by Jason Pinter
“Hey, man,” I said. “Thanks for the heads-up on this.”
“Don’t mention it,” he said. Curt was a good-looking guy, about six-two, and filled out his uniform. As a young black officer, he’d made high marks and was even used in some promotional materials for the department when recruiting was down. The taglines on the poster read:
Good People Make Good Cops. Good Cops Make a Great
City. Curt was a good cop, and, as much as he hated to admit it, a good poster child. Thankfully for him he didn’t get recognized on the street much anymore. “I see a few motherchuckers in the crowd.”
“You see that body,” Curt said, “you’ll lose your last three meals, guaranteed.”
“You look fine to me,” I said.
“That’s ’cause the girl I’m seeing, Denise, can’t cook anything that doesn’t say ‘microwavable’ on the box. And even then I have to remind her to take it out of the box.”
“You’re kidding me.”
“Oh yeah? I had chicken casserole a la cardboard two nights in a row. I swear, if the girl didn’t screw like a jackalope…”
“How’s the leg?” I said. Talking about sex in front of
Jack had the same appeal as discussing it with my parents.
Curt had taken a bullet recently, the bullet nicking an artery, necessitating some time off the streets. The man went stir-crazy, but considered his scar a badge.
Not to mention he liked to talk about it more than sex.
“Feels good today. Hurt like hell yesterday. Touch and go. Know the worst thing about being shot in the leg? You can’t really show people the scar without causing a scene.” Curt looked at Jack. I realized they’d never met.
“Sorry. Jack, this is Officer Curtis Sheffield. Curt, Jack
O’Donnell.”
They both nodded, familiar with the drill.
“Henry’s talked a lot about you,” Curt said. “I figure he must go through your garbage the way he knows you front to back. Take care of our boy, he’s one of the few journos we can trust in this burg.”
“I’ll teach him everything I know,” Jack said with a smile.
“Hey,” I said, “how’s Detective Makhoulian? I didn’t really get to thank him for his help.”
Detective Sevag Makhoulian was the officer assigned to investigating my brother’s death. He’d been an invaluable asset to the investigation. Plus he had impeccable timing. Makhoulian was Armenian. Quiet and intense, as no-nonsense as they came, but he’d proved his reliability and dedication. I owed him, big-time.
“He’s doing well. Mandatory leave for an officer involved in a shooting, but it’s a clean-cut case and he’ll be back on the street any day now.”
“Good. City needs more cops like you guys.”
“Not going to argue with you there. I keep telling my captain that they need to clone my ass. Sure as hell save the city some money, and they need to save every penny they can these days.”
Jack decided to chime in. “So according to Henry,” he said, “Ken Tsang’s body was beaten pretty bad?”
“Naw. The cops pushing three bills who have to play center field on our softball team get beaten pretty bad.
This guy looks like somebody took a baseball bat and decided to flatten him out to the point where you can slip him inside a mail slot.”
I felt a bad taste in the back of my throat.
Curt said, “Worst part is, Forensics thinks at least half of the bone breaks were inflicted postmortem. Which means whoever killed Tsang didn’t just want him to hurt.
They wanted people to see him look more like a bean bag than a person.”
“First Hector, now his roommate. Somebody is taking out drug runners in the city.”
“Taking them out,” Curt said, “with extreme prejudice.
This isn’t just about somebody cleaning up their mess, this is sending a message that if you don’t watch your back, you’ll find yourself dumped in the East River a whole lot more flexible than when you woke up that morning. What
I want to know is, who is this message going to?”
“Officer Sheffield, where exactly was the body found?” Jack asked. He’d taken out a small notepad, uncapping a pen with his teeth. I did the same, feeling somewhat foolish. Normally when I talked to Curt it was informal. Friend talking to friend, both aware of the other’s professional responsibilities. But Jack was right.
The story came first. Curt looked at the pad, saw Jack was waiting for his answer.
“Garbage scow saw a big canvas bag floating in the river, a few blocks south of the garbage transfer station on Ninety-first Street.”
“The body was in a bag?” I said.
Curt nodded. “Big, heavy burlap sack.”
“You said it was floating,” Jack said. “How would a canvas bag with a body inside float on a river without sinking?”
Curt blinked. He wasn’t holding back. He just didn’t know.
“Hold on a second,” he said. He walked off quickly, and I could tell Curt was as curious about the answer to that question as we were.
Jack was busy scribbling in his notepad. I held back a smile. His eyes were focused, his handwriting sloppy, but that didn’t matter. Mine was no great shakes either, but as long as we could decipher our own it would make do.
Of course recently my handwriting had taken a turn for the worse, which led to several notes from Evelyn Waterstone, the Gazette’ s managing editor, with helpful tips like “Learn basic penmanship.”
“How you feeling?” I said to Jack.
“Hm?” He didn’t look up from the page.
“Just wondering how you’re feeling. That’s all.”
“Fine,” he said. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
I waited to see if he was going to laugh, but Jack was totally serious.
“I mean, come on, this is your first day back on the job in almost a year. You disappeared faster than Michael
Moore at a Weight Watchers convention, and nobody’s heard from you. Just, you know, want to see how you’re holding up.”
“Just fine,” Jack said with a wry smile. “If I start to slag, be sure to tell me.”
I just nodded, then saw Curt Sheffield walking toward us. There was a strange look on his face, his lip turned upward as if processing information. He came over to where we were standing and said, “Guy was inside a bag that was tied to a buoy.”
“A buoy?” Jack said, eyebrows raised.
“Yeah, the body was in a big burlap sack, but get this.
Whoever dropped it into the drink attached it to a freaking buoy. Not only that, but they tied a freaking balloon to the buoy so it could be spotted. A garbage scow noticed the balloon and rope this morning and called it in.”
“They’re sending a message,” Jack said. “Using us as the messenger.”
“Us?” I said.
“This will make the first ten pages in every newspaper. The message isn’t for cops. It’s for other dealers.
They read about what’s happening to their friends, they keep their noses clean. So to speak.”
“You could be right,” Curt said.
Jack tapped the pen against his lip. “You said the bag was found by a garbage scow a few blocks from the
Ninety-first Street transfer station. Do you know if that was where the body was dumped from?”
“That isn’t public knowledge yet, and I think I’ll get a reprimand if I tell you guys anything else. Listen, I gotta run, but we’ll release more info as it comes. Meantime, you two are smart enough to put two and two together.”
“Actually, I’m waiting for Jack to teach me that.”
“Yeah, take it easy, Henry. Mr. O’Donnell.”
“Officer,” Jack said. When Curt was out of earshot, Jack said to me, “Hundred bucks says the body was dumped from the transfer station.”
“Why?”
“This whole thing…the body pulverized, the bag attached to a buoy, I mean, who does that? Once this story breaks, every l
owlife in the city will know that Ken
Tsang was mutilated in an ungodly way.”
“Not to mention the garbage connotation. That he’s nothing but filth.”
“That, too.”
“But if this message is going to dealers, who’s sending it?”
“The same people who killed Hector Guardado. And most likely your brother, too,” Jack said. “My guess is
Hector might have some more info for us.”
“Hey, Jack, you might have missed the memo, but
Guardado’s dead. Kind of hard for him to be a source of new info.”
“The man’s got friends. Colleagues. Let’s wait until the news breaks, and then tomorrow morning we see which of Hector’s old friends are scared enough to talk.”
4
They could hear whispering from behind the door before they’d even knocked. The three of them walked down the hallway, the floor covered in cigarette butts and crack vials.
The two men walked in front, the woman trailing them behind. She wore a jacket over a tank top, her arms loose by her side. The man on the left was blond, trim, and grinned like he’d been looking forward to this. The other wore a long coat and a scowl, and was in no mood to smile.
The men behind the door had been waiting for their arrival. The whispering was excited, impatient. So when the two lead men finally did knock on the door, it opened barely a moment later.
The bodyguard who opened it was massive. Six foot six at least, and well over three hundred pounds. There was perhaps muscle under the flab, but he was no doubt employed as much for his ability to absorb bullets as for his ability to fight. The man looked like he could stop a tank shell in that gut.
“You Mr. Malloy?” the behemoth asked. The woman looked at the younger of her two accomplices, the blond man in his early forties. The blond man nodded.
“At your service.”
The bodyguard stared at his sunglasses. Or more specifically, what held them up. “Man, what happened to your ear?”
The blond man ignored the question. “We’re here to see Mr. Culvert.”
The bodyguard looked at the woman standing behind
Malloy. She had dark skin and luminous green eyes. Her skin was the color of cinnamon, and she looked a few years older than the blond man. Her body was toned, sinewy, her breastbone visible above the curve of her tank top. The bodyguard let his gaze hover over her an extra moment, then ushered the three people inside.
The apartment was located inside a largely unoccupied building in Harlem. The man they were going to see owned the premises, and other than letting family members stay from time to time, he kept it mainly for business dealings. And that’s what this meeting was about. Business.
The bodyguard ushered them down a hallway into a room that was lit only by two weak floor lamps. The windows were blacked out, and there were no phones or other electronic devices present. Three couches were arranged in a semicircle, and sitting on these couches were four men. Three of them were dressed all in black trench coats, and were just as big as the guy who opened the door. Machine guns were strapped to each of their chests. They made no efforts to hide them.
The one man who was unarmed was dressed in a simple track suit, and wore enough gold chains to bring down a hot air balloon. He was thirty-two years old, and worth nearly twenty million dollars. The woman looked around the place, slightly disappointed that there was no evidence of his successful rap career in the building. No platinum albums, no framed magazine covers. For what she had in mind, those trinkets would have made the ensuing story that much more vivid.
The chains clinked together as the man twitched involuntarily. He constantly licked at his lips and rubbed his hands together. His eyes were wide, the whites almost eerie in the gloom. He smiled broadly when they entered.
“Mr. Culvert,” Malloy said. “Good to see you again.”
LeRoy Culvert stood up. He gripped Malloy’s hand with both of his and shook them energetically. He looked warily at the two people Malloy was with. The other man he viewed with skepticism. The woman he eyed with fear.
“Mr. Culvert,” the woman said. “Let’s talk about the future.”
“Absolutely,” LeRoy Culvert said, sitting back down.
The four bodyguards watched, guns at the ready. “Here, take a seat.”
“That’s all right,” she said. “We’d prefer to keep this short.”
“Whatever you say, ma’am,” Culvert said with a laugh.
The man was stoned out of his mind. That was clear. And the woman knew exactly what drugs he had taken.
“So?” she said. “You’ve clearly sampled our product.
What do you think?”
LeRoy Culvert leaned back, his head tilted toward the ceiling. Then he whipped it forward.
“See, normally I’d lie to y’all. I’d tell you your
‘product’ is shit, and that you should feel lucky if I’d sell it to the poorest crackheads who live in the subway. See, that way I’d bargain you down, get you to sell it to me at a discount, and I’d keep the profits for my own.”
“Smart business strategy,” the woman said.
“But I ain’t gonna do that to you. You’re good peo-38
Jason Pinter ple. Listen, this be the finest product I have ever tried in my whole life. Fact is, if you hadn’t come on time today I’d have to get my man Buttercup to track you down and get some more down here because my stash is out. ”
“Buttercup?” Malloy said.
The massive, milky-white bodyguard nodded. “That’s what people call me.”
“Intimidating,” the woman said.
“Listen, lady,” Buttercup said, “I will break your bony ass over my knee.”
“Hey, my man Cup, there’s no need for that,” Culvert said. “These people are our friends. They’re going to double your salary, because I’m gonna be worth twice as much.”
“At least,” the woman said.
“So look, I want in. I’ll start with a million worth of the rock. I have enough dealers on the streets that we’ll probably be sold out in a month. Then we’ll re-up, and go from there. Everybody makes money. You have the product, I have the distribution. Together, we’ll blanket the city. Every two-bit street demon with a habit and a ten-dollar bill will be aching for a taste of this.”
“You do have the streets,” the woman said. “And that is commendable. Very nineteen eighties. But to be honest,
I’m thinking a little higher than street level.”
“What you mean?” Culvert said. “Higher, where?”
“That’s not important. I’m just glad you enjoyed the product.”
“Enjoyed?” Culvert said. “Man, I’m gonna buy ten grand worth just for my own personal enjoyment. What do you say to that?”
Malloy shrugged. The woman did not move. The other man stayed quiet. He looked uncomfortable.
“Who is this dude?” Culvert said, nodding to the quiet man.
“This,” the woman replied, “is Detective Sevag Makhoulian of the NYPD. He’s our liaison inside the department. He will keep us apprised of any police awareness of our operation.”
“Smart bitch, you is,” Culvert said. “So, let’s make a deal.”
“Sorry,” the woman said. “No deal.”
Culvert looked like he’d been punched in the stomach.
“What do you mean, no deal? You gave me the product to test, I tested it, and now I want to take it to the streets.
We all make money.”
“ We make money,” she said. “You don’t.”
LeRoy Culvert jumped from the couch, his chains clinking, baggy pants fluttering. “Listen, bitch, I want my stash. Business or not, I got to have more of that stuff.
Those rocks are life, man.”
“I’m glad you’re satisfied with our product,” she said, “but that does not change the fact that this transaction is done.”
“Man, fuck y’all,” Culvert said. “You gonna be like this, I’m gonna
have to take over your operation. Buttercup, gut this bitch.”
Buttercup went for the gun in his waistband, but before his hand ever got there the woman ripped a blade from inside her coat and ripped it through the soft meat of Buttercup’s throat. The wound yawned open a ghastly red, and Buttercup made a choking sound as he dropped to the ground, flailing. Blood poured from the severed veins.
The woman wiped her hand on the couch.
LeRoy Culvert stared at the bloody mess. “What the hell are you doing?” he said. “We’re partners!”
“Yes, we are,” the woman said. “You’re going to help us get the word out about our product. I’m just sorry that your corpse is going to be the vehicle for delivering the message.”
Suddenly Malloy pulled two machine pistols from his coat, and in less than two seconds shredded Culvert’s bodyguards in a hail of bullets. Blood and pillow feathers spattered the apartment, which was lit brightly by the gunfire.
When Malloy had stopped firing, he paused and saw
LeRoy Culvert cowering behind one of the couches. He was muttering sweet Jesus, sweet Jesus over and over again as he rubbed a gold cross hanging around his neck.
“Jesus won’t save you,” the woman said, walking over to the cowering man. “But give him my best.”
With one thrust, she buried her knife up to the hilt just under LeRoy Culvert’s jaw. He tried to open it, instead aspirating a cloud of blood. When Culvert’s eyes rolled back in his head, the woman pulled the knife free.
Culvert’s body toppled to the ground.
The woman looked at the bloody knife in her hand.
“Three days,” the woman said to her associates. “Once
Paulina Cole does her job, and the police tie this into it, we’ll have enough product on the street to saturate the entire city in less than a week.”
Malloy stood there, staring at the bodies. He made the sign of the cross. The woman turned to Malloy and put her arm across his shoulder.
“I know you’re thinking about him,” she said. “But I promise you, he won’t have died in vain.”
“Thursday,” Malloy said. “I’ve been waiting for this day for twenty years.”
“Me, too,” she said. “Now come on, we have some new recruits coming in. I want this room to look like something out of Stephen King’s nightmares.”