Well, thought Stoker, smiling a smile which was both sad but handsome, that just meant more bodies on the streets of the Big Apple (New York) – more bodies with the death warrant signed in blood by Mr F.Stoker Esq (Esquire).
He strolled the three blocks to station, stopping only to throw some money into the face a homeless white man who had clearly been sent to war and had come back half a man. Half a man – because his mind was gone, and he could only babble and nod at the passers-by. Also in this case he was more literally half a man because he was missing two limbs – one limb each, from each of his sets of arms and legs.
Stoker had a hell of a lot of respect for men who joined the army. (He reserved a healthy scepticism for women who signed up – but accepted that some did so not only to cause a scene.) He had only had two damn choices at the age of eighteen. One was to join the army, and the other was to join the cops. It all came down to the same damn thing. Stoker couldn’t sit behind a desk.
He humbly (and incorrectly) used to think he had only ever been good at two damn things. Fighting, and lovemaking. And being a soldier, stuck out in some desert camp, only gave him one of those options. Unless… and that was unthinkable. So he joined the damn cops.
A big sign above his head read ‘New York Police Station’, telling the reader where we are. Stoker nodded respectfully at the sign and walked up the short flight of steps into the main reception.
He nodded coolly at Molly on his way in to the station, her sweet smile giving little away. Molly McGee had a mop of thick red hair dangling over a clean white face dirtied only by freckles. Stoker briefly remembered the evening a couple of years ago, when after maybe one or two too many beakers of gin, himself and Molly tore each other’s clothes off, before engaging in full sex on his sofa.
‘Yes…’ He thought in his head, ‘that was a hell of a night.’
His eyes almost seemed to say it as he winked.
Her eyes almost seemed to reply: ‘Yes, it was a hell of a night. Why did you never call?’
His eyes replied ‘Because I’m damaged goods, lady. Over the hill, out of control, and dangerous’.
By this time, eye contact had been broken by the lift doors closing – but had she had the time to reply with her eyes, she would have simply said:
‘I don’t care, Frank. I don’t care worth a dime…’… with her eyes.
His daydream was broken by the booming voice of Chief Kowalski.
‘GET IN HERE STOKER… NOW’ He roared; lionesque. It was enough to reverse the flow of blood into his genitals that the previous daydream had prompted.
Stoker stopped to pour himself a cup of coffee on his way, just to push the Chief’s buttons. Humorously, he actually had to press some buttons to obtain this tea.
Disgustingly, robots now provide over 80% of all the service we receive. Some of you reading this, particularly those of you under thirty, or from South East Asia, will think this a good thing. You are wrong, and fools. Can a robot write a book? Can a robot make a car? Can a robot make love to a female robot? Or a woman?
Anyway, Josef Kowalski was a white man of Polish-American origin. He was far from the stereotypical Police Chief you might imagine – he was kind and gentle – more likely to quote the book ‘The Bible’ than the book ‘The Book’ that is often referred to in police procedural dramas. He had been a friend, a mentor and a father figure to Stoker for close to twenty years. Foreshadowingly, Stoker would be deeply upset if anything ever happened to Josef.
He rarely raised his voice – and his tone this morning put Stoker on edge.
‘Jesus Chief, what’s the fuss – Mary not been putting out?’ Stoker joked, with typical humour.
‘I’ll have no blasphemy in my presence Frank – you know that, and you know me better than to mention Mary in this office’, Kowalski replied. Suddenly his leathery, wrinkled, nauseating face turned all mischievous, like a schoolboy who has just joined a satanic cult. ‘Have you got a damned camera in my bedroom or something?’
Stoker hooted with laughter, and the Chief hooted too, because the joke was very funny and served to display the strength of the relationship between the two men.
Just as quick as they went unserious, Kowalski’s facial features went serious. ‘What the heck happened up on Bridge Street last weekend Frank? You practically turned a curb side turf war into World War 3. I got the commissioner throwing a fit here, and I had the mayor on the phone at 6 this morning. I’m too old for this nonsense now’.
Stoker cast his mind back. The following chapter will serve as a description of that recollection.
Chapter 5.
Eight days earlier, he had interrupted a gang scuffle between ‘Los Muertos’, the up and coming Puerto Rican crew who had been making moves in the South Side of the city, and the ‘Jimmy Crew’ – a ruthless gang of Yardies who resented Los Muertos encroaching on their territory.
Stoker had heard that there was to be a fist fight between the four fists of the two best men of the crews, and that the winning crew (this being determined by the two fists of the better of the two best men entering the fight) would run a particularly profitable stretch of road – Bridge Street. Stoker remembered laughing when he heard about this from Rooster, his homeless informer with whom he enjoyed a respectful alliance.
It amazed him how organised and decisive these street gangs could be. When he found himself wading through paperwork after each arrest, it damn near drove him to distraction. These kids could change the nature of a street just through a fist fight. Frank Stoker could respect that, in a way. He had been fighting his whole life – since he could remember. Hell, it was easier than talking – and usually more effective.
But one thing pissed Stoker off about this particular fist fight (the one between the best men of the two crews to determine the better man and, in turn, the better crew) – both gangs used kids to run drugs. And if Stoker had his way – nobody would be running Bridge St, except the NYPD Boys in Blue – New York’s finest PD (Police Department).
Stoker had arrived at the scene with a few minutes to spare. Los Muertos had sent up a mammoth Mexican brawler. He was well over 6 foot – about Stoker’s height – and had tattoos over every part of his body. His entire face was tattooed with a grinning skull. The skull was painted with the image of a face of a fearsome Mexican man. The effect may sound confusing but it really did look menacing.
Stoker recognised him – Chichi Marquez was a former heavyweight boxing prodigy who was enlisted by the Mexican drug cartels as an enforcer. He had since come north of the border to work as a fighter-for-hire. Stoker sized him up with an easy disinterest.
Marquez had black hair, olive skin, normal legs, muscled arms, quite a big chin, a short nose, and bad breath.
He didn’t recognise the Yardie’s man. He was an African American man of about fifty. He had long dreadlocked hair, clearly in need of a wash. He was short, but stocky, a rippling ball of muscle, and as Marquez postured in the same way a homosexual (or straight) man might do before a theatre performance, this guy just stood still, staring into the monster’s eyes.
Stoker instinctively nodded his head. He had a hunch that this guy was dangerous. The Yardie caught his eye and nodded back. Amazing how mutual respect between alpha males transcends gang affiliations.
Then, almost out of nowhere - ‘WHO IS THIS CRACKER WHITE BOY?!’ Screamed one of the Yardies, racistly, whilst pointing at Stoker.
‘Easy now, friend, I’ve just come to watch the main event’, replied Stoker, coolly. He took a couple of steps closer to the circle formed around the two men.
‘YOU GONNA GET YO’SELF KILLED, BOY!’ screamed the same Yardie, clearly the leader. The capital letters prove he was shouting really rather loudly.
‘Maybe. But hear me out.’ Stoker replied, ice cold. ‘I have a proposition for you’.
‘Who do you think you being, coming up in here and making ‘prop-o-sitions’, fool!’
‘I’m Frank Stoker, a police cop, and I’ve put abo
ut a dozen of your boys in the prison – and about half that in the ground.’
A deathly silence filled the street like a gospel choir filling church pews. It is probably obvious that the silence had befallened because the two gangs were shocked at the content and tone of Stoker’s words.
Stoker realised he had the crowd. ‘And here is my prop-o-sition. I turn this little heads up into a threesome. If your ugly, sweaty Mexican wins, Los Muertos takes Bridge Street. If this dreadlocked Rasta here wins, it falls to the Jimmy Crew. But if I win, you both clear out of Bridge Street for good, and leave the NYPD to look after it.’
‘And what if we tell you to fuck off, white boy?’ One of the Puerto Ricans challenged. ‘We’re carving up this street, and the table is set for two, not three’.
‘Then I call reinforcements right now, and we got a whole load of dead gangbangers and cops on our hands.’ Stoker returned the punk’s stare, because he wasn’t afraid of nobody.
Five minutes later, Stoker was in the circle facing the two men. He had removed his supple leather trenchcoat and raised his fists to his face. He was fairly sure what was going to happen. It did.
They both rushed him at once. Marquez was known for being capable of killing with a single blow, so Stoker’s primary aim was avoiding that. He took a step back and let Marquez’s first haymaker arch harmlessly below him. Another step back and the follow up uppercut glanced his cheek. Stoker felt the surge of raw power.
WHOOSH.
By this time the Yardie was on him, grabbing him round the waist in a devastating bear hug. Stoker drove his right elbow twice into the top of the Yardie’s head:
POP. POP.
…but it made no noticeable difference.
This guy was tough.
Marquez had seen his opportunity and threw a flurry of fists – right, left, right, right, left, right, left, right - into Stoker’s head and throat. He was sent flying backwards.
Master fistmen turn disadvantages into advantages. Simple street alchemy, but twice as difficult.
Stoker was losing his balance, but drove his left knee into the belly of the Rasta as he fell, and felt a sickening crunch of ribs breaking like dry mud under some kid’s galoshes. Finally the bear hug was broken, and Stoker twisted as he fell, rolling onto his side and then immediately up onto two feet.
It is in these milliseconds that fights are won and lost. He had a fraction of a split second to make a decision– and he made it even quicker than that.
He unleashed a brutal scissor kick into the side of the head of the Rasta – something he had not done for many years, but hell, this party called for a special celebration.
The Rasta fell to one knee and for a few seconds Stoker was in a one-on-one fight. Marquez only had one style – attack – and Stoker let him come in for the kill. He deflected a huge left past his forehead and jabbed Marquez above the eye, drawing blood. Stoker followed with a crashing left hook into the jaw of the giant.
Many years earlier, Stoker’s brother had named his left fist ‘Old Faithful’, for it never failed to knock out his opponent.
Sure enough, Marquez crumpled to the floor, his jawbone being where the back of his throat used to be.
Stoker didn’t have time to breathe before the Rasta was upon him, windmilling vicious punches like a child’s whirling top.
The Rasta was one of the quickest and most brutal fighters Stoker had ever encountered - even in spite of his cracked ribs.
He was so tough, that it took almost a minute before Stoker had knocked him out cold. That’s right – one minute!
Stoker had to bide his time but eventually caught the Rasta in the throat with a tight right elbow. Once he was reeling backwards, Stoker simply hoisted him in the air and brought him down with a sickening thud onto a stack of broken bricks.
Some of the Puerto Ricans had left in disgrace by then, but the leader of the Jimmy Crew walked up to Stoker and raised his fist in a ball. Stoker recognised this and returned the fist bump with an easy coolness that belied his white skin.
‘Dis white boy can box, no doubt. Shit, you want Bridge Street so bad, you take it. Word.’
In Stoker’s experience, Puerto Rican gangs were less easily trusted in these situations. Their leader, a short, young man with khaki coloured skin, snarled. ‘Fine. The honky wins the street, but I still want to see some Yardie blood spilt.’
Before Stoker could say anything, the two gangs were on top of each other in a maelstrom of combat – fist to fist – a fisting orgy so relentless that even Stoker was powerless to stop it.
Blood was business to these people, and bad blood often led to bad business. The fight was as brutal as it was vicious, perhaps even more so. Stoker covered up and ducked what punches he could see, though he was not being targeted. His ivory skin stuck out like a sore thumb amongst the ebony and copper skins of the fist fighters.
He heard sirens, and several police cars screamed round the corner. A few of the fighters realised and ran, but still more were so engrossed that they remained locked in combat until they were greeted with a hail of tasers, rubber bullets and real bullets.
Stoker dissolved into a nearby alley, unseen.
A quick stock check. Two bruised fists. Possible broken rib and a deep scratch on his face. One sleeping 300 pound Mexican mob enforcer and one sleeping Jamaican war machine. Twenty cops descending on a melee, armed to the teeth with tasers.
All in all, a normal night for Frank Stoker on the beat in the Big Apple.
He ran his fingers through his long, dark hair.
Time to clock off.
Chapter 6.
Stoker stopped remembering the memory.
He replied to the chief:
‘What happened last week on Bridge Street?’ He paused, before continuing: ‘I don’t know chief, can’t say I was there?
Kowalski smiled.
‘Reports from the few punks we could get to talk vary, but they all agree on one thing. A giant, good looking, white man who talked coolly and fought hard, with long black hair and a long, elegant black leather trenchcoat, who knocked out two of their best men in a two on one fist fight. Can you think of anybody who fits that description Frank?’
The chief was suggesting that Frank might have been there.
‘I don’t know anything about that, Chief. But I do happen to know that we’ve picked up nobody dealing drugs on Bridge Street over the past seven damn days – must be the first clean week in ten years on that row.’
‘Funny how this has played out, huh Frank?’ The Chief had his tongue firmly thrust into the soft cavity of his damp inner cheek.
‘That’s right chief.’ Stoker smiled.
Kowalski stood and stretched. He couldn’t reprimand Frank. Both men knew what had happened, and both were happy. Frank was like a surrogate son to him, and though his methods were unconventional, his results spoke for themselves. And if they could speak, they would say that they were very positive results.
‘Anyway Frank, we got a new problem. The mayor’s daughter was attacked last night on a train. Seems like someone intercepted but between you and me, this was an attempted hit, and we think it was ordered by Thomas Magnelli.’
‘The notorious New York gangster?’ Stoker just wanted clarification.
‘Yes, him’ detailed Kowalski, helpfully.
‘What would he want with the mayor’s daughter?’
‘Well with a sick bastard like Magnelli – it’ll either be about money or power. Either way, seems Miss Crawford just became the number 1 priority for the NYPD Police Department.’
‘Why not call The Bureau in? This is a federal case’ asked Stoker.
‘Because I can’t prove any of this, and only a handful of people can know. If any of this information gets out, the case falls down.’
‘That makes sense’ replied Stoker, because it did. ‘What’s our play from here?’
‘We put a couple of guys on Crawford’s daughter. You speak to Crawford to understand why the most dange
rous man in the country is trying to get to him.’
‘We’re not in a good position Chief. We’re sitting around with our thumbs up each other’s asses and all the time this broad could be picked off by that sicko…’ Stoker never got to finish that sentence.
‘You’re talking like a man with a personal interest in this dame, Frank.’ The words hung in the air like a piñata at some kid’s birthday party.
‘What are you getting at, Joe?’
‘You know damn well what I’m getting at, Stoker’, replied Kowalski.
‘No I don’t Joe – explain yourself.’
The game of verbal chess caused the atmosphere to turn electric. The conversation was tense and dramatic.
‘Dammit Stoker – you ever pull a stunt like you did last night on that train and not call it in – I’ll have your badge. You nearly killed one of them. The other two are walking… just.’
Stoker replied coolly: ‘I’m surprised two of them are on their feet. Tougher than they looked.’
Kowalski turned the colour of a beetroot. ‘This is no goddamn game, Stoker. You’re a cop, not a vigilante. You think I’m the only one who recognised you from that freeze frame image on the front page of the New York Times Newspaper? If the Commissioner sees it, your career is over. What if Magnelli works it out – you’d be a walking dead man walking. And Von Klatt is already making noises about it.’
‘Better a dead man walking than an old man moaning’, replied Stoker, smiling. Stoker was not an arrogant man, but even he had to laugh at his own well placed joke. ‘And if you think I’m scared of Clarence Von Klatt, you’re mistaken.’
Von Klatt was an up and coming detective. A political animal. Stoker knew he was corrupt, and probably on Magnelli’s payroll. Von Klatt had been trying to get Stoker suspended for years.
‘Jesus, Frank, one day maybe you’ll learn to be afraid of something.’ The Chief sighed and put his hand on Frank’s shoulder. ‘Well, anyway, we’re still going ahead with this. You’re the best we’ve damn well got and I need you to grill that Irish mayor of ours. He’s hiding something and I can’t trust anyone with it. Just stay away from his daughter – she’ll be protected.’
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