I called him and told him who I was and that I might have something for him.
“Johnson. We’ve met before,” Radan said. I could hear a news show in the background. “You’re a little hot right now. Cops looking for you?”
“Yeah, but I’m recovering from an injury, so they’ll have to wait. I’m not the story you’re looking for. I have a better one.”
“Well then spill, big man.”
“You didn’t hear any of this from me.”
“Rumors have to start from somewhere, but I hardly ever say where I source them. The ink doesn’t flow when you start saying who talked. You know that as well as I.”
“Fair enough. The name Bartram mean anything to you?”
“Hmm, it sounds familiar, but I ain’t placing it.”
“A cop. Midtown detective. Makes most Midtown cops look like boy scouts.”
“Yeah, I got it now. He threatened to kill me once. What about him.”
“IA is on him right now. It’s not the first time, but they think Bartram crossed the line. They think he was behind the attack on Detective Blanc.”
“And how do you know this?”
“I have sources, and I was there when the attack occurred.”
“You saw it? Where— no wait a minute, you are one of the guys the cops say was fleeing the shootout, right?”
“That’s right. I was chasing one of the shooters.”
“This is the Savan kidnapping. Holy shit. Spill, Johnson,” he said with excitement.
“Rein it in there, Phil,” I said. I didn’t want him getting too wound up or my story might seem small fry to him. “The attack was probably because Bartram pulled a gun on Blanc the day before the attack and Blanc went to IA about it.”
“The police detectives nosing around High Town the last couple of days are IA?”
“That’s right. A Sergeant Blake and her partner.”
I could hear a pencil noisily scribbling on paper in the background.
“Where did Bartram and Blanc tangle before this?”
“Building 313, in the Red Light.”
“In your office, right? A lot of shit been going on in your building, Johnson. Skycar central around there I hear. What happened?”
I gave Radan a basic rundown of the fracas in my office. I didn’t tell him why Bartram was there, except to say we had a history.
“Okay. I’m going to talk to a few people and see how much of this I can get some kind of confirmation on. I’ll call you later. Will you be in your office?”
“No. I am convalescing somewhere.” I gave him my number.
“Thanks, Johnson. I’ll be I touch.”
Radan’s story was out by mid afternoon. I guessed he had some sources in the GCPD that confirmed a lot of what I told him. The story was more or less correct, certainly close enough to the truth to raise a few eyebrows about Bartram. I hoped it wouldn’t come back and bite me in the ass.
I spent the rest of the day getting more treatments from Breedlove. The menders were doing their job. Breedlove had been giving me some antibiotic injections. I looked at the container and the label stated it was for equines. I brought this up to Breedlove and he told me it was the same stuff I’d get in a hospital, and for the most part the quality controls were almost as stringent. Almost.
He thought I was healing amazingly well. I think he was feeling rather proud of himself.
I asked him if he could get me some oats in a bag, because I had developed a hunger for them. He didn’t think that was funny.
The next morning things were continuing to improve, both physically and with how I felt about talking with the cops.
I was getting around well and with painkillers my ribs didn’t bother me much.
Radan’s story had been picked up by a lot of the Gulf City news outlets. There were editorials questioning why such a cop was still on the force, even if he was only working Midtown.
The Gulf City Police Department came out just before midday and announced they had decided to suspend Bartram the previous day and were planning to inform the press in the afternoon, but the news stories prompted them to do so early.
Maybe that was true and maybe it wasn’t. It didn’t matter. The GCPD also made it a point to mention they had Sergeant Varuna Blake on the case. If she was still thinking that Bartram was involved in the attack on Blanc and me, then maybe I didn’t have to worry about the cops nailing together a frame around me.
I decided to go by my office and put on some clean clothes before I went by Pete’s. I thanked Breedlove for his work and he was quick to remind me that I owed him. Like I’d forget.
I left the way I came in and went down the alley to the street. I looked around and didn’t see anything out of the ordinary. The five block walk to my building was uneventful as well.
I stopped just up the street from Building 313 and watched the comings and goings in front. The only strange thing I could see was Blanc’s police sedan still sitting at the curb in front. His keys were probably still sitting on my desk.
If somebody was sitting on the place I sure couldn’t see it, so I went down the sidewalk and inside. I took the stairs to the third floor and peeked out of the doorway up the hall. No suits, no thugs, and no cops were in sight so I headed for my office door.
As I got close, I heard noise from inside and I drew my pistol. With my left side still busted up I held my .45 one-handed and pressed myself against the wall.
Moments later, I saw the doorknob disappear from sight as the door opened and a man stepped out backwards, holding something in front of him.
My first thought was he must be there to finish me off, but I saw he was holding my percolator in his hand. He looked up the hall, in the opposite direction of where I was standing, then my way. He was a kid, maybe nineteen or twenty.
When he saw me he started, then froze in place looking down the black maw of my pistol.
“You move and I’ll end you,” I said coldly.
This kid was no assassin. He was genuinely scared, but he didn’t panic and try something stupid. “You’d kill me over this?”
Truth be told, I probably wouldn’t kill for something like a percolator, but I didn’t want to have it stolen either. “I’ve killed for a lot less. At one time in my life I killed just to collect a monthly paycheck,” I said.
“That’s fucked up.”
“Yeah. It’s a fucked up world. It’s fucked up that you are trying to steal from me, and it’s fucked up that I might shoot you for it. You set it down gently and walk away, you live. You should count yourself lucky you came across someone like me who has a moral compass. There’s a ton of guys just like me who would be trying to figure out how to dispose of the dead idiot in their hallway right now instead of talking to him.”
“I’m the idiot?”
I nodded. “You catch on quick.”
As the kid set the percolator on the floor he said, “You’re rough, man, whoever you are.”
“It’s a rough place, kid. The name’s Johnson. It’s right there in block letters,” I said pointing my chin at the door.
“I didn’t notice, sorry.”
Sorry don’t get it done. You’d be better off finding a line of work you’re better suited for. You’re not very good at this and it’s likely to get you dead.”
“What else is there? Working some shit job down in Midtown?”
“You don’t have people pointing .45 caliber pistols at you down there either. Find something better. Find a nice girl and some job you can tolerate and be happy. Most people don’t get to have that. You keep on the path you’re on now and you’ll end up in prison or dead. You won’t be happy with either. Now blow.”
The kid walked away and went out of sight down the main staircase. He didn’t yell, “fuck you” or something similar like most street toughs would have. Maybe there was hope for him, but I wasn’t counting on it.
I picked up my percolator and went inside. I noticed there wasn’t any damage to my lock. The
kid must have had some skill, and I knew I needed to get a better lock.
I saw the keys to Blanc’s car on the desk. I was right, the thief needed to find a different line of work. A look out the window showed me the kid walking down the sidewalk with his head down, like he was ashamed. He deserved to feel that way.
I looked over my place and saw nothing else was missing as far as I could see. I took a shower and shaved. My image in the mirror was a lot more ugly than it usually was, hell I’ve seen corpses that looked better. My trashed clothes got thrown in a corner after I emptied them of anything useful. I put on a fresh set of clothes, reloaded my pistol magazines, and caught a cab to Pete’s.
Pete’s was a little more crowded than was usual for the time of day. It looked like an influx of tourists to me.
Pete saw me come in and waved me over to where he stood behind the bar. “Good to see you, Rick, but you can’t stay.”
“What’s going on?”
“That face of yours will scare the tourists, and the idiot staking out the place might notice you,” he said with a smile.
I laughed. It still hurt. Pete can be a real bastard sometimes. “Where is he?”
Pete gestured with his chin over my left shoulder. I turned and looked.
The guy looked bored as hell. “I’ll be right back,” I said.
“Rick... damn it. Don’t be killing anybody in here,” Pete said as I walked away from the bar.
“Hey, Buddy,” I said to the guy.
He was a little startled by me. “Yeah?” he said.
“You want to play quarters and halves? I’m looking for a game.”
“Nah, I’m waiting on somebody.”
The guy had an image of me tucked in a paper magazine that he held in his hands.
“Okay, thanks anyway.” I walked back to the bar.
“The guy’s a bored idiot,” I said to Pete.
“You pull stunts like that and you wonder how come you keep getting into trouble,” he replied.
“Bullshit, Pete.”
“What’s bullshit?” he asked with a smile.
“I almost never wonder how I get into scrapes.”
He laughed.
“I’m going to go talk to the cops.”
“Okay. I’ll get a rescue crew together if they lock you up.”
“Thanks,” I said heading for the door.
“Hey,” Pete yelled. “You better not forget to call Lacey.”
I waved an acknowledgment and grabbed a cab to the police station.
The idiot on stakeout still didn’t have a clue.
~~~:{o}:~~~
Chapter 7
on the QT News Service - Local, Midtown
Troublesome Midtown Detective Suspended, IA Investigation Looms
Sergeant Henry Bartram, a detective in Midtown has been suspended pending a GCPD Internal Affairs investigation.
Bartram has been in the headlines recently following rumors of his involvement in the attempted assassination of High Town Detective Robert Blanc.
Bartram’s long history of trouble and abuse may have caught up with him this time, and on the QT is happy to have helped. Remember, we broke this story. Our tireless efforts to peel back the layers and expose corruption are ongoing.
Internal Affairs Detectives Blake and Labelle lead the charge to bring down the corrupt and violent cop, but Bartram has a knack for slipping the noose. Will public pressure be enough to see that Bartram finally gets what is coming to him, or will the crooked flatfoot prevail once again?
on the QT - Where tabloid and truth collide in a cataclysm of news.
---o---
I walked into the police station and told the desk sergeant I was looking for Sergeant Blake. The man knew who I was and why I was there and took me to an office where he told me to wait.
I sat there for about fifteen minutes before a giant jellyroll of a man walked in the room. A detective. His badge hung on a cord around his neck, not clipped to his belt near the buckle like most plainclothes flatfoots. His ample gut might have had something to do with that. The guy was close to two meters tall and weighed at least 150 kilos. He was like a big, brown, jiggly wall with legs.
“I’m Fudge Labelle, IA,” he said in a rumbling bass voice.
“Your parents named you Fudge?” I asked with a smile.
“No, they named me Mark. Fudge is a nickname. Some think it’s because of my sexy dark skin, but it’s because I like fudge. I have since I was a kid. Can’t get enough of the stuff.”
“Thanks for clearing that up, I never would have guessed.”
My sarcasm was lost on him.
“I’m to take you out to where Blanc was shot. Sergeant Blake will meet us there.”
We went to his car and climbed in. He set the autodrive and gave an address near Oleg’s.
“Where you been since Blanc got shot?” Fudge asked as the car started rolling.
I pointed at my face. “I got tuned up a little. Needed to get patched up.”
“You been to see Blanc yet?”
“No. I came straight here as soon as I learned you were looking for me,” I lied. “How is Blanc?”
“They say he’s going to live. The blaster took off part of his skull, but not much brain got loose.”
“The brain isn’t supposed to be exposed to fresh air,” I said.
Labelle turned toward me and looked at me for a few seconds. “You’re funny, Johnson. That mouth get you in much trouble?”
“No, almost never. It’s my brain that gets me in trouble.”
Labelle laughed and the car shook like we were driving off road. The car’s navigation system must have thought there was an earthquake.
We parked near Oleg’s and got out. I saw there was a little bit of crime tape around where Blanc and the dead assassins ended up on the ground. A small crowd stood nearby watching us. We leaned against the fenders for a few minutes waiting for Blake to show up. I was happy that I was holding up to all the activity so far.
“I asked around,” Fudge said breaking the silence. “You got kind of a reputation for looking out for whores, down-and-outers, cyber plague victims, bums, and scuz like that. You’re like a low rent superhero. Why would you risk your ass for these lowlifes?” he said gesturing at the crowd. “They wouldn’t do a damned thing to help you.”
“Who says I risk my ass for lowlifes?” I said. “Those lowlifes give me info on occasion. There are occasions when somebody has to do something sometimes. It has nothing to do with looking out for anyone. Sometimes that person is me. Sometimes I get paid for it. Sometimes.”
“I’m not buying that. There has to be more to it.”
“No, there doesn’t.”
Labelle started to say something when another police ground sedan pulled up with a couple of people inside.
“Wait here,” Labelle said as he walked to the car.
I assumed that one of the people inside the car was Sergeant Varuna Blake. When the driver climbed out I saw I was on the money.
Pete was right. She had hit the gene pool jackpot. Gleaming raven hair, creamed-coffee colored skin, impossible blue eyes on top of a pinup bod, and a fashion model face made her something to behold and she knew it. That lady cut a wide swath wherever she went was my bet. I wondered what the fuck she was doing wasting all she had being a cop. The only theory I could come up with was that maybe she was stupid.
Labelle spoke with her and gestured at me, then the two of them walked my way while the other person in the car slid over into the control seat and drove off.
As Labelle and Blake walked toward me it struck me that they were a strange pairing.
“You’re Johnson?” Sergeant Blake asked.
“That’s right,” I said nodding. “Labelle just told you I was.”
She ignored my crack. “We’ve been looking for you. Why did you wait so long to contact us?”
“I didn’t know you were looking for me.”
“How can that be?”
“
I was indisposed. I was undergoing treatment for some injuries.”
“I can believe that,” she said as her eyes darted around my face. “What hospital were you in? We checked around.”
“I didn’t go to a hospital. I sought holistic treatment,” I said with a straight face.
She gave me a hard look for a few seconds. I think she thought I’d tell her where I was because of that look. She was wrong. “Never mind that,” she said. “Why did you flee the scene after Blanc was shot?”
“I didn’t. I was pursuing a third shooter.”
Blake looked away toward the wall near where Blanc and the two dead gunsels went down.
“That makes sense,” she said looking around the area. “Break this down for me, if you don’t mind. Walk me through the incident.”
I thought maybe she was trying to wrangle me into a corner, but I wasn’t concerned. I was clean and the evidence would prove it. I covered the whole scene thoroughly. Well enough that neither IA detective needed me to fill-in or clarify anything, until I got to the alley shooter.
I showed them the blaster bolt hits from the shots the guy in the alley fired, then walked them over to the alley to show them the bullet hits on the wall from my .45 and the remnants of the bloodstains from the guy’s wounds.
“Forensics fucked this up,” Blake said shaking her head. “They thought those blaster hits were from the two shooters near Blanc and you. I don’t think they were even over here.”
“I’m surprised you got forensics at all,” I said. “Most of the cops that work here wouldn’t have bothered.”
Labelle guffawed while Blake humphed through her nose.
She explained what happened. The authorities brought up some Midtown detectives to run the shooting, and they didn’t even bother to bring in forensics. They had the bodies toe-tagged, bagged up, and taken away. They filled out reports and filed them. That was it.
Their idea of investigation was to show up on the scene and drink coffee. Working a case to them was filling out paperwork. They might as well have scribbled “Blanc was shot” on a piece of paper with a crayon and filed it for all the good their so-called work did. When the GCPD brass got wind of the detectives’ bullshit, they blew a gasket. I guess it never dawned on the Midtown dicks that they’d be watched on that one because a badge got gunned down in the street. They finally got forensics out to the site, but it had been hours and there had been hundreds or thousands of people walk through the crime scene. Rumor was heads would roll. Right.
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