by S. M. Nolan
The high-powered flashes from OCF cameras flared around him, “Any signs of gang activity?”
“Not so far's we can tell, sir,” Bryce admitted. “Place doesn't seem to be a usual haunt.”
Russell watched the OCFs step away to allow their photographer closer to the body, “Get reports from the local businesses. Ask if they've seen a man fitting this description in the last day. Pull any external surveillance from the surrounding buildings and find out if he was with anybody.”
Bryce scribbled into the pad and turned away from the scene. Russell stepped for the body, crouched beside the photographer. The victim lay slumped against the dumpster, head on his right shoulder, tattooed arms at his sides, palm up. His hands were ashen black, boots caked with mud. It was obvious he'd come from outside the alley, probably chased there.
The more Russell saw, the less a drug-deal theory fit. Most gang-deals ending this way involved the victim face down, shot dead after trying to run, or otherwise drug into cover and left where they lie once cold.
Gang activity was out of place. Moreover, such monikers were usually Homicide write-offs. Russell wasn't ready to write this one off yet.
He spoke to an OCF beside him, “Two days since the last rain?”
The man answered with a tenor, “Sounds right.”
He bounced an idea off him, “Long time to be caked up with mud.”
“Maybe, but the temp's keeping things half frozen at night, 'n cold during the day. Might not've evaporated yet.”
“Must've been running for a while then.” He turned his head to the gray-haired man, “Any mud in the alley way?”
“No sir, just on his shoes.”
Russell's eyes narrowed. He spoke at a languid pace, “Have your boys test the residue on his hands and cast his shoes. Get someone to search any nearby greenery. If there's anything to help there, we could use it.”
The OCF photographer nodded, “Sure thing.”
Russell eased upward, “When OCF's ready, ship the body to the P-D's coroner with a rush-order. I'd like to get a jump on this A-SAP.”
The man stood beside him, “We'll send him now. They'll do an analysis on the body and blood. The department'll let you know in a few hours. B-C might take 'til tomorrow, but I'll make sure it's rushed.”
“Thank you.” He turned with a final thought, “Tell Bryce to search for the foot-prints. Send one of your guys with though—you know, so he doesn't step in them.”
The OCF chuckled and agreed. Russell headed for the road. In a way the comment was a joke, but then again, he'd seen enough young cops stumble into evidence and entirely corrupt or destroy a crime scene. The kid was smart, sure, but he was still new.
Russell reached the street, sighed at the knot still strangely prevalent in his gut. He edged back around the ambulance and between the squad cars. Amid the din and gusts of traffic, he slid into his Impala and ignited the engine. His free-hand dialed a cell-phone as he steered into morning traffic.
The tone sounded twice before his department head answered with a low baritone, “Switzer.”
“Chuck,” Russell said, eyes on the road.
“Yeah, what've you got, Russ?”
“Got time for coffee?” He asked, stomach rumbling.
“Sure.”
“I'll be there in ten.”
He ended the call and made a left from 308 onto Union. It ran perpendicular past the alley for the heart of Oakton. All around the city teemed with life. People scurried about along lines of various shops interspersed by private restaurants, fast-food chains, and locally-owned apartments.
Downtown's center drew nearer with a shifted landscape. Large office-buildings, franchised banks, international businesses, and expensive hotels dominated the scenes. With them, the people changed too; from street clothes to suits and something called casual-formal—an expression a man perpetually in jeans, sneakers, and a windbreaker never understood.
As his destination neared, the juxtaposition of the few small diners within the franchised district rang vaguely nostalgic. He smiled at the thought, parallel-parked behind Chuck's black Silverado, then stepped out to edge between bumpers for “Ma's Sport's Cafe.”
Beside the door, Switzer's large frame broadened beyond Russell's own, lean figure. It would've seemed menacing to a passersby, whom might peg him for a thug long before a decorated OPD veteran. Russell chuckled in thought, stepped to open the door ahead of Chuck.
They took their usual places beside a window of the retro-50's diner. Windowed booths lined the walls across from a long counter separating the dining room from the kitchen. A cashier there—a young, twenty-something woman—leaned in at a low conversation with a waitress, inaudible over the din of metal on ceramic and conversing patrons.
The scent of frying foods wafted over as Switzer adjusted his jacket, stretched his arms across the back of his booth-seat. Russell unzipped his windbreaker, readjusted the gun at his hip. A middle-aged, brunette waitress stepped up to take their order. Patty looked like a caricature of a bygone era in a pink and red, polka dot, maid's outfit and bright, red Lipstick.
She smiled, “Usual, boys?”
Russell looked to Switzer whom nodded with a scrunched face over a yawn. Russell mimed it. Patty gave a short bow and turned away.
“So what's it looking like?” Switzer asked.
“Bleak, man. Stiff in the alley today? Something was off. OCF's all over it, but…” Russell hesitated. The knot tightened. “Something's not right.”
Chuck's brow rose with curiosity, “Wud'ya mean, Rus?”
Russell half-winced to keep his mind from running away. He leaned back, “OCF's thinking it's just another random. Even the rookie pegged it as a bad deal.”
Chuck nodded, “But it seems like something more.”
“Maybe.” He mentally examined the sensation in his gut, mused aloud, “OCF's not gonna' come right out and say it's a deal, but they all seemed to think so too.”
Patty returned with coffee, interrupted him, “Eggs cookin', bacon's frying. You boys need anything else?”
“No thanks, hon,” Switzer said with a wide, toothy smile. Patty returned the smile and turned away.
Russell kept himself calm despite a well-spring of disdain, “It's too common, Chuck. Unless we see an immediate connection, everyone wants to be done with it—leave the investigative work out. That's what Homicide does nowadays. We leave things unfinished, half-solved.” He sighed heavily, at a loss, “But this? I can't do it with this. Something just doesn't feel right.”
Chuck frowned, “In the gut, you mean.” He nodded. “Rus, you gotta' accept some things won't get solved. Hell, most shit that comes 'cross my desk is days or weeks old. There's no trail left to go cold by then. Shit's just frozen out.”
He managed his words with difficulty, “I accept that, Chuck. That's why I'm not a cold-caser. But this is different.”
Chuck understood with a quick once-over of Russell's posture, “I get it.”
Russell explained with a distant look, “When I was deloyed, I felt like I'd started to sense those IEDs. Like, I could feel them or something. It got to the point where I started trusting my gut more than dogs or mine detectors. I know I saved lives 'cause of it, and now I'm thinking I feel the plastique again.”
Chuck was silent. He considered Russell's words while Patty returned with two steaming plates, “One regular. One extra crispy. Want a refill?” She tilted the carafe at Russell. He thanked her as she poured, “Anything else?”
“That's it for now, hon,” Chuck said with another toothy smile.
Patty rushed off as Chuck sank back into his thoughts. He tore the paper ring off his silverware and dug in. “Well Rus,” he said between chews. “I'll give you a week. That's all I can afford. You're a high priority—the best, but I trust you.”
Russell nodded with gratitude, took a swig from his coffee, “So, what do you think then?”
“Well,” Chuck paused to shovel a forkful of eggs into his mouth
. He sloshed it down with a drink, “If you're smelling plastique, you'd better find a way to disarm the damned thing before it all goes to shit.”
Russell looked sideways out the window, “Yeah… right.”
3.
Mr. Ryusaki
September 28th
12:15 PM
57th Street Train Station
Maggie stepped from the El onto the platform of the 57th Street Station. She carried a large bag of warm food at her side, faded in and out of a crowd surging and filtering through the train. Steam blanketed the air from mouths that spoke into cell phones or at one another in a steady gurgle. All were summarily overwhelmed by the departing train.
The cacophony faded as the mass divided for various staircases. Maggie streamed along one crowd to the street, hesitated at the curb for a line of cars. The mass further divided until she crossed the street ahead with only a few, random people left. They dissipated through the parking lot as she crossed it.
She zipped her wool coat closed against gathering wind, passed several rundown buildings bearing fluorescent-green stickers. She walked these streets every day, sometimes three or four times, and could pace it out blindly.
Her feet propelled her across the cracked asphalt of 55th's crosswalk. It broke to the high-curb and lines of shops of the busy side-street. Always less hectic than 51st was 53rd street's crosswalk. Beyond it, the main road of 51st swelled the horizon with tall buildings.
Smog and exhaust fought their way into Maggie's nostrils at the last cross-walk as the wind shifted. It tainted them to the door of Get Inked mid-way up the block and along on the left side.
Oakton's bustling downtown area was anything but pleasant, but Maggie found comfort in the chaotic obscurity it allowed. She could blend into shadows or crowds, disappear if necessary. It was a comforting thought for an introvert.
She pulled open the shop's door, found Mandy at the counter, scribbling on a sheet of paper. Maggie made for the back-room with a single word, “Food.”
Mandy jumped up to follow, “Cool. Hey, I called about the ink. It's on back-order but we'll discounted for the wait.”
Maggie sighed, the distributor had been a problem in the past. She stepped into the back room, set the bag on a lone table in its center, and pulled Styrofoam boxes from it.
The mouth-watering scent of Mexican-food perforated the air as Maggie shuffled the boxes, “We'll have to call International.”
“Can you do it?” Mandy asked, distraught. “I hate dealing with them. The one chick never stops talking. I call to order stuff, not chat.”
Maggie rolled her eyes, “Fine, but you owe me.”
“Oh, thank god!”
Maggie poured the last of the bag's contents onto the table. A cascade of plastic forks and napkins spilled out.
“Where's Ash?”
“Across the street,” Mandy said with a watering mouth.
“You eat. I'll watch the door.”
Mandy swallowed wetly, “Don't have to tell me twice.”
Maggie chuckled and made for the counter. Ashley appeared with a chime. Cold air forced its way in. Street sounds accompanied the crackle of a large “John's Drugstore” bag.
She set it on the counter beside Maggie, growled from her throat, “You know, Sandy's getting on my damn nerves.”
“Here we go.”
Ashley exhaled toxins, “I swear, we probably keep that place in business, and the bitch is always going on about us running out in the middle of the day to get things.”
Maggie leaned on her elbows with sarcastic, sleepy eyes, “Uh-huh.”
“I just wanna' come right out and say, “bitch, we're keeping you paid.” Christ, Jack's the owner and he loves us to death—”
“It helps we discount his ink.”
“Yeah, but he owns the damn place. Fuck!” She pulled at her hair.
“Ash—”
“I know, I know—”
“Food,” Maggie said with an emphatic nod at the back room.
“Right, food. Okay. I'll be back in a few.”
Maggie stared into the distance with a fatigue she had to fight to warm herself. She huddled over the counter, half in a sleep-state.
An errant chime above the door jostled her awake. Reality honed to a well-dressed Asian man. Curiosity and intrigue overtook Maggie when an older, Asian man entered with a zen-like visage.
The younger man straightened a cuff-link beneath his suit jacket, stepped forward to introduce himself as Lu-Yen Chen-Lee, his companion as Mr. Ryusaki.
“Mr. Ryusaki does not speak English,” Chen-Lee said. “But would like some work done. The other establishments have asked him to schedule an appointment. Unfortunately, we do not have the time, and can only do it now. Is this possible?”
Maggie's tired mind took a moment to catch up, “Yeah—I mean, it depends. How large is the design?”
Chen-Lee spoke Japanese to Ryusaki and the white-haired old man stepped forward with a lively youthfulness. He unfolded a sheet of paper, set it on the counter top to explain in Japanese.
His wispy, white mustache and long hair bucked at the syllables that Chen-Lee translated over, “This on both forearms in black ink, to begin immediately. He is a wealthy man and will pay well.”
Maggie examined the design; a seemingly random arrangement of strange characters were sketched on the paper. The characters were basic, hardly describable as anything specific; the first, an incomplete oval, had lines through it and was followed by a trapezoid whose top was drawn up and into a square.
The latter figure repeated twice more through-out the design, but was immediately followed by a triangle connected to a small, mound-like half-circle with three vertical lines inside. The next symbol, that Maggie could only describe as an open, “little dipper” with a curved handle, had three diagonal lines in its spoon and preceded the repeating trapezoid.
Another mound-like triangle came next, this time with an asterisk inside the triangle. A ladle-like cup without its handle was followed by another trapezoid. A sole asterisk was second to last. Then finally, a diamond with its top and bottom vertices extended to a height that matched the diamond's width.
Regardless of peculiarity, the design was simplistic; solid black, with clear-cut forms. Maggie couldn't understand why any artist worth their ink would turn down an admittedly wealthy client.
Whatever. Their loss, her rent-check.
Maggie's eyes darted between the men and the sheet, “I can do it, but it might take three or four hours.”
A short exchange between Chen-Lee and Ryusaki ended with the younger man speaking, “That will be satisfactory. And as to the fee?”
“Oh, uh,” Maggie said, thinking. “Normally this size runs three-to-three-fifty, but it's on both arms, so seven hundred. I can knock off a hundred since it's your first time here, and you're going to sit so long though. So, six hundred.”
Chen-Lee translated, Ryusaki listened. He bowed his head in satisfaction and Chen-Lee spoke, “It will be satisfactory.”
“Alright. Give me a few minutes to ready the stencil.”
Chen-Lee bowed his head. Ryusaki stood motionless. His brown, almond-shaped eyes half-closed in contentment. They followed Maggie back and forth as she readied the stencil and paperwork.
She refocused on the men while the stencil printed, “This is a standard release of liability.” She pointed to the sheet with a pen as Chen-Lee translated, “Most people don't read it, but if you have any issues just call and we'll work it out with you. If you could sign your name we'll be ready to get to work.”
Ryusaki nodded and took the pen to sign in character script. She thanked him and slid the paper across the counter, then retrieved the stencil.
Ashley appeared, more calm than before, “Need some help?”
“I got it,” Maggie said. She set the printed stencil down, “I just want to double check it's correct before I print a second.”
Chen-Lee translated and Ryusaki nodded with satisfaction.
>
“Ah, Japanese,” Ashley said. “I love the language.”
“Ash, this is Lu-Yen Chen-Lee, and Mr. Ryusaki,” Maggie said.
Ashley bowed respectfully to Mr. Ryusaki, who chuckled and bowed back. Chen-Lee extended his hand and Ashley shook it. Maggie awaited the last stencil with a curious compulsion to start work.
“Are you from Japan, Mr. Chen-Lee?” Ashley asked.
“No,” he answered shortly. “Los Angeles. Mr. Ryusaki is here on business—an associate of my father's. He requested I accompany Mr. Ryusaki. I must admit however, I never expected to be in such an—” He paused to gaze around with an air of superiority. “Interesting place.”
Ashley reared up, “What's that supposed to mean?”
“Ash,” Maggie warned.
“Did you—”
“Not worth it,” Maggie bit.
Ryusaki chuckled at the exchange. Ashley cooled at the old man's laughter. She breathed to shift gears and ease the tension. “I find your… remark, amusing. There's a famous tattooist from Los Angeles, named Chen-Lee.”
“My sister,” he grumbled.
Maggie's eyes widened. Ashley's jaw fell open, “She-La Chen-Lee's your sister!?”
He scowled, “The black sheep. A disappointing girl. She chose a deviant lifestyle over the family business.”
“Wait, what?” Ashley blankly. “Deviant? Dude, she's been in more magazines than I can count.”
“My sister's a childish girl.”
Maggie anticipated Ashley's rise and cringed.
“Yeah, and what's so great about you, huh? You're better 'cause she inks skin? That the same for us? Where's your talent? What good are—”
“Ash!” Maggie barked, her Bristolian in full-effect. “Enough.”
Ashley huffed. The angered lilt of Maggie's homeland forced her from the counter. “Fine, fuck it. I'm going out for a smoke.”
She moved for a jacket on the back counter, stormed out the front door. Maggie glared at her the whole way out. She apologized with a crumpled face, “I'm really sorry. Really. She's… hot-headed.”
Ryusaki began to laugh, spoke in Japanese. Chen-Lee translated with only the faintest trace of a scowl, “He says, do not mind Mr. Chen-Lee, he is… he is a… horse's ass.”
