A Killing Night mf-4

by Jonathon King

  Only then, after he made the guy cry, did he back away and come around and get back in the car as cool and unruffled as though he'd just checked on a locked door during some night patrol.

  "Jesus, Kyle," she'd said as he started the car. "What was that about?"

  "I don't let street turds like that insult my girl," he said, looking over at her, giving her that closed-mouth smile.

  They had sex that afternoon at her apartment in a straight- backed kitchen chair and when he'd dropped his belt and the butt of that gun hit the floor she'd felt it thump in her heart and Christ, there was that guilt thing again. But she couldn't help herself for getting off on the excitement and twinge of danger that the guy carried around with him. What girl didn't like that page of fantasy that had her man standing up for her honor?

  So why was she still lying in bed knowing, not just thinking, but knowing, that it wasn't going to work out and she was going to have to go through that whole high school-like breakup thing that never changed no matter how old you got. She watched the lines of sunlight hit the corner of her room like bars of paint and with each minute shear off at a new angle. Scared to tell him? Yeah, maybe. That whole thing with him disappearing out of Kim's when those other cops came in. The punch he'd bruised her with last night. Did he hit her high on the thigh because he knew it wouldn't show? That people wouldn't ask her what happened? They learn about that, cops did, didn't they? Sure, he'd snapped at her before, but he always apologized, always told her how sorry he was and how much he really, really cared about her. But what had once been flattering and endearing was starting to make her feel wary, like one of Daddy's stewing rabbits out in the pens in the barn. They'd get petted and fed and cooed at for being so cute and fluffy but every older kid knew what happened to stewing rabbits when it was time. Kyle was waiting for something. And there was no way she was going to wait and see what it was.

  CHAPTER 18

  I was up in north West Palm Beach, three blocks from the hotel where Rodrigo was staying, waiting for him to meet me under the huge poinciana near the corner of Twelfth and Wright streets. The "flame tree" Rodrigo called it, because it was the time of year when the poincianas bloomed and the trees' blossoms were thick and the color of fire feeding off an unlimited supply of clean, dry wood.

  I parked my truck in the shade of the tree's canopy and watched as the earliest blossoms, already leached of their life, fell on my hood like splotches of paint. The soiled orange color made me think of the scar on Rodrigo's face and then there he was across the street. He was walking with his eyes down, hands in his pockets in the unobtrusive but wary manner that people other than beat cops will never notice.

  "Mr. Max," he said, climbing into the cab.

  "Rodrigo, Kumusta ka?"

  "OK," he said and immediately, wanting to please, pulled a sheet of ruled notebook paper from his jacket pocket and smoothed it on his thigh before handing it to me.

  "For Mr. Manchester. Names of others hurt in the fire," he said and his eyes looked up through the windshield into the blossoms and he blew a short whoof of air from his nose at the irony of meeting under an umbrella of flame to discuss the matter at hand.

  "But they are afraid," he said. "For the jobs they are afraid to talk to you, Mr. Max."

  "Has anyone been scaring them, Rodrigo? Has there been anyone talking about organizing some kind of labor union or threatening you not to?"

  The small man averted his eyes and his short, thick fingers went nervous.

  "There is always talk. But only in whispers, Mr. Max. And we are only a few here now and we know it takes numbers, this union."

  I reached into the space behind his seat and took the manila folder Billy had given me and showed him the DOC photos of the Hix brothers.

  "Have you seen these men? Talking with the workers or just hanging around?"

  He studied the faces, holding them side by side.

  "This is the one," he finally said, fluttering the picture of David Hix, whose jaw I had broken with the top of my head.

  "He is big, like you. Yes, Mr. Max?"

  "Yeah, he's big. Where?"

  "He big here." The little Filipino patted his stomach with both hands. "Fat, here."

  "No, no," I said, unable to keep from smiling. "Where did you see him?"

  "I see him at the food stand. Not talk to nobody. Sit and watch. Just watch."

  I wondered if Hix had seen me with Rodrigo and his friend the week before, if that had been enough to put him on to me by someone who had hired him to look big and ugly in front of the workers.

  "I watch him follow the, the, what you say?" Rodrigo said, putting his fingers to his thumb and finger to his mouth.

  "Smokers," I said. "He followed the guys when they went for a smoke?"

  "Yes, to the alley."

  Bat Man liked the alleys.

  "And he hit someone?"

  "No hit. Push and threaten. With huh! Huh! Mouth not work."

  My cell phone rang and I took the folder and replaced it while answering.

  "Yeah?"

  "Freeman? It's O'Shea."

  "Don't tell me you're already in jail."

  "No. Not yet. I took a few days off work and I'm trying to lay low. Did you ask your man Manchester about me? I mean, I don't have a lot of cash, Freeman, but I'd feel a hell of a lot better if I had some back-up on this."

  Rodrigo was staring out at the tree shade, trying to be invisible. Unlike in the new American cell phone society, conversations between individuals were still considered private events in his world.

  "I talked to him. You can call his number if they arrest you," I said to O'Shea.

  "Yeah?"

  "Yeah. But he doesn't do this thing often, O'Shea. So it's a favor to me and since you've got some time, you might be able to help me to help you."

  "Name it."

  "Meet me in the parking lot in front of Big Louie's in the Gateway Shopping Center at eight," I said.

  "All right. You, ah, need me to be carrying?"

  "Not that kind of help," I said.

  "I've got a carry permit, for the security job," he said, getting defensive.

  "You really think it's a good idea to be carrying a gun when you're waiting for the sheriff's office to pick you up on an arrest warrant?"

  He didn't answer and Rodrigo was cutting an occasional look at me. He knew enough English to be uncomfortable with what he was overhearing.

  "Just meet me, Colin. I'll give you what you need to carry."

  I punched off the phone and apologized to Rodrigo, who now had his hands folded on his thighs, holding his nervous fingers down as if he were trying to keep a small bird from fluttering off his lap.

  "OK. If you see the big man again, stay away," I said. "And try to call me or Mr. Manchester. All right?"

  He was nodding like a bobble-head doll.

  "OK, Mr. Max. OK."

  I smiled at him and told him to be careful and he nearly sprung out of the seat when he popped the door. I watched him walk away with the same gait, but using a different route. I sat staring out at the empty lot in front of me and two more spent blossoms of flame hit with a wet smack on my hood and I wondered if I was doing O'Shea or anyone else any favors with the next plan I'd concocted. I took US Highway 1 to Fort Lauderdale. In South Florida US 1 is boringly homogeneous. Driving south you can pass through a dozen municipalities and never tell when the string of car dealerships, strip shopping centers, pastel business buildings and gas stations fall into another jurisdiction. It matters little to anyone except maybe a speeder whose city P.D. pursuers will actually give up the chase when he crosses into another town's turf. The sameness of the landscape and the parochial attitudes of the cops are a dichotomy for a road named US 1, which Billy the historian points out stands for Unified System 1 and not United States 1.

  I'd called ahead and stopped at Billy's office and Allie had one of the firm's cell phones with a digital camera on it waiting. I then went on to Fort Lauderdale and swung down to t
he beach and parked near the Parrot Lounge and walked out to the sand. In the salt air and purpling sky I sat on the low beachfront wall and tried to figure out the cell phone camera. I took a shot of the Holiday Inn by mistake. I got a nice shot of a couple walking their pit bull on a silver chain leash. A young woman came off the sand and propped one foot on the wall near me and bent to wipe the grains from her ankles and calves. While faking a call I covertly took a photo of her. She looked up once at me and smiled politely and I said something about refinancing a mortgage to my nonexistent phone caller. Hey, it was a test.

  By sundown I had the camera figured out. I attempted a couple of low-light shots that were adequate. When the darkness deepened I tried to capture "the disappearing blue." But even the digital quality couldn't do justice to the mystery of the melding colors and at seven thirty I walked back to my truck and drove back across the intracoastal bridge. At the shopping center I parked in the lot, facing Kim's, and did a quick eyeball. Plenty of cars. Busy over at the Thai restaurant across the way. Pickup orders coming out of Big Louie's. And a patrol car parked nearly in the same spot as last time. My angle was better, but still I could only see a silhouette of the officer's head. He appeared to have a phone to one ear and he was facing the other way. A knuckle to metal rap on my truck bed fender made me jump. O'Shea was in my side mirror and then at my window.

  "How's it hangin', Freeman?"

  "Take a seat, O'Shea," I told him, reaching over to pop the lock on the passenger door.

  I had not seen him pull in. Maybe he had walked. I realized I still didn't know where he lived or what kind of vehicle he drove. And still I was taking his side in a possible string of homicides. Maybe I was the one who wasn't being a very thorough cop.

  O'Shea got in and settled. He had a three-day beard and was wearing jeans and a dark windbreaker. He had on a Phillies baseball cap and black soft-soled shoes, like an umpire would wear. I reached back behind the seat and brought out a thermos. He looked through the windows.

  "What, you're on surveillance?" he said, trying to guess ahead.

  "Yeah, in a way," I said, pouring him a cup. He blew across the top before taking a sip. I was matching his unfocused look outside, waiting, like I was at the edge of some cliff, unsure how deep the water was if I jumped.

  "I was up in Philly for a couple of days," I finally said, still not looking at him. "I talked with your ex. She wanted me to tell you she wished you the best and didn't think you had anything to do with this or with the Faith Hamlin deal."

  He didn't react, just kept looking forward, but I could see blue veins at the side of his forehead starting to bulge. He was holding something in. But after a few beats of silence, I knew it was going to stay there.

  "You going to give me any kind of inside on the grocery store clerk missing up there?"

  "No. I'm not," he said, and the veins pulsed back down.

  "Christ, Colin. You can carry the old loyalty to the blue brotherhood a little too far, you know," I said.

  "It's not loyalty to them," was all he said and then put the cup to his mouth and went quiet again.

  "Look, Colin. I don't think you're in on these disappearances. Maybe I'm missing something, because IA in Philly and Richards down here are on you like stink. But I'm on your side on this, man. For some reason, I'm trusting you."

  He stayed quiet but then turned and faced me.

  "You said you needed me to help you help me," O'Shea said. "That kinda gave it away, Freeman. So let's get to it."

  "Right."

  I took out the cell phone and handed it to him.

  "You know how to use the camera in one of these?"

  He flipped the set open, looked at the face and turned it over once.

  "Yeah."

  "Yeah?" I said, thinking of my hour-long self-lesson.

  "Yeah. What? You think I've been living in a fuckin' cave down here, Freeman?" Or a swamp, I thought, but didn't respond.

  "But they don't have any range to 'em," he said. "Pretty useless for covert work."

  "This is close-up," I said. "That's why I need you to do it."

  I told him about my visit to Kim's and as much detail as I could about the man I'd seen slipping out the back way. I didn't mention Richards's presence.

  "I'm thinking drug dealer," I said. "He and the new girl have something going. If he's got women bartenders selling over the counter for him, maybe they get caught up in the action, try to skim him or some shit. If he's ruthless enough, maybe he gets rid of the ones that he's partnering up with."

  "I don't know, Freeman. I been in and out of these places for a couple of years now and never saw it," O'Shea said.

  "Right. And you never told any of those bartenders you were an ex-cop?"

  "Well, it does have a ring to it, you know."

  "And they don't pass that around to their coworkers who might avoid doing business when you're in the place?"

  "OK. OK. I get the point," he said and slipped the camera phone into his pocket.

  "Like I said, six-foot, dark hair, clean-cut. Probably likes the same seat at the bar, down at the far end and he's probably alone."

  "Down under the TV?" O'Shea said.

  I looked at him.

  "I know the layout."

  "I figured," I said, still watching him. "Just hang at that end and leave the seat open. See if he comes in," I said.

  "You want me to hit him up for some coke or ecstasy or what?"

  "Like someone's going to buy first time from you, O'Shea."

  "Hey, I could have been all right undercover," he said defensively.

  I let that comment sit.

  "Just the photo, all right?" I said and took fifty dollars out of my shirt pocket. "Stay till eleven or so and meet me back out here." He took the cash without a word, got out and walked, unhurried, toward Kim's.

  I refilled my cup from the thermos, took a sip and when I looked over the rim I realized that all during our conversation I had been unconsciously staring out at a patrol car. The guy hadn't moved for nearly an hour. Nice work if you can get it, I thought. But I had to admit there had been some slow rainy nights on the Charlie shift when I'd huddled in the dry stairwell of the First Pennsylvania Bank entrance to the Broad Street Subway and lost myself in a paperback when I was supposed to be walking a downtown beat. But this guy's head had never even turned around to scan the rest of the lot. He was awake. I watched him put what now I was sure was a cell phone to his ear several times. But he seemed to only be focused on the side window of Kim's. For a paranoid minute I thought maybe I'd sent O'Shea into the middle of some kind of sting operation. Then I saw the cop snap his hand away from his ear. His brake lights flashed as he started the engine and he jerked the patrol car out of the space in reverse. His headlights popped on but not the blue light bar and he dropped the transmission into drive and pulled a screeching hole shot out of the lot. He gunned it past Kim's and a couple coming out of the Thai place had to jump back between two cars to keep from getting hit.

  "Christ," I said out loud to myself. "I hope that B amp;E is real important, pal." And I reflexively memorized the number of his car that was stenciled on the left rear corner of the trunk.

  I took another sip of coffee and checked my rear mirrors all around. It could be the only excitement of the night. This time the rap of O'Shea's knuckles on my truck woke me out of a half-sleep. My eyes may even have been open, but I could not recall what I was looking at other than the pale glow of neon and lamplight out in front of me. I unlocked the door and checked my watch as he got in. Twelve fifteen.

  "Sleeping on the job will get you a write-up, Freeman."

  I let the comment pass. O'Shea settled into the seat, letting his body relax and deflate as if he had just done a hard shift down on the docks of the Delaware. He'd dragged in the odor of cigarette smoke and the sweet smell of whiskey came off his breath when he spoke. But his eyes were still clear and he would have convinced a highway patrolman that he was just tired. Some guys just had tha
t capacity.

  "Nobody that fits your mark in there tonight," he said, taking the cell phone out of his pocket. "Few old regulars, a couple I recognized from before. Some kids that I eavesdropped on who were from some alternative newspaper staff and your typical football experts blattin' on about how they would run the Dolphins' offense like they were on fuckin' talk radio. Bartender is new, though."

  "Yeah," I said. "Marci."

  "Good-looking little blonde. Marci," he said, looking away from me out into the night.

  "But if she's running drugs, it's over the phone, 'cause she was on the damn thing every fifteen. Speaking of."

  He held the cell out to me.

  "Keep it," I said. "I want you to go back in tomorrow. Maybe stay till closing. It's a Saturday night and maybe something will be different."

  He shrugged and pocketed the phone.

  "You say so, boss," he said and sat silent, making no move to get out.

  "You want me to drop you someplace?"

  "No, I'm good. I'm just wondering, Freeman, if it's such a great idea for me to be hanging out in one place night after night, you know. Considering the circumstances."

  Both of us were looking straight out over the lot now, showing no interest in each other's faces.

  "You thinking about running, Colin?" I said.

  "Shit, no."

  "If Richards is going to grab you up, she'll find you anyway. You know the drill."

  "Too fucking well," he said, popping the handle and stepping out.

  "And if she gets you here, I'm your alibi," I said. "I'm trusting you."

  "Yeah."

  He closed the door and I watched him walk in the direction of the movie theater and disappear around the corner.

  CHAPTER 19

  That was it. She'd hung up on him and that was just over the fucking line.

  Damn it, he thought. He'd had hopes for this one. He might even have been in love with her. Of course, he thought, he could have been in love with the others, too. But, shit. Why couldn't they just do what he asked them to do instead of turning on him? He knew Marci needed him. He could see it in her eyes when he told her how beautiful she was and when he had to protect her like that time with the jerk boys, Thing One and Thing Two, on the street that day. She was a little freaked out by that, he could tell when he got back into the car and her mouth was hanging open: "Jesus, Kyle. What did you do to those guys?"