by Ice-T
“Ratatouille.”
And like magic, there was an electric hum and the black SIG Sauer 226 popped up. “Thank fucking God!” Casey snatched it, and his confidence surged; he popped the magazine out—it had a full fifteen rounds. Yes!
He took a deep breath and exhaled. He knew that the dude had to be in some serious pain, and that would make him pretty disoriented. Casey braced himself, then got up and started running and firing at the dude, who was taken completely off guard. Casey’s first few shots missed, but the fourth and fifth ones hit him in the upper chest and put him down for good. Casey trudged over and saw that both men had checked out.
Casey ran back to Champa and checked for a pulse. It was weak, but it was there. He then followed the gunshots to his crew in the warehouse, who were still battling Petrosian and his thugs.
When he got there, he saw Mick had been shot in the leg and had his shirt tied around it as a tourniquet. The other guys looked fine. The warehouse was mostly empty except for a couple of forklifts, a large Dumpster, and a dozen or so rows of twelve-foot-high empty industrial metal shelves. A few dirty windows high on the walls provided the only light.
Hen came over and gave him the rundown. “We got Petrosian cornered, and I think his other dude is dead or wounded, but I can’t confirm that.” Hen pointed in the direction where he thought Petrosian was, and Casey stared hard into the gloom, but couldn’t see shit.
“Okay, Champa’s outside with a shoulder wound, and he’s pretty fucked up; he needs a doc right now!” Casey turned to Big Rich. “Call up your guy, find out where he’s at, and get him to look at Champa and Mick right away! I’ll hold shit down here. I figure we only got a few minutes left till the cops come anyway.”
All the guys agreed except Mick, who had scowl on his face. “All y’all niggas can bounce, but I ain’t leavin’ till I get that nigga that shot me!” he spat as he leaned against the wall.
“Goddamnit, Mick, I don’t have time to argue with you—you need to get the fuck out of here. Hell, I don’t even know if Champa’s car’s even drivable.”
“Okay, well, I’ma roll that dice!” Mick looked defiantly at Casey, who knew it was pointless to argue with him.
“Christ, Mick—just once, I wish you wouldn’t be the biggest pain in my ass! A’ight, the rest of you get the hell outta here, I’ll meet you at the warehouse later.”
Hen and the guys split. Now it was time to smoke Petrosian out. Casey looked at Mick again and exhaled deeeply. His boy’s whole pants leg was soaked in blood; he knew that shit had to hurt.
“Petrosian, you’re done, man! Give it up and come on out!” Casey shouted.
“If you want me so bad, Casey, come on in and get me! The way I see it, the cops’ll be here any minute now, so every second you stay here, you get closer to going back in the joint! I’m just a citizen defending himself from a notorious criminal!”
Casey looked at Mick and said, “He’s right, you know. Got any ideas?”
Mick grimaced. “Shit, not a one that don’t involve both of us gettin’ our asses shot off.”
Casey surveyed the room and ran different scenarios; his biggest impediment was not being able to see because of the damn metal shelves. He turned to Mick, who, if he was suffering, was doing a good job of masking the pain. “Okay, I got an idea. We’re gonna push this first metal shelf down, and hopefully it’ll cause a domino effect and give us a better line of sight. When they start fallin’, I’m gonna go after him and hope he’s distracted enough for me to get a shot off. You cover me and focus on takin’ down his man if he’s still alive.”
“That shit ain’t gonna work, but fuck it, let’s try it.”
Casey ignored Mick’s comment, and both men walked to the first metal shelf, which was about twenty feet long and four feet wide. Casey and Mick pushed on it as hard as they could. They budged it a little, but it was obvious after a minute that it wasn’t gonna be as easy as he’d expected.
“Let’s try rockin’ it back and forth and tip it over.”
“Dude, that shit’ll fall back and fuckin’ crush us!”
“What the fuck are you talkin’ about? It’s gonna work perfectly—now, come on!”
Both men started rocking the metal shelf back and forth. The metal squeaked loudly as the shelves moved slightly at first. In the back of his mind, Casey knew Mick had a point, but this was the only option he could think of. The shelves started teeter-tottering back and forth, at first just a little, but then more and more, like an unsteady giant. Each time an end would hit the cement, there was a deep thud. Timing it just right was key. Casey and Mick were working up a sweat, pushing the damn thing back and forth.
“This one’s it, Mick, so put your back into it.”
The guys pushed with all their might, but the shelf didn’t tip over. Casey almost panicked, as he thought it was gonna fall on them, which it almost did. The next time around they pushed, the shelf teetered on the edge, then fell as if in slow motion, hitting the next shelf, which slowly fell, and so on. Casey started creeping toward where he thought Petrosian was as the shelves toppled over, making a thunderous racket.
As he got closer, Petrosian and his guy Vladik burst from their cover and started running at Casey and Mick, blasting away as they snaked back and forth. Casey and Mick hit the deck behind one of the fallen shelves as they fired back. Bullets ricocheted off the metal shelves as empty casings popped out of Casey’s 9 millimeter like popcorn. He saw Vladik go down from a hit to the chest; he was still moving but didn’t look like a threat, especially when Mick capped him with another shot.
Petrosian ducked behind the Dumpster, then popped out from behind it and ran for the door, firing at Casey and Mick the whole way. Neither man had a clear shot, so Casey started pursuing him. Petrosian hit the door and darted outside, with Casey following. As he left, he hollered at Mick to make sure Vladik was done.
After poking his head outside fast to make sure the Armenian wasn’t lying in wait to cap him, Casey took off in a zigzagging run toward the battered Aston Martin. Just as he reached it, a shot burst the front headlight, and he quickly hit the ground.
Petrosian ducked into the Hummer and turned the engine over. Casey carefully aimed and shot out the front tire on the passenger side. He heard a loud whoosh as the tire deflated and did the same to the back tire. Petrosian spilled out of the car and crouched low as Casey approached the back of the car. From the warehouse, he heard two loud shots. Casey assumed it was Mick taking out Petrosian’s partner.
“Casey … I’m all out of ammo! You got me, man!”
“So toss the piece and come out where I can see you.”
“You not going to take me out, are you? I don’t want my boy to end up an orphan.”
“You should have thoughta that before you tried your bullshit. I gave you a chance at being down, and you fucked it up.”
“Come on, man, I had Fordham putting me in the cross! What the fuck was I supposed to do? You know how cops are.”
Casey carefully watched Petrosian as they both circled the Hummer, each one trying to get the upper hand. Casey didn’t believe he was out of ammo for a second and stayed low as he circled around the car, looking for a shot.
“That’s not my problem—you bet on the wrong man, that’s why we’re here. Now you need to stop bullshittin’ and show yo’self.”
“What, and get executed? I’m not going to make it that easy for you. I tell you what—” In midsentence, Petrosian jumped up and took his best shot at Casey. Casey heard the crack of the pistol and felt the bullet graze his left bicep. His return shot caught Petrosian in the shoulder and spun him to the ground. Casey ran around the car and found Petrosian balled up, holding his shoulder and wincing in pain.
He smiled up at Casey. “Looks like you won, Crush.”
Casey kicked his gun away as Mick limped out of the building. A small pool of blood was starting to form around Petrosian’s shoulder. The wound wasn’t fatal—Petrosian could easily survive it.
Casey looked at Mick and told him they needed to unload the dope from Champa’s trunk and put it on the backseat of the Benz.
Petrosian sat on the ground and yelled at Casey as Mick and he started unloading everything. “You’re not going to kill me, right? Casey! Come on, I got a kid! I know you know what that’s like. Casey, come on, man. Answer me.”
It took both of them five minutes to load the other car. Casey got in the driver’s seat of the Aston Martin, looked at Mick in the passenger seat, and turned the key. The Aston growled to a start. Mick started laughing with relief. Casey told him to hang tight and got out of the car and started walking toward Petrosian. In the background, he could hear the faint wail of sirens.
The Armenian started backing up, scrabbling across the ground as he saw Casey approach and raise his pistol. “Casey, you gonna kill me in cold blood! What about my boy?”
In truth, Casey didn’t know what he was gonna do or say and just looked at Petrosian. He thought about what it was like growing up without his parents and about his own son getting killed. He and Petrosian were so similar—the only difference was that Casey had already traveled the road he was on, and knew what the ultimate outcome was gonna be.
He pulled the trigger, shooting the man just under the heart. Petrosian’s expression turned from anger and fear to shock.
Casey kneeled down close to Petrosian’s face as the man gasped for his last breath. “I only did to you what someone shoulda done to me a long time ago. If they’d did that, my kid would still be alive today.”
Casey was consumed by a deafening silence as Petrosian’s life departed.
Casey limped back to the car. In the background, he heard the sirens grow louder as they drove off. After five miles with no pursuit, Mick and Casey knew they were in the clear. There was no conversation on the ride back. Like Mick, Casey felt he’d already sealed his fate to go to hell. He called Hen, who told him all the guys were already at the warehouse and they’d be there shortly.
Casey then called Shin to check in on Carla. “Hey, Shin, how’s Carla doing?”
“Ya know, as you’d expect, but she’s getting better,” he said in a hushed tone.
“Yeah. I appreciate you handling that. Everything worked out here, it was a fucking shitstorm, but I’ll tell you about that later. Tell me straight up—do you think she’ll talk to me?”
“I don’t think so, brotha.”
“Okay, just leave it be, then, stay as long as she wants you to.”
“Okay, peace.”
Not in this muthafuckin’ lifetime, Casey thought as he hung up.
* * *
At 11 P.M. that evening, the Chinaman’s emissary arrived at the warehouse. He identified himself as Dr. Jonathan Chou, and was dressed in a black, pin-striped silk suit, and wore rimless glasses. He looked like an accountant, not a criminal.
Dr. Chou and his crew checked each car over and were satisfied. He dropped two Louis Vuitton duffel bags at Casey’s feet. He looked at Casey and his crew, none of whom had cleaned up from the events of the day yet, and raised an eyebrow. “Looks like you’ve had a quite a day, Mr. Casey.”
“Yeah, well, the day’s almost over.”
“Indeed. Inside, you will find five million dollars. My employer appreciates the efficient and honorable way you have handled things. We will look forward to future opportunities to do business with you again.”
The well-dressed man had five small transports to take the cars, and in less than thirty minutes, he had them all loaded and was gone.
Casey gave the guys their scratch on the spot, plus an extra $250K from what had been earmarked to be Petrosian’s share. He told them he would reach out in a day or so to check in. It was a nice payday for everyone, and it was well earned.
Casey and Champa would each walk away with a little over $2.1 mil. Even so, it didn’t come close to taking away the sting from losing his relationship with Carla and putting her in harm’s way. She could have been killed, and his selfishness would have been the reason. He knew she didn’t know the extent of his life and the risks it held for her; otherwise, she would have bounced long ago. As James Brown said, “He paid the cost to be the boss,” and once again, it was too high.
He thought of Petrosian’s kid and flashed back to hearing the news of when his own father had died and when he had been made an orphan. He had no doubt that he’d done the right thing, but it still sucked knowing there was yet another innocent victim that would suffer as a result of his actions.
On the way home, Casey called Hans and told him everything was good and that he would get him his $500K tomorrow and that Champa was gonna need a little work done on his ride and to put it on his tab. He checked in with Jacob, who said it was all over the news how Fordham was found unconscious and badly beaten in the trunk surrounded by dead Armenian drug dealers and an estimated twenty million dollars of pure, uncut heroin.
Somehow the satisfaction wasn’t as sweet as Casey had expected it to be. Like Rono’s death, it was a victory that would not be celebrated.
He hung up the phone and called it a night.
21
A week later, when things had quieted down a bit, Casey summoned Alejandro to meet him at the diner next to his apartment one morning. The criminal defender was dressed to a T in a sharp Armani suit and a cocky-ass smile on his face.
“You’re in a great mood, Counselor,” Casey said as he cut into his French toast.
Alejandro settled in and accepted a cup of coffee. “That’s because I just got a settlement of two-point-three million dollars for that client you turned me on to—you know, that kid that got beat by the cops. They couldn’t settle fast enough—easiest money I ever made.”
“Yeah, I remember.”
“I’m gonna clear a million bucks on that. I owe you, Case, so name your cut.”
“I was hoping you were gonna say that. I don’t need money, but I do need a favor.”
“Name it and it’s done.”
Casey’s foot pushed a Louis Vuttion duffel bag under the table toward Alejandro. The lawyer looked down and raised his eyebrows.
“That’s two million cash. I need you to make sure Alek Petrosian’s kid, Ara, never wants for anything … ever. School, a decent place to live, medical, anything. Whatever he needs, he gets. Keep my name out of it and don’t fuck this up. Whatever way you need to set it up or handle it, I leave that to you. Just make sure it gets done and done right. After today, we’re not ever speaking ’bout this again.”
Alejandro stayed silent and just looked at Casey, searching his face. He already knew Casey was dead serious. He finally nodded. “Okay, Case, I know what you want and I can take care of it. I’ll keep this between us, and it will never come up again.”
Alejandro got up, reached down for the bag, and left the diner without saying another word. Casey finished his coffee and saw that his taxi had arrived. His leg still bothered him, but his ego wouldn’t allow him to walk with a limp. He got in the backseat, almost choking on the thick cloud of incense, and rolled his window down.
“Take me to the parole office, Webster.”
* * *
Casey walked into the waiting room, where the desk officer said Lomax would see him immediately. He buzzed him in and escorted him to his office. Lomax looked up from his papers and motioned for him to close the door. He looked like he’d lost about thirty pounds, but he was still fat. On his desk was a salad and a plastic bottle of water. He held up the paper so he could see the headline: DISGRACED NYPD CHIEF OF DETECTIVES DIES AFTER 7 DAYS IN COMA.
“How do you feel about one of New York’s Finest checkin’ out?” Casey asked.
Lomax grunted. “It’s about time there was a little justice.”
“Well, we win justice quickest by rendering justice to the other party.”
“Who said that, Tony Soprano?”
“Mahatma Gandhi.”
Lomax cocked his head and gave Casey a strange look. He would never understand a man like Casey, and vic
e versa. After reaching into his desk drawer, Lomax pulled out the Saint Jude’s medal and tossed it to him. “As promised, Mr. Casey.”
Casey caught the medal and put it in his pocket and nodded. Lomax dispensed with the usual line of questioning and got to what was on his mind. “Mr. Casey, I have recommended to the Parole Board that they give you an early release from parole. They have denied my request, but have consented to having it terminate assuming there are no incidents on your record in a year from now.”
Casey could tell from Lomax’s demeanor that he was disappointed he couldn’t repay the favor.
“Okay, so what’s the schedule for me checking in?”
Lomax leaned back in his chair. “There is no schedule or spot checks anymore. I just need to see you a year from now to sign some paperwork to make it official.”
“Cool. What about interstate travel?”
“I’m going to assume that you won’t do that, and unless you are picked up out of state, I guess I would never know. Other than that, you’re free to go. See you in a year, Mr. Casey.”
Casey rose, pleased with the way things had gone down. He also thought of the similarities between Lomax and himself: Both of them had gotten screwed by their partners and sent to prison. For Lomax, it was a professional prison, one he had no hope of escaping. But it also seemed that he’d found a kind of peace as a result of being exonerated and his old partner being exposed. That was something that eluded Casey.
Casey looked out the window of the gypsy cab as it rolled down the street; it looked like the rain was finally drying up. He felt like he’d won the battle, but lost the war. Once again, his personal relationships had suffered as a result of his lifestyle. He’d called and texted Carla a few times over the past week, but had gotten no response. When he called her that afternoon, he got a disconnected number and got the hint. She was done.