Blood of Paradise

by David Corbett

  And accomplish what?

  “Seen him? No. The embassy hands out fugitive lists from time to time, I caught a peek once and saw his name.”

  “No fooling.”

  “It doesn’t mean anything, except they’re looking.”

  Strock sat there, puzzling him out. It took a while, then: “You’re not the poker player your old man was.”

  Jude turned to face him square. Their eyes met. “You heading somewhere with this?”

  “Wherever it goes.”

  “It’s not going anywhere.”

  Strock grinned, like he wanted a fight. “Asshole gettin’ a little twitchy there, Jude?”

  “You’re sounding like a drunk now.”

  “Malvasio put you up to this.”

  Jude glanced out into the terminal, the dull-eyed crowds chugging back and forth down the endless white corridor. “You’re scaring me with this, know that?”

  “Just tell me the truth.”

  “If you’re gonna go off half-cocked, make stuff up, I’m not handing you over to the people I know. It’s my reputation on the line. I vouched for you. And given what happened with you, my dad, and yeah, Malvasio, that took some doing.”

  It was a decent line of bullshit but Jude feared his voice had given him away. Strock sat there, a gnomish gleam in his eye.

  “Remind me again, these people are who?”

  “I can’t believe this.”

  “There something more pressing you want to talk about?”

  “I’ve told you already. A guy I know runs security for people who own a coffee plantation in the highlands. They’re gearing up to build worker quarters and he’s gonna need a man who knows how to use a rifle to protect the construction site.”

  “They couldn’t find themselves somebody with the same skills down there?”

  “Of course they could. We’ve been over this—my buddy asked me, I thought of you, remembered what my old man used to say about you. I thought maybe you could use the work. You don’t want it, fine. But give me your ticket if you’re not coming. I’ll redeem it down there.” Jude held out his hand. Not the poker player my dad was, he thought. We’ll see.

  Strock barely seemed to breathe. “You swear on your old man’s grave Malvasio hasn’t got a thing to do with this.”

  “My old man’s grave is a shoe box with a plastic bag of ashes in it, stuffed somewhere in my mom’s house, and I doubt even she could tell you exactly where it is. But yeah, I’m telling you the truth.”

  Strock studied him a little longer, then twitched from fatigue. A massive yawn convulsed his whole body. “Sorry, I just …” He shook his head to clear it. “Know what we used to call him? Bill, I mean.” He gave Jude a second to guess. Then: “Streetlight. ’Cuz he wasn’t gonna move till he saw green.”

  Jude wasn’t sure what to make of that, but he welcomed the conversation’s new tack. “And you and my dad were motivated by what—honor?”

  “Ouch.” Strock twiddled his cane with a sad, chesty laugh. “Fair enough. I’m an adult, I did what I did. Your old man, too. We knew what we were getting into. But listen—you bust the same mutts week in, week out, see them make bail in a heartbeat, worst of the bunch get right back out there, all cash and flash. Laughing at you. You can’t do the job when the punks are mocking you.”

  “So you decided to make bank instead.”

  “Oh, yeah. Shoulda called ourselves the Scratch Masters.”

  “I’d call twenty grand an okay sum. And that was just my dad.”

  “You’re joking, right? On the street, twenty, that’s laugh-out-loud money.”

  “I didn’t hear the FBI call it that when they found it hidden near my bed.”

  “Okay, yeah. We taxed them, sure. Same way the rat packers taxed their goddamn neighborhoods. Don’t talk to me about money, junior. You weren’t out there like we were. You put your life on the line, day in, day out, you deserve some respect at least. But cops? Politicians wipe their asses with us, judges think we’re morons, lawyers think we’re trolls. And the community? Get this—there is no ‘community.’ Just a pack of scamming loudmouths, make out like we’re the problem. We’re the crooks. That’s the system. Well, we decided fuck the system. Fuck it all.”

  Jude let a moment pass, then said, “I watched my old man come home after his arrest like a bomb had gone off inside his head. Maybe not everybody had such a clear conscience.”

  “And what, you want me to feel sorry for you?”

  “I’m not saying that.”

  “Pop Gun wasn’t the daddy you thought he was. Pisser, ain’t it?”

  A woman’s voice on the PA announced pre-boarding for their flight. Jude asked the bartender for the tab then settled up, using Malvasio’s cash. He counted out two hundred dollars more from what was left and set it out on the bar in front of Strock.

  “Know what? I’ve made a mistake. Here’s your cab fare back to Gary or wherever. We’ll go our separate ways.”

  Strock looked at the money like it was a trick. “Thought you wanted to do your old man proud.”

  “I wanted to help you out.”

  “I don’t need your charity.”

  “Fine.” Jude took the money back and stuffed it into his pocket. “I’ll take that to mean you’ll find your own way home.” He picked up his carry-on and started to walk away.

  Strock leapt after him, grabbing his sleeve. “Okay. Look, I’m sorry. I’m gonna need that cab fare.”

  Jude laughed. “Listen to you. Here’s an idea, give Dixie a ring. You know, the old bottle job across the hall? Have her come save you. Won’t be the first time—will it?”

  Strock sat there like an invisible hand had reached up and grabbed his throat. “You mouthy little prick.”

  “I’ve got a plane to catch.”

  Jude turned to walk away again. This time he didn’t feel Strock’s hand on his arm. Instead, the wood cane whipped down hard on his shoulder. The pain lanced through his back, but he ignored it as, on instinct, he spun around and gripped the cane’s wood shaft. He found Strock staring at him with vacant eyes—giving up the cane, swaying on his feet, then clutching the bar as he murmured something Jude couldn’t make out. In the background, the bartender froze, everybody in the bar stared. From down the bustling white corridor, two security guards strode toward them.

  Jude locked his arm around Strock’s shoulder in a rough but chummy embrace and steered him back to his stool, pressing the cane into his hand. “I understand,” he whispered. “I do. I understand. Let me handle this.”

  Within seconds three more guards joined the first two, all of them chunky or small. The battery part was easy—Jude told them it was his complaint to make and he didn’t intend to make one. Just a misunderstanding. But he had to tap into a long neglected reservoir of wild Irish bullshit to get them to back off public drunkenness, and not just on Strock’s account. The adrenaline racing through his bloodstream helped concoct a veneer of sobriety but his tongue refused to play along, here and there slurring a crucial word. And the guards weren’t the most experienced bunch; they seemed terrified of thinking for themselves.

  Jude showed his passport and work ID, spoke to them as one of the tribe, saying he understood their concerns. He promised to personally guarantee that none of them suffered for taking a little initiative, demonstrating some judgment and letting him and Strock catch their flight. On the other hand, if they were delayed, forced to miss their plane, there would be damages in the thousands of dollars, his employer would be obliged to recoup the loss. That meant lawyers, paperwork. Scrutiny.

  From time to time he glanced sidelong at Strock, to see how he was holding up. Not well, and everybody could see it. Then the gate crew announced final boarding on the PA. Jude took Strock’s arm, told the security team, “Appreciate your hearing me out,” and dragged Strock with him toward the gate, whispering, “For the love of God, don’t say a word.”

  They made it to the gate just in time. As they were lurching down the jetwa
y, Strock suddenly stopped, grabbed Jude’s arm, and spun him around. He had that same lost keen in his eyes. Then everything seemed to melt.

  “I’m sorry,” he murmured.

  “Me too. I was out of line.”

  “That’s not it.” Strock licked his lips and glanced toward the waiting plane. “I mean, hey, you’re right. Seriously, what kind of life have I made here that anybody but a crazy wouldn’t walk away from in a heartbeat? It’s just …” His voice grew thready.

  “Look,” Jude said, “give it a try. Two weeks. It doesn’t work out, I’ll pay your airfare back. How’s that sound?”

  15

  They were airborne over the Great Plains, heading west toward Los Angeles. Strock sat at the window, Jude on the aisle, the seat between them empty except for manhandled magazines.

  Strock ordered two Michelobs when the service cart came around, downed one almost instantly, then nursed the second. Not wanting to seem a killjoy, Jude ordered one as well but just held it in his lap as he mulled things over. He felt lucky to have dodged a bullet back at O’Hare, and gave himself credit for some fast thinking. There was something empowering about getting away with a lie. And that’s how things always started, right? A little deceit, crowned with a little success. Next thing you know: You’re a Laugh Master.

  Strock saw Jude wasn’t watching the in-flight movie and leaned across the middle seat. Checking that no one was eavesdropping, headsets on all around, he said, “So, you want to hear the story?”

  Jude met his eyes. “What story?”

  “About how your old man saved my life.”

  Jude found it interesting the way both Strock and Malvasio felt a need to share redeeming stories about his dad. He shrugged. “Long flight.”

  “Exactly.” Strock smiled. His eyes seemed clear again. “I mean, if you’d rather—”

  “No. Tell me.”

  Strock undid his seatbelt, cleared away the dog-eared magazines, put his cane to one side, and hefted himself into the middle seat. The tight space cramped his bad knee but he’d yet to complain. By the same token, Jude’s shoulder ached from where Strock had thwacked it; a knot the size of a plum congealed in the muscle.

  Strock made another reconnoiter of the nearest seats. His breath had a warm, malty tang from the beer as he said quietly, “You remember a guy named Hank Winters, cop who got greased the night before your dad and me were arrested?”

  Jude thought about Malvasio’s confession and warned himself not to give anything away. “I remember the story. Don’t think I ever met the guy.”

  “I doubt you did. Wasn’t the social butterfly and thank God for that. Winters was filth.”

  “That seems to be the consensus. I mean, from what I heard on the news after the arrests.”

  “Don’t get me started on the fucking news. Didn’t tell half. Or even half of half.”

  “Okay.”

  “And the half of a half they did tell they didn’t get right.”

  Strock went on to recount the same story Malvasio had told, the start of it anyway, about Winters with his crackhead snitch, the warrant that went bad, the murder of the much-liked young cop. “Winters and Bill were two of a kind, which meant they hated each other’s guts. After Winters skates through IAD, he hunts up Bill, lets it drop that one of his contacts on the street—‘a witness,’ he says, the dick—knows what Bill and me and your dad have been up to. There were rumors of heat by then, we were all a little on edge. Winters says for a price he can suggest this witness take a vacation. For a little more, he hands us a name, we can do what we please.”

  Jude felt like stopping him, confirming that this witness was the working girl who’d had a two-year thing with his dad. But then he’d have to explain how he knew, and that could get tricky. Then it registered: do what we please.

  “Bill figures Winters is wired, saying this. So he plays dumb. Tells Winters he hasn’t got a clue what he’s talking about. This so-called witness can’t know squat because nothing’s been going on, yack yack. But Bill knows, Winters knows, the whole fucking world knows that some woe-is-me loser crying crooked cop finds the right prosecutor? No way she won’t get a hearing. On top of that—”

  “How do you know it was a she?”

  Strock blinked, straddling words. “What do you mean?”

  “This witness who had the drop on you guys. You said ‘she.’ How do you know that?”

  From somewhere behind them, a baby started crying. Strock turned at the sound, then said, “What’s your point exactly?”

  “No point. I just—”

  “Tell you what—let me run through the story, then you can ask anything you want on the back end. That work for you?”

  It seemed wise not to press. “Sorry.”

  “Not a problem. Okay. Bill reminds Winters that your dad has a family. He can’t afford the legal bills that’d mount up, defending himself against the kind of things this ‘witness’ might ‘allege.’ Any event, Bill says, again just to protect your dad, he will personally pay off this sack of crap, through Winters.”

  Jude stepped in again. “Wait. Back up. I’m confused.” He was having trouble making the two stories fit.

  “It’s like Shakedown 101. Winters says—”

  “That’s not the part I’m confused about.”

  “Bill—and I gotta give him credit for this—Bill played it smart. He denies everything but then offers to pay off Winters anyway.”

  “There—why would he do that?”

  “Think about it. Winters has gone head-to-head with IAD and walked out clean as a cat’s ass. Bill figures everything he tells Winters is getting said into a wire. So he denies it all.”

  “Yeah. Yeah. I get that part. But why offer to pay, then?”

  “Where’s that put Winters? He accepts, makes it look like he’s extorting an innocent cop—who’s trying to protect not just a buddy but his family. That’ll be on tape. Jury won’t like that.”

  “I’m sorry to sound dense—”

  “If Winters was working for IAD, he’d refuse the money, say this supposed witness will just testify to what she knows and the chips’ll fall wherever. Let Bill make the move after that. Otherwise it looks like entrapment. But none of that happened. Winters just wanted the cash.”

  Finally, it occurred to Jude what was bothering him. “When was this?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Time-wise. This all happened the night before the arrests?”

  It was Strock’s turn to be baffled. “Who said that? No. This is, like, two months before.”

  It shouldn’t have hit as hard as it did, but Jude realized only then that Malvasio hadn’t just shaded things differently or left out a detail or two. He’d lied.

  “So Bill sets up a meet with Winters, picks this alley between some run-down warehouses near the hooker strip over around Rockwell Gardens. I climb up the fire escape to a roof nearby, see if Winters gets shadowed by a tac unit or a surveillance van. Turns out he comes alone, which was what we figured would happen.”

  “My dad wasn’t there?”

  Strock groaned, the interruptions. “We decided to leave your dad out.”

  “How come?”

  “Reasons. All right? Let me finish. Winters gets out of his car, walks up, and Bill says he’s only been able to come up with a third of what Winters wants. He needs another week to pony up the rest. Winters bitches but takes the cash. Boom, that’s it. He’s dirty. There was no wire. This was extortion, straight up, no frills.”

  The stewardess—thirty-ish, plump but pretty—came by, collecting empties. Strock downed the last of his second beer, passed her his two dead soldiers, and asked for another Michelob. Jude stood pat.

  “Winters wants the rest of his money the following week. We meet the same place. I come along again but this time Bill brings a throwaway—this AK-47 bought from some gun monkey in the Robert Taylor projects. It’s a crap weapon but untraceable so you make do. Besides, I’m a pretty good shot. Malvasio tells
me to take up position at a window facing the street on the top floor of one of the warehouses along the street. When Winters gets out of his car …” Strock let the last word linger.

  “Were you drinking as bad back then?” It came out cold and Jude regretted that but the thought had been hovering there for a while.

  Strock looked stung, then outraged. The anger simmered a bit. “Yeah. Chipping the blow pretty hard, too. Touché. I was out of control. Which meant I didn’t have a problem with one thing Bill suggested. Rob bangers? Lead the way. Take Hank Winters out of the box? Sounds like a good deed. And you’d be hard-pressed to find a cop in Chicago who wouldn’t second that.”

  “Listen—”

  “He let another cop walk into an ambush. Plus, on the personal front, he was squeezing us. Your dad as much as me and Bill. More, you want the truth.”

  “Yeah, I do. The truth would be a nice change of pace.”

  Strock made a face like that was just the funniest thing. “You think I’m lying?”

  “I’m just saying—”

  “You realize the problem with the truth, right? It’s never really the truth. Specially in a thing like this.”

  “My point—”

  “Way I looked at it? It was like chemo. You poison somebody to cure their cancer. Well, Winters was the cancer. We were the poison.”

  Jude’s mind was whirling. “Wait. Go back a little. You said this was two months before the arrests.”

  “Right.”

  “But Winters wasn’t killed until—”

  “Exactly. Winters ended up dead and hooray for that, but I had nothing to do with it. I never made it into position that night. I got inside, started climbing to the top floor of the warehouse? The stairs—planks were rotted so bad they felt like cork. One gave way. I crashed clear through to the next stairway down. Damn near went through that flight too. Good thing I had the safety on or I might’ve blown my own head off. Not all the wood was rotted, though—too bad for me. This splinter, big fucking thing—right through my knee, tore the peroneal nerve. Felt like somebody slammed a screwdriver into the bone and left it there. I was choking on dust, tasted like rat poison, damn near blind from the pain, but I didn’t want to call out or anything, might freak Winters, get Bill shot. That’s what I was thinking. Thoughtful me.”