’ love to slap that ass. Yeah.” Keys rattling, having a hard time getting the key into the lock. “Fuck,” one of them says. Sounds like the security gate was unlocked. I hear a key go into the dead bolt. The key turns once to open the dead bolt, then again for the door handle, below it.

  The door swings open. I let them enter, close the door. Older sees me first. Tries to swing. I easily knock his hand away and zap him full-strength in the gut with the stun gun, holding it there for a couple of seconds. Younger is still behind, as if he doesn’t know yet what’s going on. Older falls. Younger tries to run, but I grab the back of his T-shirt, swing him around so he tumbles over the coffee table and against the wall that the flat-screen is sitting in front of. When he tries to get up, I smack him hard with the heel of my hand, sending him some white light. He’s out for the count. I notice Older starting to whimper, struggling to regain himself. I walk over to him. It’s an effort for him to look up at me, but he does. Obviously scared and confused.

  “Yeah, that’s right, motherfucker,” I say and zap him in the gut again.

  Fifty-Five

  Big brother and baby brother sitting side by side on the sofa. Duct tape sealing their mouths, their hands zip-tied behind their backs, and feet zipped tightly together at the ankles. A sweet family moment.

  I got about five hundred dollars in scrunched-up fives, tens, and twenties, an eight ball of blow, ten smaller quarter-gram zips of blow, a baggie of weed, and two phones out of their pockets. No crack, but then that’s probably not something most of those clubbers are looking for.

  The coffee table, which was in front of the sofa, is now in the middle of the living room. I’m sitting in the wooden chair facing the both of them. My pack is on the floor beside the chair.

  I hit them in their closed eyes with the blinding Streamlight. Back and forth, back and forth…Older reacts to it first, comes to, quickly realizes his predicament. Maybe he’s been in this position before. He opens his eyes, then closes them right away. He still struggles, but he only succeeds in knocking his brother so he falls on his side with his head resting on a cushion.

  “I’m impressed,” I begin. “Neither of you two shit your pants. Especially you, big brother. I double-tapped you with the stun gun.”

  “Hmmph, hmm, hmmph, hmm…”

  I turn the Streamlight off.

  “I ain’t gonna take that off your mouth right now, so stop that shit or I’ll give you some more voltage, but this time right in the ball sack. Got it?”

  Nods several times.

  “So for now, nodding up and down for yes and side to side for no will do.”

  No reaction.

  “Is that good? Yes or no?”

  Nods for yes.

  “Hope your brother’s okay. He is your brother, right?”

  Nods.

  The bottle of Jameson is almost empty. I take a nip.

  “You got any more of this lying around?”

  Shakes for no.

  “I’m pretty fucked up anyway, so it’s probably best I don’t drink any more.”

  It’s like he’s almost gonna nod but decides against it.

  “That’s your grandma you keep up in the smelly room upstairs?”

  Nod.

  “What the fuck you keep her like that for? She needs to have nurse care, probably daily.”

  No reaction.

  “You can shrug your shoulders if you don’t know something.”

  He shrugs his shoulders.

  “That’s bullshit.”

  I stand up and smack him hard on the side of the face.

  He does nothin’ but blurt out a grunt and some snot with it.

  “What kinda grandson are you? Don’t answer that. I already know. I’ve seen your kind before. Sick little shits.”

  I look at his brother just lying there.

  “I’m worried about your brother. He have a glass jaw or somethin’?”

  A bit of fear in his eyes, but he shrugs.

  “Look at his chest. Does it look like he’s breathing?”

  Older looks down, takes a couple of seconds, then turns to me again and nods.

  “That’s good. I don’t want it to have to come to that.”

  I stand up, walk to the sofa, and pull Younger up to a sitting position again. He already has reddish bruising on the left side of his puffy face and a dried-up trickle of blood under his nostril. I tap him lightly with my hand on the uninjured side of his face but don’t get a reaction. I tear the duct tape off his mouth so he can breathe better.

  His eyes pop open, moving from side to side and up and down like a newborn getting his first look at the new environment. He lets out a gasp.

  “Breathe,” I tell him. “Calm down and breathe or I’m gonna put you out again. Understand?”

  “What the fu—” he tries to say, but before he can I put the duct tape over his mouth again.

  “You’ll be all right,” I tell him.

  I want nothing more than to show Younger who I am so he knows I’m the one he ran away from at the record store. I want to, but I won’t.

  He turns to look at his older brother. Older gives him a look and a slight shake of his head, like Just fucking shut up or something.

  “I cleaned your pockets out. Looks like you had a good night.”

  Blank stares.

  “Let’s get down to business, then.”

  I slide the coffee table so it’s near the chair. I grab my backpack, but before I sit back down, I slide the right side of my suit jacket back so that it reveals my holstered Glock. I tuck it behind the gun to hold it back. I want to make sure they see that.

  They do.

  “I know you don’t care about Grandma, so I’m not going to even go there,” I lie, because I never would dream of hurting her. “I did forget something, though.”

  I stand back up.

  “You two scoot away from each other, give some space between.”

  They reluctantly obey.

  I walk to the other side of the sofa and grab the orange bucket, minus the toilet seat, that I brought down from Grandma’s room. I set it on the sofa cushion between them. After that I pick up a coffee mug that I found and set it on the coffee table.

  More “Hmmph, hmmph” from both of them.

  “Yeah, it stinks. Try not to move around or it�
��ll topple. What direction I don’t know.”

  Younger’s cheeks expand outward, like he’s gonna gag.

  “Don’t think about it. You don’t wanna drown in your own vomit. Just deep breaths through your nose, hold a couple seconds, and release. That’ll relax you.”

  Odd, but the kid listens. It’s funny-looking.

  I pick up the eight ball, which I took from Older, and put it on the coffee table. Grab my knife from my pants pocket and flick it open. I use the tip of the knife to pick up a bit of powder. Snort it. Sniff a couple of times.

  “Damn, you stepped on that shit.”

  I seal the baggie back up and put it in my pack. Grab the wrapped half brick out and put it on the table.

  “This, on the other hand, is some seriously good shit.”

  Older is scared but still looks like he’s pissed.

  Younger is doing his breathing exercises.

  “You have any more lying around here?”

  Older shakes his head.

  “I’m sure you have a little more hidden somewhere, but I’m not gonna be selfish. Well, except for where you keep your money.”

  No reaction.

  “I’m not going to fucking waste time here. Tell me where you stash the money, and I’m gone, never to be seen again. Fuck with me, and you both suffer.”

  I give them both a second, then stand up and lean over Younger.

  “Damn, that fucking smells. I’m gonna take the tape off you, but if you say anything other than what I ask from you, I’ll make you drink some of what your grandma left for you, then let you drown in your own puke. Understand?”

  Nods several times.

  I tear it off, taking some of his peach-fuzz whiskers with it. He whines a bit.

  He turns away from the bucket and his brother and heaves thick, yellowish, chunky vomit on the cushion and on himself.

  “Ah, that’s worse than the bucket,” I say. “What the fuck did you eat tonight?”

  Couple more heaves, then he’s done.

  “You good now?”

  “Uh-huh,” he answers.

  “I mean, I been around. Smelled all kinds of awful, but when I stepped into Grandma’s room, I about puked, too. So don’t feel like you’re less of a man.”