by Dan Arnold
I laughed too. He had gotten me.
He looked serious.
“You ain’t done. He ain’t gone. The war goes on.”
I nodded.
“Yes, Dustin, I know. I need your help.”
He shook his head.
“Nah, suh, it’s not my war.”
I needed to be careful with my questions. I didn’t want to lose him. I was hoping that Tony would get my message and show up quickly.
“We’re looking for the car with the reindeer flying over the football.”
He nodded a silent answer.
“You said it was like the sky, right?”
He nodded again.
“We’re looking for a blue car with a reindeer flying over a football.”
“You stupid for a angel,” he snorted.
What did that mean?
“Are you saying the car isn’t blue?”
“The sky ain’t light in the dark of the night.” He indicated.
He looked me in the eye.
“Dustin, are you saying the car is black?”
He chuckled.
“Look at me. You think I’m black? That car is darker than the belly of a cypress swamp at midnight.
“Are you sure?”
He nodded. “Oh yeah, Mister Angel, I sees it from time to time. It was the bad angel done it, he that took her.”
“Have you seen it again?”
“I done told you, I sees it, from time to time.”
He started to sort of rock back and forth.
I noticed a plain white car pulling into the parking lot.
Dustin saw it too.
“Who dat?” he asked.
“He’s a friend of mine, Dustin. His name is Tony. He’s your friend too.”
Tony got out of his car and walked over to us.
“Dustin, this is Tony.”
“Uh huh, ‘Tony Baloney’, you messed up warrior”
What did that mean?
Tony looked at me, clearly puzzled.
Dustin nodded, he was still rocking. He pointed at the sky.
“He say you be wounded and hurtin’ bad.” He indicated Tony.
Tony shot me an angry look.
I needed to get this back on track.
“Tony, Dustin told me the car we’re looking for isn’t blue.”
“Yeah, what color is it, purple?” he asked, facetiously.
Tony was clearly angry.
Dustin laughed. He was still rocking. He closed his eyes.
“They ain’t watching. Folks say they do, but they ain’t. Ain’t nobody, got no time for that. They’s singing and laughing and dancing. A lifetime here ain’t but a minute there.”
What was he talking about, now?
“So much joy, no sorrow there, so much joy, ain’t got no care.”
I had been worried about losing Dustin, but now he had completely lost me. I looked at Tony.
He was scowling, as he directed a question at Dustin.
“Dustin, did you see the man who took the little girl?”
Dustin stopped rocking, and frowned.
“They say evil ain’t got no face. But the bad angel do.”
“What does he look like?” I asked.
Dustin looked back and forth between me and Tony.
“He look like me, he look like you.”
Tony had had enough. He turned and headed toward his unmarked Crown Victoria sedan.
“They is beautiful, you see um soon.” Dustin called after Tony.
Tony got in his car and started it up.
I had to ask.
“Dustin, who is beautiful?”
He nodded at the plain white car leaving the parking lot.
“That wounded warrior’s wife and boy…”
I couldn’t get anything useful out of Dustin. He was our only witness and most of the time, he seemed witless. He talked nonsense and riddles. We would never be able to use him as a witness in a trial. I was discouraged. Too much time had gone by. It looked pretty hopeless.
Dustin looked at me intently.
“Keep on keepin’ on, Good Angel. You is winning. I got me one more word.”
“Yeah, what’s that?”
“I tell you next time. I got to get to gittin’. I got my rounds.”
Ten
What had I been thinking? I arrived on the downtown square at 5.00 pm. This was one of the worst times of day to be driving into downtown Tyler, right up there with lunch-time. It was our version of rush hour and happy hour, joyfully combined in unholy matrimony. The restaurants on the square are mostly glorified bars. They appeal to young professionals, looking to hang out with peers, enjoy loud music, eat and drink, and try to hook up. There was not one open parking place on the square, or within two blocks of it.
I ended up parking in the same place I had before, hoping I hadn’t accidently joined the Church of England. By the time I rode the elevator up to the top floor of the Simpson building, it was nearly 5:20.
Today, there was no beautiful receptionist to greet me. She was working for me now.
Instead, there was a young, burly guy, with a crew cut, wearing an off the rack suit that didn’t really fit him. He must have weighed in at 275. He looked like he could bench-press twice that. Simpson had visible security now.
I smiled my warmest smile.
“Hello, I’m John Wesley Tucker. I have an appointment with Mr. Simpson.”
The security guy kind of smirked. It might have been a gas pain.
He pushed a button on the intercom.
Christine had walked down the hall to Mr. Simpson’s office. I remembered that quite clearly.
“There’s somebody here to see you, Mr. Simpson, says his name is Tucker.”
“Send him in.” Mr. Simpson replied.
The security guy inclined his head down the hall. He was working as a security guard, but he wasn’t worth the price of his clip-on tie. He let me carry a gun into a meeting with his boss.
“Tucker, you’re late,” Mr. Simpson said, by way of greeting.
“Yes, sir. I apologize. If this is not a good time for you, I’ll make another appointment.”
“We’ll talk now. What do you want, more money?” He glared at me.
“No, sir. I wanted to tell you I am finished working for you.”
“You could have just given your report to Walter. You’re wasting my time.” He said.
“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. I have not completed my investigation. I have found things of concern, but I expect you know all about it.”
He narrowed his eyes at me.
“What kind of things?”
“I’m sure Walter has kept you informed. He’s the reason I’m quitting. I no longer wish to work for you.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” He pushed a button on his intercom. “Walter, get in here.”
I decided to get straight to the point.
“Walter has bugged my office.” I informed him.
“… He did what?”
Walter strolled in.
“Ah, Mr. Tucker, what an unexpected surprise, I believe I instructed you not to bother Mr. Simpson.” He said smugly.
“Can it, Walter. What’s this about you bugging Mr. Tucker’s office?”
Walter paled slightly.
“I don’t think I know what…”
“Damn it, Walter, cut the crap. Did you bug his office or not?”
Walter looked down at the carpet.
“Mr. Tucker has been uncooperative and refuses to be forthcoming with the results of his investigation. I was merely trying to ensure a steady and reliable flow of information.”
Mr. Simpson took a deep breath and blew it out slowly.
“OK. You may go now, Walter. I want to talk to Mr. Tucker, alone.”
Walter gave me a vacant look as he left the office, carefully closing the door on his way out.
Mr. Simpson fixed his attention on me. “Listen, Tucker, I apologize for what he did. I
had no idea Walter would do something like that. He is intensely loyal to me, a trait I value above all others. He was just trying to be clever.”
“Whatever. The point is I’m done. You can find another agency to do your investigating.”
“Yeah, I can see how you would be damned mad about what he did. I don’t blame you for wanting to quit. What if I offer you more money?”
I shook my head.
“Well then, at least tell me what you’ve learned, so far. I paid you to do some work for me, and you’re standing in my office. What have you got?”
“What has Walter told you?”
“… Nothing. The topic hasn’t come up, until all this mess.”
I told him everything I had told Walter, and brought him up to speed on where I was at this point in the investigation.
“… I was about to talk to your wife,” I concluded.
Mr. Simpson was still sitting in his massive desk chair, leaned back with his finger-tips together, and his feet up on the desk.
“You are very thorough, aren’t you? I’m not currently planning to run for national office, just state office. You took hold of the bull by the nose, boy. I think you’ve done quite enough. I’d like to have you on the payroll. Would you consider working for me as my head of security? I’d make it worth your while.”
I actually considered it, for about half a second.
“No sir. I’m pretty content doing what I’m doing. I worked for Uncle Sam for just a little too long. I’m happy being self-employed.”
He was silent for a moment. Then he opened his jacket and took out his check book.
“You know, people don’t usually say ‘no’ to me.” He observed.
He finished writing out the check. He stood up and came around his desk. I stood up as well. The meeting was clearly over.
“What Walter did was wrong. He could have jeopardized your business. He violated our trust. That bothers me most. I hope this little bonus will help you think better of me, and maybe we can do business together again some time.”
He handed me the check. I accepted it and put it in my jacket pocket.
We shook hands.
I didn’t look at the check, until I was riding the elevator down to the lobby.
It was for twenty five thousand dollars.
I was definitely going to deposit this one.
It was dusk, by the time I walked out of the Simpson building. I hit the sidewalk and headed back to where my car was parked, three blocks away. I knew I was being followed. At first, I had just sensed something was wrong.
It started with a vague uneasy feeling, as soon as I left the Simpson building. A lot of things can make a person feel uneasy; maybe a simple concern, like whether or not you remembered to lock up when you left your car. Maybe it’s some sort of guilty feeling about something you should have done, or said, or something you shouldn’t have. Maybe you’re starting to get a cold or the flu. Sometimes, it’s just something you ate.
Survival instinct is different. When you’ve spent your whole life learning how to survive in a dangerous world, on a hostile planet, you begin to develop survival instinct. Over time, you fine-tune it.
That’s why I was able to spot the man tailing me. Because I was fully alert, I sensed him before I saw him. At first, when I looked on the other side of the street, there was a small flock of people on the square, and nothing appeared menacing. Scanning the flock, I saw nothing out of the ordinary. Turning a corner thinned the flock. I noticed one man leave the flock. He was headed in the same direction as me, pretty much matching my pace.
I normally walk just a little faster than the average person. I always have. I walk a little faster, because I’m never just strolling. I’m on my way somewhere specific, and a steady pace gets me there more quickly. I’m basically wired to move. Consequently, someone matching my pace, to keep up, is obvious to me. In this war, just as a predator can quickly identify its prey, I can spot a predator.
This guy appeared to be pretty ordinary. He was white, a little taller than me, and a little heavier maybe. His hair was cut short and might have been brown. He wore a tan windbreaker-type jacket half zipped, over some sort of black polo style shirt, with dark green pants.
I turned into an alley, fully aware I might be trapped in there. I heard him pick up his pace, the moment he saw me turn into the alley.
I was ready for him when he followed me in. As he came around the corner, I was waiting to meet him. I had my Browning Hi Power in my hand, just in case.
Good thing too.
He had unzipped his jacket and produced a Glock, with a silencer on it. He came into the alley prepared to fire. I realized he was there to kill me, at about the same time he realized I wasn’t where he had expected to see me. We were only about twenty feet apart.
We both fired at about the same time.
His Glock spit three quick, sound-suppressed shots, in the time it took me to fire my first one. All three of his shots struck the dumpster I was hiding behind, and careened by, within an inch of my face. I felt them go by - hot, whistling 9mm lead.
My first and second shots hit him center mass, and staggered him. I thought one bullet might have hit his firing arm, because he never re-acquired me as a target. My third bullet went through his throat, just below his chin. He fell like a rag doll.
The sound of my Browning firing in the confines of that alley had been deafening. As I stood and walked over to him, my ears were ringing. He was dead when I reached him.
My first two bullets had only staggered him, because under his black polo shirt, he was wearing black Kevlar body armor. When I rolled him over to complete my search for I.D., his head twisted loosely. Apparently my 9mm round had severed his spine at the base of his skull, leaving a gory exit wound. There wasn’t much blood because his heart had been stopped instantly.
He had no I.D. Other than a Timex wristwatch, he had no jewelry either. He had no immediately visible tattoos or other markings. He was a pro.
He was a pro, as in “had-been.” Now he was nothing but a couple of hundred pounds of bio-matter, to be cleaned up and buried. The man was no longer here. He had gone on to judgment.
My hands began shaking, and I felt weak in the knees. I staggered over to the dumpster and worked on catching my breath. After a few moments, I called it in. I stayed on the phone with my friend, Detective Tony Escalante, even as I heard the sirens approaching. Obviously, I hadn’t been the first person to call. There were a lot of people around the square, and as loud as the gunfire had sounded to me, they probably heard it all over town. The 911 operators had suddenly found themselves very busy.
Eleven
The first cops on the scene took my Browning, cuffed me, and stuffed me in the back seat of a patrol car. That’s where Tony Escalante found me. He was the first detective on the scene. He looked at me in the patrol car, then walked away and started talking to one of the patrol officers. They had the whole area cordoned off with crime scene tape.
It was dusk, and the light was fading in the alley. Portable lights soon lit the area as bright as day. By now, the local news vans were there, filming everything. There were half a dozen uniforms doing crowd control, talking on their radios, and waiting for the paramedics to leave.
The crime scene techs showed up and began photographing everything in situ. From the backseat of the patrol car, I could see them placing little placards with numbers on the filthy and poorly maintained surface of the alley, marking the locations of the spent shell casings.
Tony carefully studied the scene and knelt down examining the body. He spent some time conversing with one of the uniforms who held some rank. Eventually, he sent a patrolman over to the car. I was expecting to be let out of the back seat, but the patrolman drove me to the station and stuck me in a holding cell.
I sat alone in a cell for about two hours before I was taken to an interview room and cuffed to the table. I figured it had probably been at least three hours since the shooting, maybe more.
After a while, Tony came in to do the interview. He was carrying a file folder. He dropped it on the table top, but he didn’t sit down. He crossed his arms and nodded at me.
“This interview is being recorded. I’m Detective Anthony Escalante. We have your name as being John Wesley Tucker. Is that correct?”
“Hello, Tony, it’s nice to see you, too.”
“This is an official investigation into a fatal shooting which occurred earlier this evening. If you would prefer it, Mr. Tucker, I can have another detective do the interview. Hell, maybe I should just read you your rights and throw you back into a cell, instead.”
“Well, as you can see, I’m already in custody. So, if I’m actually under arrest, you have to read me my rights, or take these cuffs off and let me go.”
Apparently he did not find my comment, tone, or attitude amusing. I figured he should at least be amused to see me cuffed to the table.
“Tell me what happened in the alley, Mr. Tucker.”,
I could’ve held out for my rights and demanded an attorney, forcing his hand. I could’ve sat silently, refusing to cooperate, frustrating him in his efforts to learn exactly what had happened. I was tempted to do the latter, just to watch him get angry. I didn’t do any of those things, because I appreciated Tony’s position and I knew nothing I said would be admissible in court.
“OK, Detective Escalante, here’s the way it went down…” I told him the story.
“… I ducked down behind a dumpster the second I went into the alley. He was good. He came in there to kill me, and he nearly did. He fired three shots. I think he tried to hit me in the head with all three. My eyes and my gun arm were the only parts exposed from behind the dumpster, and he spotted me instantly. He was good.” I said again.
“Did you know him, the man who shot at you?”
“I have no idea who he was. I checked him for ID, but he was clean.”
“Mr. Tucker, do you know why he was trying to kill you?”
I raised my eyebrows and looked up at Tony.
The corners of his mouth twitched a little.
“Yeah, you do have a tendency to piss people off.” he nodded. Then he remembered himself. “Answer the question, Mr. Tucker.” He instructed me.