Demonic Double Cross

by B Branin

  * * * * *

  I spent the majority of the day waiting to be police escorted five yards.

  As you can probably guess, I’m familiar with a jail cell and even more familiar with a questioning room which was exactly where the cops escorted me to. If you’ve ever seen the “interrogation room” on a cop show, you’ve got the basic idea of what lies inside. One uncomfortable chair for me to occupy, a cheap wooden desk between me and the cops and if you’re lucky, a mirror to your side that was actually a one-way glass.

  A few years back I had been arrested in Egypt and they had a mirror to the side that was just that, a mirror. Whoever had installed it had forgotten to cover the studs that held the mirror up with putty and paint. At the time, it had been extremely funny…but that was before the beatings started.

  “I don’t think I got the breath to go over all the charges being brought up against you.” Sighed the fat, older cop with a file in front of him. Let’s call him Good Cop because that’s the role he was playing.

  “Don’t waste your breath,” The young, crew-cut officer next to him growled as he stood over me, “This piece of shit ain’t worth it. Let’s just throw him in a cell and let him rot.”

  If you’re familiar with the game, we are calling the younger officer Bad Cop.

  “Calm down.” Good Cop said tiredly, opening up the file before him and began reading, “We have two charges of assault, attempted murder, trespassing, investigating without a license and once we get that little girl who you harassed to calm down, sexual harassment.”

  “And that’s not even including what Dr. Livingstone is going to add,” Bad Cop hissed, pointing a meaty finger at me, “Whatever you did, fucker, it put her in a coma. The EMT says she can come around at any time and the first thing she is going to see is me, waiting to take her statement.”

  Leaning back in my uncomfortable chair, I cleared my throat and summoned up my collective experiences on the law and those who enforce it.

  “Fellas,” I began, addressing both of them, “You’ve ran my prints by now. You know that I’ve been questioned and detained by police in every state at least four times. That should tell you that I am good, very good, at getting out of trouble.”

  I ignored Bad Cop, not because he was more of a prick than his act let on but because he was the rookie. Good Cop was calling the shots, even though he was just going through the motions and counting down the days to retirement. Just a man in a hard profession that he probably regretted every day.

  “A public defender with ten minutes of experience will be able to tear you guys apart at trial. Ellen, that’s the girl I was visiting at the hospital, won’t testify against me. Not only because the sexual harassment charge is bullshit but she is unable to leave her room. That’s not even taking in to account she’s doped up on enough painkillers to make her testimony worthless.” I said, then addressed the next charge, “The wounds I inflicted on that orderly weren’t life threatening and I have a strong case for self-defense. The deadbeat is going to be fired and probably sent to detox once the EMT’s finish with him. Then the hospital is going to bury the fact they hired a druggie so deep you won’t be able to get to it with a backhoe, making him useless in court.”

  Good Cop held the files up to his face, probably to cover a smile. To be honest, he probably didn’t give a shit about me or anything else other than his pension and ESPN classic. He was just doing this to show the rookie Bad Cop the ropes. Bad Cop on the other hand, looked livid. I was probably the first career criminal he’s ever interrogated and he didn’t like it.

  “Even the trespassing will be hard to stick since the hospital will be trying to avoid a string of negligent lawsuits if word gets out I waltzed right in there and raised hell.” I continued on, drumming my fingers on the desk more to annoy Bad Cop than anything, “So what you got on me is investigating without a license and I know several lawyers who would be happy to clear up that little misconception. So how about you take me back to my cell and figure out a bail price so we can all get on with our lives?”

  Bad Cop looked like he was about to have a stroke, his face was flushing extremely red as he gritted his teeth. Good Cop was shaking silently with laughter. Apparently he found me quite amusing and a little more engaging than the usual scum he put the screws to.

  “You’re forgetting Dr. Livingstone!” Bad Cop shouted, slamming his fist down on the table.

  “Dr. Livingstone isn’t going to press charges.” A new voice announced from the doorway. A handsome, mature man entered the room, his pin-stripped suit bulging slightly on the left where his gun was concealed.

  “Detective.” Good Cop said with a neutral nod.

  “The security tapes confirm his story,” The Detective explained briskly, “The orderly attacked Mr. Broker then Dr. Livingstone injected herself with some unknown substance that doesn’t show up in a toxicology report. We have no case. Please allow me to apologize to Mr. Broker while you two get us some coffee.”

  Good Cop silently agreed, standing up and walking out of the room. As he passed the Detective he tensed ever so slightly. Obviously he knew something about the Detective that Bad Cop didn’t. The rookie just stormed out of the room but only after favoring me with another angry glare.

  After we were alone, the Detective shut the door behind him and took a seat across from me.

  “I thought only police grunts and judges could be bought off?” I commented casually.

  He smiled, the type of smile that showed complete comfort in this conversation and atmosphere.

  “You’d be surprised how pathetic our pension fund is, so I’m always looking for ways to fatten up my nest egg.” The Detective replied with a charming smile, “What gave me away? From one professional to another?”

  “Well, you have a little too much authority over the grunts and the old cop tensed up as he past you. He has heard something about you that he doesn’t like.” I answered and then added with my own smile, “And you’re wearing an Armani suit. No civil servant can afford those clothes.”

  The Detective nodded, apparently admiring my attention to detail. I don’t blame him. If I were in his shoes, I’d be looking for constructional criticism as well. Anything to keep me from losing my edge and ending up in a federal prison.

  “Well you are probably wondering why Zotkin is pulling the strings to get you off.” The Detective casually went along, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a VHS tape, “He already had me run down to evidence and get the security tape from the hospital. I didn’t watch it all, figuring the less I knew the better.”

  Reaching across the table I grabbed the tape and slowly began pulling out the film, crumpling it up as I asked, “Why not keep it? Y’know for blackmail material? Zotkin and I aren’t that close of friends.”

  The Detective shrugged, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a cigarette and a lighter. He offered me one and I accepted.

  “The Russian probably figures it’d be easier just to kill you than to bother with extortion.” The Detective laughed, “But enough about that. Zotkin has a message for you.”

  I groaned. Taking the cigarette I slowly started using the embers to burn holes into the film that I strung out with swift tugs. The black tape was eaten away quickly and produced the scent of burning plastic that the cigarettes barely masked. The nauseating smell was nothing compared to the sickness I felt over the thought of the ruski slob giving me orders.

  “He says you were right,” The Detective passed along, “His boys hit the street and it’s true. There is another player in the drug game. His pushers and peddlers are coming up real short in tributes and that’s got him worried. He said whoever you’re trying to find, do it. Fast.”

  The Detective stood and reached out with his hand. I handed him the empty shell of the security tape. He slipped the plastic case into his jacket and headed for the door.

  “You’re free to go, Mr. Broker.” He announced then added, “There are two goons waiting outside for you. Probably
the Russian’s thugs waiting to pass along whatever information he didn’t trust to a cop…even a dirty cop.”

  Another twenty minutes was wasted collecting all of the stuff that had been taken from me. Surprisingly my switchblade had been left with my personal affects. In this state a switchblade or any spring-loaded knife was illegal if the blade exceeded two inches. Apparently the Detective had enough pull to make sure the folks in the evidence room turned a blind eye to some of the goods they confiscated. Zotkin knew how to pick a winner, that was for sure. Glancing at my phone I noticed that during my day spent in jail (the majority of that time sleeping) I had missed several calls.

  Too preoccupied to call anyone back, I stepped out of the police station and into the falling dusk of the city. The air was thick with the exhaust from the evening commute and the streets were clogged with folks trying to get home after a long day at work. It all seemed so…normal. Everyone was so blissfully ignorant! Could I rejoin the ranks of these oblivious saps and forget about the bizarre happenings I had suffered through this week?

  With enough hard liquor, I’m sure it was possible.

  I didn’t get four steps from the police station before the two goons that the Detective had spoken of approached me. Surprisingly one of them was the cold blooded sergeant of Zotkin’s operation, the individual I simply referred to as Tall Man. His presence meant that whatever info Zotkin had dug up was too important to trust with just any street hoodlum under his thumb.

  “We need to talk.” Tall Man said in a manner that made it sound suspiciously like a command.

  After a resigned sigh, I nodded. Even if I had a shotgun in my hands, I wouldn’t have argued with Tall Man. He was a bona-fide professional, not to mention a stone cold killer. Now if Kurt or West had been at my side, I would have spit in his face and told him I had other things to do. But at this moment I was alone and therefore yellowbellied.

  Tall Man and stereotypical thug companion walked me over to a car where Tall Man slipped into the driver’s seat and motioned for me to get into the passenger seat. After I climbed into the car, the thug took the seat directly behind me. Cool and calculated. If Tall Man gave the word, his partner would shoot me in the back and there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it.

  What’s the world coming to when a humble conman and a crime syndicate enforcer couldn’t have a civil conversation without the implied threat of murder?

  “Mr. Zotkin assures you there is no need to worry about the murder accusations any longer.” Tall Man stated in his emotionless, flat voice, “Our man who confessed to the murder suffered a fatal heart attack while in jail. As far as the public and police are concerned, the murder is solved.”

  A fatal heart attack? My ass. More likely Zotkin ordered another inmate or even a guard to smother the poor bastard with a pillow while he slept. I didn’t feel any guilt or remorse about the man dying while taking the fall for the murder I’d been framed for. Zotkin may have plenty of pawns but he didn’t waste them despite street trash being a dime a dozen. Whoever had taken the fall had got on Zotkin’s bad side and was going to die either way.

  At least now he had served a purpose in death: My freedom.

  “We have also spent some time looking into the possibility of the competitor you brought to Mr. Zotkin’s attention.” Tall Man continued, “It seems there might be someone out there cutting into our action. Someone good.”

  My ears perked up and I began listening carefully. Chances are the street trash who had combed docks looking for information didn’t bring back anything I didn’t already know. Still I let Tall Man continue, partly because I was proud my hunch about the Daughters of All being drug peddlers had paid off but mostly because even the tiniest nugget of knowledge could turn the tide in my favor.

  Or so I hoped.

  “The local dealers and distributors are coming up short. Not much but enough to make us notice.” Tall Man explained, “This was after we factored in whatever it is these…associates skim off the top.”

  Whoa. That’s impressive. Tall Man wasn’t just some hired gun but actually knew how the underworld business game worked. Someone, somewhere, was always dipping into profits. Especially if that business so happened to dabble in illegal goods. There was always going to be a small percentage of money being pocketed when it shouldn’t be, it’s just how things worked... No amount of death threats or beatings would change that.

  “Our missing percentages are coming from the younger crowds no longer being interested in buying.” Tall Man continued, “We are getting no new customers and are losing old ones. If we go by what the dealers say, this has been happening for several months now.”

  In my lifetime I have worked with plenty of lowdown characters. Murderers, fellow conmen, gangsters, thugs, junkies and even an ex-bigamist once when I was strapped for cash in Wyoming. In order to get my hands on quick cash, I had built up immunity to shady characters but Tall Man here was making me sick. He spoke of getting drugs to youths as if he owned a candy store and they needed sweets. I realized then and there, that to Tall Man, there was only profit and loss. Nothing in between. There were no people, there were no victims, and there was only money.

  Sociopath 101.

  “We have nothing solid as of yet,” Tall Man told me as he reached into his jacket pocket, “But we do have a collection of rumors. It is said that there is a new drug out there and it’s addictive. Extremely addictive.”

  Okay, wasn’t expecting that but let’s face it, I was getting used to being blindsided by the unexpected. At the beginning of this weird week, I had theorized that the Daughters of All were a front to a new drug cartel that might be in for a turf war with Zotkin…well, now I knew that their resume was much longer. They were freaks who kept rooms full of comatose teens, had an army of junkies at their beck and call and could summon up bizarre manifestations.

  Oh, and now they were apparently amateur chemists.

  Great.

  “A new drug?” I asked, doing my best to keep the surprise out of my voice.

  I bet I had a better chance of beating a polygraph machine than successfully lying to Tall Man.

  “Yes. It’s obviously circulating in the younger crowds and having a negative effect on our own distributors.” Tall Man spoke as if he were reading a profit margin report, “This drug is being called Soul Scream. It is rumored to give users a spiritual experience as well as a high that can compete with heroine.”

  I rubbed my temple in a vain attempt to silence a headache I could feel coming on.

  “So pretty much this cult has somehow made psychedelic shrooms addictive?” I summed up, “That’s really killing your business? Really? Come on! That’s a load of horseshit!”

  Though his face was as placid as ever, Tall Man’s eye brow twitched ever so slightly. Apparently he was just as surprised at my knowledge of the drug peddling business as I was at his knowledge of it. Whether this made him view me in a more positive or negative light I had no idea.

  “True…a new drug couldn’t cause such a dive in profits but this one is different. It’s not the introduction of the drug that has caused us to lose customers, it’s the effect of the drug itself.” Tall Man explained grudgingly, “This information comes from unreliable sources but many claim that the effects of Soul Scream are so utterly addictive they nearly drive its users insane…or kill them outright.”

  “Bullshit! If that were the case we’d have piles of bodies lying in the street!” I said with a healthy portion of snide.

  “Not if someone was collecting those bodies.” Tall Man replied smoothly.

  I thought of those teens hidden underneath Hell Scratch. Good lord, is that what happens when you take this drug? Why didn’t I check them for track marks?! I could understand if Soul Scream was providing the Daughters of All with an army of loyal junkies but…could a drug really help the cult collect those teenagers like they had at the club?

  “It has nothing to do with me.” I told Tall Man flatly, “If there is a c
ompetitor selling a new drug than this is Zotkin’s affair. Follow the paper trail and take out whoever is cutting into your action.”

  I did my best to keep a neutral look on my face but excitement was bubbling deep inside me. This was it! My ticket out of this nightmare! With Zotkin loosing his thugs on the cult, they’ll take care of the Daughters of All for me!

  My exhilaration was squashed as a brief look of annoyance flickered across Tall Man’s face.

  “There is no paper trail.” Tall Man said at last.

  “No one is that good-”

  “It’s not a matter of hiding the money. There is no paper trail. Those who produce Soul Scream are not selling it. They are giving it away.” Tall Man said his voice cold as ever but his eyes became intense, “It’s no ploy either. They are giving Soul Scream away in ridiculous sums. Every addict or curious youth can just ask for the drug and they receive it.”

  Well that explained why the junkies were so damn loyal to the cult, even going as far as trying to kill me. They would want to protect the goose that lays the golden egg, or in this case, the golden syringe. A shiver went up my spine as I tried to imagine an army of feral addicts willing to do whatever the Daughters of All demanded just so they could receive another taste of the narcotics they were pushing.

  “The Daughters of All are a front for whoever is pushing the drugs.” I told Tall Man, “I know they operated out of a club known as the Hell Scratch.”

  With a neutral nod, Tall Man replied, “I will look into it. I trust you will as well.”

  With his icy eyes locked on me, I realized that his comment was not a request but an order. There were a hundred different responses balancing on the tip of my tongue but none I would use. For now, our goals were the same: stop the Daughters of All.

  “Anything else you’d like to tell us?” Tall Man asked, his cold eyes seemed to peer directly into my soul, “Like what happened at the hospital?”

  “I was following a lead.” I shrugged, “Look into a Dr. Salina Livingstone. She is involved with the cult. Perhaps a recruiter.”

  This response seemed to satisfy Tall Man. I exited the car and he gave a simple nod before driving away. I must admit, I liked that level of professionalism. No bland threats, cryptic warnings or chest pounding to get his point across. Tall Man and I were on the same page and that was that. Such expertise might have been refreshing if it hadn’t come from a sociopathic mobster.

  Considering the events that had lead me to the police station, I was feeling pretty thirsty. I needed a strong drink as I mulled over what I had learned from Livingstone. It had cost me a night in jail (not to mention nearly killing me) but at least I now had a solid lead on the orchestrator of the Daughters of All. The name of their leader that I was now gunning for.

  I just wish that name didn’t belong to Fiona’s dead sister.

  * * * * *