by Frank Zafiro
“Nobody wins in a war like that. ‘Cept maybe five-oh.”
“Then leave me the fuck alone.”
“You’re forgetting one thing. Your boy smacked on my girl. Everyone knows it. You didn’t check your shit out before you sent him, so you at fault.” He pointed at Bracco. “And I am owed. That’s the fact.”
Bracco took a deep breath and let it out. “This is some small time bullshit,” he sighed. “Back in Jersey, some puttana getting her ass kicked wouldn’t even register.”
“Too bad you ain’t in Jersey.”
“You’re telling me. What the fuck you want to solve this?”
“An apology.”
“I’m real fucking sorry.”
“And you leave her be.”
“She’s fingering my guy.”
“You leave her be,” Rolo repeated.
“Ah, fuck.”
“And him,” Rolo added, jerking his thumb toward me.
Bracco looked at me as if he’d forgotten I was there. “No, this little prick and I have some things to work out.”
“Not anymore.”
“Besides, he’s been poking around my other business.”
“He won’t say shit.”
“Oh, I’m sure he won’t. Not when I’m finished with him.”
“I’ll vouch for him.”
“Why?”
“That’d be my business.”
Bracco stared at me, then shook his head again. “No, too many loose ends. I can’t do it.”
“He won’t say shit,” Rolo repeated. “Look, we had something go down last year. He coulda gave me up and saved himself jail time. ‘Stead, he dummied up and took his lumps.”
“Yeah? Last year, huh? How long did he do?”
“Fifteen days,” I said.
Bracco snorted. “Big deal. You don’t even smell like jail in that long.”
“He won’t say shit, “ Rolo said a third time, “because if he do, I will personally smoke his ass.”
Bracco sat, considering. Finally, he said, “So we’re quits on anything in play before this sit-down?”
I thought that was a strange way for him to say it, but between the two of them, the slang was pretty thick. They seemed to understand each other, but I hoped they were talking about the same thing. After all, my life was at stake.
Bracco was still staring at Rolo, his brows arched questioningly. The pimp nodded. “Completely.”
“And you’ll put word out to your people that we did good business?”
“’Course.”
“So I guess my boy is on his own?”
“Far as I can see.”
“That hardly seems fair.”
“Maybe he beat the rap.” Rolo shrugged. “If not, muscle in this town’s the easiest thing to find. You be good.”
Bracco nodded. “I suppose so.”
He stood. Rolo and I stood with him. He held out his hand and Rolo took it. They shook once, firmly. Then Bracco turned around, ignoring me completely, and walked away.
When he was out of earshot, Rolo muttered, “That motherfucker gonna be a problem someday.”
“Not today, though,” I offered.
He shook his head. “Nope. Not today. Today, we good.”
41
The taxi dropped me at my apartment. I went inside, locked the door behind me and crashed onto the bed. If I wasn’t asleep when I hit the mattress, it was only a second or two later.
I woke to pounding on my door. The apartment was dark. I flipped on a light and staggered through the small living room to my door. “Who is it?”
“Police! Open the door!”
I turned the deadbolt and twisted the knob. The door burst inward as if it had come alive. The first man through the door was dressed all in black, complete with a tactical helmet. He drove the palm of his left hand into my chest and stiff-armed me straight backward into the chair. His right hand held a pistol, which he pointed directly at me.
“Keep your hands where I can see them!”
I put my hands on my lap and didn’t move. Behind him, more black clad figures streamed into the apartment, hitching and lurching past the doorway to the bedroom and the bathroom. It only took thirty seconds before shouts of “clear” rang out through the apartment.
Ray Browning and Katie MacLeod trailed the SWAT entry team. Both wore raid vests, but had holstered their pistols.
“What’s this about, Ray?”
He ignored me, talking to the squad leader. “Send up the two uniforms holding the perimeter. I need one for the door and one to watch him while we search.”
“Search what?” I asked.
Browning pulled a small packet of paperwork folded length-wise from inside his vest. He dropped it on the small coffee table in front of me. “That’s a signed search warrant.”
I picked up the document and looked it over. He wasn’t bluffing. The warrant had been signed earlier in the day by Judge Petalski. Items to be seized, if found, including duct tape, tranquilizers, handguns or anything else linked to the deaths of Lawrence Tate or Lyle Beurkens.
“So now you believe Tate was murdered, too?”
Browning didn’t answer. He removed a pair of surgical gloves from his pocket and slipped them on.
“He didn’t break, huh?” I asked him. “Bassen? He didn’t break?”
Browning shook his head.
I frowned. “I thought you had more game than that, Ray. I’m disappointed.”
Browning squatted down next to the table so that we were eye to eye. “I am going to search your apartment, Kopriva,” he said, “and then you’re going to jail.”
“For what?”
“And don’t call me Ray,” Browning said. “I am a police detective with the RCPD. You can call me by that.”
“Oh, Christ.” I looked at Katie, but found her gaze to be even harder than Browning’s. “You people really do think I did it.”
A uniformed officer stood near my chair while Katie and Browning commenced their search. They were slow, and methodical. I mostly watched Katie while they tossed my living room and kitchen. She moved with confidence, like an athlete at the top of her game. It seemed strange to describe her actions as graceful, but they were. I felt a tinge of shame as she went through my things. I was ashamed at how modest my home was, and how far I’d fallen. I was ashamed that she would think so little of me that she’d believe I’d murdered one, perhaps two people. A lump rose in my throat. Over time, I slowly swallowed that lump, and it became a slow burning anger in the pit of my stomach.
I wondered what prompted them to come arrest me now.
When Katie moved to search my bedroom, the ashamed lump came back. Once upon a time, she’d shared my bed. Now she was in my bedroom, and she had to be thinking of that herself. What was she feeling? Regret? Sadness? Disgust?
She walked out of the room a few minutes later, holding my .45 with a pen through the trigger guard.
“Bingo,” she said, putting it on the kitchen table near where Browning was searching.
He looked at it and nodded to her. “Nice work.” Then he glanced over at me. “I trust you have a permit for that?”
“I don’t need one,” I said. “It’s in my home, and I’m not carrying it concealed. You might want to Google Washington State law.”
Browning smiled tightly. “That’s right. And your prior conviction is a misdemeanor, so you’re okay there, too.”
I bit my tongue.
Ten minutes later, Katie walked out of the bedroom again. In her left hand, she held a brown prescription bottle without a label. In her right was a half-used roll of duct tape.
“Those aren’t mine,” I said automatically.
Katie smiled knowingly. “Of course not.”
I thought about accusing her of planting them, but I knew she’d never do anything like that. Hardly anyone would, even back when I was on the job. Maybe an asshole like Stone, but that was about it.
So how’d they get there?
Th
e answer came immediately.
Bracco. Or Bassen, which was pretty much the same thing.
I thought back on his conversation with Rolo. There was one thing he said that seemed funny to me at the time, but now I understood.
We’re quits on anything in play before this sit-down?
The slick son of a bitch. He’d already planted the tape and the pills before he ever met with Rolo.
And now I was on the hook for all of it.
42
Getting booked into jail that first time had not been a fun experience. There’d been a couple of familiar faces on the jail staff in the intake area, for one thing. They all knew I’d been a police officer, because they cleared out the entire area before I was processed through booking. Then I spent the entire fifteen days in solitary.
I guess that sort of treatment is a one shot thing, because this time around, Browning walked me in without so much as a call ahead. We stood in the intake area, waiting for the booking officer, along with two other cops and some guy in his boxer shorts who reeked of alcohol. He mumbled about how somebody was a “bitch,” so it didn’t take much for me to guess he was in on a domestic violence charge.
I didn’t make eye contact with either of the other officers, but one of them kept staring at me. I saw him in my peripheral vision the entire time we waited our turn. Finally, I turned to him and returned his stare. That’s when I recognized him.
Jack Willow.
My gaze faltered. He’d been a rookie when I was on the job. And on one very bad day, he’d tried hard to get me to do the right thing, the smart thing, but I didn’t listen. I’d been too pissed off and too arrogant. The cost of my mistake had been high, to Amy Dugger and to the department. I’m sure that it had an impact on him. But I was too wrapped up in my own troubles to even consider that.
I realized then that I’d never apologized to him. He’d been right, and if I’d listened to him—
“Kopriva,” he said, shaking his head. “Wow. You turned out to be a real piece of shit, huh?”
I decided to forgo the apology.
The booking officer booked me in quickly and efficiently. When he asked Browning for the charge, the detective glanced at me and said, “Burglary. For now.”
The booking officer jotted down the charge, then asked me a slew of questions about my medical health. Was I addicted to any controlled substances? Was I suicidal?
Not anymore, I thought, but I answered no. I didn’t need any more problems.
Harrity had me out of jail within a few hours of the completion of my booking. Bail on property crimes is ridiculously low, and I couldn’t remember ever thinking that was a good thing, until now.
I walked out of the jail into the darkness of the parking lot with my possessions in a plastic bag. Harrity walked with me as far as the corner, then stopped.
“I’m parked over here,” he said, pointing.
I thought he might offer me a ride, but he stood there, saying nothing. That was when I realized we weren’t friends. I was a client, and you don’t let clients into your house or your car.
“I’m going to walk down the street and get some food,” I said. “Or some coffee.”
“All right. Good night, then.” He turned to walk away.
“Wait,” I said. He stopped and turned back to face me. “What happens now?” I asked.
“They’ll charge you,” he said. “They have to, now that they’ve booked you.”
“That’s the rule now?” That was a change from my time on the job.
“Not a real rule,” he said. “It’s what we call a face rule. They’ll charge you to save face. Because they arrested you.”
“That’s stupid.”
“I imagine the judge will see it the same way,” Harrity said, “when I make a motion for dismissal based upon insufficient probable cause.”
“They’re not liking Bassen for this murder anymore?”
Harrity shrugged. “I don’t know if they ever did. I know they brought him in, and they let him go.”
I scratched the stubble on my chin. “It’s him that put the tape and the pills in my apartment. It had to be.”
Harrity nodded noncommittally. “We can theorize all we want. The cops will charge off of evidence. I can attack the duct tape as long as they can’t prove it’s the same roll that was used on Beurkens. The pills are another matter. They didn’t book you for it, but that’s another felony they will charge. Illegal Possession of a Prescription Drug.”
I shook my head slowly. “I can’t believe this. All I did was try to help someone.”
Harrity didn’t reply.
“How serious?” I asked him. “Give it to me straight.”
“The murder charge won’t stick. I suppose they may take it to trial, but if they do and lose, they risk losing all of the corresponding charges. Juries get a little pissed when they think someone is being railroaded.”
“So I’m not going to be hung. Great news.”
“You wanted it straight.”
“No, you’re right. Tell me the rest.”
“The burglary is shaky. I think it’ll get pled to a trespass or they lose it at trial. Which really only leaves the pills. Have you ever had a prescription for these pills?”
“What are they again?”
“Lorazepam.”
I shook my head. “Mine were straight pain pills. I never told my doctors about anything going on inside my head, so they never knew to prescribe something like that.”
“Then they can push the felony possession if they want. I can attack the search warrant, the process, and maybe we get lucky. But that’s the charge that has the most danger for us.”
“And it’s a felony.”
“Yes, it is.”
I sighed. “Thank you.”
He nodded. “I’ll be in touch.”
I passed the first diner I came to and walked an extra five blocks to the second one. Along the way, I put my possessions back in my pockets and threw the plastic bag in the trash. People in this part of town see enough of the jailbird shuffle. I didn’t want to labeled as one of them.
I ate some breakfast, even though it was dinner time. The eggs were scrambled but runny and the bacon so limp that I wondered if it had been cooked at all, but I wolfed it down, along with my toast and two cups of coffee. I sat sipping the third cup, and thinking. I sat there long enough for the first two cups to go through me, so I got up and hit the restroom. Then I left a generous tip, paid my bill, and left.
I knew what I had to do.
43
I walked to the downtown library, and caught the door with twenty minutes left to closing. I only needed ten of those minutes on the computer. Washed up boxers don’t rate much Internet space. Then I caught a cab. The ride went quick. The cab zipped up Division at a few miles above the speed limit, and dropped me off in front of Angelo’s in less than fifteen minutes.
I drew in a deep breath to steady myself. The enticing odor of garlic bread floated on the air. I exhaled, and ignored the smell.
Inside, the restaurant was still moderately busy with late dinner traffic. A hostess tried to take my name, but I waved her away. “I’m here to see Joe,” I said. She stepped aside with a knowing look.
I decided not to go to the office. That would involve Bracco, too, which I wanted to avoid if I could. Instead, I took a seat at the bar and ordered a Kokanee. When the bartender brought the bottle, I waved him in close.
“Joe Bassen is supposed to meet me here,” I said.
The bartender, who looked like he should be playing college baseball, nodded, then pointed around the corner. “He’s usually in the office.”
“I know.”
The barkeep blinked. Then it registered. “Oh. Okay. I’ll take care of it.”
I raised my bottle in thanks, put a five on the bar and said, “Keep it.”
I spent some time people watching while I waited. It passed the time, but more important, it allowed me to make sure I saw Bassen coming.
I sat and watched the raucous men in the corner booth with their loud laughter and juvenile trash talk. The moody guy in the opposite corner, mulling over his drink, after the table of pretty women sent him packing. Those same pretty girls flipping their hair for the benefit of the guys in the corner. Except for one, who clearly had eyes for the bartender. Then there were the two girlfriends who were clearly not interested in anything except whatever important topic they were discussing, despite the best efforts of the guys in the corner to get their attention. After a while, the guys gave up and focused on the hair flippers, which I would have guessed should have been their first, best target.
I watched them all, each true to some aspect of human nature, and it reminded me how predictable, stupid and disgusting a race we were.
After forty minutes, Bassen finally appeared. I drained the last of my beer, now slightly warm, and stood to meet him.
He approached and stood uncomfortably close to me. He was a couple of inches taller and stared down at me with boxer’s pre-fight glare. “You got a lot of balls coming here. What the fuck do you want?”
“Not here,” I said. “Don’t we usually do our talking out back?” I gave him a sarcastic smile.
He smiled knowingly. Without a word, he turned and walked away. I followed. We went down the hall and through the kitchen. The same kitchen staff as before did the same stand up job of ignoring us as we walked past on our way to the back door.
I slipped my hand into my pocket.
The aroma of good food and hot bread gave way to the acrid smell of garbage as soon as he opened the door and stepped into the area next to the dumpsters. There was one on each side of the door, with some recycling containers next to them. A small wall enclosed three quarters of the area, leaving a single, large opening to serve as an exit.
He turned to face me. The light bulb over the top of the rear door filled the enclave with a glaring light. “All right,” he said. “You’re stupid enough to show your face here, so now I kick your ass again.” Then he noticed my hand in my pocket. His eyes narrowed. “You brought a fucking gun?” he snarled.
