Marked cd-3

by David Jackson

  ‘Who, me? Nah. Just didn’t recognize you, is all. Can’t blame a cat for tryin’ to stay safe and shit, you know what I’m sayin’?’

  ‘Got something worth protecting?’

  ‘Only my life, yo. Worth sumthin’ to me, even if no other motherfucker give a damn.’

  ‘My heart bleeds for you. I was talking about the movie business. You made director yet? Producer? Or is sales and marketing still your thing?’

  Freezeframe feigns puzzlement. ‘You lost me, D. I don’t know nothin’ about no movie business.’

  ‘Uh-huh. I bet the bodega owner does. What’s his thing? The new Tom Cruise? Or is he more your alien invasion kinda guy?’

  ‘Only thing I know is he sells gum.’ Freezeframe digs a pack of chewing gum from the pocket of his hooded top and shows it to Doyle. ‘You want a stick?’

  Doyle shakes his head. ‘What’s in the backpack?’

  Freezeframe looks over his shoulder as though he’s just been told there’s a bug crawling there.

  ‘This? I don’t know.’

  ‘You don’t know what’s in your own backpack? The one you think is important enough to be carrying around in the rain like this?’

  ‘I found it, D. Planning to hand it in to the po-lice at the next opportunity.’

  ‘But you didn’t bother to look what was in it?’

  ‘Nah, D. None of my business, you know what I’m sayin’?’

  Doyle sighs and looks up at the rain clouds. It seems to him that they don’t plan on dispersing anytime soon. Seems more like they’re waiting for reinforcements.

  ‘Step over here,’ says Doyle, moving under the awning of a hardware store. Reluctantly, Freezeframe joins him.

  ‘I tole you, D. I don’t know shit about no DVDs. This ain’t-’

  ‘Forget the DVDs. I want some information.’

  Freezeframe pulls his neck back in surprise, his head disappearing turtle-like into the shadows of his hood before it slowly emerges again. Then he suddenly breaks into raucous high-pitched laughter as he slaps his thighs with those elongated arms of his.

  ‘You fucking with me, right?’

  Doyle keeps his face straight. ‘No, I’m serious.’

  Freezeframe stops laughing. ‘I ain’t no snitch, D. And if I was a snitch, which I ain’t, I would not be your snitch, because I heard ’bout what happens to your snitches. Motherfuckers be ending up dead.’

  ‘This ain’t an offer of permanent employment, Freeze. It’s a one-time deal.’

  ‘I still ain’t interested. I got a reputation, yo. Folks get to hear I been talking to the man, they be smokin’ my ass.’

  Doyle pulls out his wallet, opens it up and strips out a few bills.

  ‘Tell you what. I can open up your backpack there and then I can run you in and we can talk about this down at the station house, or you can make yourself a little green for one small piece of information and then walk away. What’s it to be?’

  Freezeframe looks out into the rain as if for guidance, then back at Doyle.

  ‘Shit, that ain’t no kinda choice. That’s you putting a nine to my head, is what that is.’

  ‘What’s it gonna be?’

  Freezeframe looks around again, this time appearing a little more nervous. Which tells Doyle that he’s on the verge of accepting his offer.

  ‘Suppose I ain’t got this particular piece of information?’

  ‘Do your best, Freeze. Ain’t nobody else I know mixes with the criminal fraternity like you do.’

  As Doyle suspected he would, Freezeframe takes this as a compliment, and his face brightens.

  ‘I do got a lot of contacts, that’s true. Aiight, what you wanna know?’

  ‘I’m looking for someone. Man called Anton Ruger.’

  Wide eyes now. Astonished eyes.

  ‘Uh-uh, D. You don’t wanna be messing with that shit. That cat is nasty. Word is he offed one of the Bartok brothers. Anyone even insults the Bartok brothers got to be either insane or havin’ balls of steel.’

  ‘I wanna know where he is.’

  ‘I don’t know where he’s at. Nobody does.’

  ‘Somebody does. Somebody must have mentioned his name to you, at least.’

  Freezeframe pauses. ‘You didn’t hear this from me.’

  ‘No problem.’

  ‘Aiight. There’s a white boy I know. Likes to talk big. Says he did some work for Ruger.’

  ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘Likes to go by Cubo. Thass all I know.’

  ‘Where can I find him?’

  ‘He cribs at his girl’s place. Skinny-ass ho called Tasha Wilmot. She live at 309 Stanton. Top floor. Apartment 5D.’

  ‘That’s pretty damned specific, Freeze. How’d you know all this?’

  ‘Boy likes to watch movies, when he’s not getting it on with his girl.’

  Doyle nods. He scans the street himself, then palms off the wad of bills to Freezeframe.

  ‘You made the right decision.’

  Freezeframe slips the money into his pocket. ‘Yeah, and you be making the wrong one. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.’

  LeBlanc tries every which way he can to justify it to himself.

  I’m young, he thinks. Relatively inexperienced. Still got a helluva lot to learn. Older, wiser cops are still capable of surprising me. Sometimes I need to hold back before I interfere. Give them a chance to-

  Scratch that. It’s bullshit.

  This is Wrong, with a capital W.

  LeBlanc has seen many things that have made him feel uncomfortable. Cops who have accepted one too many ‘freebies’. Cops who have been a little bit too free and easy with their fists during their interrogation of suspects. Cops who have suggested that LeBlanc look the other way while they have a ‘private conversation’ with a perp. He has witnessed all these things. He is not naive. He knows how the world turns.

  But this. .

  He can’t let this go.

  When he enters the squadroom he is ready for a fight. Not a physical fight — he knows that Doyle would put him on his ass in a second — but a squaring off while some serious truth-seeking takes place. He doesn’t care if anyone else is there to listen. He needs to hear what Doyle has to say for himself. Doyle owes him that much, and he will demand that Doyle gives it up.

  Except that there is no sign of Doyle in the squadroom. His desk is unoccupied. His jacket isn’t on his chair or the rack. LeBlanc came in here with adrenalin pumping through his system, and now he has no way of putting it to use.

  ‘What’s the matter, kid?’

  This from Schneider, who has watched LeBlanc thunder into the squadroom like he’s about to tear it apart.

  LeBlanc rounds on him. ‘I’m looking for Doyle. You seen him?’

  ‘Me? No. But then he’s not a guy I make it my business to find very often. Ain’t he supposed to be your partner?’

  LeBlanc knows what Schneider’s doing. He’s saying: Doyle is your partner. He should be keeping you up to speed. You shouldn’t have to ask where he’s gone. And he’s doing this to turn LeBlanc against Doyle, because every day that Schneider can create another enemy of Doyle’s is a successful day in Schneider’s book. LeBlanc knows this; he’s not stupid. But right at this moment he’s willing to overlook the obviousness of this ruse. Right now he’s pretty amenable to being asked to play for the opposing team.

  ‘That’s what I thought too,’ he snarls. ‘But hey, what do I know?’

  Schneider raises his eyebrows in obvious surprise at the vehemence of LeBlanc’s reply.

  ‘I told you. Doyle doesn’t do partners. You get put with him, you still have to watch your own back. Remember that. Look after number one, kid, because you can be sure that’s what Doyle’s doing.’

  LeBlanc doesn’t know what to do. This is unfamiliar territory. The last thing he wants is to jam up a fellow cop, especially his own partner. But Schneider is right. In his own blunt, opinionated way he is uttering wise words. LeBlanc needs to make sure he d
oesn’t end up getting accused of covering up for Doyle through his failure to speak out. He needs guidance. An older, wiser head to whom he can turn for help.

  ‘You wanna talk about it?’ says Schneider.

  And there it is. The offer of assistance. Right here, right now.

  ‘You got a few minutes?’ LeBlanc asks.

  The marks are already darkening into savage bruises. Purples, blues and greens stain almost his entire body, making it look as though it bears one huge abstract tattoo.

  Proust is impressed by the workmanship.

  One missing tooth, another broken in half, and a hairline fracture of one rib.

  That’s pretty damned good. To be carrying all those marks and to have only those underlying injuries — well, that’s the sign of a true craftsman. Gowerson performed exactly as advertised. Proust has always admired those who not only have great skill, but who also go to great pains to make things just so.

  Speaking of pains. .

  The rib hurts like crazy. A red-hot dagger into the chest every time he breathes or moves, both of which he tends to do frequently. Who would have guessed that such a tiny crack could make its presence felt so emphatically?

  The hospital staff told him there was nothing more they could do for the rib. Rest and strong painkillers is what they prescribed. They told him he was lucky to come through an assault like that with nothing more serious. Said he was, in fact, fortunate to be alive.

  He wanted to laugh when they told him that. He does it now instead. Naked in front of the mirror, he lets out a long, loud burst of laughter, stopping only when the tears running down his cheeks are those not of amusement but of indescribable agony.

  He hasn’t taken the painkillers. He wants to experience this pain. He is so used to others enduring pain at his hands in the tattoo shop, and yet he has suffered very little in his lifetime. He has never broken a bone before or had toothache or even a severe headache. Pain has always been something to avoid, to fear. He feels that he is somehow conquering that fear. He is becoming stronger. He can cope much more easily with what life may throw at him.

  Bring it on, Doyle, you miserable, puny fuck. Bring it on.

  FOURTEEN

  ‘You need to talk with her.’

  This from Rachel, across the dinner table. It’s spaghetti bolognese tonight. Not fish. There shouldn’t be bones. If there are bones, then his wife has planted them there to teach him a lesson.

  ‘Tomorrow,’ he says, even though he knows it’s pointless.

  ‘No, not tomorrow. I know what it’s like when you’re working a homicide. We hardly ever see you. You’ll be out before Amy is up for breakfast, and you’ll be home after she’s gone to bed. I’m not complaining about that. That’s just how it is. To be honest, I’m a little surprised you’re home right now. But since you are, you should take the opportunity to talk to Amy. It can’t wait, Cal.’

  The reason Doyle is home right now is that it’s probably his only chance today to see his family and have a decent meal. He hasn’t told Rachel yet, but he’s got a busy night planned, and it doesn’t involve dancing or drinking. It doesn’t involve solving the murder of Megan Hamlyn either. As far as Doyle is concerned, he’s already nailed that one. All he needs to do now is find a way to prove it. And it’s precisely because of what he intends to do tonight that he is determined the couple of hours he can spend at home now will be friction-free.

  ‘All right,’ he says. ‘Gimme five minutes, okay?’

  She smiles at him. Doyle finishes his meal. Doesn’t find a single bone.

  ‘What’s for dessert?’ he asks.

  ‘Chocolate mousse,’ says Rachel. ‘It’ll be your reward for counseling Amy.’

  Doyle frowns at her. ‘You do know that attempting to bribe a police officer is a felony, don’t you?’

  ‘It’s also an offense for an officer to accept a bribe. Let’s see what you do when the chocolate mousse is on the table in front of you.’

  Doyle gets up from his chair and starts to head out of the living room.

  ‘This mousse better not be something you made up just to get your own way,’ he says.

  He finds Amy in her bedroom. She’s lying on her bed, wrapped in a fluffy white towel, her head buried in a book.

  He’s had a lot of conversations with Amy in this room. For some reason, it has become a place of opening up, of voicing fears and innermost thoughts and wishes for the future. And not only by Amy. Doyle has often found himself putting his own opinions and worries under the spotlight during these brief one-on-ones with his only daughter. She has that effect on him. Her innocence and complete trust never fail to make him lower his shield.

  ‘Hey, sugar,’ he says. ‘What’s the book?’

  She looks up at him, beams a cheeky smile. ‘Hi, Daddy. It’s about stromony.’

  ‘Stromony, huh? What’s that?’

  She looks wide-eyed at him. ‘You don’t know what stromony is?’

  ‘Nope. Is it about dinosaurs?’

  ‘No, silly.’

  ‘Ponies?’

  ‘Uh-uh.’

  ‘Fairies?’

  ‘No, Daddy,’ she says in despair. ‘It’s about stars and planets and space.’

  ‘Ah. And little green moon goblins?’

  ‘No. No moon goblins. Don’t you know anything?’

  ‘Not a lot, I guess.’

  He tries to dredge up a fascinating astronomical fact, and fails miserably. All that comes to mind is a limerick that begins, ‘There was a young space-girl from Venus,’ but he decides it’s best not to share it.

  He says, ‘Tell me something about stromony.’

  ‘Well. .’ says Amy. ‘You know all the stars?’

  ‘You mean the movie stars?’

  ‘No, silly. The stars in the sky. The twinkly ones.’

  ‘Oh, those stars. What about them?’

  ‘Well, they’re really suns.’

  Doyle allows his jaw to go slack. ‘No. Suns? Tiny little suns?’

  ‘No, they’re not tiny. They’re big, like our sun. But they’re really far away.’

  ‘How far? You mean, like, from here to Ellie’s apartment?’

  ‘More than that.’

  ‘How about here to New Jersey?’

  ‘More.’

  ‘To the North Pole?’

  Amy has to think about this one. ‘Can we see the North Pole from here?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then maybe not that far.’

  ‘But still a long way,’ Doyle says.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Wow!’

  ‘Yes, it’s amazable, isn’t it?’

  ‘It certainly is amazable. Are you doing this stuff at school too?’

  He thinks, Subtle switch, you sly dog.

  ‘Sometimes. Not all the time.’

  ‘No. You have to do lots of other work too, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes. Hundreds.’

  ‘Sure. And I bet you get through lots of pencils and erasers and things, don’t you?’

  Amy goes quiet then, and drops her gaze. Even at seven she can see Doyle’s ploy for what it is. She knows exactly where this is headed.

  ‘Honey, you listening to me?’

  She nods. Says nothing for a while. Then: ‘Are you mad at me?’

  ‘No. Why would I be mad at you?’

  ‘I don’t know. Mommy’s mad at me.’

  ‘No she isn’t. She just wants to understand.’

  Amy picks at a stray thread on the edge of her towel.

  ‘Pumpkin?’ says Doyle. ‘Is there something going on at school? Something you don’t want to talk about?’

  Amy shakes her head.

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘Yes. I told Mommy. I don’t know how those things got in my backpack.’

  ‘You didn’t put them there?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You weren’t looking after them for a friend?’

  ‘No.’

  Her head is bowed really low now. So low
that Doyle cannot see her expression. But it seems to him that she is on the edge of tears. He feels his own heart cracking.

  And then a sequence of images starts to play in his head. He is back in Proust’s tattoo parlor. Ripping the guy’s shirt off. Threatening him. Letting him know that there is no doubt in Doyle’s mind about his guilt.

  So why the difference?

  Why the heavy-handed approach with Proust and the soft touch with Amy? Why believe one and not the other?

  And what if he’s wrong? What if Proust is actually innocent and his own daughter has become a thief? Is that possible? Could Doyle’s own judgment be so impaired?

  No, he tells himself. I’m right, on both counts. Even if nobody else trusts me on this, I’m right.

  ‘All right, Amy,’ he says. And when she doesn’t reply, he touches a curled finger to her chin and raises her face to look at him. ‘I believe you. No big deal, okay?’

  He spends a few more minutes with her, changing the subject and doing his best to blot the earlier conversation out of her mind. But when he leaves her bedroom he cannot shake off the profoundly sad feeling that a little something has died between the two of them tonight, and with it, a little of his belief in himself.

  Lorenze Wheaton ain’t afraid of no man. Not tonight. Not any night.

  That’s what he tells himself. That’s what he believes. He doesn’t see what’s underneath. He’s blind to the young man in constant fear for his life. That version of Wheaton is a pussy. This here is the real Wheaton, walking tall and slow, not afraid of meeting the gaze of any motherfucker who might feel the need to stare him out.

  His bravery is supported by the six-pack of beer he just shared at Tito’s place. The blunts they fired up there didn’t hurt neither. That was some seriously good shit Tito had there.

  And then of course there’s the nine. The biggest confidence booster of them all.

  He reaches behind, taps himself on the back, just over the right kidney. Feels through his jacket the reassuring hardness of the Beretta 92 tucked into his waistband.

  Go ahead, Mojo, he thinks. Make your play. This nigger’s strapped, motherfucker, and don’t that change everything?

  He’s strolling back from the projects on the other side of Avenue D, heading along East Seventh Street. It’s after midnight and it’s raining hard and the slick street is quiet. He doesn’t mind the rain. In fact he likes it. It calms him. He thinks he could just stop and stand here for hours, his face upturned to the sky, feeling the heavy raindrops beating softly on his face.