Floodgate

by Johnny Shaw

  “Thanks, I guess.” Andy said. “Why do you need me?”

  “We don’t. Lord God, nobody here wants you around but Rocky, but he’s earned the favor.”

  Andy tried to remember what his life was like a week before: getting up, visiting Champ, investigating leads that he knew would lead nowhere, putting up flyers that were well-intentioned litter. It seemed as if all that had happened to a different person in a different country on a different planet in a different dimension.

  “And not to put too fine a point on it,” Macklin said. “You don’t have a choice.”

  “What if I don’t want to be a part of any of this whatever-the-hell-it-is?”

  “Your decision. Say the word. We’ll turn over the evidence we have—the murder weapon, surveillance tape, et cetera—and you’ll be indicted for the murder of a police officer.”

  “You put it that way, I guess I’m in.”

  “Give it time. You’ll get to the point when you no longer feel like a prisoner, but a coworker. An ally, not a cog in the wheel.”

  “Or a fly in a web,” Andy said.

  “Exactly.”

  Andy took a drink from his coffee. Bitter and cold. Fitting. “Your team, the group, the five from last night. That’s everybody? That’s Floodgate, right?”

  “They don’t like that name. Say that a secret organization doesn’t need a name, because it’s a secret. That it sounds too much like a comic book. I still think it has a great ring to it.”

  “One person representing each group, that’s what the hobo said.”

  Macklin nodded. He turned the giant ring on his pinky.

  “Let me guess. Rocco, my”—Andy made air quotes—“‘father,’ he’s with the mobsters, the Trust?”

  “The quotes and tone aren’t necessary. The man is most certainly your father,” Macklin said. “He represents the Trust, but they haven’t been mobsters for a long time. Not in the traditional sense. Suits in buildings now.”

  “And my one-armed best friend, Pilar—the gangs, obviously. But why is there a Japanese kid if the Chinese are involved? He’s 893, all the way.”

  “Yes, Pilar is with Consolidated. Ben is 893. Good eye. The movie you watched is from the late sixties, outdated. Three years ago, the Japanese bought out the Triads. The yakuza now hold the seat.”

  “That leaves the bald woman and Kate Girard.”

  “Agnes is with us, the Church. She is special.”

  “She assaulted me with a Bible.”

  Macklin laughed. “Her sense of humor is odd. She’s only recently started flexing that muscle. I hope you like knock-knock jokes.”

  “And Kate’s the citizen,” Andy said.

  “When the police broke off twenty years ago, she came aboard.”

  “It’s crazy-sounding. All of it. The whole thing. You know that, right?”

  “Of course. Why it’s a good secret. Who’d believe it?”

  Andy took a big swig of coffee, winced at the still-awful taste, and spit half of it back in the cup.

  Macklin stood. “Let me give you an example of how things work. Recently there was a theft of some stolen goods. Details aren’t important. The victims can’t go to the police to complain that the stuff they stole got stolen. However, they have a right to the loot. While there might not be honor among thieves, there are rules. At least here in Auction. That’s where the team comes in. You can’t stop crime from happening, but you can sure as hell organize it.

  “The Flood woke up this city. Changed it. Most people have a vague idea of the Flood as a part of the past. Don’t ever believe for a second that kind of violence can’t happen again. Outside threats, government interference, necessary removals. You wouldn’t believe the number of times when all-out war came close to happening.

  “Do you know who stopped it? We did. Not the police, not the politicians, not the US Army, us. We keep this city safe. By keeping the dishonest honest.”

  Macklin popped open the briefcase and pulled out two thick files. “You think your knowledge of the city is extensive—wait until you see what we know. Dirt going back decades. Scandals that never surfaced. These are the notes from a few cases. You’ll recognize them. Only fair, now that you’re on the other side of the curtain.”

  Macklin left Andy in the room with the case files, a fresh cup of coffee, and a stale egg salad sandwich that had the taste and consistency of a stuffed animal left in the rain. He’d eaten worse.

  Having case files in front of him again, eyes on the day-to-day of an investigation, it made him antsy to work a case. Interview witnesses. Work alongside other investigators. Stay up late, stare at a big board, and piece together the menu of a giant meal from the scraps left on the table. It could have been the sense memory of the bad coffee and awful sandwich, but he realized how much he missed being a cop. How much had been taken away from him when he’d been forced out of the ACPD.

  He shook his head, dismissing the thought. “Stockholm Syndrome,” he said to himself.

  The two thick files were labeled: “Jesus ‘Chucho’ Montoya ACPD Investigation” and “The DC Gray Problem—Ongoing.” The files revealed the shadow world that he had speculated existed. They answered dozens of questions that he had asked during his investigations on the force and off it. They told the real story. One where conspiracy theories became conspiracy facts.

  FILE #031285-002-KG

  JESUS “CHUCHO” MONTOYA ACPD INVESTIGATION

  BACKGROUND

  MARCH 12, 1985—During the investigation of the burglary of the Gallows Terrace home of Horace Mycroft (see attached ACPD report), several pieces of jewelry were discovered at Lost & Found Exchange, a pawnshop owned by Montoya. Not directly affiliated with any organization, Montoya works closely with the Trust, Consolidated, and the ACPD. Fencing stolen goods or impounded evidence. A go-between with organizations in New York, Chicago, and Atlantic City. He banks with the Church.

  ACPD investigator Det. Andrea Destra discovered discrepancies and opened a larger case. He sat on Montoya and followed the money trail. With a warrant for bank records and other financials, he is piecing together hidden financial systems that could threaten the Church and other members of our concern, as well as the ACPD.

  As the Church’s financial system affects the ACPD, as well, DC Gray was contacted and briefed. In response, Gray ordered a transfer for Destra to another division within the department. He put his own man on the case, limiting the damage. As of this date, no further action is required.

  APRIL 30, 1985—According to sources, Andrea Destra continued his investigation of Montoya and his financial history. While obtained through inadmissible means, the information could still jeopardize many operations. The Church is at the greatest risk, any suggestion of their involvement catastrophic. The flow of money could be crippled. (Handwritten note in margin: You don’t bomb Switzerland.)

  Gray went big on his solution. He arrested Destra on bribery charges, along with a handful of officers that posed a threat to Gray (see attached list of officers and background). A bold move. Gray earns political points. It looks like he’s cleaning house, transparent, cracking down on bad cops. Three birds, one stone.

  NOTE: The Church needs to shore up their banking protocols and security. It shouldn’t have gotten this far. How a low-level affiliate could jeopardize anything is a problem. If Destra’s knowledge is the only threat, is his removal the simplest solution? Upon his incarceration, an accident in custody seems like it would solve the problem. He’d be both discredited and neutralized.

  According to RC, Andrea Destra has value. He should for no reason be terminated. Suggest that Gray drop the charges. Discrediting and ostracizing him should quash his threat.

  Per our request, Gray released Destra. He should be monitored, his future function determined at a later date.

  Chucho Montoya should be neutralized immediately.

  It was like seeing his life from the other side of the mirror. Said the White Rabbit.

  The thirty-p
lus pages of supporting materials rounded the spine of the manila folder, including police reports and internal memos. Confidential information. Surveillance photographs. The whole package detailed the elaborate scheme used to implicate him in the corruption charges. And the similar frames of the other officers doing time. Even though he hadn’t ratted them out, he had felt bad for those men. Gray had railroaded them for the simple reason that they were good police.

  He guessed that the RC stood for Rocco Colombo. His would-be father had been looking out for him. Not enough to get him out of the mess, but enough to not make it worse. Andy didn’t know what to do with that information, considering that the organization that Rocco worked for caused the initial problem to begin with.

  The second file was even thicker, the entire professional and criminal life of Deputy Commissioner Aloysius Gray. Ostensibly a biography documenting his long history as a police officer and as the leader of its various rackets, including his involvement with the criminal organizations before the ACPD left that group.

  It appeared that after Gray had ordered the death of Nat Turner Shabazz in 1966, the criminal organizations believed that Gray had overstepped. The police and the criminals parted ways, their visions of the future and distribution of power no longer aligned. The reluctant working relationship that formed was dysfunctional, only used when extreme necessity dictated. The Church’s role as bank to both sides helped maintain the tentative truce. Mostly, each operated as if the other didn’t exist. A cold war with a trade agreement. Gray’s knowledge of the collusion gave him ambitions. The militarization of the force and their autonomy grew under Gray’s guidance. Nothing happened without his red stamp.

  At the time of his death, Gray had been pushing for more profit, creating alliances, and attempting to expand his reach beyond the current agreed-on boundaries. He had tried to create instability by meeting with 893 at Ikejime to convince them that the Trust was becoming too powerful. Macklin found out about the meeting and decided to attend, as well, angering Gray. Andy had inadvertently walked in on that meeting on his last trip to Little Nagasaki.

  In Gray’s own words gained from surveillance recordings: “I want a piece of the pie from those thugs, not just table scraps. We’re the goddamn police, goddamn it. They start treating us like it or we burn them down.”

  Included as one of the appendices was a list of Gray’s most loyal ACPD officers, with cross-referenced file numbers for each of them. Andy knew dozens of the cops on the list, including the whole page devoted to the Thorntons. The scale of Gray’s and the ACPD’s corruption was far greater than what he had imagined. And Andy’s imagination had it as the most corrupt in the nation. The laundry list of crimes committed by the ACPD included the suggestion that Gray had his predecessor, Deputy Commissioner Jordan, killed in 1958. One of many funerals catered by Gray.

  Andy had never liked Gray, had not meant to kill him, but he was warming to the idea of his death. It wasn’t a good feeling, just a new one.

  An hour later, Andy had finished reading and rereading the files. He wanted to spend a week in their records department. So many cross-referenced files that were cited but not included. And no doubt, stacks of data about other events in the city’s history that told stories different from the ones he and the rest of the world knew. Floodgate held the true history of the city. He had to read it all. That information was his Ark of the Covenant, and it was jammed into that damn warehouse. Andy reminded himself to watch Raiders again. It was really a good movie.

  He let the possibilities bounce around his brain. The crime and malfeasance had been going on for decades without him. He figured it could wait another hour or two. Some things were more important than the unchecked corruption of a major American city.

  When Rocco Colombo and Kate Girard walked into the conference room, Andy only had one thing to say, only one thing on his mind.

  “I don’t know what you have planned for me, but I’m not doing a goddamn thing until I see Champ,” Andy said. “And I get some shoes. I also need shoes.”

  CHAPTER 16

  I HAVE ARRIVED STOP MY FORTUNE AWAITS STOP

  —Final telegram message of Pádraig Collins. His body was found three days later with six pennies in his pockets and six toes missing. The crime remains unsolved. The toes were never recovered (1933).

  Andy and Rocco faced each other in the conference room. They’d been staring at each other for the better part of five minutes. Andy got a good look at the man claiming to be his father. He maybe saw a resemblance, but like hell would he admit it.

  “So you’re my old man?”

  “Yeah.”

  Andy waited for more but didn’t get it. “Too busy fighting crime to raise a son? Or fighting for crime, I suppose.”

  “It was more complicated than that.”

  “Was it?”

  “Yeah.”

  Rocco started to say more, but he stopped himself.

  “It’s a sad situation,” Andy said, “that I immediately believed all the crazy Floodgate conspiracy stuff, but I still haven’t signed off on the whole son thing.”

  “I don’t know what to tell you, son,” Rocco said. “I never thought we would ever meet.”

  Kate Girard poked her head in the door and held up a pair of tennis shoes. “Finally found a pair. Time to go.”

  Rocco and Kate walked Andy through Floodgate HQ. The hallway of holding cells opened up into a massive factory. The Japanese kid had been telling the truth when he joked about the location during Andy’s abduction. They’d taken him to the abandoned candy factory on Riverfront in the industrial area along the Thief River. Sometimes the best lies are truths that no one believes. The old Bradford Confections & Novelties sign rusted on its side against the far wall. The fat turtle mascot held a lollipop and stared creepily, one eye scratched white. Strange machinery stood dormant. Taffy-pullers? Gumdrop-droppers? Large gears and metal arms covered in dust and webs. They looked like medieval torture devices. Closed for ten years, a faint sugary smell still lingered in the air.

  The factory floor had been converted into an open work area. A half-dozen desks, each with a phone. Couches and tables scattered about. A stack of unopened computer boxes. A foosball table, air hockey, and a “Nugent!” pinball game created a makeshift game area. The bald woman, Agnes, played pinball, contorting her body as though attempting to psychically control the movement of the steel ball. She repeated the words Wango Tango like an incantation.

  “There’s a certain amount of downtime,” Kate said. “I was opposed to the games at first, but I came around after I got the high score. Agnes is on a crusade to beat it.”

  Pilar talked in Spanish on the telephone. She doodled on a pad, mostly drawings of tigers.

  Cardinal Macklin approached Rocco, Kate, and Andy. “Take him to see Champ. Then I’m going to need you two. We got work to do. Gray’s death created a power vacuum in the ACPD. Hank Robinson has filled it. I got a feeling he’s got notions.”

  “Robinson is a dumber, meaner version of Gray,” Andy said. “Never had an idea of his own. He’ll push whatever Gray started.”

  “What about Randall Ashley?” Rocco asked. “If we can find a way to put him in charge, that would be optimal. He’s the only brass that we might be able to work with.”

  “I’ll reach out to him, but Robinson has rank,” Macklin said. “Maybe we can harvest a mutiny.”

  “Make it personal for Ashley. There’s bad blood between him and Robinson,” Andy said. “My gut says most of the men would prefer Randall Ashley in charge.”

  “Moot point right now. Robinson’s got the reins and he’s refusing a sit-down with us. We need to be prepared for any backlash over Gray’s murder.”

  “They didn’t buy the whole burglary-gone-wrong thing?” Kate asked.

  “Would you? They think it was us. Pilar’s telling everyone on the street to be careful,” the Cardinal said. “It could be a shitstorm heading our way.”

  “What’s Ben doing? Where is h
e?”

  “No idea.” Macklin shook his head walking to a desk and picking up a phone. “That damn kid.”

  Andy spotted his banged-up filing cabinets, along with boxes that he assumed contained his stuff. The file cabinets stood alongside newer cabinets and a wall-mounted bank of shotguns and assault rifles. The arsenal looked as if it could outfit an army platoon.

  “We threw away your furniture,” Kate said. “All your other stuff is here.”

  “This,” Andy said, “all this Hall of Justice stuff. It’s like kids playing superheroes. You realize that, right? It’s hard to take seriously.”

  “There’s a difference between a soldier in the barracks and one on the battlefield,” Rocco said. “The details aren’t as important as the big picture.”

  “Don’t get me wrong,” Andy said. “I’m lost. Completely directionless. Life ruined. Mission accomplished. It just feels slapdash. We’re in a candy factory. And there’s pinball.”

  “Does that mean you’re not going to want to do karaoke later?” Kate said.

  Andy, Rocco, and Kate walked to the makeshift auto pool. Cars, motorcycles, vans, and other vehicles sat parked in one corner of the gigantic factory. Most of them functional and nondescript, although Andy spotted a few luxury cars, an ambulance, and an ice cream truck. They headed straight for the Chrysler Town & Country Andy had seen the other day. Rocco got in the backseat. Kate opened the front passenger door to the wood-paneled station wagon for Andy.

  “Nice car,” Andy said. “We going to a six-year-old’s T-ball game?”

  “What did you expect, the Batmobile? It seats eight. And nobody gives a station wagon a second look.”