Bullets, Teeth & Fists

by Jason Beech

  They filled silence with people-watching, the town now a mixture of be-suited financiers and trust-fund hipsters. Any raggedy asses were stray men who hoped for a spare dollar, or college kids who did not want to look like daddy paid for their life.

  “I’m a can-do man, Bob, in can-do America. I’m sorry you don’t see its possibilities.”

  “I’m a cynic. We get on fine this way.”

  He caught Larry’s face change from smug to sorrowful. Did he feel sorry for him? Let it slide, he thought. Let it wash down the drain with the rest of society’s filth.

  5. Oil

  Larry had done a good job not asking about his connection to Bendtner, despite the urge. His curiosity took position on the edge of his lips as shadows enveloped them in an empty apartment’s balcony on 9th and W-50th. They overlooked the trash-strewn back alley. Robert fidgeted at his partner’s silence, as if that itself was a question.

  “Just watch.”

  Larry folded his arms, but remained in the shadows as instructed. Across the alleyway, television light showed 10.15 on the wall clock. Bob checked his watch against it. He had 10.16pm. Muffled groans rose from the dumpster below, like the stink had a voice.

  “You hear that?”

  “I hear it.” Robert shook his head and pinched the bridge of his nose. Held Larry's arm fast as he made to go down and help.

  Larry snatched his arm away. “What you doing?”

  “Let it play out.”

  “Let what play out? There’s somebody hurt in there.”

  Robert let action reply for him. Two men exited the restaurant below, laughing. One aimed a kick at the dumpster. “You still alive in there?”

  The detectives saw only silhouettes against the light from the doorway. The men had well-set trunks and arms; could handle themselves hand-to-hand. Robert frowned as they re-entered the building. He checked the time again.

  “Who we waiting for?” Larry’s tone rang its impatience.

  “Shut up and listen.”

  An anguished moan spelled recognition. Robert still waited and watched in expectation.

  “You have men down there?” Larry said.

  “I will throw you over this fucking balcony if I hear any more from you. Now shut the fuck up.”

  Larry retreated further into the balcony’s recesses, eyes wide at his superior as much as the situation below. Curiosity brought him back to the railings. Robert harrumphed in satisfaction at Larry’s care not to make a peep.

  The men re-emerged, a large metal pot carried between them. Larry nudged Robert as he scratched the back of his neck. Robert ignored it and watched as the men below poured the large pot’s contents into the trash. A scream blasted the alleyway and climbed the drainpipes to the detectives.

  “What the fu …? Do we have men down there?” Larry couldn’t hold back.

  The two men lit a match each and threw them in the dumpster. Flames shot up quicker than wet paper would allow.

  “They poured oil on him.” Larry leaned over the railing and pointed his gun at the two men. “Don’t fucking move.”

  The men didn’t bother to look up. They ran. Death screams shifted them faster. Larry’s shot hit brick. Bob grabbed Larry’s arm, pulled it behind his back, and forced him into the wall. The gun clattered to the floor.

  “You fucking idiot, now we’ve lost them.”

  Larry wriggled out of his captivity and pushed his partner back. Bob hit the wall behind him, surprised at Larry’s strength. Plates in his authority shifted.

  “They burned the man alive. You let it happen.” Larry spat, jabbed him with five fingertips.

  The workers at the restaurant below denied knowledge of the men’s identity. All had arrived in the US in recent months, most scared of the country they lived in. The owner and manager refused to acknowledge the restaurant’s role in the man’s death. Still, they helped quell the flames and tended to the man inside the dumpster. The victim lived for ten more minutes, but his mind had frazzled beforehand.

  Larry bullied staff into identifying the victim, convinced they knew him. Bob watched, and worked to figure out his curse. The man made it four. He took Larry by the arm. Larry resisted. The push on the balcony had made him bolshie, as if he had taken a crucial step to independence. Bob persisted and Larry followed. Understand that Robert did not intend to pull rank.

  “The man’s name is Benjamin Aguero,” Robert said.

  “Tell me more.”

  Larry’s stare scraped his bones for information. “Let’s clean up here and then get a drink.”

  6. Dreaming

  They hit a bar which was hardly even a hole in the wall, but loud enough to keep their talk private. “I’ve watched you grow, Larry.”

  “You watched me become a man, right?”

  “If you like, yes.”

  “Cut the platitudes, Bob. My ego doesn’t need smoke up its ass.”

  The waiter brought a Heineken and a Johnny Walker Black. Bob took his whiskey and sniffed it. “Oh I know it doesn’t. I have a feeling it’ll take you all the way.”

  “Benjamin Aguero.”

  Robert sipped and leaned forward. “I’ve been having a lot of weird dreams lately –”

  “Benjamin Aguero.”

  Bob admired Larry’s technique – folded arms, dead eyes, low tone – it demanded confession. “Let me get to it my way. As I said, weird dreams. I no longer believe their cause is any chemical reaction… to my whiskey binges… I don’t know why I have them, but they are significant.”

  An impatient sigh flared Larry’s nostrils.

  Bob examined his whiskey as if he hoped it would tell the story. “I’m not a religious man, as you know. But maybe I’m wrong. Maybe there is a spiritual life I need to get to grips with.”

  “Courtney…”

  “- the love of my life. I look at the empty pillow beside me every night and every morning, and it’s as if her murder was only yesterday.”

  “Benjamin Aguero…”

  Robert refused to let a tear form. He always wanted to throw a shoe at the TV when people on the news got emotional. He would not reduce himself in front of this man. Larry only saw black and white; gray equaled relativism, something to sneer at.

  “Get fucking comfortable, Larry, because I’m going to tell it like it is.”

  Larry flinched. Robert guessed he didn't wish to lose his newfound assertiveness over him.

  “I got hard information on scumbags who work for the man I know killed her, and made them work for me.”

  “There’s a team working on your wife’s case, what the fuck are you doing?”

  “And they are shit at their jobs, or are not paying enough attention, because like you – they don’t like me.”

  “That’s one complex you have there, partner –”

  “I know what I know… Let me finish god-damn-it … Four snitches are dead, the fourth being Benjamin Aguero.”

  “You did it?”

  “I did not. They are all Paul Garcia’s meatheads, the man I’ve been after for a long time.”

  “He killed them?”

  “I guess so.”

  “How did you know Aguero was in the dumpster? And why didn’t you stop his death?”

  A couple squeezed past and took a seat at the next table. The man’s pencil neck merged into the sharp features of his face. A bulb's reflection in his glasses distracted Robert. The wife looked out of century with hair that wouldn’t look out of place in a sepia photograph.

  Robert flashed them his badge. “Why, when there are empty seats and privacy over there, did you sit right next door?”

  Robert enjoyed the man’s discomfort. Put a sparkle in his soul.

  “Too much pollution,” the man said. He screwed his eyes at the badge to check authenticity. “I’d like fresh air with my meal.”

  Robert replaced the badge and scratched the scruffy shadow on his face, the sound like a knife sharpened against stone. He surveyed the bar for them. “You’re in a hole-in-a
-fucking-wall, where the food is probably rat poison-infested and we need another hundred yards to avoid the fumes outside. So ... fuck off closer to them. It’ll be a slower death than what I have for you.”

  The man showed dignity in his surrender. He stood, wiped the spittle Robert’s rant had landed on him, and led the way for his wife to the window seat.

  “You’re losing it, Bob. The sergeant is right about you.”

  “The sergeant can sit on a six-inch nail and enjoy it for all I care.”

  “You have to get over your wife.”

  “You say anything like that again, Larry, and I’ll throw this whiskey in your face and set you alight.”

  Robert watched the scare settle him down. His arms loosened from their tight fold. “Benjamin Aguero. Max Bendtner, Tommy Lynam, and Paolo Sahin. All dead. The next to die is Kris Looper.”

  Larry placed both hands on the table between them, palms down. “How do you know?”

  “Because I have dreamed them all.”

  “What?”

  “To the last detail. The date, the time, the manner of death. The first three I tried to ignore. After Bendtner’s death I dreamed of Aguero’s. I had to see for myself. It happened just about the same as in my nightmare.”

  “Then you know who killed them.”

  “No.” He slammed the table. “No… it’s so fucking frustrating. I never see. The two men tonight were my ins. They would get me to Garcia.”

  “Bullshit, Bob… absolute horseshit.”

  Robert gulped the whiskey in one and slammed it on the table. He ignored the barman’s attention and fired his eyes into Larry’s. “Looper dies tomorrow night. Come and watch the show with me.”

  “You mad bastard. If he dies, I arrest you.”

  “Stay with me all day. See if I set anything up. You know I’m not lying. Courtney’s guiding me. I know she is.”

  Larry pushed the table into his partner and stood. Robert stopped it with his palms. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” Robert said.

  “Get some sleep, Bob.” Larry charged out the bar, his head in wobble mode.

  “Courtney’s guiding me.” He laughed, thrilled at the revelation.

  7. Impatience

  Robert slept at the table for another hour, his chin on his chest until the crick in his neck woke him. He took a cab home and slept on the sofa, unable to face the bed alone. For a moment he thought he'd call a hooker just for the companionship of her flesh. He knew the night would end in small talk, and that felt a worse betrayal.

  He dreamed. Looper suffered the same death, every detail unchanged. A pre-dawn swig of Teachers whiskey - a gift which hurt his taste buds - made his head fog. Another dream flitted in and out, its protagonist unidentified. He awoke and hoped it a normal dream.

  He wandered Hell’s Kitchen alone, aware of Larry's men following him. He had no need to lose them. Pretended he was dumb to their existence as he made his rounds, pressured his snitches, and drank enough coffee to buzz away his solemnity. He looked to the sky every so often. Imagined his wife watched from up there. It was ridiculous to think she could direct him towards evidence against Garcia. But what else could explain his vision? Her death made every lead he had scurry back to their black holes. If Garcia could kill a cop's wife, what might he do to them? It took him six months to get them back into line with a mixture of threats and beatings. He investigated and placed them all in impossible waters. They figured a quick death by Garcia, if they had luck on their side, better than slow torture in prison and what Robert promised them would happen there.

  He listened to Looper's voicemails, all desperate, his tone high-pitched and unanchored. Aguero's death had gained a little inside column in the local paper, and a Hell's Kitchen crime blogger had speculated already. Looper, the goateed scrag of a man, almost elicited sympathy. He suppressed it. Next to his wife what was Looper's predicament? Well deserved. He refused to return the snitch's call - it might change the day's course.

  One more coffee would get him through the rest of the day, even if it was Dunkin' Donuts. After he paid, Robert turned and faced Larry.

  “I couldn't take it anymore ...”

  “I can see that,” Robert said. “You drive.”

  Robert's tosses and turns in the night took their toll. He slept most of the way, a dream vivid enough to make him conscious.

  Larry side-eyed him. “You sweat a lot lately.”

  Robert shook his head to clear his own murder. Every dream had told him the truth. His death lied imminent, in the same place as Looper's. It could only mean Looper meant to kill him. Which death came first? He pondered if fate intended to kill them both at the same time. He shook off his new-found religious feeling. Fate is bullshit – he could switch it off by not turning up. But curiosity compelled him forward. Is that fate, pushing me on?

  “He doesn't die, Bob.”

  “My dream says he does.”

  “I don't give a damn about your dream. He doesn't die.”

  “He's scum, who cares?”

  “I care. Justice will take care of him.”

  “Whose justice?”

  “We live in civilization. Correct, good old American justice.”

  “Which will fry him in the end, anyway. Let him die now.”

  Robert noted his grip tighten on the wheel.

  “There's no death sentence in this state. And I have a career to think about.”

  Robert snorted. “So it's not about principle, then?”

  “What is your problem? What do you have against success?”

  “None with the merited variety. Everything with the rigged stuff.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “Fuck you sideways, with a dash of lime.”

  They passed the Croatian church on W-41st. What are you telling me, Courtney?

  8. The Night Draws In

  “What is Looper doing here?” Larry said.

  “Not sure.”

  They parked the car on W-57th and crossed Joe DiMaggio and the Hudson River Greenway on foot. Sneaked into the NYC Sanitation complex. A massive crane stood at the center of the platform. The low sun cast a shadow which made it look like it harvested souls. It had no human companion. Two containers stood at the end, at the water’s edge. Careful steps. Looper sat on the edge, feet dangled over the water, nobody with him. The partners took position between stacks of moldy pallets and bode their time between watching the snitch and any new arrival.

  9.20pm arrived and passed Looper’s killing time. What did this mean? Kris spent his alone time here? Nobody else would arrive? Am I his killer? Robert could walk away from fate. Looper didn't need to know he had watched him this close.

  “Your dream didn't come true, Bob.” Larry's triumph broke his intended deadpan delivery.

  “How did I know he was here?”

  “You're a detective, he probably told you in passing what he does in his spare time. Let's leave him be and get you back on track.”

  Larry's words propelled him forward. His exasperated “Fuck, Bob” prodded him further.

  Looper heard him and clasped something tight in his hand as he turned his head. “Detective?”

  “Kris.”

  Both tried to analyze the other.

  “Are you the one?”

  “Am I the one what?”

  “Aguero, man. Four down, one to go. Me.”

  “I'm not here to kill you.”

  “Then who? Garcia knows about the tap. I told you he would. I didn't think it would be you. He killed your fucking wife.”

  “You have evidence?”

  “My word was enough, Bob.” Robert let the familiarity slide. “You should have taken my word and we could both get what we wanted.”

  “How does he know?”

  “Garcia's got spies I don't know about.”

  “You talked didn't you?” Looper looked away. “You idiot. This is why you live the scummy life; you can't keep your mouth shut. You have braggadocio oozing out of you like the shitbag you are.”
/>
  “I have the tape here.” Looper dangled what he had clasped tight over the water.

  Robert leaned against a pillar and readied his hand. “Then hand it over and let me protect you.”

  “I don't believe you.”

  “You really think I killed the other four?”

  “I don't know what to believe. I know I'm dead, if not from you, then them.”

  “Your chances improve dramatically if you hand me the tape.”

  Justice for his wife rested in that cassette. The life Looper led made him expendable. His blood pounded in his head as his eyes swung with the tape’s sway in the slight breeze. Its safety depended on the grip between finger and thumb. Looper's desperation made action inevitable. Looper brought the tape back over land to scratch his septum with the back of his index. Larry's approach did nothing to restrain Robert. He pulled his .64 and one shot made the snitch slump. He sprinted the ten yards to pull Looper back from the fall, grasped the tape, and kept enough balance to prevent splashing the water himself.

  “Put the gun down.” Larry’s voice croaked hoarse. He pointed the Glock at his partner.

  Robert ignored him, gun in one hand, the tape in the other. Larry's release of the weapon’s safetylock pulled his attention towards the other cop.

  “Put it away, Larry.”

  “You meant to kill him.”

  “I had no intention at all. If not me, then Garcia.”

  “Cold-blooded, Bob. You'll go down for this.”

  “Depends if my partner is with me, like he oughtta be.” He clocked Larry's eyes, both pinpoints of righteousness. His partner looked serious. “Just put it down to one of life's gray complexities. Let your certainties be muddied, partner.”

  “Fucking cold-blooded. It's no way to deal with criminals.”

  “Sometimes it’s the only way. He had evidence personal to me hanging over oblivion. I had no choice.”

  “He could have made another tape.”

  “They knew, Larry, they knew. He was dead anyway, and I've run out of snitches. My wife –.”

  “Your wife, wife, fucking wife... Get away from the personal, Bob – this is justice -”

  “Get away from the personal? Easy for you, cocksucker, you're married to the force. You have no fucking life to speak of, nobody to go home to. You don't know what personal is.”