Scarla

by BC Furtney

  H ran a veiny hand over his shaved head and shrugged. “We’re about done, I think. I’ll be closed by end of year.” She frowned, started to speak, but he waved her off. “When it’s time, it’s time, okay? I’m sixty fuckin’ years old, I should be happy to retire.” Pause. “God knows, Wanda’s been wantin’ me to throw in the towel, long time now.” His voice trailed off. “Long time.”

  Scarla scanned the walls again. Two yellowed Times articles from the gym’s headier days, a framed State Athletic Commission license, a photo of H with Wanda and late son, Reg, a ringer for his dad.

  H got her attention back, using wary concern in a casual wrapper. “What you been doin’ with yourself, Scarla?”

  She shifted in her seat. Could Harold Fields be trusted? Yes. If there was one die-cast, ironclad, hardcore, old school, straight-shooting motherfucker left alive, he was sitting across the desk. She trusted him—always did, always would. She leaned forward, unblinking. “I’ve been working police undercover for six months. I was supposed to be off the street by now, but it’s not that simple. It’ll be over soon.”

  Silence. He stared at her, processing the news, then stretched far back in his chair, causing it to go screeeeeeee! When he came up again, he looked five years younger. “Holy Mary, mother o’ God.” He cupped his hands over his nose and mouth and started laughing, silently at first, torso bouncing in time with a jump rope outside. He finally let loose a cackle and sprang out of his chair, rounding the desk and snatching her up in a hug. She hung in his arms like a rag doll, eyeing a 1986 one-sheet advertising Harold “Big H” Fields vs. “The Iceman” Jean-Yves Theriault.

  He pulled back to look at her, eyes watery, hands gripping her shoulders. “That’s the best news I got all year. Been hearin’ shit, y’know? Guys talkin’.” Then the dam burst. Laughter and tears flowed freely. “Undercover?” he whispered, in equal relief and disbelief, just happy his little girl wasn’t who the boys had been talking about after all.

  Scarla teared-up too, then realized she hadn’t cried since Lannie. Not even close. And close was as close as she’d let herself get, so she nipped it. “Cut that crying shit out, since when are you such a fuckin’ pussy?”

  H nodded knowingly, collected himself. “Soft in my old age, I guess.”

  She grabbed her bag. “Well, there’s no crying in Big H’s. C’mon, let’s get a beer.”

  He looked for his keys. “Okay, you got some explainin’ to do anyway.” He found them in his desk drawer. “Lemme lock the office and get Clay to hold it down, I’ll catch up.”

  She smirked. “Don’t forget your walker, old man.”

  She turned to leave, and there it was. Where only he could see it from his desk. Scarla Fragran—Women’s Lightweight Kickboxing Champion, on the back of the office door. Scrawled in sharpie: For you, DADDY! Love, Big S. He wasn’t her father of course, just the closest she’d ever had to one. She wasn’t his child either, just the closest he had left. She opened the door, exiting fast, head down. No one in the gym saw her crying.

  8

  * * *

  Facil emerged from Turkovich’s office and ambled down the hall, stopping to pour himself a cup of the department’s notorious coffee. One cup perked you up, a second had your hands rattling. Turkovich sat on the edge of his desk, watching through the narrow pane of glass that framed the door. Facil held the sugar for five beats, mixed the brew, spotted a jumbo-sized aspirin bottle. He popped four, pocketed a fistful, kept walking. A pair of beat cops approached, their eyes locked on him while his watched the floor.

  “Lieutenant LeTour,” remarked the one closest, voice full of reverence.

  Facil looked up to see them stopped in their tracks. He went another two steps, before spinning on his heel. “Yeah?” They were both in their twenties, fresh-faced, wide-eyed, ready to make a difference. Maybe they would. Or maybe they’d floor it into the ground. 50/50, he thought, as the officer pressed a soft palm to his.

  “Daniel Carmichael. New to the force, sir.” Sir sounded strange.

  The other was equally earnest. “Martin DiCenzo, sir.”

  Facil eyed them. “Do we know each other?”

  They both laughed. Carmichael kept the lead. “Your reputation precedes you. We heard a lot of stories about you in academy. It’s an honor to finally meet the man.”

  What stories would those be, and who did the telling? “Welcome to hell,” he nodded, not into chit-chat.

  They laughed. “Thanks, I think,” DiCenzo gushed. “Any advice for a coupla newbies?” But Facil was already gone.

  * * * *

  CHIEF DARRIN J. RATTAN, read the gleaming door plaque. Facil entered without knocking, strolled through a spacious carpeted room. A busty secretary in a low-cut top sat watching, her long hair held up in a chopstick, turquoise-rimmed glasses perched halfway down her nose. She was the latest in the Chief’s unending parade of big-titted office jockeys.

  He reached her desk, saw the closed door to her right. “Afternoon, Jenn.”

  She didn’t smile. “He’s not here. Business lunch.” She bit her pen, tongued the cap. It wasn’t lost on him.

  “Say when he’d be back?”

  She plucked a post-it note as he eyed her considerable cleavage. “No, but you have a message.” She handed it over.

  “Thai Den, three o’clock,” he read aloud, as her eyes floated down his body.

  “They’re waiting for you, so you’d better go.”

  “They?”

  She licked her lips. He eyed his watch. 2:44pm. The phone rang, she answered. He walked away. “Chief Rattan’s office … he’s unavailable at the moment, would you like his voicemail?” She transferred the call, watching Facil’s ass out the door.

  * * * *

  He punched in the six-digit elevator code and waited. -1 … -2. The lab was even colder than last time, his breath visible. He moved quickly past the tables, noting that half the bodies were gone. The pill press sat silent. Harris was typing on a computer, one-handed. The other hand was latex-gloved and bloody. Beside him, a naked woman hung upside down by her ankles, arms hanging free. A metal tub sat under the body, catching blood that drizzled from her mouth.

  Harris spoke without turning, still plucking keys. “I’m glad you’re here, you need to see this.”

  Facil set the teeth, still wrapped in bath tissue, next to the keyboard. “Can’t, I’m late for a meeting with the Chief. Test this, yeah?”

  Harris looked. “Charmin.”

  Facil eyed him. “How do you know that?”

  Harris pointed a bloody finger. “The two-ply perf.”

  Facil smirked, appreciating the lab humor. “See, you are full of shit. Look inside.”

  Harris unfolded the tissue, eyed the teeth. Facil walked away. “LeTour,” Harris called. Facil looked back, still moving. Harris’ tone was grim, unlike him. “Have you spoken to anyone from CDC?” The Center for Disease Control?

  He shook his head. “No, why?”

  Harris paused. “Come back after your meeting.” He was serious. Facil nodded, hit the elevator button, the doors opened.

  * * * *

  Facil stepped into the Thai Den, the smell of stir fried everything sweeping his senses. It took a few seconds for his eyes to adjust in the cool darkness. Dozens of red paper lanterns hung from the ceiling and he eyed faces, until a petite Asian hostess grabbed a menu and greeted him.

  “Just one?” she asked, in valley girl lilt.

  “I’m meeting someone, is the dining room open?”

  She’d been briefed, dropped the menu. “Right this way.” She bomped off and he followed, watching her swishing hips all the way to a lamp-lit hall in the back. She spun to face him. “They’re waiting for you. Can I get you something to drink?”

  They? “No, thanks.” She nodded, returned to the front. A large painted dragon snaked the length of the hall. He followed it tail-to-head, and when orange flames exploded from its snarling maw, he was in the dining room.

  It wa
s dark. Facil could barely see his hand in front of his face, but he saw the three men seated by candlelight at a table in the middle of the room. Chief Rattan rose to greet him, fit at fifty, military buzzcut and dark mustache over a classic square jaw.

  “Welcome, Lieutenant.” His voice was formal, unlike their private meetings last year. On Rattan’s right was the department’s longtime Bureau Chief, Tommy Delmones. Baby-faced and gel-haired, but far older than he looked, Delmones could still go clubbing and not be mistaken for his date’s dad. He was the one largely responsible for spinning, smoke-screening, or stonewalling the press, depending on the reporter, channel, or publication. For that alone, Facil thought Delmones deserved either sainthood or death. Maybe both. On the Chief’s left sat a pallid, angular fifty-something with jet-black slicked-back hair. He wore a pricy power suit and sat with both palms on the table, as if a magic trick were coming. Facil didn’t know him, and somehow didn’t want to.

  He strolled to the table, finding a fourth chair empty. “Sorry I’m late, I just got the message.”

  Delmones patted him on the back. “Don’t worry about it. Good to see ya, Facil.”

  Rattan interrupted. “Lieutenant, I want to introduce you to our new partner, Mr. Ray Smith.” The third man stood slowly, extending a limp hand. Facil shook it. Smith’s skin was cold, and while his mouth had curled into something resembling a smile, his eyes were dead.

  “I didn’t know we had a new partner,” Facil said to the Chief. Then turning back, “Ray Smith?”

  “Center for Disease Control,” Smith replied, still gripping Facil’s hand.

  “Sit down, Lieutenant. Let’s discuss some things,” Rattan said, easing back into his chair.

  Facil sat. “Such as?”

  The Chief leveled a cool gaze on him. “We’ll start with 3417 Overlook Drive.”

  “What about it?”

  “You applied for a search warrant this morning.”

  “Is there a problem?” Facil replied, eyeing everyone. Delmones watched the table. Smith stared queerly. They’d just met, but Facil wanted to smack him already.

  Rattan shot a look at Delmones, who didn’t react, then continued. “Do you know who Michael Glissberg is?”

  Facil paused. He knew the surname, everyone did. Jan Glissberg had run the Times for twenty seven years, and anyone in town with that name was in the family. It wasn’t hard to connect the dots, but Facil poker-faced it. “No.”

  Delmones eyed him. The Chief was unamused. “You fucking well should, he owns the house. Who did you think you were getting a warrant on?”

  Facil looked at Ray Smith, whose eyebrows were arched so high it looked like he might take flight. Creepy bastard.

  Rattan picked up steam. “Do you really intend to raid Glissberg? And what, arrest him?”

  Silence. All eyes were on Facil. “Something like that.” More silence.

  Finally, Delmones cracked a rueful smile. “I’d have a bitch of a time keeping that quiet.”

  Facil eyed him. “Wanna give it a shot?”

  The Chief blew his top, hammering the table with a fist that bounced the glasses. He composed himself before speaking. “You’re not getting a warrant.”

  Facil didn’t miss a beat. “The house is a problem.”

  “We have bigger problems to deal with.”

  “With all due respect, Chief, I thought that’s why we’re out there.”

  Rattan blinked rapidly, a sign that he was really about to explode. “To bust the Glissbergs? And make headlines? Is that what you thought?”

  “There was a massacre there last night.”

  “A massacre involving whom, Lieutenant?” “Security staff, a doctor, I don’t know the extent of it—” Rattan leapt to his feet, red-faced. “If you don’t know, who knows?! Who knows?!!”

  Smith leaned back with a wince, fingered his ear, adjusted his tie. Delmones grew fidgety, eyed the door. Facil remained composed. If the guy in charge couldn’t control himself, clear decisions wouldn’t be made, and if directive muddled, there’d be no point in continuing. Plus, he really didn’t like being yelled at.

  “Scarla knows.”

  Rattan paced. “Jesus fucking H Christ.”

  Delmones spoke up. “Is Michael Glissberg alive?”

  Facil always appreciated Tommy’s cool head. “I think he is.”

  The Chief glared. “You think?”

  Facil shot a look back. “That’s what I said.”

  Delmones breathed a sigh of relief. “Okay. This is good, we can handle this. Do you know, I mean, is he injured, or—?”

  Facil shook his head. “I need to go back to find out. If we haven’t gotten a call by now, he’s either dead or covering up, because there’s at least five bodies up there and one injured that might be dead too. We need to check all hospital activity from around ten o’clock last night.”

  Delmones bit his lip, thinking. The Chief and Ray Smith shared a grim, wordless look. Delmones muttered under his breath. “Five dead, one wounded. Neighbors overhear, they’d call it in.” He winced at Facil. “Witnesses?”

  “Closest neighbor’s about a hundred yards. Gated estates. I didn’t see anyone.”

  “Okay.” Delmones turned to Rattan, Solution 1 cocked and loaded. “Easy answer, if Mike Glissberg’s got bad shit going on at his place, why break our asses to cover his? It blows up in his face one way or another. We can go in on a phony disturbance call and pin any casualties on the cartels, call it a bad deal, turf war, blame the spics. Whattaya think?”

  The Chief stared at Facil. “Did you at any time identify yourself as a police officer?”

  Facil shook his head. “No.”

  “What about Fragran? Did she tell anyone she was working for the department?”

  “She knows better.”

  “A lot of people know better. Did she?”

  “No, she didn’t.” Facil wasn’t exactly sure she didn’t—she’d been drugged, after all—but even if she did, he wouldn’t tell them. And they knew he wouldn’t, which rendered the whole line of questioning moot and only served to further piss him off. A lot of secrets were coming to light.

  The Chief sat down. “We’re not touching it.”

  Delmones looked at him. “Whattaya mean?”

  Rattan carefully unrolled silverware from a napkin, laid the cloth across his lap. “Let’s get some appetizers while we’re here, I’m starving.” Silence. All eyes were still on him. He directed his words at Delmones. “I mean we leave it alone. Disregard anything that’s discussed here.”

  Smith casually eyed the AGPS screen on his phone, saw a red blip blinking on the corner of 2nd and Allums. He tapped it with his index finger to zoom in. Big H’s Fighting Gym, 6602 2nd Street. A sneaky smile crept across his face, morphing into a clamp-lipped stare when Facil addressed him.

  “What’re you doing here and how do you know about this?”

  Smith’s eyes seemed to bulge at the challenge. The smile remained as he spoke. “Chief Rattan briefed me on your situation some weeks ago, and my office received the first tissue samples from Dr. Harris yesterday. Moving forward, we find it preferable to take a more hands-on approach to this problem.”

  Facil didn’t miss a beat. “We’ve been about as hands-on as you can get up to now. What exactly do you plan to do?” Then, to the Chief, “Why wasn’t I told about this?”

  Rattan shot back even faster. “I’ll save you the time, Lieutenant, you’re relieved of duty.”

  Facil glared at him. “What?”

  “You heard me. Your involvement in this operation is over, effective immediately.”

  “You’re pulling the plug?”

  “No, I’m reassigning you. Scarla has a psychological evaluation scheduled tomorrow morning with Dr. Crane. Pending favorable results, she’ll report to Mr. Smith.”

  Smith smiled. The Chief was stone-faced.

  Facil kept cool. “No, she won’t. If I come out, she comes out.”

  “That’s not an option.�
��

  “Does she know that?”

  “She will.”

  “Then she’ll walk, it’s not what we agreed to.”

  Rattan got down to brass tacks. “Let me spell it out for you, Lieutenant. You don’t have to accept reassignment, but if you choose not to, this department certainly appreciates your years of service and accepts your resignation. You can leave your badge and weapon on the table before you go. It’s your call.”

  Silence. Delmones watched the table. Facil processed the news. He didn’t look at Smith, knowing he’d see an expression that would drive him over the edge. The Chief waited for a response. Facil cleared his throat. “She won’t work with anyone else, not at this point.”

  Smith unwisely interjected. “If that’s the case, there will be consequences.”

  Facil glared. “Such as?”

  Smith smugly addressed Rattan. “Well, it’s not as if the woman’s been yielding stellar results. I’m sure the department could employ other whores who’d perform better.” If the conversation had been captioned, it would’ve read, some guys just need to learn the hard way. But it wasn’t, so Smith had no forewarning of the line he’d crossed.

  Facil laughed. He always had a tendency to smile before unleashing a shit storm. Delmones knew it, and was already wincing when Facil vaulted across the table and grabbed Smith by the lapels, hurling him to the floor. The Chief and Delmones sprang to their feet.

  “LeTour!” Rattan shouted.

  Facil grabbed Smith by his necktie, growling in his face. “Is that how you talk in Washington?” He stunned Smith with a hard right, dragged him across the room by his tie. Delmones eyed Rattan, who calmly speed-dialed headquarters.

  Smith gagged and kicked his legs, as Facil dragged him down the hallway and threw him through a table in the front room. The hostess stood frozen at her podium. Bar patrons watched, drunkenly amused. Facil eyed them. “Sorry everyone, I just found this piece of shit in my food.” One guy laughed. Smith tried to crawl away, but Facil kicked him in the ass, then kicked him through the room, upending tables and chairs. Rattan and Delmones hooked his arms, but he threw them off. The hostess fled and Facil bombed Smith through the podium into the front door, then stood over him. “Like your new job, asshole?” He unleashed a flurry of punches that bounced Smith’s head off the floor, opening up both sides of the man’s skull. Blood splattered. Rattan and Delmones wrestled Facil outside.