by Corey Brown
“Briggs, where you been?”
The voice came from several rows below, Cody didn’t turn around.
“Hey man, what happened, you all right? I expected you back at the party.”
Cody shrugged and said, “I came here.”
A beer bottle in each hand, Doug Kramer took a few more steps then slowed, almost stopped as he caught the tone in Cody’s voice.
“Too bad your aunt didn’t make it.”
Cody shrugged again, turned to look at Doug. “I didn’t really expect her, she doesn’t travel well.”
“You talk to her, she okay?”
“Yeah, she’s fine. I called her an hour ago. She told me the taxi didn’t get to the airport on time, so she missed the flight.”
Doug nodded then grimaced. “Man, we should’ve gone and gotten her. We could’ve spent a night on Bourbon Street, gotten seriously drunk.”
“That would’ve been cool,” Cody said, a sad smile playing across his face. “But I might not have come back for graduation.”
Doug reached the top row, paused, held out a Miller and said, “Your folks?”
Cody scowled at him.
“Sorry, man.” Doug looked away, lowering the beer bottles. “I shouldn’t have asked.”
The two had shared a second semester 100-level class during their freshmen year. And, for a time, they had unknowingly shared the cute blonde instructor who taught that same forgettable Gen Ed requirement. The surprise of their mutual, dirty little secret having been delivered when the instructor managed to confuse not only her student’s names but also the nights of the week she had told each of them to visit.
It was funny now, but back then Cody had felt strange, maybe even ridiculous, as he moved up the front walk. He had wondered why that red-haired guy from class was standing on the instructor’s doorstep. Cody had hesitated, actually stopped, almost choosing to turn around. But something made him keep going.
Doug had a look of genuine confusion as Cody stepped onto the small front porch, but he rebounded an instant later.
“You, too?” Doug had said, smiling, squeezing Cody’s shoulder. “How about it? Here for the grade or just for fun?”
Cody had always liked that about Doug, liked how he flirted with the girls, bullshitted about sports, always seemed relaxed. He liked the way Doug could play off a situation. There they were—seconds later all three of them were standing there because by then the cute blonde had opened the door—and Doug was grinning ear to ear at the absurdity of it all. He was smooth, quick on his feet. He flirted with more than just women, he flirted with life.
Turning to look at the instructor, still smiling, Doug had said, “Guess who’s who. Get it right I go first, make a mistake and it’s his turn.”
She’d looked at Doug then at Cody. Her eyes were wide, clearly embarrassed and maybe even a little afraid, but she said nothing.
Then Doug had taken her hand, raised it to his lips and kissed her fingers gently, almost as if she were royalty. He’d paused, looked at her, turned her hand over and kissed her palm, this time with passion. Then he had said, “Sorry, not answering doesn’t count. You lose.” He turned, took Cody by the elbow and said, “C’mon, let’s get a pizza.”
Doug lifted both bottles once more, shrugged, and said, “Well, screw your parents if they can’t be here for their own son’s college graduation. You know? Here’s to getting on with our lives.”
A weak smile chased across Cody’s face. He waited a moment before taking a beer, raised it in salute and tapped Doug’s bottle. “Yeah, forget them.”
Taking a drink, Cody took in the sight of the black Trans-Am parked in the gravel lot at the north end zone. Trimmed in gold, it had a T-top, raised white letters on wide tires, and the gold decal of a Firebird with its wings stretched out across the hood. Cody took another swallow of beer then lifted the bottle, tipping it in the car’s direction.
“That it?” Cody said.
Doug’s face split into a wide grin. “Yup. Bitchin', huh?”
“Oh yeah,” Cody said. “I’m diggin’ it, but I thought you were going for the Mustang.”
I was, but I checked this one out and couldn’t resist. What do you think of the hood scoop?”
“It’s a ’78?”
“Uh-huh,” Doug said. “Just like the one Burt Reynolds drove in ‘Smokey and the Bandit’.”
“New?”
“Brand, spanking new. Well, it’s got a few dealer miles but I’m the first owner.”
“Pretty cool. What’s Erin think?”
Doug downed some more beer, wiped his mouth and said, “She hasn’t seen it. I thought she’d be at the party but mommy and daddy took her out for lunch. She hasn’t been back.”
Cody looked at Doug, nodded and took another drink. “Her folks still don’t like you, do they?”
Doug grinned again, wider this time, and said, “Oh, it’s more than that. They flat out hate me. They wanted their little girl to find a lawyer or an engineer, anything but a cop. You’d think, after three years of sleeping with their daughter they’d at least talk to me. You know, tell me to get lost, something.”
Cody shook his head, suppressed an all-out laugh and nudged Doug’s shoulder. “Come on big boy,” he said. “Take me for a ride.”
With the T-tops stowed in the trunk and the wind in their hair, Doug and Cody headed out of town going west on Route 38. Turning north on Nelson Road, Doug opened up the throttle and Cody watched the cornfields whip past, watched the speedometer climb passed ninety.
“She runs,” Cody said, raising his voice.
Doug nodded, a look of pride on his face. “And I’m holding back,” he said. “Nelson Road isn’t long enough to unwind all the way. I’m going to cut over to Schafer and we’ll really fly.”
“Must be nice,” Cody said, “having a get-out-of-jail-free card.”
Doug downshifted, preparing to turn onto Twombly Road. “It’s better than that,” he said. “Once everyone knows your car, no one stops you.”
“Even the Sheriff’s deputies?”
“All of them. City, county, state, they all just wave as you blast past.”
Doug jammed his foot down on the clutch pedal, tapped the brakes and cranked the steering wheel. The back end of the Trans-Am broke loose when he gave it too much gas leaving the turn, but Doug corrected the fish-tail, straightened out and mashed the accelerator to the floor, quickly shifting through third into fourth.
As Cody glanced at the speedometer again, as he watched the needle glide passed 110 miles an hour, Doug took his foot off the gas pedal. He let the car slow down to fifty-five miles an hour, the legal limit. He slowed even more, down to thirty, then twenty.
“What’s the matter?” Cody said, frowning. “Everything okay?”
Doug looked at Cody then squinted. “Car’s fine. How about you, man?
“Say what?”
“C’mon, you really want to go to Kansas City? Who the hell do you know in KC?”
Cody frowned. “What do you mean? Who do I know? Nobody. Jesus, I have a job there, what else do I need?”
“Right, I forgot. You’re going someplace where you don’t know anyone to do a job you’re gonna hate. Sounds like a great plan to me.”
Doug eased the Trans-Am to a stop on the gravel shoulder. Cody stared at him but said nothing. There was a special quiet to the countryside, the farm fields had a kind of resonance that carried both sound and silence. The idling Trans-Am neither added to or subtracted from it, the sound of the engine simply became a part of the rural tranquility.
“Why don’t you stay here?” Doug said. “DeKalb still has some openings. I know you could get on.
“First of all,” Cody said. “United Telecommunications is in Overland Park, not Kansas City. Second, I won’t be staying in Kansas. UT promised me a transfer back to New Orleans after a few months of training. Man, I can’t stay here, you know that. I have to get back to home, I gotta take care of my aunt. Besides, I’m not like you,
I would suck as a cop.”
“Spare me, you’d be a great cop.”
“Hardly,” Cody said. “I can’t play it cool like you do. I’m not that smooth.”
Doug shook his head “That’s bullshit. Remember when you were house-sitting for Professor Berger?”
“What about it?”
“Don’t you remember? We were out walking that mammoth dog of theirs and---”
“After drinking all night,” Cody said. “Which, by the way, was your idea.”
“Not the point.” Doug said, killing the engine and getting out of the car. He looked back at Cody through the open T-top. “The point is, a couple of babes from the volleyball team jogged by and one of them said, that’s a big one, is it yours? And you said, yes it is. And this Malamute isn’t small, either.”
Cody shrugged. “So what? A couple of volleyball chicks, big deal.”
“There you go. You can be slick when you have to.”
“It’s not the same,” Cody said, getting out of the car. “Anyone can clown around with a couple of bubble-head babes. Besides, that’s not what I meant. I’m just not fast on my feet like you are.”
Doug opened the trunk. “Another beer?”
“No, thanks,” Cody said, raising his bottle. “I still have some.”
Doug closed the trunk lid and opened a fresh brew. He tossed the bottle cap into the tall grass lining the road.
“Okay, so you lack Doug Kramer cool, but that doesn’t mean anything. Look, even after I start, the DeKalb police force is still short two officers. I mentioned your name to a guy I know with County. And this guy went to school with the Chief. He’ll put in a good word for you.”
Cody rounded the back of the car and stopped to face Doug. He felt heat radiating from the exhaust against his leg. He looked down at the tailpipe then stepped back.
“Just like that?” Cody said. “I could get on?”
Doug looked away. “Well, no. You have to test out, but I know you could pass. The city is still taking applications. They run the next test in two months. C’mon, what do you say? We can go to the PD right now and get an application.”
Turning away, Cody faced the breeze sweeping down from the north. He closed his eyes. On the wind was the sharp aroma of livestock. It was strange how, after enough time, you could tell the difference between cattle and hogs. In truth, Cody had considered becoming a cop, had felt the pangs of jealousy when his best friend had been hired as a DeKalb police officer.
But it wasn’t for him, he needed a regular job, needed a life that was more…more what? Cody sighed. He needed a life that was more centerline, more milk-toast.
Chapter 5
It was a crisp fall day and, as usual, the service ran long. Mass ended well after eleven o’clock and scores of parishioners spilled out of the church after the final blessing, heading to their favorite restaurant or rushing to catch the pre-game show for whatever football team was playing that afternoon.
Ordinarily Sarah would have been along, but she was home with the flu. Alone, Derek Simmons strolled past his car, working his way toward a neighborhood drug store to pick up some medicine for his ailing wife.
Not a hundred feet from the church steps, a charcoal gray Cadillac Fleetwood inched along. Derek had been in town only a year or so, but immediately recognized the car. It belonged to Nance Kozlowski. Derek had already engaged Nance’s lawyers in more than one conversation.
The sight of the Cadillac heated Derek’s blood. It made him crazy that Nance, connected as he was, attended Saint Paul’s as though he were one of the faithful.
Derek checked himself. If the definition of faithful included regular church attendance, then Nance Kozlowski certainly qualified. Sundays, Wednesday mornings, Friday nights, bingo, fundraisers and special occasions; Nance was always there kneeling, saying the Lord’s Prayer, putting cash in the church coffers. Maybe Nance had him there. Maybe the crooked old bastard was faithful.
Nodding to himself, watching the Fleetwood move up the street, Derek decided things were certainly different now that guys like Nance and the Bartoli brothers were running the rackets again. Nance controlled the docks through his nephew, Studs, who controlled the longshoreman’s union. Studs reported to Nance, Nance reported to Carlos Marcello. And Carlos reported to no one.
Derek reflected on the timeline. He couldn’t quite remember the exact date but it had not taken long, the bodies were barely in the ground when control of the streets had reverted back to the Mafia, back to Mr. Marcello.
Remy Malveaux may have forced the mob out for a time, but his reign had been short if not spectacular, if not completely inexplicable. How Remy had managed to push Carlos Marcello underground was a mystery and twelve years later the Feds still could not explain it. But there it was: a New Orleans police captain had decimated the entire Organization and taken over the streets. That same New Orleans police captain had owned the city.
Then, one afternoon, in a house up in Chalmette, many of the ranking New Orleans police officers had been murdered. Slaughtered was more like it. They had been beaten or chopped to death and a short time later Carlos Marcello returned, taking control again as if nothing had changed.
Derek frowned, glanced up the street, looking at the gray Cadillac. He tried to find a connection. It was odd: most of the New Orleans police captains had been brutally murdered; a local mob boss had immediately resumed control as if it was business as usual. But no one was ever charged, the crime never solved.
“I guess things aren’t that different,” Derek said, to himself. “The bad guys just stopped wearing uniforms.”
The Caddy drifted on, Derek crossed the street, walked another two blocks and started to enter a drug store. At the door, a man wearing jeans and a white tee shirt pushed passed Derek, almost knocking him over.
“Sorry,” the man said, reaching out to steady Derek. “My fault.”
Then he rushed off, clutching a bag containing his purchase. A small, flat object dropped from the man’s back pocket onto the sidewalk.
Derek looked at it.
At that same moment, Nance Kozlowski’s Fleetwood stopped in front of the drug store and Walter Mough, Kozlowski’s wise guy, climbed out. Derek and Mough looked at each other, then they looked at the pack of baseball cards lying on the concrete.
“Those yours?” Mough said.
Walter Mough, an import, was exactly what his heavy Boston accent brought to mind: A big, rough guy with square shoulders and heavy jowls and a hard look in his eye. Walter also had a pitted nose that betrayed his love of Bourbon. In spite of the fact he was aging badly, Mough was not someone to ignore. He never carried a gun but instead relied on a razor-sharp blade and his knuckles. He was afraid of no one, including the cops.
Derek paused, catching sight of a man coming toward them. “Nope, they’re his,” he said, pointing at the man, stooping to retrieve the pack of cards.
“Hey, those are mine,” the man said. “I must’ve dropped them.”
Derek handed the baseball cards to the man.
“Prove it,” Mough said.
“What?” The man said.
“Walter, you putz,” Derek said. “They’re his. They fell out of his pocket.”
“Bite me, Simmons. They were on the ground, they could belong to anyone.”
The stranger looked at Derek and said, “How did you know?”
“Know what?”
“How did you know that I dropped them?”
“Just now,” Derek said, with a dismissive wave. “When you were leaving, I saw them fall out of your pocket.”
“You been here that long, you’ve been here for thirty minutes?”
Derek frowned. “What do you mean, thirty minutes?”
“I was here half an hour ago. We bumped into each other, remember?”
“No, it wasn’t thirty---”
“See?” Mough said, interrupting. “Can’t be his. I saw them first. Now, gimme the fuckin’ cards.”
Derek and th
e stranger looked at Mough and, in unison, said, “What?”
The rear door of the Fleetwood opened again and this time Nance Kozlowski crawled out, a black and white lacquered cane in his right hand.
“Walter,” Kozlowski said, his voice thick and sandy. “What the hell are you doing? Get my cigarettes, for chrissakes.”
“Hang on, Boss. These two are trying to muscle me out of those baseball cards.”
“Walter,” Kozlowski said, “what the fuck are you talking about?”
“Those cards.” Mough pointed to the pack in the other man’s hands. “They’re mine.”
“Forget the baseball cards, Walter. Get my fucking cigarettes.”
Then Kozlowski rapped Mough in the back of the head with his cane. Surprised, Mough wheeled around, striking Kozlowski in the face with his elbow. Even a younger man, caught this way by Mough’s sizable arm, would have had trouble staying on his feet, but Kozlowski was over eighty and the blow sent him reeling. He stumbled backward, falling hard against the Cadillac then slumped to the sidewalk. Unknown to any of them, Kozlowski was dead. Heart failure.
The caddy’s driver leapt from the car, skirted the Fleetwood’s front end and pointed his gun at Mough.
“Robbie,” Mough said. “What the hell are you doing? Put that fucking thing away before you get hurt.”
“What…what did you do?” Robbie said, staring down at Kozlowski. “What did you do to him?”
“It was an accident, I bumped him. He’s okay, I’m sure of it.”
“Put the weapon on the ground and face the vehicle,” Derek said.
“Who the fuck are you?”
“He’s a cop, Robbie,” Mough said.
“A cop?”
“Yeah,” Derek said producing his credentials, “FBI, Special Agent Simmons. Now, put the weapon on the ground and step away from it.”