by Frank Zafiro
At this point it’s library quiet in there and all these breakfast pukes had ring side seats. The loudest sound in the place was the food sizzling on the grill.
I walk in steady like I was going to brawl and dipped my right shoulder, feinting a wild ass right roundhouse punch. He went with it and then I hit him instead with a left hook, right in his side, up into the bottom ribs a little. It lands square. A hard, solid punch. Really hard. I hear a whoosh come out of him. It hurt him and I knew it.
He backs up, I lean in but then he steps in quick again and catches me with a motherfucker of a short choppy undercut. Right square under my jaw. He rocks my ass with that one.
My sight gets blurry and I’m foggy but I don’t back up. If I go backwards right now, he’ll follow that in. I’m a little shaky and if I give him an opening, he’ll take it.
He’s still got that little body twist going on with his side where I hit him. It’s like when you’re trying to hide something that’s hurt, but you can’t help favoring it. It just fucking hurts too much.
I’m not thinking or feeling at this point. We dance a little more and it’s what I need. Just enough time for my head to clear.
I come in on him. He throws a left at my head and I block it enough to where the punch lands on my cheek but there’s nothing to it.
We separate, but I come back at him again. I’m trying to crowd him, not letting him get off. He throws a jab and it connects with my nose. I back off and then charge right back in. This time, though, I do throw the roundhouse right. He thinks it’s like last time, that it ain’t coming. Bang. Right the fuck on his ear.
His knees go all shaky and I give him another hard left hook to the side, same place the first one landed. I put everything into it because the opening was there and I knew it would land.
He lets out a loud grunt and a yelp. He doubles over.
I take a slow step back.
He’s turned sideways to me now and stays bent over. His face is one big grimace.
This is over. Enough is enough. It is Mick.
It’s over, but I’m not done. One more, just for old time’s sake. I want him on the ground. I come in close and low, giving him an uppercut of my own.
He’s still bent over at the waist when he finally goes over and he catches the edge of a booth on the way down. On the floor now, he tries to get up to his knees but he can’t. Tries again and can’t. Then he just kind of curls up and gets still. I think he’s probably got one or two busted ribs. I watch him for a second more but he ain’t moving.
I realize I got to get the fuck out. I can’t believe nobody has called the cops yet. Probably too good a fight to watch. Plus, real fights never take too long. This ain’t a fuckin’ movie.
I scan the room, looking at people square in the eye and moving on to the next.
“We’re both cops here, both undercover, so be smart and don’t get yourselves tangled up in this shit. This is a department problem and we’ll handle it. There’s two marked patrol units on the way.”
They all just stare at me with big eyes.
I take out a big wad of money and lay it on the lunch counter, next to that I lay two fifties.
The cook is looking at the money and the dollar signs are ringing in his head. He could give a fuck about the mess and his waitress on the floor.
“Cookie, first pile is for damages and the people with food on them. Plenty enough there. Plenty, and then some. The two Grants are for you and Kinky over there. For…you know, like, mental hardship.”
One more look over at Mick. This crazy shit might have worked out best. Probably bought me even more time. He still ain’t moving much.
But I am. The bank is less than two blocks down. My legacy is waiting for me.
TWENTY-FOUR
Mick
Everything hurt. My head, my side, my hands.
“Officer? You all right?”
I exhaled, and even that hurt. I kept my breathing shallow and blinked. Why was he calling me officer? I wasn’t a cop any more.
You was never one of us. Never a cop. Not for real.
“He’s a detective, asshole,” said another voice in a thick Chicago accent.
“How do you know that?” came the first voice again.
“He’s in plain clothes. ‘Sides, the other cop said they were detectives.”
“No, he said they were undercover.”
“Only detectives go undercover, dumb ass.”
“Like you know.”
I gave my head a little shake. Explosions of light and pain greeted that action, but things came into slightly better focus. I was lying on the diner floor. I could taste blood in my mouth. Several people stood over the top of me, looking down. Some had concern on their faces, but most just looked curious.
“You all right, detective?” asked a man in a Member’s Only jacket. His thick Chicago accent betrayed only marginal interest in my well-being. It was like he only wanted to know so he could round out the story he was going to be telling his buddies at the neighborhood bar later tonight.
“Fine,” I said, but my voice sounded funny to my ringing ears. There was a thick quality to it, like my internal software hadn’t reset to the point where the fine motor skills were running at a hundred percent.
“You don’t look fine,” Member’s Only said.
I was tired of this conversation already. I shook my head again, and this time the fireworks weren’t as pronounced. Everything started tumbling back into place. Jerzy. The earrings. The password.
The bank.
I pushed myself to one knee. The slicing pain in my ribs sent shock waves through my entire body. I needed to see a doctor. Probably get a CAT scan, considering the sledgehammer force of Jerzy’s punches. At least get these ribs taped.
Later.
After.
I grabbed onto the edge of a booth and pulled myself up to my feet with a grimace. There was a slight fluttering of “awwws” from the assembled group.
“You might want to wait for the ambulance, mister,” Member’s Only said. “That other cop hit you pretty hard.”
Other cop? I knew she was talking about Jerzy, but where did she get the idea he was a cop? Then I realized he must’ve lied about it to help cover his escape.
“No time,” I grunted. “How long ago did he leave?”
“A couple of minutes, is all. Less than five.”
I could hear sirens in the distance. Police, not ambulance. Maybe they were for me, maybe not. I couldn’t wait around to see.
“When the uniforms get here, tell them there’s a dope deal gone bad three blocks over.” I pointed in the opposite direction of the bank. “Tell them they’re looking for Officer Harding.”
“That’s you, right?”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said. Then I turned and staggered toward the door.
The chill April air cleared my head just a little more. I was able to churn myself up to a fast, shuffling walk, but when I tried to break into a trot, the pain was too much. So I lowered my head and walked on as fast as I could. People streamed past me. One lady was in mid-sentence when I slipped by her, saying, “It looks like it’s over there,” but whether she meant the diner or something else, I couldn’t say.
I didn’t dare look back over my shoulder, just in case some inquisitive uniform cop happened to be looking my direction at the same time. I had to get to the bank.
Behind me, the sirens drew closer. A few moments later, I heard the screech of tires skidding to a stop. By then, I was too far away to hear any voices or even if there was a crowd formed making tell-tale crowd noises.
I kept on.
No one stopped me.
As I passed a beauty salon, I glanced to my left. My reflection stared back at me in the big glass window. Except for a small smear of blood on my lip, I didn’t look that bad. My hunched over, shuffling gait was the only thing that looked suspicious. Purposefully, I slowed to a normal walking speed, forcing myself into a regular stride. Twinges of pain leapt up
anew with every step and I could tell that I was walking slower than usual, but not so slow as to attract attention. Especially at two blocks away.
I wiped away the blood on my lip, then reached up and touched my ear. The skin and cartilage felt hot beneath my fingers. The entire side of my head throbbed in counterpoint to the stabbing pain in my ribs. I spit into an empty doorway, leaving a red splotch on the steps.
Suddenly, I was there. Bank of America. Blue and red lines painted above glass doors. I pushed the door open and went inside.
The bank was huge, taking up several floors. I shuffled over to a directory and looked for safe deposit boxes. It took me several passes down the list before I realized it was under Member Services.
Fourth floor.
I walked carefully to the elevators. I passed an ancient security guard armed with a revolver, but he didn’t give me a second glance. The bell dinged and I got on.
As soon as I stepped out onto the fourth floor, there were arrows pointing me the way. I arrived at the safe deposit desk in short order. No sign of Jerzy anywhere. He’d only had a two or three minute head start on me, so even if you figure he ran up here and I had to walk, he was what? Four minutes ahead? Five? How could he be inside so quick?
I got my answer a moment later. A short, rotund man in a nice suit appeared at the counter as soon as I did. “May I help you, sir?”
“Yes. I need to see a safe deposit box.”
“What number, sir?”
“I don’t know. It’s under the name Gar Sawyer. It’s a password account.”
His brow furrowed. “We don’t have many of those anymore. One moment.” He tapped on the computer briefly. “And you are?”
“His son. He passed away recently.”
“I’m sorry for your loss, sir,” the clerk said in practiced tones. He tapped a few more keys, then gave me a disapproving look. “Sir, I’m afraid this box is already being viewed by Mr. Sawyer’s son.”
“That’s my brother. We’re co-executors and according to the will, we’re both supposed to view it together.” The lie slipped past my lips easily. “Can you take me to him?”
The clerk pursed his lips. “This is highly irregular,” he murmured. Then he sighed. “What is the password, sir?”
“Legacy,” I said without hesitation.
He nodded. “All right. If you’ll follow me.”
I tried to keep up with him, but his officious nature extended to his walking speed, too. I lagged behind as we went down a short hallway into a foyer. He paused, waiting for me, feigning patience. I could see the questions in his eyes, but good banker that he was, he minded his own business.
“Room 12,” he said, pointing at a door across the foyer.
“Thank you,” I said, and started that way. Then I stopped. “Will it be locked?” I asked him.
“The doors lock automatically,” he said, as if explaining colors to a child. “To afford privacy.”
“I’ll need you to open the door for me,” I said.
“I can’t do that.”
“You don’t have a key?”
“Of course I have a key. It’s a matter of-”
“If you have a key, then open the door and let me in to see my father’s safe deposit box,” I said, “in accordance with the will.”
“Sir-”
“Unless you want to be named personally in the lawsuit along with the bank,” I told him, “for a clear violation of inheritance law.”
He paused and I knew right then that he didn’t know shit about how the law worked in this respect. Neither did I, but that didn’t stop me. “Knowing actions on anyone’s part merit double damages,” I added.
He frowned. Then, without a word, he walked toward room twelve. I hurried after him, wishing I had a gun with me. I was stupid not to bring it, but when I first got up, my mind was more on the missing Ania than meeting Jerzy. By the time I thought of it, I was almost to the Picco’s.
Fuck it. I’ll find a way.
The clerk unlocked the door and pulled it open. I brushed him aside and stepped through the doorway, letting the solid metal click into place behind me.
Jerzy sat at a table no bigger than the small one that was in our kitchen as kids. He didn’t look up at me right away. The open safe deposit box sat in front of him.
It was empty.
Jerzy stared down at a single sheet of paper. For maybe the first time ever, he bore a lost expression on his face. Whatever he was looking at had surprised him more than my uppercut in the diner.
I took two steps forward and slid out the chair across from him. Gingerly, I lowered myself into the seat. Then I waited.
There was almost no sound in that tiny room. Just the even, heavy breaths Jerzy took and that pounding in my own head. We sat there for some time, him bewildered, me waiting to find out why.
Finally, he looked up and met my eye. There was little of the rancor from our fight just twenty minutes before left in them. He gave his head a short shake. “That son of a bitch.”
“What is it?”
He didn’t answer. Instead, he slid the sheet of paper across to me. In Gar’s spidery script, I read the short note.
Boys,
I don’t know what you’re looking for here, but why don’t you go earn it yourself? That’s my legacy and my gift to you. Make your own goddamn way.
Now go fuck yourself.
Gar
I lowered the note. “And this was it?”
Jerzy nodded.
“How do I know you didn’t pocket the earrings already?” I asked, but I knew he hadn’t. That perplexed look on his face had been too genuine.
Jerzy shrugged. “You wanna fucking frisk me, Hero?”
I shook my head. “No.”
“Good. Because that,” he pointed to the note, “was the only thing in this box.”
“He fucked us.”
“Yep. He fucked us.”
We sat in silence for a while longer. My mind was racing. Why would he go to all this trouble if it weren’t true? And we’d validated pieces of his story with independent sources. Jimmy and Speedo were liars but they weren’t lying at the end. The earrings were still out there. They just weren’t in this safe deposit box.
“It was a giant fuck you from beyond the grave,” Jerzy said. “Like Houdini or some shit. Ghost of Christmas Past maybe.”
“Sick,” I muttered, but I couldn’t let go of the thought of those diamonds. Gar stole them. He hid them.
Where?
“Had us running around like the Hardy Boys and Cain and Abel,” Jerzy said, “depending on the situation. Probably having himself a giant laugh this whole time, watching us spin our wheels.”
“I’m sure,” I said, trying to think. My head throbbed and my ribs ached, but I pushed through the fog. He could have hidden the earrings anywhere. But where? All this time, I’d assumed the earrings were in the safe deposit box, so I never considered the question.
“Looking up at us, drinking at some dive bar down some side street in hell,” Jerzy said. “Fucking Gar.”
It had to be somewhere that he knew wouldn’t change much in a decade or more. Someplace semi-permanent. With all the gentrification going on, lots of places were being completely remodeled or even bulldozed. He had to find a place that would still be there when he got out.
“What’s up with you?” Jerzy asked, suddenly staring at me with a keen gaze.
I shook my head. “Nothing. You knocked me out back there. And then this.” I rattled the paper.
He seemed to accept that. Then he asked, “You figure the whole thing was bullshit? All of it?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know. And to be honest with you, I don’t give a shit anymore.”
“No?” He cocked his head at me. “Lose your appetite, Hero?”
“Fuck off,” I said wearily. I dropped the note onto the table. “You can have that. You probably need it more than I do, anyway.”
Jerzy chuckled but it was a hollow sound. “Fucking
Mick. Always so high and mighty. Always thinking you’re so much better than everyone else. You and your bitch of a mother.”
I tensed when he said that and almost launched toward him. Then reason took over and I brushed it off. “Have a little respect for the departed,” I said to him.
“Don’t tell me who to respect.”
“Then don’t,” I said. “But it’s not my fault he loved her more than your ma.”
“I guess the Virgin Margaret Sawyer was just a better lay, huh?”
I ignored his baiting. Because the fog was completely cleared now and my mind was working again. “Either way,” I said, “best as I figure it, we’re done. And if I never see you again, Jerzy? Won’t break my heart. Not one bit.”
Jerzy watched me. “Let me tell you something, Hero. I see you again, you won’t have to worry about a broken heart. Because I’ll fucking tear it out of your chest and eat it in front of you.”
I stared back at him. There weren’t any words to say. Either we were going to have it out again or we were going to walk away for good.
“Enough of this shit,” Jerzy finally said. “All of this has been a big ass waste of my time. I got better things to do.”
“Then do them.”
“I will.” Jerzy stood, turned his back and strode away without looking back.
I watched him go, disinterested. My thoughts were on the diamonds. I pushed my contempt for Jerzy, the burning hatred I had for Gar and the pain in my face and ribs to the edges of my mind and focused.
Gar was no fool. He had a wily street sense to him and a desperate edge in everything he did. He would have hidden the diamonds someplace smart. Like this safe deposit box. So did he have another one somewhere?
I didn’t think so. Gar didn’t trust anyone, especially institutions. And he knew the cops would do a bank search and get warrants for any boxes he had. It wasn’t like banking in Switzerland or the islands. They’d find it.
Unless he used a false name.
I thought about that idea, but eventually dropped it. Gar was smart enough to use a fake name but it went against his nature. Everything he did was loud, designed to show the world how cagey he was, how tough. Even his crimes were visible to the neighborhood. He found a way to make it known to the people while keeping the police and their probable cause at bay. Another one of his talents.
