Smoke and Mirrors (Goosey Larsen Book 2), page 13
I caught up to the guys just as they were heading out the door. Big Jim had left some cash on the table with a couple extra singles as a tip, which is probably why Dave gave us a cheerful wave as we left. He didn’t really have much choice but to be friendly, though, since every cop downtown knew about the football pools he ran out of the kitchen. Well, every cop except for the vice jerks, that is. Knowing Big Jim and Dookie, they’d probably just slipped their own betting cards underneath their steam trays. I kicked myself for not remembering my own, even though it would have had to wait until after payday.
Outside, the clouds were still thick and dark, although the full moon still managed to peek its way through once every couple minutes. It was shaping up to be a beautiful night, at least until I saw Slipper holding my cell phone. “Hey lover boy” he crooned, “you left this on the table. Your girlfriend Maslow just called, too.”
In a panic, I wrestled my phone from his grip. “You didn’t pick up, did you?”
He laughed cruelly. “Sure did! I told her you were unavailable, out saving the world!”
I stuffed the phone back into my shirt pocket and did my best to ignore him. Once those jerks settled down from their giggle fits, we all leaned back against the cruisers in one last attempt at delaying the inevitable return to work. Big Jim broke out a cigar and fired it up. It smelled like a good one, hand-rolled from that Dominican’s place on Wentworth Street. The sudden upgrade in quality surprised me, but I guess since Jim had become such a big spender he figured that he might as well go all the way. Usually, whenever Jim managed to go at least ten minutes between cigarettes, he preferred those skinny White Owl cigarillos, the kind with the wood tip. Those came in a plastic-wrapped package, six for a buck fifty at the Li’l Cricket.
The red glow from the cigar’s ash reflected in the puddles of rainwater as we watched Dave close up shop. He cut off the neon ‘Open’ sign and the corner fell into darkness. It was actually pretty nice, just kicking back in the cool night air with that sweet tobacco smell rolling around on the breeze.
Jim growled my thoughts out loud. “Nice night.”
We all nodded, even Beano, who looked as if he’d finally begun settling down. “You got that right, sir.”
I piped up, but only because I felt it was my turn. “Be better if we weren’t stuck at work, though.”
This brought another round of nods from the group. Big Jim leaned back slowly, gazing up at the cloudy sky, and after a quiet second he asked, “Goosey, it’s a Sunday night. What would you be doing if you weren’t stuck here downtown?”
It was a no-brainer. “Probably just sitting in front of the tube holding a beer, boss.”
He smiled and crossed his arms. “Yeah, me too. I know this detail’s a load of horseshit, but at least it’s a good chunk of overtime for doing basically nothing. Think about it, if some clown’s been going out and setting fires for the past couple of years, what are the odds that he’s going to pick this weekend to burn another one?” Jim shifted over on his thick haunches to look directly at me. “Tell me, when was the last time you got to come to work with absolutely zero expectations for performance?”
I didn’t have to think hard seeing as how Jim was my boss, and working for him was mostly a matter of showing face around the office every couple days. I hesitated to say that, though, and just shrugged instead.
Jim leaned back on the cruiser once again. “I’m telling you boys, this detail is a gravy train with biscuit wheels. You might as well ride it out and enjoy it as best you can. If you’re bored, go read a book or something. Hell, for all I care you can take a nap until closing time.”
The nap sounded appealing, the book not so much. And see, that’s another crappy part about working nights, how all the newsstands and bookstores close up right when your shift starts. As part of my regular weekday routine I could always count on hanging around a bookstore and paging through the magazine racks until their manager started giving me dirty looks. I thought about asking Slipper if he had any magazines I could hold for a few hours, but just then a black storm cloud rumbled overhead. A loud crack of thunder came next, and the heavens opened up with sheer buckets of rain.
Big Jim stood up. “Well screw this, I’m going home. See you ladies tomorrow night.”
I hadn’t seen Jim move so fast since that one time when the Kentucky Fried Chicken was handing out free samples. Slipper mumbled a sad goodbye as he began meandering off towards his own cruiser, moving with his head down at the prospect of having to spend more time alone with Beano. That damn rookie actually had some pep in his step as he crossed the street, but not before stopping to look both ways. I just shook my head and hoped that the kid wouldn’t be too heartbroken at the lack of action. If Beano had been expecting any excitement on this special assignment, he was sure to be disappointed since real cops never get out of their cars when it’s raining.
I settled into my own cruiser, fired up the engine and looped around the block a couple more times. Since Big Jim was already on his way home, that meant I’d only have to kill about fifteen more minutes before heading to the barn myself. More out of boredom than anything, I found myself taking a close look around the neighborhood. The number of broken windows and rotted duplex apartments told me that I was still dangerously close to the target area, so I headed off towards the station.
Once at the building, I pulled into a Handicapped parking space, left the engine running so it wouldn’t cut off, and made a mad dash to the door. Walking the hallways was a gamble, and that FI card felt heavy in my hand. With one final glance back over my shoulder, I bounded up the back steps and headed for the Walk of Shame. I’m not sure who first gave that corridor its nickname, but it doesn’t really matter since it was a perfect fit. See, the downstairs hallway that runs between the squad room and the lobby is lined with these blown-up photographs of CPD’s finest in action. The Walk of Shame was probably a great motivational idea when they first put the pictures up, but most of the cops pictured had either quit or gotten fired since then and no one had ever bothered to make updated versions. I slowed down to a shuffle and gave each picture a long, thoughtful glance, more as a way to kill time than out of any actual interest.
The first poster showed a team of our SWAT guys running along behind an armored tank, all of them with big dorky smiles on their faces, clearly excited about the prospect of kicking in some doors and framing up some black folks. The next photo featured an old-timer from our harbor patrol division, Phil Sharaff, riding a jet ski up the Ashley River. Phil was a recent retiree himself, having just recently gone out on medical disability after an on-duty injury. While he’d been out on river patrol one day, some porpoise suffering from depression had charged his jet ski in a reckless act of marine-life suicide. The incident blew out the tendons in Phil’s left leg, and it effectively ended our jet ski program.
The last photo was the one that really got to me, though. It was a group shot of all of our animal control officers wrestling an eight-foot alligator out of someone’s backyard. It was a disgusting sight, the most exciting work shown being done by a group of unarmed civilians. I couldn’t take the pain anymore and barged into the lobby, shaking my head in disgust at the desk sergeant on duty. Old Miles Hartshorne couldn’t have had any idea what I was upset about, but he grumbled sympathetically just the same. That guy had spent the past five years of his life working the front desk, strictly midnight shifts, and I don’t think he’d taken his eyes off the television that whole time. He looked as burned-out as they come, with his tie unclipped and his stocking feet planted firmly up on the desk, his boots nowhere in sight. It had to be boring work, but I bet Miles saved a bundle by skipping out on his home cable service. Knowing that guy, he might have even been recording all the movies he watched and then selling the tapes out of his garage.
I tossed my FI card through the slot in the Plexiglas window, then turned to make my escape before he could start a conversation. Hartshorne didn’t lift a finger and the card fell to the floor, finally sliding to a stop underneath the computer desk. I suppose I could have easily turned back around to get it, but that would have taken twice as long. Probably better where it’s at, I figured, and made my way outside once again.
Scooter’s cruiser had stalled so I turned the key a couple times, trying to coax the old engine into cranking, but it was no use. The corroded battery had finally gasped its last breath, so I took a quick look around to make sure that the coast was still clear, then rounded up all my things. In a burst of inspiration, I flipped the switches for the headlights, wipers, blue lights and siren, and after a moment’s thought I hand-cranked the windows down too. The rain was sure to ruin the upholstery, and I hoped that might serve as a reminder Scooter Jones to take better care of his cruiser.
Seconds later, I flopped down in the comfort of my own unmarked car. It wasn’t a newer model by any means, but at least the roof didn’t leak nearly as much as Scooter’s. The odor was warm and familiar, the comfortable smells all my own. I turned the key with a sigh of relief as the engine cranked on the first try, then threw it into drive just as soon as the vents had defogged a clear patch in the windshield. The rain had slackened up for just a moment, so I put the pedal down in order to make time. I didn’t have anything waiting for me at home, but in my experience there’s no such thing as too much distance between myself and work.
Myron checked the time on his cell phone. 4:45 AM. He was early.
The majority of law-abiding citizens would have been asleep at that hour, but for Myron White it was actually the end of his workday. Most of his serious business tended to happen around this time of the morning, if only because all the police officers were either tied up finishing the night’s paperwork, hiding out at the Waffle House or catching up on sleep in their patrol cars.
It had been a busy night. Myron’s pockets were thick with wadded-up ten dollar bills, his rewards for a couple of quick and easy drug sales in the alleyways behind Market Street nightclubs. He’d also earned himself a high-end car stereo, an unexpected bonus from an opportune car break-in. This was currently stashed behind a dumpster on upper King Street, tucked safely away but close enough to sell on short notice. At the moment, however, all was quiet. As someone who was used to staying on the move, Myron found it difficult to simply sit and wait for his meeting.
He walked a quick circuit of the small park, making sure no uninvited guests were hiding in the shadows. Finding none, he sat down on a nearby bench and stared at a bronze statue of George Washington, who struck a regal pose in the moonlight. Myron considered the country’s first president and tried to recall the lessons he’d learned before dropping out of middle school, but quickly grew bored. He contented himself to pass the time by working up gobs of spit and launching them towards the statue’s feet.
A low voice called out from around the corner. “That’s no way to treat the father of this great nation.”
Myron cursed himself silently at being caught off guard, but quickly relaxed. This was no drug deal, after all, no exchange of stolen goods. The voice belonged to an older white man, which meant that this meeting was legitimate business. The new arrival evidently did not feel as confident, for he waited a moment before taking several tentative steps forward. Myron pictured the man in his mind, not bothering to turn and look. A lifetime on the streets had honed his predatory senses, and he closed his eyes while listening to the scuff of the other man’s footwear. Leather soled, by the sound, almost certainly lace-ups. They were probably almost half a size too tight, but too expensive to replace simply because of discomfort. When Myron finally opened his eyes, it was only to confirm his observations. The man’s shoes were black and shiny, as they probably were at the start of each work week. He was dressed in a dark business suit that blended seamlessly with his wingtips, clutching a plastic grocery sack with a Piggly Wiggly logo stamped on it. His nervousness was palpable, although he did his best to lighten the mood by offering a smile. “You know, Washington was one of the first plantation owners to free his slaves.”
Myron turned back to face the statue, responding with another gummy wad of spittle that hit George square in the ankle. “Betcha he waited until he died to do it, tho’.”
There was another series of scuffing sounds as the white man shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Yes, you’re probably right. But shall we get down to business?”
“Ah-yuh.”
The man moved toward the bench, but stopped short of sitting when he saw the glaze of rainwater covering it. He ran his pale fingers gently along the wet surface. “I couldn’t help noticing that you didn’t work on your assignment last night.”
Myron sniffled. He pointed a worn finger up at the thick clouds overhead, which were finally beginning to part. “Houses cain’t burn when they wet. Even ah cain’t control the weather.”
Still standing, the white man crossed his arms uncomfortably. “Yes, of course. I understand but you see, I’m working with a very tight schedule here.”
Myron’s interest perked up. “Wha’ kind of schedule?”
“I’m glad you asked. Here, let me show you.” The man pulled out a map which showed the locations of several tourist attractions and shuttle bus stops. It had come from the city’s Visitor Information Center on Mary Street and it was the same design as the one he carried in his own pocket, the same as all the others he’d received for the past several years. The handwritten circles, though, as well as the numbers penciled in alongside them, had been updated. “I’ve copied down ten more addresses that I’m particularly interested in, and I need at least half of these made available by the end of the month.”
Myron let out a low whistle. The sudden noise made the white man jump, which amused Myron to no end. He took the new map in his gnarled hands and studied the circled areas. The increased tempo would certainly be dangerous, but he’d had no cause to worry so far. More importantly, he’d learned long ago that as the job’s risk increased, the payment usually did too.
He pretended to study the map, even though he’d already come to a decision. Without looking up, Myron asked but two words: “How much?”
There was no hesitation from the white man this time. “One thousand a house.” He held up the grocery sack. “And the first payment’s up front.”
Faced with the prospect of easy money, Myron pressed his hands down against his thighs to keep them from shaking as he cleared his throat. “This gon’ be dangerous.”
The white man felt a sudden wave of relief wash over him. This was negotiation, plain and simple, which meant they were back on his turf. “Listen to me, Myron. You break into houses and cars for a living. You sell drugs. Every police officer in the city knows you by name. In your line of work, it’s only a matter of time before you make a mistake and get sent away for years. Yes, my proposition might be risky, but at least you’ll be well compensated. This is a chance to actually make something out of your life, and maybe get away from all this once we’re finished.”
Myron chewed his lip with a set of crooked teeth. The businessman smelled blood, and he moved in for the kill. “You can’t afford to turn this job down. If you say no, you’re bound to end up in prison for something or other anyway. It’s not a matter of if, but when.”
Myron considered his words. His partner was right as usual, but he could never admit this out loud. He chewed his cankerous lip for another long moment before he asked, “So wha’ if I get caught workin’ this job?”
The other man sighed out of exasperation, but the emotion was strictly for show. His fish had taken the bait, and now it was just a matter of reeling him in. “You won’t get caught.”
Myron looked up. The two men fixed their full attention on each other for the first time, staring eye to bloodshot eye. “But le’s jus’ say I do?”
There was a long silence before the white man spoke again. He crafted his words with care, making them sound as if the thought had just occurred to him. “Then the NAACP will receive an anonymous donation of ten thousand dollars to start your legal defense fund. The media will portray you as a victim of racial profiling, an overzealous police reaction in response to public pressure.”
The vagrant nodded thoughtfully. “Tha’ sounds okay.”
Seeing this opportunity, the businessman pounced. “Think about the big picture, Myron. This is a chance for you to do something positive for a change. You’ve been nothing but a criminal for years now, don’t you think it’s time to give something back to your city?”
Myron actually did give a moment’s consideration to how his work might impact the community, but he quickly resumed thinking about how he could spend his first thousand dollars. His eyes grew wide as the businessman held out the Piggly Wiggly bag. He could see Andrew Jackson’s face staring out through the opaque plastic, and a large stack of bills layered beneath him.
The businessman, watching closely, smiled as he caught Myron’s tell-tale reaction. “So do we have a deal?”
Myron grinned as he stood and accepted the bag. “Pleashuh doing bid’ness with ya, Mister Duke.”
MONDAY
11.
I was feeling miserable when my eyes popped open at seven o’clock, but for once it wasn’t because of a hangover. The sickness and nausea I felt were entirely due to the fact that it was just after sunrise, and for some strange reason I was awake. I felt even worse when I remembered that I wouldn’t actually have to show up for the arson detail until twelve hours later, which meant that by all rights I should still be sleeping. The thought made me grumble as I lay there in bed, stubbornly fighting the urge to rise and empty my bladder.
