Union Jacked

by Diane Vallere

  “Whiskey Mick’s,” I said. “On Penn Avenue.”

  Eddie’s eyes widened, and I looked away. I’d just suggested meeting a cop in a whiskey bar, and if I were pregnant, then I couldn’t drink! Except nobody knew I was pregnant. (I didn’t even know if I was pregnant.) Which meant meeting Madden at a bar was actually a pretty good idea. It would surely undo any suspicions Eddie had after I drank the kombucha.

  I shuddered at the memory.

  Yes. I could get Detective Madden to drink while I had water. He’d loosen up. He’d tell me about his investigation. I could use this to learn something.

  I was a natural at this informant stuff.

  I finished making plans and hung up. When I turned around, Eddie was buttoning his coat. “What are you doing?” I asked.

  “I’m coming with you. For backup.”

  “Madden is a cop. He should be a fairly safe companion.”

  “Have you ever been to Whiskey Mick’s?”

  “No. Why?”

  “It’s a cop bar. You’re going to walk in there with Detective Madden and stick out like a sore thumb. And I’ve never seen you drink whiskey. You need me. You need me to make you look like you belong.”

  We took separate cars. Eddie had made a case for conservation, company, and convenience, but since Eddie’s new apartment was less than a mile from Whiskey Mick’s, carpooling would have likely meant me sleeping on his sofa. And while I wouldn’t have minded not feeling alone, I liked my bed.

  I found a parking space a block away from the bar. This stretch of Penn Avenue had recently been revitalized with bars, restaurants, and galleries. It was the hot spot for social life, and local bands jumped on the event calendar. The plan was for Eddie to park at his apartment complex and walk, giving me the much needed “meeting a friend” excuse should my meeting with Madden not work out. (I didn’t tell Eddie my side plan of asking the bartender to pour me a glass of iced tea in a whiskey tumbler if I slipped him a twenty. It worked in the movies.)

  I opened the door and was hit with noise that pretended to be music. Raw female vocals mixed with gritty guitar chords and a pounding drum beat that pushed me back outside. I braced myself and went in. The lighting was minimal, and the dark wooden walls made the venue appear smaller than it probably was.

  The bar was on the left, and beyond it were four tall cocktail tables occupied by couples. Past them, steps led down to a landing where the band played. A dartboard hung to the right of the bass player, and a group of police officers in uniform took turns throwing. Having a conversation with Madden was going to be twice as difficult with this level of noise, but more manageable with the distractions. Six of one, half a dozen of the other.

  As long as Madden showed up.

  The music stopped, and the general chatter of a room full of people replaced the anti-men angry female vocals. I stood between two barstools, wondering whether this had been a mistake. If Whiskey Mick’s was anything like the waiting room at the hospital, this crowd could turn ugly.

  A disheveled-on-purpose woman approached the bar. She wore black leather pants, a ripped white T-shirt held together with safety pins, moto boots, and an unhealthy amount of eyeliner.

  “Give me a mug of something cheap,” she said to the bartender, with no regard for other customers.

  He leaned against the back of the bar and towel dried a glass mug. “Is that smart with Bob here?” he asked.

  “Just give me the beer,” she said. “I’m a customer, and I ordered a drink. Mind your business and leave mine out of it.”

  “Whatever you say, Iz.” He set the towel down and carried the mug to the beer tap.

  Iz. Izzy Smalls. I recognized her from the band’s Facebook page. She was the lead singer of The Ex-Pistols.

  Izzy thanked the bartender with an overdose of fake sweetness and carried her beer back toward the stage. Bob Pennino, the portly officer with the porno mustache, blocked her way. She tried to step around him, but he moved from side to side, not letting her past. The angrier she got, the bigger the smile on his face.

  Until she threw her beer in his face.

  Around him, other officers applauded and cheered. The wet officer grabbed a wad of napkins from a nearby table and blotted. He glared at Izzy’s back as she stormed away. It seemed I wasn’t the only patron to have a reason to dislike the portly cop. In need of an ally, I followed Izzy Smalls past the bar, down the steps, past the dartboard, and out the back door.

  10

  Love is Anarchy

  By the time I reached her, Izzy had one arm out of her black leather jacket and was smoothing a nicotine patch over her bicep. She looked up when I walked out, and her angry expression relaxed. “I thought you were him.”

  “I think he’s drying off.”

  She grinned. “You saw that?”

  “The whole bar saw that.”

  “Good. Love is anarchy, man.” She pulled a lollipop out of her leather jacket pocket, tore off the cellophane, and stuck it in her cheek. “Trying to quit. Nothing else works.”

  “You’re Izzy Smalls,” I said.

  She squinted at me. “Do I know you?” she asked. I shook my head. “You work for the bar? I’ll pay for the cleaning bill.”

  “I’m not out here about the spilled beer. I’m Samantha Kidd.” I held out my hand.

  “Samantha Kidd? You messaged me about booking The Ex-Pistols for a party at Tradava.”

  “I may have a job.” I looked over my shoulder to the back door. “Where are the other exes? Or are they the pistols?”

  “We’re both. We’re all ex-girlfriends who were dumped. Badly. Punk rock is good for misplaced anger.” Izzy tucked the thumb of the hand not holding her lollipop into the pocket of her tight black leather pants. “Tell me about this gig.”

  “A British holding company bought Tradava, and we don’t agree on the details of the grand reopening party.”

  “Tea and crumpets,” Izzy said.

  “Biscuits,” I corrected.

  “Right. I suppose you’re working with that blond woman? The one who dresses like she’s about to go on a fox hunt?”

  “How’d you know?”

  “I saw the two of you in the parking lot yesterday. I was going to introduce myself, but it didn’t seem like the right time.” She stuck the lollipop back into her mouth and twirled it with her hand. Her cheeks sank inward and her lips pursed, making her look like a guppy.

  “You were there?” I asked. “At Tradava? Yesterday morning?”

  Izzy pulled the lollipop out and pinched the stick between her thumb and forefinger. “No biggie, okay? My ex told me to show up. Said he’d give me the money he owed for our last month’s rent. Should have known he was lying.”

  “Did you see anything?”

  “Like what?” she asked in a bored voice. And then something flashed across her face, betraying her tough-girl act. “You mean the shooting, right?”

  I nodded.

  She shook her head. “I was gone before it happened. One sentence out of my ex’s mouth and I knew he wasn’t going to give me the money.”

  I pointed my thumb over my shoulder. “That guy was your ex?” I asked.

  “Yeah. You wouldn’t figure me to go for one of them, would you? Learned my lesson. They pretend to be good guys, but under the uniform, they’re just a bunch of dirtbags.”

  I was having a hard time keeping track of where the stage presence ended and the ex-girlfriend anger began. “You left before the shooting took place. Do you remember what time it was?”

  “No. I headed your way after I ditched Bob. You were drinking tea with the fox hunt woman and no offense, but we’re not a tea and biscuits kind of band. I turned tail and left while the fireworks were going off.”

  The door to Whiskey Mick’s opened, and another member of the band came out. “Yo Izzy, we’re up,” she said.

  “About that job,” Izzy said.

  “It’s on hold indefinitely.”

  Izzy bit off the remaining cand
y, tossed the stick onto the sidewalk, and went back inside.

  I stood there in the four-car parking lot behind the bar and considered what I’d learned. Izzy Smalls had been at Tradava yesterday morning. According to her story, so had Bob Pennino.

  Izzy said she’d been there when I was sampling tea with Victoria, and she’d been there when the fireworks went off. My first response after hearing the gunfire had been that it was another round of fireworks. And at least half an hour had passed between those two events.

  Izzy Smalls was lying about how long she’d been at the store. She may have been lying about Bob being there too. I just didn’t know why.

  I sent a quick text to Eddie to meet me out back. Minutes later, he rounded the corner. “Why are you out here? I thought you were going to cozy up with Madden.”

  “He’s not inside. I followed Izzy Smalls after she threw a beer at her ex-boyfriend. He’s a cop. Get this: she was at Tradava yesterday morning.”

  “Dude, she’s the female Johnny Rotten. Where else is she going to find the bulk size of safety pins and plaid trousers under one roof?”

  “She said she was there to meet her ex in the parking lot. Did you not hear me say he’s a cop? He owes her money and told her to meet up with him so he could pay her back. She says he lied about that, but I think she’s lying too. Can you keep an eye on her while I go look for Madden?”

  “Sure.”

  Eddie went in through the back door. Instead of following him, I circled the sidewalk to the front and pretended I’d just arrived. Detective Madden was seated at the bar. It was the worst possible place for a quiet conversation where I’d optimistically hoped to ply him with booze and learn insider information. He tapped the counter next to him, and I sat down.

  “Ms. Kidd,” he said.

  “Detective Madden,” I answered. “Are there any updates on Loncar’s condition?”

  He shook his head. A glass with half an inch of amber liquid sat in front of him. That wasn’t very much booze. Had he gotten a head start? Was he already sauced? I needed to see if his eyes were bloodshot, but I didn’t know how to get a good look when we were both facing the same direction. I looked up at the mirrored backdrop behind the various booze bottles and squinted.

  “I can suggest something if you’d like,” he said.

  “Oh. No. Why? Are you an expert on whiskey? Because if you are, I should have what you’re having.” Yes, this was smart. I would order whatever he was having and learn what his whiskey preferences were, and I’d order water on the side. And after he finished his drink, I’d somehow offer him mine, which would give him more than he’d probably expected, which would successfully implement part one of my plan. “Hi,” I said to the bartender. I pointed at Madden’s glass. “I’ll take one of those,” I said.

  “You sure about that?” the bartender asked.

  “Yes. I’m feeling adventurous.”

  “You want a water back?”

  A water back? Back where? Did he mean water on top? As in, dilute the whiskey? “Sure,” I said. “But I’d like to try it first, so on the side, please.”

  “A water back on the side,” the bartender repeated.

  “Exactly.”

  The bartender looked at Madden and raised his eyebrows. “Do you want to tell her?”

  Madden shook his head. “Let the lady order what she wants.”

  I didn’t know if these guys were insulting my intelligence or respecting my asserted female empowerment. (Interpreting equality signals is hard.) I smiled politely at Madden and then watched the bartender turn around, pull a miniature can of apple juice from the refrigerator, pop the top, and pour an inch into my glass. He set the glass in front of me and filled a different glass with water from the soda gun and set that next to the apple juice.

  “It’s on me,” Madden told the bartender.

  “I can’t let you do that,” I said.

  Madden smiled. “Apple juice is free for cops. Keeps us from standing out when we patronize the place.” He picked up his glass and held it toward me. I clinked it and took a sip. The cold, fruity liquid tasted so good that I gulped. “Slow down,” Madden said. “Unless you want a room full of cops to think you’re getting drunk on their turf.”

  I set the glass down and spun toward Madden. From this angle, I was able to glance over his shoulder and take in the other patrons in the room. If the reception I’d received at the hospital was any indication, then I wasn’t the most welcome person. But as I scanned the interior, searching for unfriendly expressions, hostile body language, or thinly veiled, non-verbal threats, I saw none. Nobody in the bar seemed to care that I was there.

  Which was both good and bad. Because this whole plan, meeting Madden, was supposed to be about trading information, getting a lead, and helping find who shot Detective Loncar. What I’d learned so far was that female punk rockers were the real deal, and cops drank apple juice off duty.

  It was late, and I was tired, and this was turning out to be a bad idea. I pulled the folder of Harvey’s strike plans out of my handbag and set it on the counter.

  I tapped my fingertips on the top of the folder. “This includes Harvey Monahan’s plans for his strike. He gave it to Victoria Pratt, the sales executive from Piccadilly, before they went into the store on the morning of the shooting. I forgot about it until later that night when I took my files home. It’s starting to seem like Harvey knew about the shooting.”

  “Ms. Kidd—”

  “Hear me out. Maybe Harvey arranged the shooting to get national publicity for his union demands. I know that sounds extreme. That’s why I’m turning this over to you to investigate.” I slid the folder in front of Madden. All he had to do was take the folder, thank me for acting like a good, responsible citizen, and let me walk out of here with the warm fuzzies that come from doing the right thing.

  “I’m afraid it’s not that simple,” Madden said. “Ms. Kidd, I appreciate you trying to help us. I’ll go through this folder to see if it gives me any leads on finding the shooter. But in light of what happened to Harvey Monahan, our investigation has taken a turn. I don’t think you can pin this on him.”

  “I know he was shot. But it was just a flesh wound, right? It could have been done to make him look like a victim and remove him from suspicion. Or it could be that he wasn’t supposed to get shot and he ended up getting nicked by accident. Or maybe he underpaid the shooter who wanted to make a point. I don’t think Harvey Monahan is above suspicion just because he’s in a hospital bed.”

  “Harvey Monahan isn’t in a hospital bed. He’s in the morgue. Harvey Monahan died earlier tonight.”

  11

  The Great Police Ball in the Sky

  “Harvey Monahan is dead?” I asked. “But it was a flesh wound. I thought he was faking it for publicity.” This time Detective Madden had my full attention.

  “The bullet that passed through his arm went into his torso. It didn’t exit. When a bullet remains inside a body, it can do a lot of damage to internal tissue. By the time the doctors were able to operate, it was too late.”

  The air in the room felt thin. Madden’s talk of Harvey’s internal organs caused mine to tighten up, my stomach to clench, and my vision to blur. Eddie had sat with Harvey in the parking lot. He’d pressed his cat hat onto Harvey’s wound, and when Eddie had to leave, Harvey had held the hat in place himself. If Harvey could die after seeming to be alert, then was Loncar next? Would he pull through, or was his coma simply one step on a path to the great police ball in the sky?

  Whatever information I’d hoped to gain tonight paled in comparison to this news. My priorities shifted. How was I supposed to go to work now? How was I supposed to plan a party?

  I could no longer accept Loncar’s belief that he was the target. Harvey had died from the shooting, and no matter how dedicated he was to his cause, I doubted his negotiations involved the loss of his life.

  I believed in law and order. Justice. Bad guys getting caught. And I wanted—needed—to
believe that this person had left clues and could be caught.

  I picked up the tumbler of apple juice, knocked it back, and slammed the empty glass on the counter. “Hit me again,” I said to the bartender.

  “Ms. Kidd,” Madden started.

  I cut him off. “I need the vitamins.”

  I finished the second glass of apple juice and half of my water before Madden spoke again. “We found out after the local news, but it’ll be in tomorrow’s paper.”

  “What does this do to your investigation?”

  Madden shook his head. “At this point, nothing. We’re still piecing together what we found at the scene, what Mr. Monahan was able to tell us before he died, and what we picked up from interviews.”

  “You’re not confident you’re going to catch who did this,” I said. It wasn’t a question.

  “I know you understand my position well enough to know I can’t confirm or deny that,” he said. “But I will say I wish we were able to get a statement from Loncar before he slipped into his coma. Cops see things differently, and he might know something.”

  “He did,” I said. “I already told you. He said the shooter was after him. Did you look into that? Into who might have a vendetta against Detective Loncar?”

  “I don’t think he meant him. I think he meant the police. There’s a growing rift in the community. An us-versus-them mentality. Word leaked out that you were planning his party at Tradava. It stands to reason that someone who hated cops would keep an eye on that location. People don’t like that crime is on the rise, and they blame us for not doing our job.”

  “But why would those people do something violent? Isn’t that counterproductive?”

  “Shooting at the police is a surefire way to show you don’t respect them.”

  “But they have to know you’d put all of your resources into finding who did this. Loncar was one of you.” The thought, which should have been accurate, didn’t fit the scene.

  We were sitting in a bar filled with police officers who were shooting darts, knocking back whiskey, and listening to live music. And earlier tonight, the hospital waiting room had been crowded with police officers. All I’d seen was indifference and hostility. Aside from Madden meeting me tonight, where was the unification to catch the perpetrator of a crime against one of them?