by Brent Pilkey
Seconds later Jack heard rapid footsteps on the stairs. Jenny’s partner, Al, and two other bike cops casually strolled into the room, but when they saw Mason’s glare they quietly took a table at the back of the room.
“I guess we can get started now.”
“You the only one from upstairs coming on this?” Sy was sitting up straight now but still looking relaxed.
“My guys are loading up the car. They’ll be down in a minute. So let’s get this started,” Mason said. “Last week, Jack nabbed a guy dealing Black and we squeezed him. He told us where he picks up his stash — 259 Sumach, corner apartment, ground floor — and we’ve spent the week doing obs on the place.”
Mason turned to the room-wide chalkboard and drew a quick outline of the building. Roughly shaped like a squared-off dog bone or a squat capital I, the six-storey building was in the northeast corner of Regent Park, a large housing project in the division. The building had four main entrances, each in a corner of the I. Mason circled the top left corner of the bottom cross- piece. “That’s our target. From what we’ve been able to determine, the crack isn’t made there, but it’s a central pickup spot for the street dealers. We figure the crack is delivered whenever they’re running low, day and night, and the dealers pick up at the back windows. There’s usually a delivery between noon and two. We’re going to catch them right after that.”
“Any idea how many people in the apartment?”
“No idea, Jenny.” Mason dropped the chalk and wiped his hands on his jeans. “The windows are all covered with heavy drapes, so we’ve never been able to get a look inside. But we can assume enough people and guns to protect the place.” He ran his fingers through his long goatee, then added, “I won’t lie to you. We’re going in blind and it could get messy. Anyone having second thoughts, let me know now.”
No one spoke up.
Mason nodded and Jack was sure he looked pleased. “Whoever’s running the Black knows what he’s doing. He’s quickly pushing out the other suppliers or buying them up. I’m hoping we can hurt him a bit today and maybe work our way up the ladder a few more rungs.”
“Any idea who’s at the top?”
Mason looked at Sy a moment before shaking his head. “No, not yet.”
Sy accepted the answer without comment, but Jack thought he caught a knowing look pass between the two old-timers.
Then the rest of the Major Crime crew clomped into the room. They were an odd assortment of officers. Some cops looked like police no matter how hard they tried not to; others could shed the image as easily as the uniform. Jack thought these three would have a hard time looking like cops even in uniform.
He hadn’t formally met any of them, but in a station as small as 51 you get to know people by reputation. First through the door was Kris Kretchine: average height with a seam-straining physique. A competitive amateur bodybuilder for the past five years, Kris was aiming for a pro card in the next few years and her sergeant’s stripes. Kris was short for Kristine.
Behind her came Jason “Tank” Van Dusen, the division’s one-man riot squad. He was the biggest short person Jack had ever seen. Claiming to be the illegitimate love child of a Viking berserker and a female Sumo wrestler, he had enough mass on his five-foot-six frame for two men. Two big men. His massive bald head sat squarely on equally massive shoulders. Where Kris was lean with veins roping her forearms, Tank was sheer bulk. But anyone who thought there was no power in the mass was in for a world of hurt. Jack had once seen Tank in the gym doing dead lifts with four hundred pounds. For a warm-up.
John Taftmore was tall and lanky, his acne-scarred face framed by nondescript shaggy brown hair. He looked young enough to cruise the university bars. There was nothing notable or memorable about Taft until he opened his mouth.
“Sweeeeeet!” he crowed. “The party girl’s here.” He headed straight for Jenny’s chair, which she had turned away from him as soon as he had stepped through the door. That didn’t deter Taft. He gripped her shoulders and started humping the back of her chair. “C’mon, Jenny, just a quickie for good luck.”
She shrugged his hands away. “Fuck off, Taftmore.”
Taftmore would not be denied. He grabbed her shoulders again and resumed his chair humping, more vigorously this time, chanting, “Jenny, Jenny, Jenny.”
Jack was surprised no one did anything about his behaviour. He quickly learned Jenny didn’t need anyone’s help. She freed her shoulders, then exploded from the chair, driving it back on its rollers with her straightening legs. The top of the chair back caught Taftmore squarely in the groin. Every male in the room winced as Taftmore doubled over.
He shuffled to the closest chair and gingerly folded himself into it. Looking quite pleased with herself, Jenny reclaimed her seat and high-fived Sy.
“If you’re finished being beaten up by a girl, Taftmore, maybe we can continue the briefing,” Mason said.
Taftmore, still hunched over, actually had the balls — sore, no doubt, but still there — to wave his boss to go on. “Sy, you and Jack are with us. The rest of you uniforms will be out on the perimeter.”
That caught Jack by surprise. Never had he expected to be at the initial entry. He looked at Sy, who nodded and gave him a conspiratorial wink.
“Sy, you and I are first through with the shotguns. That way we have two pipes and a uniform going in the door first. Tank, you’ve got the key, as usual.”
“Whoa, hold on a minute, Mase.” Kris was bristling under her spiky blond hair. “You said I was first through the door at the next warrant. So that makes it me and Sy.”
Mason looked like he had expected this argument. “Yeah, but that was before you started dieting for your competition and you know how bitchy you get when you’re dieting. You’d probably shoot the first person you saw just to make a point. Or worse, if you’re shot and can’t work out, you’ll fucking shoot me. Next time.”
“That’s what you said last time,” she argued.
“If you start eating like Tank,” he countered, “you can go first.”
Tank perked up. “Did you say she can go first if she eats me?”
As the room laughed, Kris rolled her chair next to Tank and cuddled in. “Any time you want, big boy.”
“Better be careful, Kris. I’ve seen Tank in the shower and you may have a bigger dick than him.” Taft stopped laughing when Kris and Tank glared at him. “Easy there, big fellas. Just joking.”
“You’re an ass, Taftmore.”
“C’mon, Kris, I was just kidding. I’m sure you don’t have a bigger dick than him.”
“That’s it, you little fucker.” Kris was out of her chair and from the set of her shoulders she looked ready to go through the metal table that separated them.
“That’s enough!” Mason barked. “Kris, settle down. Taft, shut the fuck up.”
Kris reluctantly sat down but not before shooting Taft a look that promised retribution. Taft blew her a kiss.
Mason calmly surveyed the room, his face expressionless, until all fidgeting stopped. Hell, when he looked at Jack, Jack was afraid to breathe.
“All right, then.” He turned his attention to the foot officers. “Did you get a car?”
The two coppers at the back of the room who had — rather wisely, Jack thought — kept quiet throughout the briefing nodded.
“I want you two to sit on Gerrard east of Sumach. The north end of the building and the townhouses along Gerrard will keep you out of their sight. Make it look like you’re writing up your memo books or having a coffee or something.” The two coppers nodded, still quiet. “Jenny, Al. Head over on your bikes and wait behind 260.” 260 Sumach was the twin of the building they’d be entering and directly west of it across a small parking lot.
“The four of you stay out of sight until we take the door, then move into the parking lot to cover the windows on both sides of the apartment. And for fuck’s sake, don’t stand in the open. Use the cars for cover. If someone starts coming out the window, yell at
him or whatever it takes to keep him inside. I don’t want any needless foot pursuits.
“The rest of us will enter the building through the southeast door. We’ll let you know as soon as we hit the door. Tank takes the door, Sy and myself in first, then Kris and Taft, then Tank and Jack.”
Mason sketched the apartment’s layout on the chalkboard. “It’s a typical Regent Park two-bedroom. The door opens onto the living room, with a little kitchen off to the left. Sy, when we go in, you cut into the kitchen, then down into the dining area. I’ll go to the right to cover the hall. Kris, Taft, cover the living room. Tank, go where you’re needed. Once they’re all in, Jack, you join me and we’ll clear the bathroom and bedrooms. Everyone got that? Good. Now remember, the plan will hopefully last at least until we take the door. After that, it’s a crapshoot. Meet in the parking lot in ten.”
A few minutes later Jack and Sy were leaning against the trunk of their scout car. Sy was having one of his rare smokes and Jack swigged a Diet Coke. “I don’t get it, Sy. I’m excited that we’re on the entry, but why would Detective Mason have me back him up down the hall? Why not Tank?”
Sy dragged on his cigarillo and let the smoke drift lazily from the corner of his mouth. “When Rick told me about the warrant yesterday, he asked me if I felt you would be okay to come along. I told him about the guy with the knife down at Street City and how you saved my ass. How’s the hand, by the way?”
“Stitches came out on days off.” Jack held up his hand. “Got my first work-related scar.”
“Good for you.” Another drag, more lazy smoke. “I said you have a level head and you can be trusted.”
“Trusted not to fuck up?”
Sy shook his head and wispy tendrils of smoke zigzagged through the air. “We all fuck up sooner or later. No, he wanted to know if you could be trusted when things fuck up.” Sy studied Jack. “I told him you could be. I wasn’t wrong, was I?”
“No, of course not. I was just thinking about how this could go wrong and hoping I’m not the one to cause it.”
Sy snorted. “Like Rick said, if the plan lasts up to the door, we’re laughing. Everything after that is a crapshoot. Just keep your head on straight and if you shoot anyone make sure it’s a bad guy.”
“I don’t think I’ll have any problem with that. The MCU guys are a rather distinctive-looking group.”
“I think the term is ‘eclectic.’”
They stood in a companionable silence, Sy with his stogie, Jack with his Coke, faces upturned to the sun, enjoying the warmth. Fall was not far off and Jack meant to savour what was left of the summer.
“You and Jenny close?” he asked, not turning his head.
“She got you, didn’t she?”
Puzzled, Jack faced Sy. “Got me? What do you mean?”
“Don’t give me that innocent look, partner. I’ve seen it before and, trust me, you won’t be the last.”
“What are you babbling about?”
“Jenny.” He sucked deeply on the cigarillo, flaring its tip. “She has this effect on guys. They take one look at her and they’re tripping over themselves to get to her. For some guys, it’s her eyes, others it’s her smile. Some guys just can’t explain it.”
“And what do you think it is about her?”
Sy took another drag, then watched Jack through the drifting smoke. “I think she has that effect on guys because she’s just a very sensual woman. A modern-day siren.”
Jack huffed an indignant laugh. Almost a Sy snort. “She’s good-looking, but I wouldn’t go that far.”
Sy didn’t bother to comment; his disbelief was plain.
“Taftmore seems a bit of a jerk,” Jack commented, draining the last of his pop.
“Nice change of subject. Real subtle.” Sy held up a forestalling hand. “All right, I believe you. You’re not interested in her at all.” He picked a piece of tobacco from his teeth and flicked it away. “Taft’s all right. He can be an annoying prick at times, but he’s solid when there’s work to be done. Rick wouldn’t have him in the unit otherwise.”
“You ever work in Major Crime?”
“Few times. I was there when Rick brought Kris in. Helped train her, too.”
“Why’d you leave?”
Sy smiled. “Her tits were too distracting.”
Jack laughed. “You know they’re not real, right? Anyone with body fat that low can’t have tits like that.”
“Partner, when they look that good, it doesn’t matter if she was born with them or bought them.”
Further discussion was cut off when Mason and his crew came out, all of them wearing their vests with POLICE across the chest and back in big white letters. Tank carried the key — a steel battering ram with four handles so two people could swing it — slung casually over his shoulder like a baseball bat.
Sy dropped the stub of his cigarillo and crushed it underfoot. “Well, grasshopper, let’s get it done, shall we?”
Regent Park. A sprawling housing project divided into north and south by Dundas Street. A warren of townhouses, low-rise and high-rise apartment buildings, walkways and parking lots. South Regent had the high-rises; the northern buildings, greater in number, never climbed above six floors. A cesspool of drugs, violence and dead-end lives, Regent Park was an unfortunate mix of good, honest people and low-lifes.
North Regent was bisected by a service road — a glorified, over-wide sidewalk — running east and west through the complex. The two police cars carrying the entry team sped along the walkway and Sy pulled up sharply behind the unmarked car at the southeast entrance to 259 Sumach. The MCU team was already making for the door and Jack and Sy quickly joined them.
As they passed through the stairwell to the main hall, Jack could hear feet pounding up the stairs. So much for a quiet approach. No doubt word was flying through the building: cops were here and they had a ram with them. Someone’s door was about to be punched.
Mason heard the runners as well and motioned for his team to hustle as quietly as possible. There was still the chance they could take the apartment unaware. The entry team hurried along a hall painted in what Sy called “off-white, off-yellow, off-government-cheap.”
They reached the apartment door: so far, so good. Sy and Mason framed the door, shotguns at the ready. Kris was behind Mason; Jack was behind Kris. His back was to the lobby entrance, a small wasteland of discarded cigarette butts, fast-food wrappers and dried puddles of urine. The halls weren’t air-conditioned and the heat had baked the entrance into a fetid desert.
The faint sounds of a TV game show murmured behind the closed door. The rest of the building was surprisingly quiet, as if it were a living thing waiting expectantly to see if this sickness, this area of rot, would be successfully cut from its body.
Behind Jack, the front door of the low-rise opened, the broken lock clicking ominously in the stagnant air. Jack twisted to face the lobby, his Glock pointed at the floor. The team froze, a collective entity with Jack now as its head, waiting to see who stepped into view. A dealer coming for a pickup would be disastrous; a shouted warning could be the difference between a by-the-numbers entry and a gunfight. Jack readied himself to knock whoever came through the lobby senseless.
He blinked sweat from his eyes. What was taking the guy so long? He could hear someone moving across the tile floor, taking his or her sweet damn time.
Seconds later — Jack would have sworn it was more like five minutes — an elderly black woman shuffled into view, her sundress with its faded orange flowers a stark blast of colour against the utilitarian drabness of the lobby. A wide-brimmed straw hat — an orange flower tucked brazenly in the band — shaded her face as she crossed to the elevators. She pressed the call button and settled in to wait, her hands folded primly before her.
Jack glanced at Mason, who gave him a palm-down gesture. Wait. If the entry went bad, the last thing they needed was a civilian on the edges of a gunfight. Bullets tended not to care whom they hit.
The woman r
emoved her hat and fanned herself with it as she glanced around the lobby, looking for friends, for dangers — just because you were a Regent Park resident didn’t mean you were safe from its predators — and saw Jack staring at her.
He lifted a leather-gloved finger to his lips and she nodded curtly, as if to say, What do you think I am? Stupid? The elevator dinged and the doors wheezed open. The lady gave them a broad smile and a thumbs-up before stepping into the elevator. Jack blew out a breath he hadn’t been aware he was holding and turned to Mason, a grin fixed on his face. Mason grinned back.
Tank stood beside Sy, the two-man ram cradled easily in his arms. He nodded at Mason, who flipped the nod to Jack. Jack keyed the mike clipped to his shoulder, then whispered, “Go. We are taking the door. Go.”
Jack heard a scout car squeal onto Sumach; then he saw two bike cops sprint out from behind 260 Sumach. He signalled Mason, who then gave Tank the go-ahead.
The big man squared himself to the door, drew the ram back, paused for the briefest of moments, then drove it forward, using all his considerable mass and power. The heavy metal pipe tapered to a point beyond the handles, focusing all of its devastating power into an area no bigger than a quarter. Tank’s aim was perfect. The ram hit the door right beside the lock and the door exploded inward.
The pipes were in first. Sy button-hooked around the door frame, the shotgun tight to his shoulder, and cut left to the kitchen, while Mason pushed to the right, both bellowing, “Police! Don’t move!” Kris and Taft were right on their heels, guns following eyes as they swept the living room for threats.
Tank dropped the ram with a thunderous clang and Jack bolted through the doorway, driving to his right and through the living room to back up Mason in the bedroom hall. He was dimly aware of shouting as he ran, commands of “Police! Don’t move!” mixed with screams of terror and shouts of rage. He didn’t stop to look.
