Badge of Evil

by Bill Stanton

  “I wouldn’t worry about feeling old,” Bishop told Lucy with a smile. “It happens to the best of us. Especially when this kind of shit’s going on. I mean, what the fuck is this? Live animals? The hookers, strippers, and rappers aren’t enough? Shit, I’m an Olympic gold medalist in partying with marathon-runner stamina, and this crazy shit makes me feel tired.”

  “Thanks,” Lucy said. “But that doesn’t make me feel any better. You actually are a lot older. I still can’t believe this place. You know Supreme prepaid sixty thousand dollars for alcohol for his crew tonight? In cash.”

  “See, I don’t understand black people. No, wait,” he said as Lucy rolled her eyes at him. “Hear me out on this. Supreme is obviously a smart guy, but c’mon, you gotta admit this is fucked up. I mean, as soon as black people get some money, they get stupid. Look, I’m half Puerto Rican, so I kinda understand. But you don’t see Bill Gates and Warren Buffett throwin’ parties like this. Fuckin’ tigers and leopards? No way. You ever see that movie Soul Plane, where the plane’s painted purple and it’s got chrome rims and big fish tanks and huge flat-screen TVs? I’m telling you, that’s how black people think.”

  “Thanks for the sophisticated analysis of race and consumer spending in America. Nicely done.”

  “C’mon,” Bishop said, laughing, “you know I’m right. You’re just too politically correct to say so.”

  “Actually, I’m too politically correct to tell you how ridiculous and racist your remarks were. I’m afraid I’d offend all the half Puerto Ricans—not to mention all the other half-wits.”

  Bishop laughed a little too hard and a little too long at this. Truth was, he had no comeback. Again, Lucy had left him speechless. She was just too quick. Wherever he went, she was already there, blocking any potential opening. But he was not about to give up.

  “Bishop,” Lucy said, smiling, “if you’re gonna sit there with your jaw hanging down like that, don’t embarrass yourself. At least have one of these.” She handed him one of the shots of vodka she’d ordered for the two of them and threw down her own glass. Bishop did his best not to wince as he downed his shot, but he did. She smiled.

  “Hey,” he protested, “the first one always goes down hard. But it’s the last man standing that wins the prize.”

  Feeling ballsy again, Bishop decided to take another whack at it. “I know that in this new spirit of cooperation between my team and A. J.’s, we’re sharing information and helping each other out, but I’m still wondering why you invited me tonight. I have to believe it goes beyond professional courtesy.”

  “I like you, Bishop,” Lucy said in a tone he couldn’t read at all. “But you gotta stop trying so hard. And give it up with the canned banter . . .”

  Bishop hesitated for a moment, trying, despite the thumping music, the crowd, the flashing lights, and the vodka, to think about Lucy’s remark before responding. “What do you mean ‘canned banter’?”

  “C’mon, do you really want to talk about this? I don’t want to insult you.”

  “I’ve always been able to take constructive criticism. But just understand that in the days of the caveman, when Fred Flintstone would see a woman he liked, he’d walk up to her, hit her with his club, and pull her by her hair back to his cave. Then he’d hit her with his other club.” He winked when he finished.

  “See what I mean?” Lucy said with a straight face. “That’s just so lame. Don’t you have any cultural references from, oh, I don’t know, now? It’s like you’re stuck in some kind of weird time warp. Every TV show or movie you mention is several decades old. Have you just totally tuned out the last twenty years?”

  “That’s the stuff I like. And as far as the banter thing goes,” Bishop said, undeterred, “a guy’s got two things, either a black Amex card, which I don’t have, or good verbal skills and a sense of humor, which I do have. I like the give-and-take, the mental fencing, you might call it. It’s like a love dance.”

  “So, you consider yourself a romantic?”

  Bishop caught the bartender’s eye and signaled for another round. “Yes,” he said, “I consider myself a twenty-first-century Renaissance man.”

  “Really. Then explain to me how four of my girlfriends in this town all claim to have dated you within the last year. And I use the term ‘dated’ loosely. Whenever your name comes up, the story’s always the same. After the introductory conversation—let’s call it your entertaining little sales pitch—it leads to nowhere except the same old tired MO. You take them to Bell’s to try and impress them by having the boldfaced names come by your table to chat. Then, around eleven thirty—by the way, feel free to interrupt at any time if I’m getting any of this wrong—you leave Bell’s and take them to Marquis. Yeah, yeah, I know, it’s the hottest club in Manhattan at the moment. With the line of people dying to get in stretched around the block, you walking right to the front, finding one of your good friends, Jason or Noah, never neglecting to tell the girl that they’re the owners.”

  Bishop interrupted to hand her the next drink. “Well, they are the owners.”

  She waved off the drink but motioned for him to feel free. He did this shot without a wince and, putting the glass down on the bar, said, “Continue.”

  “Anyway, after you get into Marquis, you sit at a table with a celebrity. Brianna was quite impressed and told everyone at the dinner party how she got to sit at the same private banquette as Chelsea Clinton. By the way, how do you know Chelsea Clinton?”

  “If I answered that, it’d just look like a lame attempt to impress you. Continue.”

  “Fine,” Lucy replied with a genuine smile. “Now, that puts you at Marquis around two a.m. As if setting your watch by it, you then head to your ‘unofficial office,’ V, where you finish the night on a high note by getting them lap dances and massages from all the highly evolved, postfeminist Ivy League grads who work there. Then, more often than not, you attempt a little heavy petting in your convertible, like Fonzie at make-out point.”

  “Hey,” Bishop interrupted, “that’s one of my favorite seventies cultural references.”

  “I’m sure,” Lucy said. “Finally, you drop them off between six and seven a.m. So, how’d I do?”

  “Well, if you wanna reduce my finely honed, carefully choreographed seduction dance to a simple schedule of events, you did very nicely. But that ignores the charm, the humor, the romance.”

  “I’m sure there’s plenty of all that,” Lucy said, laughing a little. “But here’s my question. Why don’t you take them home?”

  “I’m saving that for you,” Bishop responded. “Only a really special girl gets to go back to the cave with yours truly. That’s a pretty good job profiling me. Four girlfriends, you say? That’s not that bad.”

  “Actually it is,” she said, “considering I only have five girlfriends in this town and the only one you haven’t dated is the one who’s not a model.”

  “Let’s be fair. I obviously want to take you out. You’re not a model.”

  “That’s right, but I was. That’s how I paid for school.”

  “Well, I still think it shows I’ve gotten past my really bad-boy stage. That I’ve matured. My turn-ons are not what you’d probably think—at least not anymore. It’s not about big tits or a great face or money or celebrity or any of that stuff. I mean, it is sometimes, but mostly now it’s about content for me. It’s about what kind of game you bring. The other shit gets boring real fast.”

  With that, she did her shot.

  “What about you?” Bishop asked.

  “What about me?”

  “Let me profile you, Clarice, darling.”

  Whether it was the music, the alcohol, or maybe the fact that she was actually curious about Bishop, she begrudgingly decided to indulge him. “Okay, Dr. Lecter, ask away!”

  “Are your parents still married?”

  “Yes,” she replied. “Very happily devoted to each other for thirty-nine years.”

  “Well, that explains a lot. Especia
lly the confidence you have in who you are.”

  “Uh-oh, you’re not trying to analyze me with a bunch of psychobabble bullshit, are you?”

  “No, no,” Bishop said quickly, hoping he hadn’t screwed up again. “I just think it’s interesting that people whose parents stay together seem to have a certain comfort level that . . . Uh, okay, never mind. So where’d you grow up?”

  “My formative years were in Orange County, California. The infamous OC. I was pretty athletic and competed in all the OC glamour sports: tennis, swimming, softball, volleyball. Oh, and I surfed a little, though not well.”

  “What about boys?”

  “I had to beat them off with a stick. Is that what you want to hear? Look, I had my share of fun, but I kept everything in perspective. My parents taught me what was important. I wasn’t turning my life upside down for some pimply-faced, horny primate. School and sports were the dominant things in my life through most of college.”

  “Maybe sometime I’ll get you to give me some of the details of the fun you’ve had with boys.”

  “C’mon, Bishop, even you can do better than that.” Lucy suddenly seemed a little distracted. She looked at her watch. “Listen, I’d love to continue this fascinating dialogue, and especially to talk more about me, but it’s time to go to work. It’s almost midnight and Supreme wanted me to meet him out front. And remember, I fly solo when Supreme gets here. You can be my wingman and watch me from the bar or wherever.”

  Bishop tried to protest, but she cut him off. “Listen, this is my call, my lead, A. J.’s story. I’m sure you want to give me all that macho bullshit about how you’ve got my back. Save it. That’s a given. Otherwise I never would’ve asked you to come with me. You can pout while I party with Supreme. But don’t feel too bad. If this goes well, maybe I’ll consider letting you take me where I’ve never been before.”

  Bishop suddenly had the bright, expectant look of a kid on Christmas Eve. “You’ll come back to my place?”

  “Are you nuts? Of course not. You think I wanna get hit with your club, Mr. Flintstone? I’m talking about V. But it’d have to be our secret.”

  • • •

  The scene out on the street in front of Roxx was a kind of controlled chaos. The lines of people hoping to get in now flanked both sides of the main doors. The people were six deep behind the barricades and the lines stretched well beyond where Lucy could see. Limos and SUVs were double and triple parked, a small but active swarm of paparazzi and reporters bumped and elbowed one another in a penned-off area near the entrance, and security seemed to be hovering everywhere.

  Lucy and Bishop didn’t have to wait outside for long. At a couple of minutes past midnight, two black tour buses rolled up carrying Supreme and about a hundred members of his crew. Showing up together this way made a big, splashy statement, emphasized how tight they were, and enabled them to party together on the way to the party. Most of the guys getting off the buses were wearing black T-shirts promoting Supreme’s company, Black Ice Records. Black Ice medallions emblazoned with the company slogan—THE ICE AGE IS HERE—were everywhere as well.

  As a model, Lucy had been to her share of high-profile events in LA, New York, Paris, and Milan. She’d walked the red carpet at movie premieres, charity events, and, of course, major fashion happenings. She’d even gone to the Grammys one year on the arm of the president of a major recording company. But she’d never seen a spectacle like Supreme’s entrance.

  When Supreme saw Lucy, his eyes lit up. “Girl, you are a fine sight,” he said, kissing her on each cheek. “We gonna party tonight. I got a secluded spot inside. You’ll come sit with me. Who’s the beef?” he asked, looking at Bishop and then back at Lucy. “You think you need protection?”

  “Actually, he’s just a—”

  “Frank Bishop,” he said, cutting her off. “I was just keeping her company until you got here. I’ll entertain myself while you guys talk.” With that, he left them and headed back into the club.

  Once inside, Bishop made his way to a spot at the bar where he had a clear view of Supreme’s private banquette in the VIP section. Lucy smiled at him as she turned and headed for Supreme’s table.

  • • •

  “C’mon now, girls, make a little room here, know what I’m sayin’? Back it up and let this fine lady come sit down with me.” Supreme had come into the club with three bodyguards and five sparingly dressed young women—three black and two white—who looked like they’d just stepped out of one of his rap videos. He patted the banquette next to him and motioned to Lucy to come sit down. “What can I get you?” he asked her when she finally made her way past the other women in the booth. They were clearly pissed.

  “Uh, K One, straight up, chilled,” she said. “This place is amazing.”

  “That’s for real,” Supreme said. “It’s been open for just about a year now and it’s killin’. Practically every night we open it’s like this. Already covered all the up-front costs. Construction, supplies. I own the building, so everything from here out’s pretty much just icing.”

  “Wow,” Lucy said, surprised.

  “But no business tonight, okay, pretty girl? No trippin’ on Big K gettin’ capped, crooked cops, or any of that unpleasant shit. Let’s just chill and enjoy the night. Things are gonna get pretty crazy, so just sit back and let it flow.”

  • • •

  Bishop was watching Lucy and Supreme closely but discreetly, and given his surveillance training, it was unlikely anyone would’ve noticed what he was doing. He saw immediately that Supreme was taken with Lucy. No serious detective work needed there. Supreme dismissively shoved the mamacitas he’d come in with out of the way for her and then took control of the entire VIP section, coordinating who sat where and what kind of alcohol he wanted. Once that was done, all of his attention was focused on Lucy.

  Bishop assessed Supreme’s security. There were two NFL-lineman-sized bodyguards flanking his table as well as two more positioned in the front of the VIP section. Bishop also spotted a fifth man by the entrance to the club. They were all big, well dressed, and, as best he could tell, armed—though probably unlicensed. He pegged them for amateurs, all show and no go. It’s one thing to carry a gun; knowing how to use it is a whole other ball game.

  Bishop continued to scan the club, scoping out the exits and noting the easiest, quickest way to bolt, just in case something bad went down. He wasn’t expecting trouble. But he’d learned the hard way over the years that having an escape route was always a good idea. Bishop was also running through a checklist in his head. He had his investigators tapping every source they had in the police department, especially in ESU, to try to get some useful information on the raid. So far it had been slow going, but he was still hopeful something would break.

  He was also wondering why he was so attracted to Lucy. The strippers were a lot easier to play mental chess with—actually, most of them only played checkers. And not very well either. Lucy was certainly beautiful, but in a much more classic, understated way than the exaggerated Barbie look Bishop usually went for. But what Bishop found particularly appealing about Lucy was her personality. She was quick, funny, smart, and didn’t give a moment’s thought to impressing him. Coming with her to Roxx was not part of his deal with A. J., but he couldn’t resist when she’d asked him. Truth be told, he was flattered.

  The bar was busy, but not as busy as it should’ve been given how crowded the club was. When Bishop was a cop, the bars he went to were usually three people deep and it was all you could do to get a cocktail. Nowadays it was a lot easier to get a drink at these clubs, given the number of people on designer drugs, most often Ecstasy. And designer water was often the preferred beverage of the evening.

  “Goddamn it,” Bishop muttered as his cell phone started to vibrate. He knew who it was before he even looked. It was Victoria calling for maybe the fifteenth time in the last two hours. The club was too loud to hear or be heard in, and he didn’t feel like talking to her now anyway.
She’d have to wait. He’d give her a full rundown tomorrow. He shut off his phone, put it in his pocket, and turned his attention back to Lucy.

  • • •

  At the end of the bar, a man was watching not just Bishop, but Lucy and Supreme as well. It was Oz, disguised to blend in. He was wearing sunglasses and a blazer over a prewashed tie-dyed T-shirt with a pair of jeans. With a full head of black hair, he looked like an older rocker cruising for a piece of ass. He appeared to be drinking a martini while intensely observing the exchange between Lucy and Supreme. The wig, the sunglasses, and the whole getup worked perfectly. Bishop had glanced in his direction several times already, and each time he’d looked right through Oz as if he weren’t there.

  Oz may have been Brock’s closest aide and confidant, but he was a mystery within the police department. Everyone at police headquarters knew the commissioner had this strange, virtually anonymous guy who worked for him, who never said anything and had complete access to Brock all the time. He even rode the commissioner’s private elevator. But he had no rank and no official title. It was unclear even to Brock’s deputy commissioners if he was on the payroll. And no one was about to ask. People who ran into Oz at One Police Plaza didn’t even want to make sustained eye contact with him. His eyes were black as coal and the rumor was—there’s no better incubator for rumors than police headquarters—if you stared too long you’d fall under his control. As absurd as this notion seemed, no one in the building appeared willing to put it to the test.

  Oz, whose full name was Kareem Ozmehet Said, was born and raised in Brixton, a poor, mostly black and Muslim suburb of London. His plan was to go to college and study engineering, but when he was sixteen, he began hanging around a group called al-Muhajiroun, an extremist organization dedicated to creating a worldwide Islamic society governed by sharia, Muslim law. The group was eventually outlawed in England. Instead of college, al-Muhajiroun sent Oz to Pakistan to study Islam in a madrasa and train in a terrorist camp in the mountains. The teen who once wanted to be an engineer became a jihadist, a highly trained guerrilla fighter. He learned hand-to-hand combat and tracking and reconnaissance techniques, and he was schooled in the use of a variety of weapons, including handguns, knives, AK-47s, RPGs, small explosives, and sniper rifles. He was introduced to Brock in Saudi Arabia by Abdullah al-Rasheed, and they became close very quickly.