by Chris LeGrow
The Sarge smiled blandly. “Don’t tell me; let me guess. Clubba.”
Tiny grinned and pointed to a paragraph in the report. “Bingo!”
His dentures slipped yet again, but he caught them with his other hand before they popped too far out.
“Jeeze, Tiny. You gotta get those things fixed. They slide out every time you open your mouth too wide.” The Sarge snapped the paper up to eye level. “Remind me not to be around you when you sneeze.”
Tiny brushed his hand through the air and shook his head. “No time to get new ones right now,” he said.
The Sarge shot him a mock glare. “You’re driving me nuts with it all—the slipping, the whistling, the—”
“I’ve had these clackers for years,” Tiny said. “I’m used to the whistle and as you well know, there’s no pressing need for new ones.”
The Sarge dropped his hand to his side and lowered his voice. “Who else knows?”
Tiny shifted his stance, glanced at the ground, then met the Sarge’s gaze straight on. “No one and I want it to stay that way.”
“I don’t agree with you.”
“So you’ve said. Several times.”
The Sarge shook his head with heavy acceptance. “Fine, Tiny. Have it your way. I can’t believe you’ve lived this long with all that cancer in your body.”
“I choose the way I go out,” the smaller man said. “Not the disease.”
The Sarge’s lips turned up in a slight smile of admiration. There was a lot of toughness in that small package. He gave Tiny a reassuring wink. “Point taken. So, Abrahim Koak has the lead on this assignment, eh? Have the guys down in the lab find out when he’s scheduled to visit with his cuz next. Wait—” The Sarge’s mind raced. “There might be a better way to get to this guy. Get me his probation officer on the phone. I’ve got a super idea for community service hours that punk can have. Patch the PO through to my office when you get him.”
“Could be a her,” Tiny shot back.
“Or her—whoever! Just get me the danged PO.” The germ of an idea took root in his brain. The Sarge wanted a couple of Blues go to the state penitentiary for some interaction with the prisoners: chess, woodworking, tutoring. Anything actually. Abrahim’s probation officer could arrange for him to finish his community service hours as a volunteer helping the Ol’ Blues on those visits. What the Sarge hoped was that Abrahim would think he could sneak in an extra visit or two with cousin Clubba.
He raised the report and reread it again. The kid at the lab had done some mighty fancy computer snooping. Already Clubba was elevated to trustee status at the prison. He’d have no problem getting onto any service detail he wanted. If all went according to plan, Abrahim would tell Clubba about his community service and upcoming trips. Clubba wouldn’t be able to resist.
Of course Brittany was central to the plan. She’d go along and stay within earshot so the hearing aid microphones recorded when they spoke. It was perfect. Who’d suspect the pretty little redhead spoke Sudanese like a native? The Sarge all but salivated over the intelligence and evidence they could turn over to the county attorney against Clubba. Sarge’s goal was to bust the lot of those thugs before they ever got a chance to do whatever it was they planned at Sixtieth and Etna. It could work…under exactly the right conditions.
The Sarge plopped into his chair behind his desk; he liked the plan. He hoped they’d take the bait. His phone rang and he snatched it off its cradle.
“Abrahim’s probation officer, Sarge,” Tiny said from the other end.
“Put him through.” Time to put the plan into action, the Sarge thought with a smile. Phase one coming up.
The Sarge exchanged pleasantries with the PO and dangled the community service opportunity. “We thought it would be great for your younger probationers to finish some community service hours. Maybe help you guys clear a few cases off the pile.”
“Sure,” the probation officer said. “The stack keeps growing faster than we can keep up these days.”
“Maybe give them a good role model while we’re at it,” the Sarge said.
“Now that’s a long shot,” the PO said with a chuckle, “but you never know.”
“Great,” the Sarge continued, writing down his thoughts as they popped up. “We’ll provide the transportation to and from. Your kids will help the retired officers and older prisoners do crafts, play games— stuff like that. No specialized training required.”
“Sounds like you have it all planned out, Sergeant.”
“I’m writing as we speak,” he confirmed. “How’s next Saturday?”
“Should be fine. I think we can have half a dozen kids for this.”
“Great.” The Sarge straightened up and smiled. “One last thing. There’s one young man in particular we were hoping to get. His mother knows some family members of the Ol’ Blue Unit, and they asked us to help out,” the Sarge lied smoothly. He hadn’t spent all those years doing undercover narcotics for nothing.
“Sure,” the PO said. “Who’d you have in mind?”
“Abrahim,” the Sarge said. “Ah, what was his last name? I’ve got it written down here somewhere…ah, Koak.”
A short pause bled through the line. “Oh yeah,” the PO said. “That kid still needs over thirty hours. I’ll make sure he’s there.”
“Great,” the Sarge replied. “Have him—them—here at ten o’clock Saturday morning.”
“Thanks, Sergeant.”
“No, thank you,” the Sarge said and hung up the phone. “Phase one complete.”
The Sarge leaned back in his chair and called out to Tiny. “The kid’s PO is gonna make sure Abrahim is here on Saturday.”
“Great!”
“Sarge,” Tiny hollered. “We’re getting a pool together. Want in?”
“A pool on what?”
“On how long it’s gonna take Abrahim to let Clubba know he’s coming.”
“No,” the Sarge said with an eye roll. “Cops!”
The Sarge picked up the phone and called the lab. “I need the penitentiary visitation schedule.”
“Well, hello to you too,” Ajay the lab tech from India said. “That’ll take a little time.”
“By Saturday morning—Friday night would be better,” the Sarge growled into the phone.
Ajay went silent. “And you think I can just flip a switch and hack into the pen’s records just like that? Doesn’t work that way, sir.”
“Huh,” the Sarge said. “So much for hearing that you young bucks were some sort of wunderkinds down there,” he said as sarcastically as possible. “I guess even the best in the business have their limitations. A prison network probably has multiple firewalls and stuff. Might be a bit out of your—”
“What do you need?”
“Access to their visitation schedule,” the Sarge said. “I need you to get it, figure out when Abrahim Koak is scheduled to visit Te’quan Koak, which wing the latter one is in and his status. I need the information within twelve hours of the actual—”
“Got it,” Ajay said.
Dang! The Sarge said to himself. These guys are good.
“Took us about five minutes,” Ajay replied. “Abrahim is scheduled to visit Te’quan tomorrow at eleven o’clock.”
“About time,” Sarge said. His mental wheels spun in a countdown on the two. His PO will contact him today and inform him of our wonderful service opportunity. “He’ll visit on Wednesday. Perfect. Tiny!” he called out.
“Yeah, Sarge?”
“Could you come in here please?”
Tiny loved the idea. “We’ve gotta get Smitty on board though,” he cautioned. “It’s one thing to have his daughter know about our operation, but it’s a whole different one to actually involve her in the undercover part of it.”
The Sarge pulled out his chewed cigar and pointed it at Tiny. “Let me worry about that…in addition to worrying about you.”
“Me?” Tiny asked with a note of offense. “What do you mean?”
&n
bsp; “You know how much Clubba hates you. Don’t need to remind you about how you set him up with the arrest? Then showed up at the court hearing? That was a dumb stunt—waving and laughing at him. And a mission I didn’t approve by the way.”
The Sarge crossed to his desk and eased down into his chair. “But I have to admit that was a stroke of genius. Especially the waving and laughing part.”
“Thanks. It worked out well.”
“Didn’t you say he looked like he was going to rush you and if not for the guards he probably would have?”
“In my report, yes.” Tiny smiled. “I know this guy’s type. He’s going to get his revenge come heaven or hell. We’ve got to make sure he comes after me before he goes after his ex-girlfriend.”
The Sarge held up the unlit cigar butt in salute. “Then I say we nail him.”
“Something else about this guy, Sarge,” Tiny said with a frown. “He’s not going to be content as associate to these gangs. I think he wants more.”
“How do you know?”
“No hard facts at the moment…I just know.”
The Sarge respected Tiny’s hunches and he nodded. “What else do you think he’s up to?”
“Again, I’m not completely sure, but,” Tiny scratched his chin and glanced up at the lights. “This guy is on the move. He wants to do more than just snake through various gang territories.”
“To what end?”
“No clue on what his final goal might be.” He glanced at the Sarge and smiled.
The gap-toothed grin reminded the Sarge why he wouldn’t fix those dentures. He pushed the thought aside to focus on the mission at hand.
“Yet.”
The Sarge watched Tiny’s back as he exited the office. “Go get ’em, Tiny,” he whispered. “Go get ’em.”
“EACH ONE OF THESE GANGS WANTS TO USE US,” CLUBBA explained to his cousin. “Even the Aryans.”
“The white guys?”
“Yeah. We’re in high demand,” Clubba said. “Now,” he said in Sudanese, “repeat it back to me, Abrahim.”
Abrahim did so—several times.
Once Clubba was satisfied, he relaxed. “How’s the family?”
“Which ones?” Abrahim asked. “Your family is good.”
“What about Shanese? Her sister? And grandmother?”
“You mean the walking corpse?” Abrahim asked and shared a laugh with Clubba.
“It is very important that only my Sudanese men are there to remind her that I will be back soon.” Clubba raised his finger in warning. “Remember. Only my soldiers. I need to know who will follow instructions, and I need you to be my commander.”
Abrahim nodded as if he liked the sound of that word. “I will make sure the cockroach woman and her sister see us every day and that nobody will talk to her. She will be a little bird in a cage surrounded by hungry cats.”
They both laughed again.
“Oh, I almost forgot,” Abrahim said switching back to English. “My probation officer is sending me back here Saturday. I’ll be able to meet with you more often. They want me to be a—what do they call it?—a volunteer.”
Clubba’s brows pulled together in a V. “Volunteer? For what?”
“To bring a group of old men to the prison for some kind of— ah, I don’t know—activity day with the prisoners. It is supposed to be good for the prisoners and probationers to help the old men out. They said trustees were the only inmates who could participate though. No others. Can you do it?”
Clubba mulled the thought over. Keeping a watchful eye on the actions in Omaha would serve his interests best. “Yes,” he said. “It will be good to talk more than once a week.”
“And no one will be the wiser,” Abrahim said. “We can talk freely.”
“Time’s up,” a correctional officer said, indicating the end of the visiting session.
“We’ll be here this Saturday at eleven.” Abrahim pushed to stand up. “And I can provide more message services to your friends,” he said in their native tongue.
“Yes.” Clubba responded in kind. “I like the idea. Make sure you deliver the messages tonight.”
“I will, cousin,” Abrahim replied with a curt nod. “You can count on me.”
As Smitty walked Brittany around the precinct, she said to herself, “How in the world did I get into this twisted mess?” She wished the story her father had spun was just that: a story. “The Bureau?” A group of millionaires and billionaires? In Omaha? They funded the incredible retirement facility? And the Ol’ Blues operated under the noses of medical staff, the student nurses, DHHS, and the police? They escaped the facility into the neighborhoods to conduct surveillance operations and thwart the bad guys? Improbable and yet…fascinating. Society just didn’t notice old folks. Criminals certainly didn’t view them as a threat. That’s why the whole thing was so brilliant!
During the tour, her father had attempted to take her to the research lab. They never made it. Two guys guarded the entrance and were having none of it. Without a written authorization from the Sarge, no one got in. After being turned away, she’d looked at her father. “Where on earth did you get those two?”
“The Sarge had made it his personal mission to recruit them and now I see why. That place is the nerve center of the entire facility. Nothing gets by them.”
Smitty stopped walking and took her shoulders in a gentle grasp. “Sweetie, what we’re doing here is a great service to the police, to Omaha, and to each of us. We’ve got so many years of experience.”
“But you can still get hurt,” she’d protested.
“Not really. We just provide anonymous information to the tip line. Help the sworn officers in their ongoing investigations. We guide them by offering suggestions. That’s all. And it can literally save an officer’s life.”
“But.”
“It’s given all of us a new lease on life. We were just rotting away. Nobody needed us to do what we’ve done for most of our lives. Brittany, it’s just so good to be needed again, to help fellow cops even if they don’t know it.” He dropped his hands to his side. “To tell you the truth, that’s what makes it fun!”
The twinkle in her father’s eyes brought tears to Brittany’s just at the memory of all those years she’d been so proud of the man she loved and who’d taken such good care of her. Her father relished making a difference in the community, and she adored him for it. She loved being an important part of his life. How could she now be anything but supportive of what he’d accomplished? A smile kicked up the corners of her mouth. And all directly under the noses of all those professionals—even the police themselves.
She chuckled at the thought and turned to her father with a smirk. “Other than bringing cookies,” she asked, “is there anything I can do to help?”
“Hm…” Her father had looked as though he was in deep thought and tapped his lips with his index finger. “Yes, you can. Your first assignment is to keep the handsome Jake Mitchell busy and out of our hair—or what’s left of it. Can you do that?” Smitty returned her smirk with one of his own.
“I’ll give it a go,” she’d said and linked her arm around her father’s.
“Second,” he said in a more serious tone, “the Sarge wants to use you in an undercover operation with those Sudanese kids you saw before.”
“Undercover? Me?”
“Yeah,” her dad said. “I told him I’d talk to you. I didn’t think much of it,” he said. “You could get hurt.”
“Like you can’t?”
“Exactly why I said I’d leave it to you. It’s not my call; it’s yours.”
She mulled that over on the walk back to the precinct office. “Hey,” the information officer called out. “The Sarge wants to talk to you two.”
Smitty had looked at Brittany and shrugged.
“Hey, Sarge,” Smitty said upon entering. “What’s up?”
The Sarge looked behind him and leaned to one side. Spotting Brittany, he smiled.
Smitty swept hi
s right hand toward his daughter. “Sarge, meet the newest member of the Ol’ Blues.”
The Sarge raised an eyebrow at her.
“What’s that about?” she asked. “I’m not walking around in diapers you know.”
The Sarge blinked and glanced at Smitty who laughed.
The Sarge joined him. “I don’t know,” he’d managed to choke out. “Young lady, we have a dress code here.”
Both men whooped it up again. Brittany crossed her arms and tried not to laugh. “All right, you guys,” she said. “You’re worse than toddlers. And…I’ve decided.”
“Decided?” the Sarge asked, still grinning. “Decided what?”
“To be your secret agent or undercover whatchamacallit.”
“Really? Great. Okay, secret agent whatchamacallit. We’ll call you by your code name: Brittany.” He collapsed in a fit of laughter again.
“Some code name,” she said.
“It’s better than you think.” The Sarge wiped his eyes. “You’re undercover in plain sight. That’s our secret and we do it very well,” he said and motioned out to the precinct office.
“That you do. I’ve got to hand it to you guys; you sure fooled me. I don’t like being fooled and I don’t like being lied to. I believe in being up front and honest with people.”
“I know, sweetie,” Smitty said. “That’s something I’ve always loved about you. It makes you special.”
“Well,” the Sarge said, “the nature of our operation makes it so that only a very few of us know everything that’s going on. We have too many guys here that talk without realizing what they say sometimes. Can’t help it. We’re old guys. But I’ll tell you what. If I can’t tell you about an operation, I’ll just say, ‘Don’t worry about it,’ and you’ll know there’s more to it. Fair enough?”
Brittany frowned but understood. “Okay, fair enough.”
“Good. Now I have an assignment for you, actually, two.”
