Vice Enforcer

by S. A. Stovall

  Sometimes I wonder why Miles and I get along as well as we do.

  “So,” Jayden says, panning his gaze from my shoes to my head. “Now that you’re a jobless bum, I take it you’re Miles’s trophy wife? I don’t think he’s going to impress anyone with you by his side.”

  I stop myself from punching the guy, but my muscles tense from frustration. Then again, there’s a terrible seed of truth to the words that haunts me. It chills my anger.

  Lacy rolls her eyes with dramatic flair. “Why are you always so rude, Jayden?”

  “I think you look nice tonight,” Shannon says to me. “Your eye isn’t even gross-looking.”

  Before I can respond to any of them, Miles pulls on his dark gray blazer and motions to the front door. “Ready?” he says to me.

  I nod and grab my own jacket off the kitchen table, lamenting the fact I don’t have my shoulder holster or handgun. We head to the front door, and the kids follow us out. The rain and wind greet us with open arms, forcing Lacy, Shannon, and Jayden to rush across the yard to Ms. Timo’s without a second’s delay. Miles and I jog over to the car.

  “Can you drive?” he asks.

  I take the driver’s seat and slam the door once I’m situated. Miles tosses me the keys as he takes his seat. We’re both half-soaked from the brief moment it took us to reach the vehicle. I don’t care, but it ruins any sophistication I once had.

  It isn’t late, but the clouds and chill make it feel like the midnight hour. I drive through the suburban streets and deeper into Joliet, taking the back roads to avoid the hesitant motorists who can’t handle the weather. The Blue Shield Gala is in Noimore, a fair distance away, but I’m certain I’ll make it there in time.

  With the radio silent, I allow my thoughts to wander, directionless. For whatever reason, I think of my useless garden. Well, not the garden, but the tenacious radish. I’m half tempted to call Ms. Timo and ask her to look after the thing.

  But then I remember I’m thinking about a radish and how fucking stupid it is to be worried about it. I’m at a weird point in my life. I don’t like it.

  I don’t want to think of my failings.

  I glance over at Miles. He’s buried in the glow of his phone and reading like a madman.

  “Talk to me,” I demand.

  Miles tears himself away from his device and stares at me for a long moment. “Uh, well, Worldwide Decurion was founded in the 1950s. They do criminal analysis work for over fifty different countries.”

  Ah. That’s what he’s been reading. That’s what he’s been reading for the past week, actually. He can’t stop himself from looking into this, even after I told him I’ve lost my drive. Ever since I spoke with Shelby.

  “Their headquarters for this region wasn’t in operation for the last twenty years,” Miles continues, regardless of my lack of participation. “They only recently opened it back up, and it seems they’re focused on major metropolitan areas with high crime rates, like Chicago and Noimore.”

  “Hm.”

  Miles laughs, and in a voice that betrays his barely restrained enthusiasm, says, “Which makes sense, if you think about it. If their goal is to sell low-level criminals off to body purchasers, these kinds of cities have an abundance of them. And there aren’t many criminal advocacy groups, meaning most people aren’t concerned with their disappearance—a lot of people even celebrate it—and fellow criminals are less likely to turn to the police for help, given their history.”

  “You sound excited about this.”

  “I think they have to be the middleman we’re looking for. I’m certain of it.”

  “Speculation isn’t evidence.”

  “Yeah, but given what they do, they most likely give reports to their men on the streets. Ya know, files about the victims they’re supposed to pick up. I know Shelby told you he wanted physical proof of the people doing the drop-offs, but I think the real evidence is in the paperwork, so to speak. Maybe all we need to find is a guy willing to talk and show us everything.”

  “We’re not doing any of that,” I state.

  Miles rubs at his neck. “Why not?”

  “I told you. It’s not worth the risk. We’re just two guys. That’s not enough.”

  “Shelby thought one guy could get enough evidence to attract the attention of the authorities. I think he had the right idea. We don’t have to personally kill everyone in a criminal syndicate.”

  “I’m not a PI, and you’re not a PI,” I snap, gripping the steering wheel hard enough to strain my knuckles. “You’re in a police academy. Focus on that.”

  “Pierce?” he asks, his tone one of confusion. “What’s wrong?”

  What does he mean, what’s wrong? It’s obvious we can’t handle this—not while staying inside the law and doing everything else we need to do in life. Shelby gave up everything, basically, and he’s being hunted by the cops, fearing death around every corner. Miles doesn’t need that kind of life. And it’s my fault he’s even getting near it.

  “We shouldn’t be dealing with this,” I say.

  “But people are in danger and—”

  “I don’t care,” I interject. “All right? Fucking drop it. I’m not in the mood.”

  The silence grows sour. Miles remains quiet, however, and returns to his phone.

  Perhaps this is for the best. I don’t want to discuss this, and I don’t have anything substantial to replace it with. What am I even going to do in the future? Shelby was the only one who took me on as a PI. Maybe I’ll just have to wait until we move out of this wretched area.

  “Hey,” Miles says, drawing my attention back to him. “I’ve been meaning to ask you to lighten up on Jayden.”

  “Why?”

  “You’re harsh on him. Does he really need that?”

  “He held a gun to my head,” I intone, “and threw a couple cheap shots to my face when I was tied down. I’d say we aren’t yet even.”

  “That was a while ago,” Miles replies with a single nervous laugh.

  “It’s been less than a year.”

  “Well, he was also high, and not himself. He wouldn’t do that now.”

  “Tell me, does being high work as a defense in the courts?” I ask, my unrestrained sarcasm thick on every syllable. In my best mock-Jayden performance, I continue, “I’m sorry, Your Honor. I didn’t know what I was doing because I was high as fuck. Don’t be mad at me, be mad at wasted-me!”

  “Your aggression isn’t helping him, though. He’s still a kid.”

  “Is this my punishment for not talking about Worldwide Decurion? A discussion on how I should behave around Jayden?”

  “I want him to get better,” Miles says with a hint of anger. “You’re not helping. Can you at least try? It would mean a lot to me.”

  His terse tone says more than his words. I bite back the remainder of my comments and force an exhale. God, I want a cigarette. Why did I have to smoke them all? Hopefully they’ll have drinks at this event. Anything to dull reality.

  Again, the cab of our vehicle returns to silence. The soft beat of rain and the occasional passing car become a blanket of white noise that eases me back into my thoughts. This is supposed to be some sort of special event for law enforcement officials—one where Miles earned admittance through sheer study and hard work, an honor, really—yet here I am, destroying his mood with my mere presence.

  I’m such a jackass.

  Disgusted with my own attitude, I attempt to blank my mind and focus solely on driving. I swerve at the last minute when I spot a pothole, causing Miles to give me a sideways glance, but it’s not my fault half my vision is obstructed with a contact lens. It seems that no matter what I narrow my attention on, I don’t have a grasp on myself.

  Time flies when my thoughts are a void. Before I know it, I’m at the border of Noimore, staring at the miserable city from the outskirts. It doesn’t take long to cross the threshold.

  The streets of Noimore, busy and bustling at all times in the evening, become impossi
ble to pass once we near the Grand Noimore Waterfront Hotel. The spotlights, shining despite the rain, move back and forth, attracting attention for the world to see. Banners hung on the street posts read: A SALUTE TO ILLINOIS’S FINEST.

  Technically, I could have some valet chump park our car, but I dislike the idea of handing over my keys to anyone who isn’t in my direct circle of associates. Instead I turn down a narrow road, looking for a spot to park that isn’t taken.

  “We’re going to walk through the rain?” Miles asks.

  I can’t believe it’s still raining. Then again, it gets wet this time of year. “You want me to drop you off? I’ll find a place to park.”

  “Sure.”

  I turn the car back around, navigate the unruly traffic, and allow Miles to exit at the front door. It feels right, somehow, to let him go in without me. I’m out of place here.

  Before I allow my depression to catch me like quicksand, I instead admire the elegant decorations and lighting hung around the entrance of the hotel. The place is a palace—grandiose without crossing over to gaudy—styled with white, gold, and silver. The pillars that frame the double doors even have the state flag unfurled and hanging with tassels. The storm attempts to tarnish the view, but the magnificence is grand enough to withstand some water and bluster.

  I park a few streets down, in the parking lot of a Denny’s, and lock the vehicle before starting my trek. The water is unforgiving, and I’m soaked by the time I reach the first crosswalk. When I step down into the street, I half plunge into a puddle, soaking one shoe and sock. I exhale and continue on my way, too lost in detachment to care.

  By the time I reach the hotel, I’m cold and have my hands buried in my pockets. I walk up the steps to the doors, and a man in a bellhop uniform jumps into my path. He straightens his little square cap and gives me the once-over. Then he sneers.

  “Sir, the hotel is hosting a private event,” he says. “There’s another entrance on the far side, and—”

  “I’m here for the gala,” I say, practically growling.

  “Oh, I’m sorry. It’s very exclusive. Only those with a ticket can attend. We don’t sell them here.”

  I reach into my jacket and withdraw the small slip of paper Miles gave me. It’s an event ticket—four hundred dollars a pop, apparently—and I hand it to the overzealous bellhop.

  “Now get out of my way.” I push the scrawny guy off to the side as I enter the building. The light and warmth of the lobby hits me full force once the door closes. It’s glorious, but at the same time, I’m reminded how much I stand out.

  There are hundreds of people in attendance, each one fancier than the last. Elegant gowns, tuxedos, expensive suits, some in officer’s uniforms—and I’m wearing fifty pounds of water, plus a wrinkled suit. My hair, clinging to my face, dries at a slow pace. Droplets of water hit my shoes at regular intervals.

  I walk forward, a squish and squeak to my step, and I grit my teeth. There’s no way to avoid everyone while I search for Miles, but I do keep to the wall to minimize my presence. Champagne is passed around, glasses are clinked together, and conversation fills the air. It’s a nicer affair than I imagined, nicer than anything I’ve ever attended. No gun-toting thugs, no quick hits of meth and coke—a celebration grand without the dark taint that lingered over every party Big Man Vice ever threw.

  Miles isn’t far. I spot him within a group, men and women engaging him in pleasantries. I walk past a myriad of round tables covered in white cloth and duck behind a few pillars that act as support. I don’t want to walk up to him while he’s talking—no doubt he’ll introduce me as his boyfriend or some shit—so instead I wait nearby, hovering around the limited shadows and slicking back my hair with a free hand.

  “All your instructors speak highly of you,” a woman in a red evening gown says, her hand on Miles’s shoulder. “The moment you said your name, I knew who you were.”

  “That’s flattering,” Miles replies as he swirls his glass of champagne.

  A man joins the conversation with “Top of your class is nothing to sneer at. Have you spoken to any of the lieutenants? Most of those guys were top of their class. It shows you’re dedicated. Captains like that.” His bulky frame screams police officer, and I wouldn’t be surprised to hear he’s part of a Special Forces unit.

  Another man joins in, this one older than the last and rather portly. “I know three individuals who became chief of police. Each one excelled academically. You’re on the right path, my boy. If you keep this up, earn a few degrees, you could be enjoying a similar future.”

  “Th-thank you,” Miles says, his hand on the back of his neck. “I don’t know what I’ll be doing exactly, but I appreciate the kind words.”

  “Don’t you ever limit yourself. That’s the problem a lot of young people face. They think they need to put their careers on hold for other aspects of life. Get your career underway first, and then start a family. That’s a real piece of advice.”

  The bulky guy adds several yeah, yeahs to the statement before saying, “Most of these career cops have family members already on the force when they start, so it’s easy for them to stay focused and know what to do. Guys like us—with no family in law enforcement—we gotta work extra hard to stay on track. It’s worth it, though. And rewarding.”

  Miles nods. “I’m looking forward to it. A few of my instructors say they can get me a job as soon as I graduate.”

  “Most definitely. Every department wants the best of the best. Top of the class students are the cream of the crop, so to speak.”

  The older man with the gut rubs at his lower back. “Excuse me,” he says with a grunt. “I need to use the restroom.” He walks away, one leg stiff.

  I stare down at my soaked outfit. I’m not presentable in the least bit. I follow the other gentlemen to the restroom, intent on drying off physically, if need be, and catch him standing at the middle sink, washing his face.

  I grab a few paper towels and take the sink next to him, drying my hair and brushing off my jacket.

  “How’s it goin’?” I ask.

  The bathroom, while occupied with a few individuals, is quiet enough for private conversation. It’s also large enough for forty people, which helps too.

  “Very well,” the man replies, splashing water across his cheeks.

  “I heard what you said back there,” I say, cutting to the chase. “Did you say all those things just to puff the kid up?”

  The man smiles. “Who, Miles? Oh, no. I meant it. The last chief of police for Rockford is a close friend of mine. He was top of his class in the police academy, earned a bachelor’s degree while working as a beat cop, got a master’s degree—on the dean’s list, to boot—and became a captain ten years into his career, at the age of thirty. His advance knew no bounds. Three years later he was chief of police and held that title for close to two decades.”

  “Isn’t that position rather political?” I ask as I faux wash my hands.

  “It can get political in some cities, yes. But Miles is a polite and good-humored young man. That often wins over more people than you think.”

  Oh, I know.

  “Interesting,” I say. “Thanks for the chat.”

  I exit the bathroom while the guy responds. I don’t hear a thing, but I don’t care either.

  Miles’s success doesn’t surprise me. I knew he was a smart kid the first night I spent any time with him. Maybe I didn’t understand how far his cleverness extended, since his meteoric strides have caught me off guard. Everyone wants to bat their eyes and compliment him—which means they think he’s going to be somebody one day. Somebody important.

  When I return, he’s still engaged in conversation, but with fewer people. I take my place at his side, interrupting all discussion with my presence.

  Miles turns and looks me over. “Pierce? How far away did you park? You’re soaked.”

  “It wasn’t far,” I state.

  The woman in a red dress holds out a hand. “I’m Sergea
nt Cabana. Nice to meet you.”

  I shake her hand. It’s a sturdy thing—and I appreciate that—but she’s still a cop. I say nothing.

  “Pierce and I are dating,” Miles says, making up for my lack of communication.

  “Oh,” Sergeant Cabana replies, her voice betraying some displeasure brought about by the information. “Well, you two might want to find your seats and get settled, then. It was nice speaking to you.”

  “Yes. It was nice speaking with you too.”

  She turns and walks off, leaving Miles and me “alone” in a sea of people. Miles takes my arm and then jerks away his hand, his gaze locked on to my clothes as he wipes his palm off on his slacks.

  “Did you fall into the swimming pool before you got here?” he quips.

  “It was the rain,” I say.

  Miles waits for further explanation. I don’t offer it.

  “Our seats are over here,” he eventually says as he motions to a table. “We’re going to eat, and then they’re going to hand out awards and give a few speeches.”

  “How long does this go?”

  “It’s scheduled to go to midnight.”

  “Hm.”

  “Is that okay?”

  “It’s fine.”

  I walk over with Miles and take my seat at the table. We have assigned seating, with names at every chair. I’m “Miles’s Guest.” A few others have taken their place as well, and all three of them regard Miles with wide eyes and smiles.

  “There he is!” the first man says, his voice loud and distinct. “First in our class!”

  “Hello, Barry,” Miles says. “No need to shout.”

  “Everyone should know, though. It was tough fought. More than two hundred people in the academy this year too. That’s more than the last five years in a row.”

  “Yeah, but still. It’s no big deal.”

  Barry laughs and then turns back to his conversation with the other two people at our table. I don’t have any need or desire to chat with anyone else, so I ignore their prattling and give my full attention to Miles.