by Amos Gunner
CHAPTER 7: ZEKE
I got super shitfaced that night. For fun, I accomplished my mission at this snooty asshole place, Bonner’s Tavern. I hit on the scrawny dyke lawyers and spilled my drinks over constipated businessmen who were too scared to raise much of an objection. This preppy bartender’s like, “Can I call you a cab?” And I was like, “Can I call you a cunt?” I left when my wallet was empty. I don’t think anyone was gonna offer to buy me a drink.
Why’d I do what? Shoot the kid? Shit. That’s the trouble with starting a story in the middle. There’s no beginning.
Well, no one made me do it. Let’s get that straight. Short version is I did it to shut someone up. No, not the kid. Someone else. Okay, the kid too, but that’s beside the point. Alright, there’s no shortcut. Let’s see.
Okay. My old partner Gavin Quinn had been forced into retirement by stomach cancer. I think I said that already. Instead of spending his days doing what he did best, he now spent his days fighting the insurance company. Bastards.
Anyway, there was a time after Gavin but before Sutler when I was on my own. Marner didn’t trust that, so he set me up with a task force to take down a string of meth labs. I had to break a ton of rock on the case, which I wasn’t used to, plus the group I worked with was packed with insufferable hard asses. Not like Gavin. Gavin was a whip. He’d crack a joke about anything. Like, the dregs who’d swallow their shit before we busted them, Gavin would get a good five minutes of material out of them. But the guys on this task force shit lumber, y’know? They never joked, ten to one because there’s no statute in the books that permits jokes. But we were dealing with tweakers. If you can’t get a laugh out of tweakers, what good are they?
The big boss, though, I’ll agree he wasn’t worth a smile. He set up labs in the worst motels or abandoned buildings and tricked addicts into doing his dirty work, the dangerous work, doing it for peanuts and a few free bumps. His profit margin was through the roof and what really stuck in my craw was that when we finally landed the prick, he was sitting prettier than Miss America. Try telling some kid not to break the law when there’s success stories like out there. Yeah, he went down, but he’d stored enough to juice to operate a corner of whatever prison he went to. Besides, you know there’s a ton of leaders smarter than him out there getting away with it, making a fortune, probably never get caught.
If all this wasn’t bad enough, almost every goddamn day this fucko bookie hounds me for some overdue bills. I go to work, he’s leaning on my jeep. “Got my money?” Well, asshole, get the fuck off my wheels and I’ll go earn some. Or he’s hanging out in front of my apartment when I return from a shitty day. “Got my money?” Jesus, dude, the bank’s closed. Wait till Saturday. Every now and then, I’d give him some product to keep him quiet, but he’d be back a few days later. It was bullshit, but he said it wasn’t him. His “boss” was riding him, he says, indicating the “boss” was a big deal. I knew what that meant. Wasn’t much I could do about that problem.
Point is, this wasn’t the happiest time of my life.
Anyway, I’m nearing the end of the assignment and waiting for my new partner to arrive so I can train him and everything. One day, the lieutenant drops this file on my desk. I look it over. It’s not much. Snippets on this hood Marcus Webster. He’s running a tiny operation. Just selling as far as we know, and not selling much. His gang’s small, more like a club than a crew. We didn’t trace any violence to them. He’s not connected, just a humble homie content with his crumb of Columbus, not one of those guys who fancy themselves the star of some urban western.
I’m like, “Why waste my time with this?” See, these smaller fish are actually pretty challenging. It takes hundreds or thousands of man hours to bring them down and it’s kind of a waste for all the good it does. The scraps Marner had sent to the FBI got redirected straight to their recycling bin, I’m sure. I mean, this guy Marcus Webster was destined for the back burner. But the lieutenant says I can do a simple buy. Break in the newbie and give the world at least the illusion of trying to build a case. Marner says if we could at least learn who the supplier was, then he’d rest happy. But he knows and I know that collecting that kind of information’s going to take forever and a day, so I say, “Forget it.” The lieutenant says, “Okay.” I stick Marcus Webster into the back of my mind and finishes up the meth lab thing.
Okay, cut to the racetrack. Look man, you asked. I’m going as quick as I can. And anyway, you asked for my motive and motive’s a fucked up thing. Who knows why we do half the shit we do? And if every cause has a cause, then can’t we trace my motive all the way back to Creation? From that angle, I’m doing a good job tightening up the story.
So, the racetrack. Typical day. I loose a fortune. I go to the lounge, as if getting blotto’s gonna help me forget my losses, y’know? But what the hell. I go. I pull out a stool and a wooden cane crashes to the ground. The fellow sitting there gets all cunty. Then he recognizes me and turns friendly. I sort of recognize him, but not really. Turns out to be this dude Kevin Bradshaw, an officer. “Hey, how are ya?” Blah blah.
Now, a few months earlier, Bradshaw got clipped in the hip, or near the hip, or some shit, and they gave him the choice of: one, take a chunk of his pension and get out, or two: go to the evidence locker. He took the locker. He tells me all this without my asking, by the way. I’d’ve been pleased as punch if he’d kept buttoned up. Then he goes on a diatribe about the assholes at our insurance company. I get what he’s saying. My old partner had problems with them, too. Turns out Bradshaw has a kid with some fucked up disease. I forget what it’s called, but he gives me the impression it’s real brutal. Anyhow, the insurance company’s being tighter than a nun, so he visits to the track every now and then hoping to win big and solve his money woes.
Well, the race begins and he grips his ticket like it’s a million dollar bill. He lost of course. God can be pretty mean to nonbelievers. I lose all day, too, but I was a nonbeliever back then, so that makes sense. But I feel worse for his loss than my own. I mean really, he had laid on the sob story pretty thick and I fell for it. I buy him a drink before I take off.
But, you know, I have my own shit to deal with. I push his story to the back of my mind, next to Marcus Webster’s. Not as far back as, say, my mom’s birthday--I mean, I couldn’t tell you what goddamn season that falls in--but pretty far back.
So life continues. Work, mostly paperwork now. Greaseball bookie. Chemical recreations. Sutler’s wife. Notice that neither Bradshaw or Marcus make the list.
Didn’t I already mention that I’d been boffing Sutler’s wife on the sly? Fuck this starting in the middle shit.
Anyway, one glorious morning the strands come together and form a fist and the fist hits me. Like, hits me hard. I’m stunned. I see stars. And I wasn’t even trying to concoct a solution. I was unfocused, dumping foot powder into my shoes, just performing this boring routine activity and whammo. The scheme of the century.
I walked Kevin through it. Instead of overflowing with veneration for me or my plan, he bitched and moaned. I asked him for an alternative. Since he didn’t have jack or shit, he gave in to my plan. Next I needed to contact Marcus Webster.
I’m getting to it. Relax. We got nothing but time.
I peek in Marcus’ file and they think he’s running his crew out of this dive. At least, at lot of his boys had been seen popping in and out on a regular basis.
So I pay the man a visit. I walk in, real calm and cool. A few goons in the back are itching to ask what I’m doing there, but they don’t want me to ask them the same question, so it’s all cool. I flash my badge to the bartender and ask for Marcus. He gives me some sass but I give him more, so next thing I know I’m in the kitchen. They called it a meeting room, but it was a kitchen. Even a kitchen without food is still a kitchen.
Marcus waddles in, this big bastard packed into a cheap suit. I introduce myself. I don’t hide a thing. I say I want to talk to him alone but Marcus insists his dipshit ne
phew join us, this guy Sampson. I don’t know why. All’s I could tell, Sampson was there to hold up the wall.
After Marcus accepts that if I was gonna bust him, I would’ve busted him already, he chills out and makes Sampson pour us a glass of what he calls “the house wine.” Yeah, I’m sure it went good with the cordon bleu. I sip it and tell him it’s the best I’ve had all day.
I lay it out for him: I’ll sell him coke dirt cheap. In return, he’s gotta keep his operation low-key. That’s it. That’s my offer.
And you’re like, “What the big deal?” But the plan was brilliant. A new twist on an old thing. More than one cop in the history of cops has thought to rip off the evidence locker and sell the shit on the street. Pure profit, but also pure stupidity. Guys get busted for this left and right all over the country all the time. It’s a loser’s scheme. But when I was dumping foot powder into my shoes, it hit me like ten tons of bricks: trade it out. Like, steal coke and replace it with baking soda or whatever. Do it after the lab tests and before the trial and no one’ll have the faintest clue. And it’s not like it’s going to fuck up the trial or anything. So why not? The shit’ll collect dust for months till it’s time to incinerate it, so when you think about it, why not?
I don’t tell Marcus all this, of course. I give him the shortest overview he’ll let me get away with.
He’s skeptical, which I dig. I show him I’m not wearing a wire. I pull out some of my personal stash and do a fat line off the table. Kinda smiling, I offer to shoot someone. Fifty-fifty chance I would’ve done it if he had wanted. Well, depends who. I finally sway him with a copy of his file. Even sleepy Sampson perks up at this.
“That’s all?” he asks, measuring how thin it is. Like he wants us to know more? I don’t know. Only part he doesn’t dig is we know about the bar. That’s how I found him, duh, but he’s worried someone more legit could make use of the info. He has a point, and I promise to make that detail go missing from the file.
Nibbling. He likes what he’d tasted so far but he’s not ready to chomp down on the bait. He tells me he wants to check me out before granted me a thumbs up. Says, “I need to know if this is the worst setup in history or if you’re honestly one crooked cop.” I don’t know what the hell “check me out” means and I sure didn’t want him spreading my name over town. So now I’m hesitating.
He asks for my number and that tears it. I’m ready to walk out. More than one jailbird’s in a cage courtesy of phone records. But he discloses that he dumps pre-paid phones every week to keep himself untraceable. Smart. Cautious. I like that. Disposable cell phones have made cops’ jobs harder and it’ll only get worse. Or better, depending on your angle.
Few days later, he calls and says it’s a go and we work out the details. Y’know, price and pickup point. Still not sure how he checked me out. He never told me. Probably questioned this old timer, Rebus Jefferson. He’s one of those characters who’s got a line on everyone. Not really of course, but sometimes a reputation’s more practical than the truth.
When I give Bradshaw the good news, he tells me he’s changed his mind. I ask how his kid’s doing and he changes it back. Funny if it weren’t sad.
Don’t ask me how he made the trade in the evidence locker. He told me something about taping a package of flour to his leg, swapping it for the coke, then taping the coke to his leg. He had to do this as swiftly as possible and out of range of the security camera. Tough gig for a ninja, and Bradshaw’s no ninja. Couldn’t have helped that he had to have been covered in nervous sweat. Hell, when we met later in a parking lot, I wondered if he’d just had a heart attack.
So I hook up with the nephew at some abandoned industrial area way out in Bumfucksville. Long drive but a safe spot. Sampson doesn’t dig me for whatever reason and man, it’s mutual pal. What appeal. Mute as a tomb every time I met him, as if his favorite dog died and he got a new one and that one died too.
But other than the disagreeable company, the deal goes down fine. Bradshaw finally starts to unbutton after I hand him his share. As for me, I throw a morsel at the bookie, burn the rest at the track, and that’s all she wrote. A few days go by. Rent’s due, the bookie’s back, and I start to feel the pinch again. I give Marcus a ring. Sure enough, “this number is no longer in service.” I consider visiting the bar again, but the less I’m seen there, the better. I’m on the verge of taking the risk and going anyway when Marcus calls.
So we do another, like, three deals. Everyone’s happy. Well, Sampson isn’t, but he never was. And I realized later that the shit was probably cut when I sold it, and Marcus probably cut it up more, so his customers might’ve made a small fuss. But Marcus and I are contented and that’s all that matters.
Then one time, out of the blue, Marcus himself shows up at the sale. Says he’s come across some counterfeit money, and if we could trade one thing...?
Well, that gets into Treasury Department shit, FBI, who the hell knows what else. I tell him I have to ask my partner. Bradshaw, of course, says no way, which works out for me. Next time Marcus calls, I say, “Sorry Charlie. My partner says it’s a no go.” Marcus gets all huffy, but I’m like, “Look, I know. And if it was up to me.” Now he’s barking that I never mentioned I had a partner, that I’ve been disrespectful to Sampson, disrespectful to Marcus, on and on. I interrupt to quickly confirm the next deal and hang up.
At the drop, I’m made to wait, like, forty minutes before Mr. Smiles pulls up. First thing I notice, no brown paper bag. Second, he’s sorta jumpy. Slightly more animated than usual. Tells me Marcus wants to ax it all, that he can’t trust me anymore, that I let him down, that the stuff was no good, blah fucking blah.
Then the kicker: this skinny turd tells me Marcus has me on tape and if I try anything, he’ll use it.
Now, I don’t believe him for a millisecond. In the first place, there’s no way Marcus would be lamebrained enough to tape his deals. What for? To send out a mix tape at Christmas? Second, even if he did tape me, which he didn’t, he can’t do anything with the tapes without burning his own little empire. If I go down, he’s going down longer and harder.
Before I can break this twig in half, loud beatboy music blasts from his car. I kick myself for not noticing Sampson brought company. He yells some kid’s name. “Told you not to touch my tunes.” It’s the kid I’m destined to meet again at the motel, so I guess the name Sampson yelled had to have been “Darryl.” That mystery’s solved.
So what to do? I consider simply waltzing into the bar and blowing Marcus away, but that gets real complicated. Who else do I have to deal with and what do they pack? The bartender might store an Uzi under the bar for all I know. Then there’s the issue of paperwork, of dumping a solid line of bullshit to plausibly explain what drew me to the bar and why I let loose a kiloton of lead.
But, you dig? I can’t really walk away. Just can’t.
I go to my lieutenant and I say, “Remember what’s his name, Marcus Webster?” I say I’ve reconsidered. Why not set up a deal with Marcus? Buy some product to break in the fresh blood? I go to Rebus Jefferson, who had been feeding us info for cash more and more often. Not much cash either. Needless to say, he went missing a while later. And when he finally turned up, I hear he didn’t look like he was going to make it to finals in any beauty contest.
But Rebus isn’t setting up a deal between Marcus and a businessman, is he? No. He’s an accomplice to something much bigger.
So, your question. When I ran down the stairs, gun in hand, what was my motivation? It was that I had helped Marcus increase his profit margin only to have him spit in my face and threaten me. It was that he didn’t appreciate who I was and the force of my powers. It was that he needed a lesson on how I operate in case he was tempted to pull some shit down the line. It was because I was damn near broke and he called it quits on our deal, and that wasn’t right. Because I needed to botch the case against Marcus real bad, push it off the back burner. Off the stove completely. I did it because I f
ucking could.
I had intended to kill whoever came to the door. Stings go bad all the time, after all. When the day came, the way it happened, it was perfect. One of the kids at the door recognized me, yelled, “Cop” and ran. It couldn’t’ve been easier or more justified.
And that was it. I knew I’d never hear from Marcus again. There’s no way he’d try to get any payback. He doesn’t have the balls to put out an order like that against a cop and he doesn’t anyone on board to give the order to. Marcus is a lot of things, but totally stupid isn’t one of them. He’d never invite the whole department up his ass just to heal his bruised pride. Even better, even more beautiful, if he does get hauled in at some point and tries to yap about our deal, it’ll seem pretty obvious he’s accusing me because I tagged one of his wannabe thugs. Oh man. I still get excited when I remember it.
The worst thing that could’ve happened is if the deal at the motel had been a success. I’d become a sweating screwball, covering tracks left and right, getting less sleep than I was getting already.
Do I regret it? One thing, I wish it had been Sampson who came to the door. Would’ve been nice to aerate his face. Well, later on, my wish came true, so scratch that.
The thing is, looking back on it, when I was dumping powder in my shoe, which started this ball rolling, I was taking the first step on the path to God. You know that story about how a flood comes and this dude’s on the roof and a boat comes by and he says, “Nah. God’ll provide?” Right, right. “I sent you three boats.” Well, anyway, God sent me a boat when he sent the idea for the swap into my head. Can you prove it wasn’t God? So to answer your question, if you think I regret being my shepherding toward God, then you don’t get me at all.
Now where the hell was I before you interrupted me? Oh yeah. The bar. Out of money. Hm. Not so interesting now, is it?
I have no idea how I ended up back home that night. All’s I remember is I woke the next morning an hour before my interview with IA. Took a while to peel myself off the couch and get ready. My reflection in the bathroom mirror was all wrong: red eyes, white tongue, light green face. But after an ice water shower, I looked like myself again.
Shut up. That’s not funny.