Poor Bastards and Rich Fucks

by John Bruni

  Roberto thought about it for maybe two seconds before he raised his own left hand. As soon as he saw the money in his account, he ran around to the driver’s door and got in. He hovered over the dash computer and said, “Where to? Specifically?”

  “Just wander around. I’ll know where we’re going when I see it.”

  Roberto cursed under his breath as he waited for the road track to engage and take them away from the burning Barnabas mansion. Soon, he manually piloted the limo as they headed closer to the sound of screams, gunfire and explosions.

  Chapter 8

  1

  When Steve opened his eyes, he saw a shingle hanging over his head. He blinked some fuzziness away from his eyes, and when he could see clearly, he recognized it as the sign for Lenny’s. He pulled himself up into a sitting position and saw an empty street. Only a couple of illegal cars remained with tickets under their windshield wipers.

  With a groan, he stood and peered into the window of Lenny’s. Closed. The Budweiser clock said it was four in the morning.

  “Damn.” He tried to remember how much time had passed since he’d been in here, drinking with his old buddy, Bob—and then he remembered everything. It all struck him as absurd, like the old kidney thief urban legend. A bunch of rich people getting together to kidnap those who were less fortunate, only to throw them into a game where the winner gets a billion dollars and the losers get paupers graves?

  Steve wouldn’t believe it if not for the tiny bump on the back of his neck.

  His head cleared immediately. The thought of actually playing the game never occurred to him. He only wanted to expose these rich sons of bitches—and in one case, just plain bitch—as the pieces of shit they really were.

  Details. He tried to access his social media so he could play back his LiveStream. Some of his apps weren’t working, but he could access his memory and watched it again. The other contestants came through clearly, but when it came to the rich spectators, their words were bleeped out, and their faces were clouded over. Shit. He remembered the old man in the wheelchair. How could he forget? He also remembered the woman, but only because of her sex. He tried remembering the others, but he came up with nothing.

  Wait! The homeless guy with the Red Death had called one of them by name, hadn’t he? Eddie, maybe? Ring-Piece Eddie! He’d also mentioned his real name, too. Edward something. Rivers? No. Close. Bridges! Edward Bridges!

  It wasn’t much, but he could start with this. He accessed his mobile account and as soon as he heard the dial tone in his ear, he called 911.

  A feminine voice came on the line: “This number is no longer in service. Please check your number and try your call again.”

  No fucking way. Unless . . . right. The rich fucks didn’t want him calling the police. Well, too bad. He thought he might still have some connections at the seventh precinct, where he used to work. Not everybody hated him, at least, he hoped not.

  He went over the information again in his head as he started walking.

  2

  About an hour later, as Steve walked up the steps to the seventh precinct, he felt like he’d moved back in time. He hadn’t been near this building since he’d been kicked off the force, and he never expected to be back. It suddenly occurred to him that his old friends would see him like this, a messy and desperate man. Though he couldn’t smell himself, he suspected he still reeked of booze. The idea disgusted him, but he knew he had to do this.

  As he pushed through the double doors, it felt like the old days, like he’d just arrived for another day on the Job. The cold air greeted him like a friend. They always kept the lobby heavily air conditioned, even in the winter. It made people waiting there uncomfortable, and uncomfortable people tended to make mistakes. Just another trick from your friendly neighborhood police officer.

  The same familiar scent wafted over his nostrils. He could never identify what it was, exactly. Paper and ink were a part of it, even though records had gone completely to digital two hundred years ago, and coffee reared its strong head, too, yet he could detect something else in there, and he just couldn’t put his finger on it.

  He walked up to the main desk, where a woman sat looking at something on an ancient computer. The station rarely got financial help from city hall, so it would probably be another twenty years before they got any equipment that would be considered good by today’s standards. Some things never changed.

  He didn’t recognize the woman, and he felt relieved by this. The woman who used to sit in the lobby had been an ex-lover. He’d been going out with Cindy for nearly a year, and they were talking about maybe one day getting married. Then came the day he got kicked off the force, and because she came from a cop family, and many relatives had badgered her about him, she dumped him.

  “Can I help you?” The woman didn’t look up from her work.

  “Is Travis Wyndorf in?” Steve asked.

  “Hold on.” She moved a few things around on her screen and scrolled down through something. “He should be in. Up in vice.”

  Vice? His old friend had moved up in the world. Last Steve had known him, Travis worked the streets, just like him. “I know the way. Thanks.”

  “Wait. I have to ring you up. What’s your name?” He gave it to her, and instead of using her own phone, like everyone else, she used the wall mounted antique. Which made sense. Why use your own plan when you can use the city’s? “Detective Wyndorf? Hi, this is Tammy. There’s a guy named Steve McNeil here to see you. Huh? Okay.” She hung up. “Go on up.”

  “Thanks.”

  A flight of stairs later, Steve took a deep breath to let out some of his tension. He knew how badly he looked, and he didn’t want Travis to see him like this, but again, he forced himself to forget about it and do what had to be done. He stepped into the vice office and saw a lot of empty desks. It made sense, this time of night. Most of the guys were probably out on calls. Only two detectives sat up here, a stranger and Travis Wyndorf. Upon seeing his old friend, Steve couldn’t help but be surprised. He remembered Travis as a skinny kid with a crewcut. Now he had a beer gut, and his hair had grown out to his shoulders, almost as greasy as his own.

  “Steve Mc-fucking-Neil. How the fuck are you? What the hell’re you doing here?”

  “I’m in a bit of trouble,” Steve said. “I—“

  “Damn right, you’re in trouble. If the captain caught you here, he’d pitch a fit. Luckily, he’s home for the night.”

  “I’m in more trouble than the captain can throw at me. I—“

  “What’re we talking here? Drugs? Or maybe your horse didn’t come in. That it? Or is it the cards?”

  Heat flushed Steve’s cheeks. What the hell? Travis should have known better. He’d only known Steve for years. “Shit, I’m not a fucking junkie, and you know it. And I don’t gamble either. I’ve got something big I have to tell you about. Would you just listen?”

  Travis flicked his eyes, and Steve knew his old friend had just checked the time. That fucker.

  “Fine. Have a seat and tell me your woes. Only make it quick. I got a bunch of shit I gotta’ do.”

  Steve looked over at the other detective and waited. Travis sighed. “Hey Dave. Take a break for a few minutes, would you?”

  Dave looked up from his computer, eyebrows raised.

  “Just a few minutes,” Travis said. “Get a coffee or something.”

  Dave shrugged and got up. As soon as he’d left, Steve sat down at the chair across from Travis’s desk and told his story. Travis listened to the part about Lenny’s and Bob Whiteman. Yet when Steve got to the part about the rich people and their game, in particular the old guy in the wheelchair, Travis held up his hands. “Whoa, Steve-o. Hold up right there.”

  “What? You know the guy”

  Travis licked his lips. “Maybe. Hold on a second.” He picked up the phone and punched in three numbers.

  “What are you doing?” Steve asked.

  Travis held up a finger. “Tammy? Are Dick and Mark
around? Send ‘em up, would you? Thanks.” He hung up the phone.

  “Who’re Dick and Mark?”

  “I’ll tell you when they get here. We got us a bit of a problem, though. You’re talking about a very rich, very powerful man.”

  “So you do know him,” Steve said. “Who is he?”

  “I can’t tell you that. You’re right about being in trouble, buddy, but I can’t help you. Orders, you know.”

  Something cold slipped down Steve’s spine and chilled his belly. He understood what this meant, but he just couldn’t believe it to be true. “What are you talking about? This old guy and his friends are—“

  “I know what they’re up to,” Travis said. “They do this every year, and every year, there’s someone who thinks they can come to us for help. I’m just sorry it had to be you.”

  Steve grimaced. He could understand these rich fucks getting to a lot of cops, but to a guy like Travis? He’d always been a good guy. Honest. He’d even believed in Steve when he’d told the truth about what had happened with the mayor’s son. How could he have turned into this dirty slob he now saw before him?

  Dick and Mark, two very large guys in uniform, came in, holding their nightsticks in their hands. Not threateningly, but they made sure everyone saw the weapons.

  “Sorry, man,” Travis said. “I’m under orders to ignore you. I like you and everything, but I like my kids better. These rich guys, they’re going to pay for them to go through college. My son wants to be a doctor, and my daughter wants to be a lawyer. That ain’t cheap, Steve-o. You understand.” He looked to Dick and Mark. “Throw this guy out, would you? Don’t be assholes about it, but make sure he doesn’t come back.”

  The gorillas grabbed Steve under each arm and pulled him up out of the chair. “Don’t do this, man. Don’t turn your back on me.”

  “Sorry, Steve-o.” Travis returned to his work.

  Dick and Mark dragged Steve to the door. “Didn’t all of those years on the street mean anything? You’re letting the bad guys win!”

  Travis shook his head, and then Steve saw the closing door. He shook his arms. “Let me go. I’ll walk.”

  Dick and Mark exchanged a glance before releasing Steve. Sure enough, he walked on his own. As soon as he headed out the double doors of the precinct building, he looked back to see Dick and Mark standing with the doors between them, their arms crossed. Not that Steve wanted to go back in, anyway.

  Back to square one. No allies, no plan. What could he do without the police?

  Well, who do people go to when the police can’t help them? He remembered Jimmy Monaghan from back in the day, a reporter who had always taken his side, even after he’d fallen from grace. Maybe he’d be able to help out.

  He checked the time. The Trib building had to be closed, but he knew Jimmy liked to burn the midnight oil. Maybe, just maybe . . .

  He started walking, hoping with all his might.

  3

  Jimmy Monaghan thought they might drop Steve off back at Lenny’s, but after waiting for a couple of hours, he knew he’d been wrong. He thought about going home and maybe getting some sleep, but he felt consciousness humming through his entire body. Instead, he went back to the office. The building closed down at midnight, except for the night guy, who cruised the news feeds in case something interesting happened overnight. Jimmy had special privileges, being a popular columnist. His thumbprint could get him into the building at any hour.

  He tried to work for a while on an opinions column for next week, but he couldn’t focus on it. Besides, he already had three in the can and ready to go. After he checked the ‘net for any breaking stories from the AP, he figured he’d go home. He needed a cigarette anyway, and maybe Jack had tried to contact him.

  Jimmy stepped out into the street and lit up. Just as he started down the block for his car, he saw someone walking swiftly toward him. He couldn’t see through the shadows, but he knew well enough to be ready for anything. He reached into his pocket for an extending club he kept for such instances. He readied himself to flick it out and bring the club to its full extent, but then he saw a familiar face on the approaching figure. The blue circle confirmed his identification.

  He put the club back. “Steve McNeil? What are you doing here?”

  “Looking for you,” Steve said. “Listen, I need—“

  “I know all about it. Come with me. Now.” He grabbed Steve’s elbow and led him down the street to his car.

  “Hold on, Jimmy. I got something real important to tell you.”

  “I know. The game. We need to talk, just not here, okay?”

  “How do you—“

  “Get in.” Jimmy opened the passenger side door for him before going around to the other side. As soon as he got in, he programmed the car for home and swiveled in his seat. “Tell me everything.”

  4

  Steve hadn’t finished by the time they got to Jimmy’s place, so they took a break until they were up in his apartment. Then, over a bottle of bourbon, Steve finished his tale.

  “Now,” he said, “what about you? How do you know about the game?”

  Jimmy lit a fresh cigarette and blew SyntheSmoke up at the ceiling. “I don’t know everything. About five years ago, I caught wind of a rumor. I couldn’t substantiate anything, but I kept my ears open. Then, a John Doe came through the sixth precinct. No one seemed to know much about the dead guy, but after a day’s worth of investigating, the department dropped it. The corpse vanished. I had detectives refusing to admit that it had ever been there.

  “Turned out to be one of the contestants,” he continued. “I kept my ear to the ground, and over the next few years, I learned a lot about it. Tons of money goes into this thing every year, and it’s always run by the same guy. Richard Coppergate.”

  “Uh, as in Coppergate Tower?” Steve asked.

  “That’s the guy. You’d know him if you saw him. Old guy in a wheelchair. Nasty looking. Blank eyes—“

  “And those sharp, metallic teeth,” Steve said.

  “Just like in your story. I also know Edward Bridges because he came out of nowhere about a year ago. New rich. He just rode into town with a billion dollars, and suddenly, after some very thrifty investments, he became a big name. I suspected he might have been a winner from last year’s game, but now that you told me your story, I know it.”

  “Do you know anyone else who’s involved?”

  Jimmy nodded. “The woman you mentioned is Elizabeth Drake. There’s also one other person I know for sure is involved. Did you see a guy with silver hair there?”

  Steve thought about it for a moment. “Maybe.”

  “That’s Charles Wingate. As for the others, I have no idea. I also have no proof, which is why I haven’t been able to write the story yet. But with you here, I finally have something to go on.”

  Steve uttered a nervous laugh. “I’m glad to hear you say that. The cops are being paid off by these guys. They can’t help us. It’s up to us to expose these motherfuckers—“

  “There’s a slight problem with that,” Jimmy said.

  “Oh no. Not you, too.”

  “It’s not like that. When have I ever backed down from powerful people? I’m just telling you that you need to take a look at the masthead on the Trib sometime. If you did, you’d see that it’s owned by Coppergate.”

  Steve sat for a moment, his mouth hanging open, eyes staring into nothingness. It hadn’t struck him until now how hopeless things were in the world. And then, another thought occurred to him. “We can go to the competition.”

  Jimmy shook his head. “Wingate owns the Times.”

  This time, Steve couldn’t help but laugh. No humor came through his voice. “Wow.”

  “Yeah, I know. All it means is we can’t write about those fucks, at least not now. Maybe someday, but someday doesn’t help us.”

  “Then what can we do?” Steve asked.

  “Well, I do have an idea.”

  5

  Down in Jimmy’s
car, Steve couldn’t stand the suspense anymore. “Where the hell are we going?”

  Jimmy programmed the dash computer, and the car pulled out into the street, racing along its track through the pre-dawn, empty city. “To meet an associate of mine.”

  “Looks like we’re headed out of the city.”

  “We are.”

  Steve gave up trying to get information out of Jimmy and just relaxed in the passenger seat, watching the city flow before his eyes. About a half an hour later, they rode out past the suburbs, and an hour after that, they were in the middle of nowhere. The sky turned pink, and the sun threatened to rise over the eastern horizon.

  The car stopped, and Jimmy had to disengage from the track. Wheels came down, and they rolled down a dirt path. Once again, Steve felt tempted to ask questions, but he knew he’d get no answers.

  Jimmy stopped the car next to a sign that said TRESPASSERS WILL BE DESTROYED. “From here on out, we have to walk. Follow me, and step where I step. Look out for bear traps.”

  “Bear traps?” Steve looked at the sign, an eyebrow raised. “What the hell?”

  Jimmy didn’t answer. Instead, they got out of the car, and Steve followed him into a wooded area. The sun now peeked its head up, and its light filtered through the trees, allowing Steve to get a good look at his surroundings. Sure enough, there were plenty of bear traps out here. He spotted a few ambushes. Spikes sticking out of a log held up by a chain. A soft spot in the ground that showed through to a pit. A boulder suspended by a thick tree. Whoever lived out here didn’t fuck around.

  Soon, they saw a cabin up ahead. Around it stood several burnt crosses. Spray-painted on the walls of the cabin were horribly spelled racist comments. GOE HOME DARK BASERD on one wall. FUCK U NIGER on the door. Steve thought the cabin might have been set on fire at some point, judging from the dark marks on the roof.

  “Who the fuck lives here?” Steve asked.

  “STOP RIGHT THERE, MOTHERFUCKERS!” The voice came from on high, and it sounded strong enough to buttfuck a bull.