by BC Furtney
16
* * *
A large crowd was gathered at the corner of 2nd and Allums. At first, Scarla thought business was picking up, but as she drew closer she saw the faces, shocked and grieving. Flowers, candles, photos, boxing gloves, all lined the sidewalk. A lump filled her throat as she pulled to the curb, noting the crime scene tape across the street, where the girl with the spider tattoo had been discovered. She put the gun under the driver’s seat, legs numb as she got out of the car. She cut through the crowd, ducked into the gym.
* * * *
Bodies packed the room, holding hands, huddling, embracing, crying, reminiscing, laughing. Fighters milled around, looking lost. The punching bags hung still. The ring was full of flowers. An enormous wreath adorned the ringpost. The old janitor was sweeping up, not good at talking, not knowing what else to do. Scarla scanned faces. She knew many, but only sought one. She eyed the office. It was dark. She looked around. People were staring at her. Finally, a hand touched her shoulder. She spun, hoping to see him, but it was Clay. He said nothing. Didn’t have to. His eyes said it all.
She grimaced, shaking her head. “What—”
He took her hands. “I found him this morning,” he whispered, nodding to the ring, fighting back tears. “He was already gone. Maybe the pressure, bills, I—I don’t know why he did it. Didn’t leave a note or nothin’.”
It took a minute to process what she was hearing, but she still refused it. “No.” Then, louder. “No.”
Clay hung his head. “I’ma keep the gym goin’. I’ma keep it alive for H. He’d want that.”
She pulled away, speechless, looked around. People standing nearby gave her a wide berth. “Where’s Wanda?” she asked.
“Home. She ain’t doin’ real well.” He had nothing else to say. She looked at the ring. Two little kids, a boy and a girl, too young to fully understand why they were there, chased each other around the ringposts, laughing. It was a good image to end on. She turned, walked out. Clay watched her go until someone grabbed him, pulling him into conversation. The gym would go on. If only so someone, somewhere, could believe in something.
* * * *
How could it be true? It couldn’t. It wasn’t. He was too strong. Too smart. He cared too much. He was a force of nature. She couldn’t, wouldn’t, didn’t believe Harold Fields would give up and commit suicide over bills. That was bullshit. That wasn’t what he taught her, and she knew him better than anyone, except maybe his wife. That wasn’t the warrior’s way, it was the coward’s way. Over the years, Big H had been a lot of things to a lot of people, but he was never a coward. He was the last honest brave motherfucker in a world of shit, pain, lies. Or maybe that was what she needed to believe. Maybe he was just a man. Mortal, fragile, broken, who knew the best was behind him and there were no surprises left. Maybe going out on his own terms was the warrior’s last uppercut. Down swingin’. She tried to convince herself of that, take solace in it. But the truth was, it didn’t matter. Nothing really mattered.
She suddenly felt sick, popped the glove compartment, uncapped an aspirin bottle, chewed a few. She’d kill for a pill. Her pill. She had to find Face. Forgot the fucking cell phone. Or was it missing? She hadn’t thought of it at the loft.
Maybe it was at the hospital. Maybe the German creep had it. She futilely checked her pockets, hung a left on 14th for no discernible reason, felt dizzy and pulled to the curb. She eyed the labels on the bottles she’d brought. Codeine. Fentanyl. Suboxone. Morphine. She laid her head on the steering wheel, tried to relax. In … out. In … out. When she looked up, she realized she was on the lip of skid row. Across the street was a two-story, four-unit, sickly-pink apartment building with aluminum-foiled windows, tucked between two warehouses in the middle of the block. It was one of Conroy Flowers’ flop houses, notorious for a recent drug shoot-out that made national news headlines and left six dead. Truth be told, they had it coming and wouldn’t be missed. They were worthless, grotesque parodies of life. You had to be to play in that hellhole. She tucked the morphine in her pocket and crossed the street, scaling graffitied steps to the front door.
No one answered when she knocked, so she tried the knob and it opened. The first thing that struck her was the smell. Cigarettes and alcohol, cut with unventilated decay. She faced a narrow staircase littered with stains, burns, debris, and a guy of dubious nationality, drunken and comatose—maybe dead—halfway up. There was no railing along the top, just a drop on either side of the stairs. Apartment doors flanked her on the right and left, both damaged from someone trying to break them down, the words Abandon Hope scrawled on one. She started upstairs, for what she wasn’t sure. A huge cockroach scurried out of a potato chip bag, over a bloodied syringe, off the edge of the step. She felt sick again, but made it to the top before turning and puking on the blackened carpet outside someone’s door. She was doubled-over when it opened, looking up to find herself crotch-level with a tall, sweaty, bloodshot-eyed black guy. He glared hard, and she couldn’t tell if he was shocked, angry, high, or all three. She stood up, assuming the latter. His room was dim, smoky, reeking of body odor, with reggae playing low.
He eyed the soiled doorstep and scowled. “What you do dat far?” he spat, in a thick Haitian accent.
“Sorry,” she whispered. “I couldn’t hold it.”
He stepped over the puddle, got in her face. “Ya gonna clean it up, y’heard?”
She nodded, still nauseous. “Okay.”
He looked her over, eyes narrowing. “What ya here far?”
She paused. What are you here for? She pulled the morphine out, showed him. “Conroy said it’s cool.”
He eyed her body, licking his lips. “Whyn’t ya come in here, girl.” He wasn’t asking. Her nausea gave way to that feeling, and she went in.
* * * *
Downstairs, a skinny Mexican kid suddenly lurched out of the Abandon Hope apartment, naked and bleeding from the throat. He clutched his spurting jugular, but couldn’t stop the flow as he staggered for the front door. His lover tackled him from behind, pinning him facedown, biting the other side of his neck. Blood sprayed the wall. The guy was older, bigger, sporting a hard-on. Dark hair bristled down his back, three-inch razor-sharp tusks jutting from his lower gums. Like a wild boar. The kid opened his mouth to scream, but nothing came. The guy mounted him, biting mouthfuls of skin and muscle from his throat, thrusting him hard from behind. The kid bled-out and died being raped on the floor, his flesh soon to make a savory meal for his killer. The Haitian turned away with no emotion, closed the door.
17
* * *
Darrin Rattan sat at his desk, chin on his fist, staring at his computer monitor. Framed certificates and awards covered the wall behind him. He’d worked long and hard to get where he was, given decades to the force, a lifetime to the cause. He’d built a reputation of unflappable strength and safety in a city that had neither when he’d been handed the reins, sixteen years prior. He was the odds-on favorite for mayor in the upcoming election year, and a win would cement his legacy as one of the greatest law enforcement figures the city had ever seen. It was a glass ceiling he fully intended to break, the mayor’s office being just the tip of the iceberg, the governor’s mansion and Oval Office not far behind. Such pending glory made his current predicament very dire, to say the least. Escalating mass murder was a shot of cyanide in an otherwise peachy punch bowl. He hit a computer key, replaying the footage he’d been viewing, and resolved to let nothing—and no one—stand in his way. The intercom crackled, Jenn purring just the way he liked it. Nick Rossi from the sanitation union on line one, would you like me to put him through? Rattan scowled. “Tell him to fuck off. Take a message, or he can call Tommy.” Yes sir, she cooed. For politics’ sake, he’d been playing it straight with Jenn. But the more pressures accumulated, the closer he came to suggesting after-hours drinks and a hotel suite. She was a flirty little bitch, after all. Mostly why she got the job. Onscreen, elevator security footage showed Car
michael uncuffing Facil as they descended from the lobby. Facil used his phone and exited, followed by Carmichael and DiCenzo. Rattan sat stone-faced, mulling a hard decision. He picked up the phone.
* * * *
“Rise and shine, convict!” The voice boomed off the concrete walls, rattling Facil from a whole fitful hour of sleep. He lurched up, pain stabbing his torso, as two guards cleared the door to escort him out. They were smirking, chips on their shoulders. “Time to go, ya made bail. Bummer, the boys in GP miss ya already.”
Bail? He wondered if it was Scarla, as he struggled to his feet. Breathing was tough, but walking was tougher, each step delivering lightning rods of pain as they made their way down the hall to catcalls from the peanut gallery. “That eye lookin’ bad, you pig motherfucker!” “Gonna getcha good next time, bitch!” “They stitch that ass up for ya, punk?” Facil stared straight ahead, chin up, trying not to limp. An inmate spit in his face as he passed. “Puto!” They reached the end of the row, waited for the buzzer. When the door opened, the last person he expected to see was Dom Turkovich.
* * * *
The squad car rounded the corner and cruised the block, slowly passing a group of squinty-eyed youths in baggy clothes, before stopping at the red light. Carmichael bit into a Subway sandwich, talking with his mouth full. “Those kids—,” pointing back, “—might be no more than fourteen at the oldest—,” swallowing, “—but I can guarantee you there’s at least three felonies in the bunch.”
Behind the wheel, DiCenzo stretched and eyed the light, smirking. “Such faith in the human condition. We’re too new to be jaded, man. Relax.”
Carmichael nodded, dropping a tomato in his lap. He tossed it out the window, took another bite. “You can relax. I’m watching our asses.”
DiCenzo laughed. “Deal. Hey, I hear LeTour got his ass kicked last night in holding. He made bail this morning.”
Carmichael shook his head. “He shouldn’t have hit me. I’ll have his badge.”
The sound of breaking glass got their attention. Carmichael turned to see the kids rounding the corner in some excitement. DiCenzo watched the rearview. Neither of them noticed the late-model Impala crossing lanes to come up on the driver’s side. When DiCenzo finally looked over, it was too late. A burst of AK-47 fire tore through his face and chest, killing him instantly. Carmichael, grazed and bleeding, saw the ski-masked shooter and reached for his weapon. The light turned green. The Impala cut in front of the squad car, its gunman unleashing a hail of bullets that riddled Carmichael as he tried to return fire, then sped off. The black-and-white rolled through the intersection in slow motion, windshield gone, two dead men inside.
* * * *
Facil and Turkovich emerged from Tower One of the Men’s Central Jail and headed for Turkovich’s car, parked in his personal VIP yellow zone at the curb. Facil took his wallet, keys, and phone from a ziplock, stuffed them in his pockets. He chewed up a few aspirin, threw the rest away. No badge. He eyed Turkovich. “I owe you, Dom.”
Turkovich kept walking. “I know.”
Behind them, across the courtyard, Tommy Delmones emerged from headquarters, moving fast. “LeTour!” he barked, out of gas. They turned. Delmones caught up, winded but trying to hide it. “I heard you were getting out. I have something for you.” Facil waited. Delmones glanced at Turkovich. They had history. As Bureau Chief, Delmones headed the internal affairs investigation that almost ended Turkovich’s career.
Turkovich rolled his eyes, turned to Facil. “I’ll be in the car, hurry up.”
He walked away, and Delmones held out a cell phone. “It’s Fragran’s.”
Facil’s blood ran cold. “Is she—” The words wouldn’t come.
Delmones shook his head. “She’s alive, but it was close.”
Facil tried to breathe deep, but pain cut him off. “How bad?” he asked.
“I don’t know, she left the hospital today. Escaped is more like it.”
Facil almost laughed. You wanted her, you got her. “Where is she?”
Delmones shrugged. “Figured you’d know.”
Facil nodded. “What about the perp?”
Delmones watched him. “There is no perp. She tried to kill herself.”
It took a moment to process the news. “What?”
“Slashed her wrists after her psych evaluation yesterday. Crane’s report said she was delusional, with possible borderline personality disorder. Freaked him out so bad, he suggested we pull her off the street and start counseling right away, then she went home and tried to cash it in. Luckily, I went by to talk with her just in time to get her to the hospital. They said ten more minutes, she’d have been dead. She woke up today and ran, assaulted a cop, carjacked some broads in the parking lot, disappeared. Not doing herself any favors. Rattan pulled the plug, the operation’s over. If you find her, and you can lay low someplace, it’d be best for everyone. You’re in the clear, Smith declined to press charges. Think out of town. We didn’t talk.” Delmones walked away fast.
Facil pulled out his phone, hit AGPS, saw a blip on the corner of 6th and Valeria. She’s home? Turkovich started the car. Facil hobbled over. “One more favor, Dom.” Turkovich stared in disbelief.
18
* * *
Marlene Schneider’s severed head sat on a stainless steel tray, empty eyes staring. Calvin Harris placed her DNA slide under an ultra-sensitive microscope that tracked a sample’s protein down to individual atoms in real time. He adjusted the lens, took a look, stared. He raised his head, blinked, looked again. Something he’d never seen before. He raised his head again, grabbed a pen, made a note in his journal. He heard the elevator doors, but was so excited, didn’t turn to see who it was. He looked again, scribbled another note. Could it be, after toiling for the better part of a year, a breakthrough? His mind raced. Behind him, a shadow drew nearer. Harris studied the slide, speaking out loud without realizing it. “I’ll be damned.”
A voice replied, right behind him. “Sie haben eine Entdeckung gemacht?”
Harris jumped out of his skin. He turned to see Ray Smith standing too close. “Smith.” He took a deep breath, heart pounding. “Don’t sneak up on me like that.” He grimaced at the sight of Smith’s face. “Jesus, what happened to you?”
Smith smiled. “If I frightened you … I’m sorry.”
19
* * *
Scarla cinched her wrist with a belt, tapping the veins in her hand. She sat on a dirty bare mattress on the floor, red Christmas lights strung haphazardly around her. The Haitian lit a stick of incense and turned up the reggae, taking a hit from a charred glass pipe. She flexed her fist, massaging a bulge between her index and middle fingers. He watched as she clamped the belt between her teeth and shot up. She sat still, feeling the effects. The Haitian exhaled a plume of smoke that fogged the small room. He swung his hand at knee level, like a pendulum. “You go down—” He sounded far away, and she thought he wanted a blowjob, until he swung his hand up high, offering the pipe. “—now come up.” She wasn’t interested in crack, just … something … what she really wanted was her pills, but without them, maybe anything would do. Anything to satiate the desire. She raised her hand, needle still stuck in her vein. The Haitian knelt and pulled it out, slipped the belt from her wrist, eyed her bandages. He held out the pipe and she wrapped her lips around it. He lit it up and she inhaled deep, watching the rock sizzle. The Haitian smiled wide, nodding in time with the music. She felt relaxed, blissfully cradled, comfortably numb. Her heart suddenly jump-started, blue eyes flushing black, pupils dilating as she came alive, hyper-aware. The Haitian caressed her legs, vicariously feeling the rush. “Ya like dat, woman?” She nodded. Outside, the sound of horrified shrieks, banging doors. He slid a hand between her legs and she opened them wider, breathing heavy. “Ya warm,” he hummed, ignoring the racket. She unbuttoned her jeans, guided him in. Their eyes locked as he eased a finger inside her, then two. She threw her head back, letting him pull her pants down. Someone shouted,
“Oh, fuck!” and bounded downstairs, followed by another with, “I got bats!” She wondered if he meant mammals or hickory. There was loud crashing, muffled shouting outside. She felt the Haitian’s tongue penetrate her, threw her legs over his shoulders and palmed the back of his head, thrusting her pelvis up. “Yeah,” she purred, “tongue fuck me, baby.” His big hands slid under her shirt to caress her tits. And just like that, it was over.
The Haitian shot to his feet, left Scarla with her legs in the air. He hopped across the room, scouring the dresser for rocks. She sat up, watched him drop to his knees and comb the carpet. There were a million things on the floor that could’ve been crack rocks—crumbs, lint, plaster, et al.—and he examined every one of them with bugged eyes, fiending as his quickie high wore off. So much for a piece of ass. Code of the streets. Rock trumps pussy. Going in, she didn’t know if he’d turn, and without the pill she couldn’t intuit as well, but judging by his priorities, he wasn’t a transformer. Yet. Regardless, it was time to go. She pulled her pants up and went for the door, leaving the needle and morphine behind. She’d barely felt anything after the initial rush. Something was amiss in her physiology, though she didn’t know exactly what. The Haitian wasn’t even aware she was leaving as she closed the door. She dodged her vomit, stopped at the top of the stairs. The drunk hadn’t moved. The kid was on his stomach, his head gone. Huge pieces of flesh and muscle were torn from his back, and his ass had been bored wide open, still bleeding into the floor. She froze, looked around, remembered her gun in the car. The front door was ripped off its hinges, lying outside. She heard a baby crying, but couldn’t tell if it was real or TV. The door across the hall suddenly opened, startling her. Conroy’s Blondie wobbled out, glassy-eyed and loaded, in pink panties and a dirty half-top. She looked in Scarla’s general direction, barely coherent. “Was gononna herrre?” Scarla watched her almost walk right off the edge, then stagger closer, teetering. “You preee.” Whatever that meant. “Yuwa fuck me?” Got that. Scarla left her babbling and descended the stairs, hopping the drunk.