by Brent Pilkey
“And if I hear any more complaints about you gawking at the whores on Church Street while you’re still marked on a call, Borovski,” Johanson snarled, “you’ll be walking with him. Do I make myself clear?”
“Got it, Sarge,” Borovski said meekly, sounding so much like a pouting child Jack turned to look at him. Sure enough, the officer sitting next to Paul, or at least at the same table as Paul considering how Paul was physically distancing himself from the other cop, was sitting with his arms crossed defensively and a frown fixed to his fleshy face.
If you looked up sulking in the dictionary. . . .
“Nothing on the parade board to read out, but Detective Mason wants a few minutes. Rick?” Johanson gave up his position to the boss of the division’s Major Crime Unit.
Mason was thickset, intimidating and, unlike most guys out of uniform, kept his greying hair cut short, but the goatee that hung down to his chest spoke of the years he had spent in old clothes.
“Morning, everyone. I know it’s your first day of days and you’re probably all eager to get out there and have your morning coffee, so I’ll keep it brief.” He leaned massive forearms on the podium and Jack heard the wood creak in protest. “We’ve got a new problem in the division. An aggressive dealer has moved in and he’s trying to take over the crack trade by selling higher-quality rock at slightly better prices. And he’s doing something different to promote and identify his product. He’s adding a bit of food dye to the mix so his crack looks black, not the usual dirty white or dull yellow. Of course, everyone on the street is calling it Black. So if you hear someone saying they’re looking to score some Black, you know what they mean.
“Now, I’m all for free enterprise and shit, but one guy controlling the crack market in 51 is bad for us. The more suppliers and dealers we have, the more they fight each other and not us.”
Mason straightened and the podium sighed in relief. “We’ve been trying to get a fix on who’s behind this new crew, but so far we’ve come up with zilch. All we know is that this crew is organized and violent. The last two homicides in the division are directly related to them. Seems the boss is not above more direct means of removing the competition.
“So if you find someone dealing Black, play it safe and call for another car to watch your back, ’cause chances are there’s someone nearby whose job it is to keep an eye on the dealer. And word on the street is that they’ll tolerate no interference from anyone. Including us.
“If you grab a dealer, give the office a call, and one of us will come down to put the squeeze on the guy and see if he’ll give up his supplier. That way we can start working our way up the ladder. That’s it. Thanks for your time.”
“This black crack,” Paul asked before the detective could leave the podium, “is it just darker than normal or really black, like me?”
“Glad you said that, Townsend, and not me.” Mason chuckled with the rest of the room. “Well, I don’t think anything’s as black as you, but, yeah, it’s pretty damn dark. You’ll know it when you see it. Anything else?” He waited a beat. “Then they’re all yours, Sarge.”
“Thanks, Rick,” Johanson said, clapping the big detective on the back as he headed for the door. “Well, what are you waiting for? Get your asses on the road.”
“Jack, is it? Simon Carter. Call me Sy. Good to meet you, kid. And, yes, I have enough time on to be the platoon’s old fart. Like Fish on Barney Miller.”
They had shaken hands in the station’s back lot after dumping their duty bags in the scout car’s trunk. Jack figured “grizzled old veteran” was a better description than “old fart.” To call his short-cropped hair salt and pepper was generous; there was a lot more salt than pepper. His face was worn and lined, and Jack wondered what he had seen to give it so many creases. His non-regulation moustache grew down to his chin, and it too held more grey than black.
Simon was a touch taller than Jack and the ballistic vest under his shirt appeared to be pulling double duty as a girdle. But anyone who mistook him for a stocky, out-of-shape cop obviously wasn’t looking at the solid shoulders and the arms straining the black uniform shirt. Simon looked like he could scrap it out with a guy half his age and, judging from the scabs on some of his distorted knuckles, had — and not all that long ago either.
“Don’t know if Paul told you, but down here we don’t bother with the hats unless the media or brass are stopping by a scene.” Both uniform hats followed the duty bags into the trunk.
They climbed into the car and while Jack powered up the workstation Sy flicked on the lights and gave the siren a quick blast to make sure everything was working.
“We are set. Clear us whenever you want and if nothing’s pending we’ll grab a coffee. Sound good to you?”
“Iced coffee might be more like it.”
“Yeah, it’s gonna be a hot one today,” Sy agreed. “But I need my coffee. The public will not want to deal with me if I haven’t had my morning shot of caffeine.”
But coffee would have to wait.
“5103, in 11's area, at Street City. A male tenant has thrown bleach in another tenant’s face. Use caution; staff advise the male can be violent. Time, 0727.”
“And throwing bleach at someone isn’t violent?” Sy heaved a sigh and headed south out of the station’s lot. “So much for my morning coffee.”
“What’s Street City? I never had a call there on nights.”
“It’s a community co-op kinda thing. They built a bunch of little apartments, nothing but single rooms really, inside an old warehouse, so it kind of looks like a town or village. Basically, it’s a huge rooming house with a few unlucky staff to supervise it. We get a lot of EDPs down there.”
“Sounds like fun.”
Sy turned onto Parliament, joining the early rush-hour traffic. “Something tells me you ain’t used to dealing with our kind of crazies.”
“Hey, 32 gets its share of the emotionally disturbed. Just that, when you have money, they call you eccentric, not crazy.”
“Well, no one at Street City is eccentric, then. I don’t know if she’s still there or not, but there was one old lady who liked to hug people, especially people in uniform.”
Jack figured there was more to it. “And the problem with that?”
Sy grinned. “She liked to hug you after covering herself in her own feces.”
“I see.” Jack nodded solemnly. “Note to self: don’t hug anybody.”
Sy laughed. “That’s generally a good idea anywhere in 51, kid.”
“5103, I just ran your suspect and he’s on file for violence and weapons. Do you want another car to attend with you?”
Jack picked up the mike but looked to Sy, who nodded. “Sure, dispatch. If someone wants to drop by with us, we’d appreciate the company.”
“10-4, 5103. 5109, attend 393 Front Street with 5103 for an assault.” The dispatcher received no answer. “5109, are you 10-4 on the call?”
There was a lengthy pause before a reluctant voice answered. “Yeah, but I’m a ways off.”
Sy snorted. “I bet he is. Lazy bastard.”
“Who was that?” It would take some time before Jack could recognize everyone’s voice over the air.
“Borovski.” Sy spat the name out as if it was a bad taste in his mouth. “Watch your back around Boris,” he cautioned. “He’s always the last one at a call and he’s the first to cut corners on the work. He’ll come across as your best friend, but he’ll sell you out in a heartbeat if he thinks it’ll save his ass.”
“Boris Borovski? Sounds like something out of a book.”
“Boris isn’t his name,” Sy explained. “It’s Scott or something like that. Everybody just calls him Boris.”
“How come?”
“’Cause he hates it.” When Jack stayed silent, Sy looked over at him. “What? Everyone in 32 was a team player? Someone you could trust?”
“No, of course not,” Jack said, a little defensively. “I just know how reputations can stick to peop
le whether they deserve them or not. There was one guy I worked with. When he came to us from another platoon, they all warned us that he was stupid. Turned out the ‘stupid’ label came from one mistake he had made three years earlier when he had first got on the road. He was a really good guy to work with.” Jack shrugged. “I guess I just like to make up my mind about people after I’ve met them, that’s all.”
“And that’s a good way to be. But all I’m saying is watch your back around Boris. Okay, here we are.”
On the short trip, they had left behind the mixed residences and businesses and crossed over into a commercial wasteland. The south end of the division was a desert of abandoned warehouses and weed-choked, deserted lots and thus a desirable location for movie productions. Some buildings were still in use and the Canary Restaurant at the corner of Front and Cherry was a favourite breakfast hangout for the foot patrol and traffic cars.
Street City was in an old warehouse squatting on the corner across from the Canary. A bearded, pot-bellied man and a scarecrow of a young woman with green spiky hair were waiting out front in matching navy T-shirts. Jack figured them to be the staff. The woman waved them over.
Sy parked the car on the other side of the street and he and Jack joined the staff on the cigarette butt–littered sidewalk. “What happened today?” Sy asked the man, but it was the woman — no more than a girl really — who spoke up.
“Lloyd and Mohammed got into a fight over the TV. In the common room. Mohammed was there first and the rule is the first one gets to choose the channel. They started arguing and Bob and me,” she gestured to her staff partner, “had to tell Lloyd to leave cuz he was making so much noise. Lloyd’s always bullying the other tenants and hitting them. No one does nothing cuz they’re all scared of him.”
As she talked, Jack studied her: besides her bristling lime-green hair, he saw that each ear sported a dozen or so earrings. But it was her arms that fascinated him the most. The arms hanging out of her too-big staff shirt were twig thin. He was willing to bet her elbow joints were the widest part of her arms and how the bones didn’t simply snap when she flung her hands about as she talked was a mystery to him.
“A few minutes later Lloyd comes back carrying a cup in his hand. He just walks up to Mohammed —”
“Calm as you please,” Bob added.
“Yeah, just as calm as shit,” she agreed. “He walks right up to where Mohammed’s sitting and throws it — splash! — right in his face. I thought it was just water, but Mohammed starts screaming, really bad like, and I could smell it.”
“Smell what?” Sy wanted to know.
“You know,” she said, spinning her hands in front of her as if that would make the proper words come out. Jack waited for her hands to snap off at the wrists. “Ajax or something like that. You know, what you use to clean stuff with.”
“Good enough. We’ll need to get statements from you two later.”
“Yeah, we wuz already doing that when we wuz waiting for you.”
“Done this before, have you?” Sy suggested, smiling at her.
“Yeah, lots of times.” She paused and cocked her head. “You gonna arrest Lloyd?”
“If he’s still here.”
“Yeah, he’s in his room, I think. I can show you which one. Mohammed’s in the laundry room, washing that stuff out of his eyes.” Her head tipped the other way. Jack figured it had something to do with her thought process. “Ain’t an ambulance coming? We asked for one.”
“Speak of the devil,” Sy said, spotting the ambulance coming along Front Street.
“The devil?”
“The ambulance is here,” Jack interpreted for her.
“Oh.” She looked at Jack for the first time and smiled, showing him a full set of heavily stained teeth. “Hey, you’re kind of cute for a cop. I’m Lisa.”
Jack almost introduced himself out of habit but caught himself. In no way did he want Lisa knowing anything about him. “Um, thanks. You want to show us where Lloyd’s room is?”
“Hang tight for a second, kid. You chat with Lisa for a few minutes while I tell the medics what we’ve got.” Sy smiled good-naturedly and clapped Jack on the shoulder, then walked — slowly — over to the ambulance, stranding Jack on the sidewalk with Lisa.
You’re a prick, Sy, Jack thought as Lisa sidled up to him. He busied himself taking down Bob’s and Lisa’s information. Lisa made sure he wrote down her cell phone number correctly.
Minutes later — long minutes — Sy and Jack followed Bob and Lisa through the metal double doors into Street City with the ambulance crew and their stretcher bringing up the rear. The building was indeed an old warehouse and the roof rose an easy twenty feet or so above them. The vast interior had been laid out in “streets” with rows of single-room apartments lining both sides. Each simple wood structure had its own entrance and front window looking out onto the street. Potted plants and trees decorated the laneways.
The streets were wide, about a dozen feet across and laid out in an H pattern; the double front doors were at the bottom left corner of the H. The office was right next to the doors, with a large window so staff could see everyone coming and going. The common room was on the short centre street that connected the two long streets. A mismatched collection of couches, chairs and tables formed a social setting. An old TV blared static and a picture not much better.
Bob stopped, pointing to a man near the TV, and Lisa spoke for him. “That’s Lloyd there.”
There were several people in the common room, but there was a definite no man’s land surrounding the lone resident watching TV.
“The one on the couch at the other end?” Sy asked, wanting to be sure.
“Yeah, that’s him.” Lisa bobbed her head in confirmation and Jack winced as her neck vertebrae pushed sharply against her skin.
“Is Lloyd known to carry any weapons — knives, stuff like that?” Sy was talking to both staff members, but his eyes never left Lloyd.
Lisa cocked her head in thought. “Don’t think so. Bob?”
Bob shrugged.
“Bob, Lisa. Why don’t you go show the paramedics where Mohammed is while we talk to Lloyd?”
As he worked his way through the maze of furniture toward the man slumped on the couch, all Jack could see was the back of Lloyd’s head. He and Sy split up to circle the ends of the sofa and cut off Lloyd’s escape routes.
Jack approached from the left and got his first clear look at Lloyd. He was a bulk of a human, his legs apart so his enormous gut could hang down between his thighs. His greasy hair was a rat’s nest and the remains of breakfast, or possibly last night’s dinner, clung to the stubble on his multiple chins. He wore old grey sweatpants and a T-shirt that probably had once been white.
The sharp smell of bleach hung in the air but did little to cover the stale odour coming from Lloyd.
“Morning, Lloyd,” Sy began, positioning himself to Lloyd’s right. Jack stood to the left. Lloyd couldn’t see them both without turning his head. Jack watched the man’s hands, which were resting limply in his lap. “Guess you know why we’re here. You’re under arrest for assault with a weapon, so why don’t you stand up for me and put your hands behind your back?”
Lloyd rocked forward and braced his hands on his knees. He wheezed, then heaved himself up, but his ass had barely pulled free of the cushion before his left hand slipped off his knee and he thumped back down. He grinned foolishly and held out his right hand to Sy.
“You need a hand up, buddy?”
Sy was stepping forward, hand extended, when Jack saw Lloyd’s left hand sneak under his thigh. His grin no longer looked foolish.
“Sy. . . .”
Lloyd grabbed Sy’s hand and gripped it tightly. His left forearm flexed, as if gripping something hidden under his leg. His grin was cunning.
“Knife!”
Lloyd suddenly pulled Sy off balance and his left hand flashed a blade toward Sy’s neck. Jack dove after the knife hand and rammed into Sy, knocking h
im onto the couch. Jack landed across Lloyd’s lap, the knife arm pinned between them. There was muscle under Lloyd’s bulk and he shoved Jack away, swinging the blade backhanded. Jack sprawled on the floor, hoping Lloyd’s size would slow him down so he could get his Glock out of its holster.
“Drop it or die, fucker!” Sy was kneeling on the couch with his gun hard against Lloyd’s temple. The fat man froze, his hands in front of him, but he didn’t drop the knife.
“One twitch and I splatter your brains across the floor.”
If this was a movie and Sy had a revolver, this is where he would cock it, Jack thought and wondered why he would think something stupid like that when he had his own gun aimed at Lloyd’s chest. He smiled; he didn’t remember drawing the gun.
Whether it was Jack’s smile or Sy’s calm, emotionless words, Lloyd decided to drop the knife. His left hand opened and the blade bounced off the sofa cushion to clatter onto the concrete floor.
Jack got to his feet, his aim on Lloyd never wavering; where there was one knife, there could be another.
Sy ordered Lloyd to lie face down on the floor. The fat man had no trouble getting off the couch this time. Sy cuffed and searched him — one knife hidden in each sock — and Jack felt his hands trembling slightly.
Sy noticed. “Just the adrenalin dump, Jack. It’ll pass in a couple of minutes. Let’s get this piece of shit out to the car.”
They each grabbed an arm and hauled Lloyd to his feet, fast-walked him out to the scout car and were none too gentle stuffing him into the back seat. Sy got the bottle of sanitizer gel from the front seat, squirted some into his hands and held the bottle out for Jack.
“Nice job in there, Jack. I think you saved me a trip to the hospital,” Sy admitted. “Or worse. Thanks.”
“I’m just glad we didn’t get hurt.” Jack started washing his hands with the gel and hissed when pain stabbed through his right hand.
“What is it? You hurt?”
Jack held up his hand. On the edge of his palm, just below the last knuckle of his little finger, was a short but deep cut. “Bastard got me after all. That’ll teach me not to wear my gloves.”
