Slow Burn

by Terrence McCauley

  I switched direction and ran towards where I’d last seen Grimes fire: near the waiting room at the Forty-Second Street entrance. I ran faster than I thought I could. I was still running when I rounded the corner and saw Grimes crouched next to a bench in the main waiting room, struggling to slap a new drum into his Thompson. People around him crouched in terror behind their benches.

  Grimes was less than ten feet in front of me when he slid back the bolt on the machine gun. I shot him three times in the chest as I ran toward him. Dead center.

  He dropped the Thompson as he fell back onto one of the benches and laid like that, just for a moment, before he slid down onto the marble floor. Grimes was still alive when I reached him. Hauser came up right behind me.

  The bastard’s eyes fluttered and his hands twitched like he wanted to reach for something in his belt, but didn’t have the strength to do it. He was coughing blood. He struggled to raise his head enough to see Hauser and me standing over him. He gave us a flat, bloody smile, then spat blood up at us. He managed to spray Soames’ nice white shirt.

  I knew I had one bullet left.

  I aimed down at Grimes I saw the men I’d beaten in the riot. I saw Mrs. Van Dorn crying in her husband’s arms. I saw the three dead railroad cops Grimes had just cut in half. I saw Jessica Van Dorn lying naked on the floor. Cut throat. And that goddamned halo around her head. I saw Grimes, the man responsible for all of this, squirming at my feet. Smiling.

  And I did not let that bullet go to waste.

  BLUE SKIES

  I’D LIKE to tell you that all of this had a happy ending.

  I’d like to tell you that I saw Jack swept up into his parents’ arms, that Mr. Van Dorn damned near pulled my arm out of its socket while he pumped my hand, thanking me for bringing his son home alive. I’d like to tell you the press made me out to be a hero, and how Carmichael cringed when he had to pin a medal on my chest before all those people at headquarters. I’d like to tell you that all the attention made Theresa come back to me — and bring my girls with her — and that we all lived happily ever after. But I can’t tell you that.

  I’m a lot of things, but a liar isn’t one of them. I wasn’t expecting a parade down Broadway for saving Jack Van Dorn’s life, but I didn’t expect to be crucified for it, either. And that’s exactly what happened, courtesy of Andrew Joseph Carmichael, Commissioner of the New York City Police Department.

  Sure, people were glad Jack Van Dorn had been brought back safe and sound. But a rich man’s return to his family isn’t as compelling as the headlines a massacre can bring. After all, three railroad policemen had been gunned down in the prime of life. The gunmen who’d killed them were dead. But I was alive. And don’t forget about that riot on Fifth Avenue that had happened only a few hours before. Scores of innocent civilians had been hurt in the melee outside the Van Dorn mansion. Great word, isn’t it? Melee.

  Carmichael saw I took the blame for that, too. He said these incidents were the direct result of a police force rife with corrupt and incompetent men. And it was one of those corrupt and crooked men who’d allowed these desperate cowards to wreak havoc in our fair city. To slaughter brave men and terrorize the populace at large. And that man was none other than yours truly: Detective Charles E. Doherty, New York Police Department. A man who’d been under investigation for years for accepting bribes and looking the other way for the right price. A man who laughed in the face of all the reforms that Governor — soon-to-be President — Roosevelt had tried to implement in this city. And now, the time was at hand to implement those changes.

  My thanks for saving Jack Van Dorn? Indefinite suspension, pending dismissal from the force. And no criminal charges if I didn’t gripe about losing my pension. At least I’d have my freedom. I’d be broke, of course, but I’d be free. So there I sat one night at the bar at The Tangiers. No gun. No glory. No pension. No family, either. Theresa had served me with divorce papers the day after news of my suspension broke.

  The official story slapped the goat horns on me and said I was just an incompetent crook who’d bungled the case and got a lot of people hurt and killed. Jesus, I didn’t even think they had newspapers all the way up in Poughkeepsie.

  But it wasn’t all bad. Bixby used his column to tell my side of it, which helped a little. Not because he believed in me, but because he thought he’d get more ink by taking a different position on the case than the rest of the reporters in town. Still, he was the only one to remind people that I’d saved Jack’s life and the only people I’d killed were the three gunmen who’d taken Jack and killed Jessica in the first place.

  The Van Dorns even granted Bixby an exclusive on the kidnapping ordeal. They praised me for bringing their son home alive and their daughter’s killer to justice. That helped make everything a bit easier to take. Not much, but a little.

  The biggest surprise came from my brothers in blue, who didn’t buy the department line about my guilt. They actually saw me as a hero, thanks to O’Hara and Hauser speaking out on my behalf. Loomis did what he could, which wasn’t much.

  Nobody liked talking to Loomis, even now. Nick the Greek, the owner of The Tangiers, learned long ago that all press was good press so long as they spelled your name right. He put aside our past for the sake of his business and paid me a few bucks to hang out in his place a few nights a week. It turns out that lots of people wanted to have a drink with the cop who broke the Grimes Gang. (I told you the newspaper boys liked alliteration, didn’t I?) I drank for free most nights — cold comfort for a guy who’d been aiming at self-respect, but it beat paying for my own booze.

  Hanging out at the Tangiers also meant I got to see Alice on a more regular basis in the bargain. She’d been a big help to me since everything went south. Most people turned their backs on me when the negative press first kicked in, only to want to shake my hand when Bixby’s series of positive articles on me began to run. But not Alice. She’d been there for me from the beginning. She knew what it was like to live through the thin. And she was just as happy to be there now that things were beginning to brighten a bit.

  I was sitting at the bar of the Tangiers on a cool, late September evening, nursing a highball, while some guy from Cleveland bought me a fresh drink and told me how brave he thought I was. I let him ramble on. Who was I to argue? My ego needed a little soothing anyway. Besides, I was just another one of the two-bit acts who’d landed at The Tangiers. And the customer was always right.

  I didn’t recognize Mr. Van Dorn until he was standing right next to me. It was the first time I’d seen him since all of this had happened. He was just as tall as I’d remembered. Maybe even a little taller, now that the weight of a missing son had been lifted from his shoulders. But the loss of his daughter and his father had aged him more than a little. He was grayer, and a little grimmer, than I’d remembered.

  I forgot all about the clown from Cleveland and slid off my stool to shake Mr. Van Dorn’s hand.

  “Good evening, Detective,” Mr. Van Dorn said. His grip was as firm as I’d remembered. “I was hoping I might find you here.”

  “I didn’t know that. We could’ve met somewhere better than here. A man like you doesn’t’ need to come to a place like this.”

  Mr. Van Dorn smiled; the first time I’d ever seen him do that. It was a good smile. Warm and real, unlike anything else in the Tangiers. “My son isn’t the first Van Dorn to frequent places like this. I sowed a few wild oats in my day, too, you know.”

  I found myself smiling back. “I’ll just bet you did.”

  Mr. Van Dorn nodded toward the guy from Cleveland who’d been bending my ear. “I don’t mean to take you away from your friend here, but I was hoping to have the chance to buy you a drink, maybe talk for a bit in private.”

  I ditched the Clevelander and steered Mr. Van Dorn over to a quiet table in the far corner of the place. It had a great view of the stage where Alice was about to perform. One of the waitresses dressed in veils came over and took our drink orders. Va
n Dorn ordered for us. “Two Scotches, not much ice.”

  He asked me: “I take it the Scotch is decent here?”

  I shrugged. “Not as good as the stuff you’ve got, but it won’t make you go blind.”

  “Something to look forward, too.” Now that the small talk was winding down, Mr. Van Dorn got down to business.

  “I’ve called you several times since everything happened, but you’ve never returned my calls.”

  “I probably didn’t get most of them, especially if you called the precinct. I’m not too popular there these days. And my landlady’s not apt to giving me my messages, seeing as how I’m a couple of months late with the rent.”

  “You were late, but not anymore. I stopped by your place looking for you just now but spoke with your landlady instead. She mentioned your difficulty, so I took the liberty of paying your rent through the rest of the year.”

  “Sir, I wasn’t expecting…”

  But Mr. Van Dorn held up a hand. “It’s the least I could do for the man who returned my son to me. And avenged my daughter’s death.”

  The waitress brought over our drinks before I could say anything more. Mr. Van Dorn lifted his glass and said, “To you, Detective. For all you’ve done.”

  But I wouldn’t drink to that. “To Jessica,” I said. “On her one-month anniversary in heaven.”

  I watched his breath catch and his glass lower a bit. “You remembered.”

  “I’ll never forget.” We clinked our glasses and I watched Van Dorn sip his. “Not as bad as I was expecting,” he said. “I was expecting far worse.”

  “Like I said, it won’t make you go blind.”

  “And, considering everything we’ve been through together, no more of this Mr. Van Dorn nonsense. Call me Harry.”

  “Okay, Harry. As long as you call me Charlie. The detective title won’t be good for much longer.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t be too sure of that.”

  “You don’t know Chief Carmichael, sir. He’s not the kind of guy who makes empty threats, and he’s sure threatened the hell out of me.”

  “Harry,” he said.

  “Harry,” I repeated, though the name didn’t come easy.

  “I trust you’ve read how my family and I have been very supportive of you despite everything Chief Carmichael done to tarnish your reputation.”

  “I have, and I appreciate it. But…”

  “I’ll also have you know that you’ve managed to impress quite a number of people in this town. Important people who need help from time to time. The kind of discreet help a man with your particular set of skills could easily provide.”

  I was going to ask him what he meant by that, but for once in my life, I kept my mouth shut up and let him keep talking. I took a drink. “That so?”

  “It is, indeed,” he said. “This country has gone through a great many changes in the past few years, Charlie, and it’s in for a great many more in the years to come. As you may or many not be aware, my family has been close with the Roosevelts for quite some time.”

  That was an interesting bit of news I hadn’t known.

  “I have been particularly close with Franklin since childhood,” Mr. Van Dorn went on. “I was a great help to him getting to the governor’s mansion in Albany, and I imagine I’ll be of further help to him once he wins the presidency.”

  “If he wins,” I said.

  He smiled as though it was the cutest thing he’d ever heard. “Of course. If he wins. But assuming he does, I’ll be in a position of great influence in his administration. It would be a comfort for me to know that I had a man like you at my side.”

  The weight of everything he’d been telling me hit me all at once. I’d led him around by the nose once already and that was once too often to suit me. “Harry, the knock against me isn’t all wrong. I’m damned near every bit as crooked as they said I was. Sure, everyone else was doing it, but that’s no excuse.”

  “Yet you were enough of a detective to find my daughter’s killer and bring my son back to me alive.” Harry said. His face changed a little. “Speaking of which, I understand you already know I’m going to be a grandfather.”

  My face reddened a bit. “I meant to tell you that, sir, but the time didn’t present itself. But I’m glad Jack was able to tell you himself.”

  “Thanks to you, he was. I swore to you that I’d reward you if you brought my boy back to me and his mother. Well, Charlie, I’m glad to tell you your reward is here.”

  “Sir, that’s not really necessary.”

  “Of course it is. I’ve taken the liberty of making some calls on your behalf. I’ve arranged for you to be allowed to retire early from the department. Your military service will be counted toward your pension. You’ll be quietly promoted to Detective Lieutenant under the condition that you retire immediately upon your promotion. That way, you’ll be allowed to retire at that advanced pay grade. After that, you’ll come to work for me.”

  “Work for you?” I wanted to laugh. Not because I thought any of this was funny, but because I didn’t know what else to do. “Doing what?”

  “Whatever I, and my friends, need doing,” he said. “At least for a little while, until we can find something more suitable for you. Don’t worry, Charlie. I’ll see to it that you’re kept very busy.”

  An offer like that is a hell of a lot to take in all at once. All of those expectations. All of that responsibility. He seemed to read my mind, and put his hand on my arm. “You were a friend to me when I needed one, Charlie. Please let me be a friend to you now.”

  I was still trying to catch up with everything he’d just told me when the house lights dimmed and the piano player started on the ivories. He wasn’t very good, but the piano wasn’t much in tune, either. Alice appeared through the curtain and the stragglers in the audience clapped. She started in on a rendition of “Stardust.” She winked at me while she did it, and I damned near passed out.

  Hell of a girl, that Alice. She deserved a break like this. So did I. I picked up my glass and toasted my new best friend.

  “Harry, you’ve got yourself a deal.” He smiled and clinked my glass. Alice warbled on a high note in the chorus, not that it mattered. Her voice was good enough for this place. It was good enough for me. The Scotch warmed my throat and, maybe — just maybe — all was right with the world.

  Yep, things were finally looking up indeed.

  Read on for an excerpt from

  Available now from Polis Books

  New York City – Present Day

  THE MAN who called himself James Hicks checked his watch when he reached the corner of Forty-second and Lexington. It was just past eleven in the morning; more than an hour before he was scheduled to ruin a man’s life.

  And plenty of time to smoke a cigar.

  He braced against a sharp wind as he crossed Forty-second Street. A cold humidity had settled in over Manhattan and the weather reports had done a great job of whipping everyone into a frenzy over the coming storm. TV stations and websites hawked it as ‘The Big One’ and ‘Snowmageddon’ and the ever popular ‘Snowpacalypse.’ The experts were predicting over two feet of snow with high winds and freezing temperatures for the next few days. It was too early to call it the Storm of the Century, of course, but that didn’t keep the media from building it up that way.

  Based on the data Hicks had been able to draw from the University’s OMNI satellite array, he predicted the snow would be about a foot; with wind and ice being more problematic than the snow itself. He could remember a time not too long ago when New York would barely notice eight inches of snow, but panic was en vogue these days. Welcome to the post-9/11 world where preparation was paramount.

  He understood why meteorologists exaggerated snowfall predictions. They were covering their asses against being wrong. If it was a little more, then they were close enough to claim accuracy. If the snowfall was a little less, at least it wasn’t as bad as everyone had feared. Accountability took a backseat to relief and everyo
ne went on with their lives. Either way, the weather folks had covered their respective asses.

  Hicks hadn’t worried about covering his ass in a long time. He didn’t need to. Because in his line of work, small mistakes were forgotten and big mistakes got you killed. Such harsh, immutable constants brought a certain resignation to Hicks’ life that he found almost peaceful. Danger can be a comfort as long as you know it’s there.

  Hicks headed for the concrete ashtrays placed in the alcove of the Altria Building across from Grand Central Terminal. There were a few cigar stores in the area where he could smoke indoors in warm comfort; maybe stir up some conversation with his fellow smokers on such a cold and blustery day.

  But Hicks didn’t want comfortable and he sure as hell didn’t want conversation. He was working and needed the cold air to keep him sharp, especially before rolling up on a new Asset in less than an hour.

  He stood out of the wind in the alcove of the Altria building and lit his cigar. It wasn’t a cheap cigar, but far from the most expensive stick on the market. There was a time for savoring good tobacco and now wasn’t it. Today, the cigar was merely a tool to help him stay focused and calm while killing time before his appointment. Because although Hicks had flipped hundreds of people from being regular civilians into Assets for the University, he still believed that changing a man’s life forever deserved some pause.

  Most of Hicks’ colleagues didn’t give much thought about the Assets they forced into the University system. They focused their efforts on researching the right prospect to turn; digging deep into the person’s past for that one knife they could hold to their throat to make them comply. Past offenses and indiscretions they didn’t want to see come to light. Current mistakes that could get them fired or ruin their marriage. Hicks’ colleagues ran checks and analyses on a potential Asset’s personality profile to make sure he or she could stand up to the passive pressures of the University’s constant influence in their lives. If they passed all the OMNI simulations, then an Asset was approached, broken, and put to work. If an Asset cracked and killed himself or had to be eliminated, then OMNI was simply directed to change parameters to account for the shortcomings in the analysis model. It was all as simple—and inhumane—as that.