“The door was locked when we got here.” Said evenly with no hint of guile but Sarge never misses much.
“Yeah, I locked it behind me when I came in.” I’m hoping that I’m not giving any tell that I’m hiding something.
Sarge just nods. “Detectives should be here soon. Dispatcher says they’re pretty close by. Your old buddies, Waters and Stammo. The gruesome twosome,” he chuckles.
I draw in a deep breath and let it out slowly.
“Did Steve make sergeant yet?” I ask.
Sarge gives me a long, hard look and shakes his head.
Steve Waters and I worked a lot of cases together on the downtown east side but I dread facing him. Just over three years ago, he found out I was using. He tried to cover for me but when it all came out, they fired me and his imminent promotion to sergeant was put on hold. I doubt he will ever be able to forgive me for that.
Steve is a good guy and a great cop and I’m glad it will be him looking into Kevin’s murder.
On the other hand, his partner today, Nick Stammo, is an A-1 prick.
6
Cal
I am now well into withdrawal, sniffing every few seconds and my gut hurts. My neck muscles are sore and the pain is worming its way into my bones. Worst of all I am feeling edgy and kind of twitchy. I cannot stop myself from scratching. Soon my concentration will dissipate. I’m good for about half an hour max, then I’m going to be in a bad way.
Sarge and the kid have gone, the forensic team are upstairs and I am in the downstairs bedroom with Steve and Stammo. I have just finished telling them about everything that happened today, leaving out only the details of the money I have stolen from Kevin’s wallet and the fact that I have a blood stained jacket stashed in a garbage bag behind some bushes. Either would just raise too many questions and put me in the frame.
Both of them know what my sniffing and general twitchiness are about. I am ashamed that Steve can see me like this and I can see he’s disgusted. But, despite how he must feel about me, I have to believe he is at least a little sympathetic. If it were up to him, he would let me go now. Stammo, however, wants to take advantage of my situation and try and catch me in a lie. He and I have a history and he would love to have the upper hand. Nick Stammo is everything a cop should not be. He’s a bully who cares more about closing a case than about catching the right offender. He’s also lazy and I’m surprised Steve and he are working this together. Stammo is tall and skinny, a bit like Roy, but without the charm.
He questions and re-questions me trying to find a hole in my story, but as I’m telling the truth he cannot catch me in a lie. His weasel face is showing his frustration and it angers me that he is so bad at his job. If I were doing this interrogation, there are a host of questions I would ask that he doesn’t even come close to thinking about.
He keeps hammering away for about fifteen minutes and then, to my surprise, he says, “Well, I don’t think we need keep you any longer, Rogan.”
They walk me to the door and Steve asks, “Where will you keep your good clothes now that you won’t be coming here anymore?”
I haven’t had time to think about that and I tell him so.
“So Cal, where are your other clothes?” he asks.
My mind races.
If I tell them the truth, it will seem suspicious that I hid my clothes in a garbage bag up the street. They will want to look at them and will see my blood-stained jacket. Even though it is not Kevin’s blood, they won’t know that until they have it tested, so it is an odds-on certainty they’ll arrest me if they see the jacket.
If they arrest me, in my pocket they’ll find the cash I took from Kevin’s wallet providing a ready-made motive. Then, on top of that, I’m going to have to go through the agony of withdrawal in a holding cell. The horror of it makes me break into a cold sweat and ratchets the pain up a notch. My breathing is heavier and I can feel a pulse in my neck but, despite the fear, the cop who has been buried inside me for so long wants to speak up. The only way I can rid myself of the unclean feeling that has enveloped me from the instant I snatched Kevin’s money, is, like Juliet, to make confession and to be absolved. Maybe I can also use this to make good on my promise to Ellie and Sam, my promise to get clean; maybe I can tough it out in a cell. There is no evidence tying me to Kev’s murder, they’ll have to let me go eventually and, when they do release me, the heroin will be flushed from my system. I make a snap decision: I am going to go for it.
“My clothes are in—”
Then it hits me: if they arrest me, they’ll stop looking for Kevin’s actual killer. Less than half an hour ago, I stood by the body of my best friend and made an oath to him and to his parents that I would find out who killed him. If I let them arrest me, he and his parents will not get the justice they deserve. Nothing can come ahead of this oath; Kevin’s death must not go unavenged.
So what am I going to tell Steve and Stammo? My mind, made sluggish by the pain, can only come up with, “uh… in the laundromat. You know, that one on Fourth, where the woman will do your clothes for you. I’ve got to go and pick them up now. Good job you reminded me.”
“I thought they’d stopped doing people’s laundry for them.” Steve says evenly.
Oh shit. “No, they still do it.” But I know he’s going to check on it—I would in his shoes—and then he will know that the laundromat on Fourth stopped doing washes for people over a year ago. “They started again a few months back,” I add.
There is a long silence.
“Why don’t we drive you there?” Steve offers.
I look at my watch. “My stuff won’t be ready yet. Not for another forty-five minutes or so.” I’m getting in deeper.
Stammo joins in, “We can take you there now. It’ll be better than waiting here with your dead friend upstairs.”
“I’ve got something else to do first.”
“What?” asks Stammo with a smile which shows his cigarette stained teeth. No one ever taught him how to do a smile that wasn’t creepy.
My mind somehow cuts through the pain in my body and goes into overdrive. I have to come up with something plausible. Quickly. Then, out of nowhere, I remember a course in undercover work; one thing stuck in my mind: Make all your lies as close to the truth as possible.
“Isn’t it obvious? You know I’m an addict and unless you’re blind or stupid,” I let my eyes linger on Stammo, “then you’ll know that I am in real need of a fix right now. So what do you think I am going to do? Shoot up here in front of you? Go shoot up in the fucking laundromat?” I rein in my rising temper. “I need to go somewhere quiet and take care of business.”
Steve looks hard at me. “OK, Cal.” He knows I’m lying about the laundromat but cannot quite decide why, so he makes the compassionate choice for me and the more comfortable choice for himself. If he thinks I’m going to shoot up now, he wants me out of this house and out of his sight. The thought floods me with shame. Junkies feel stabbed by shame every day but the look in Steve’s eyes sharpens the blade for me.
It is Stammo’s turn again. “So where can we get hold of you if we need to ask you any more questions?”
I look him in the eye and I can see he is enjoying this. I can’t hold back. “Listen, you smug bastard. You know where I’m at. I’m living on the street or in flophouses on the downtown east side. If you want me, get your lazy ass in gear and come and find me.” He tenses and his hands are balling into fists. This close, I can smell the stale cigarette smoke on his clothes. I look him straight in the eye and in that instant I know he will not try anything. He must remember the last time we had a run in like this. But I was a cop back then, not just some junkie.
Steve defuses the situation. “Do you still hang with Roy?” he asks calmly.
Without taking my eyes off Stammo, I nod.
“OK, no problem. We can find you through Roy.” He hands me his business card. “Give me a call first thing Monday morning, we’ll probably want to talk to you some more. I’ll see
you, Cal. Take care.” I am dismissed.
“Yeah. See you Steve.” I hold Stammo’s gaze for a moment longer, then bestow a false smile on him, turn and take off.
I wonder how quickly they will go and visit the laundromat and what they will do when they confirm the lie.
7
Cal
The pain is unbearable. I have got to get well and, for a few blessed moments, I need to blot out the horror of Kevin’s dead body on the couch. And Roy’s friend Tommy, what about his death? There’s no way it’s connected to Kevin’s. But on the other hand, I just don’t believe in coincidences.
Where’s Roy, I need him now. Is he drinking away the memory of Tommy’s death?
Roy has always been my link. I give him the money to buy my drugs and in return, I pay for his booze. A strange symbiosis.
But where the fuck is he?
He is not at Beanie’s Eatery on Hastings Street. Despite its cutesy name, it’s a hole but it’s his favourite place; he is always there on Saturday when I get back from seeing Ellie. Always there, ready with my drugs. Where is he? A grim thought fights its way through the pain into my consciousness. What if Roy is dead too, like Tommy? Is there some link between Tommy’s and Kevin’s deaths? Is there a link to Roy? And to that blood on my jacket.
I can’t think clearly and I can’t take the time to think it through. I cannot even take the time to mourn Kevin. I have to take the risk and go and make the buy myself. I think about my promise to Sam that I’ll stop using. As soon as I can, I will get into detox and break out of this cycle. But I can’t think of that right now. My whole world has shrunk to one screaming need.
I make my way towards the Carnegie library at Hastings and Main, I probably won’t be recognized there. I keep my face covered by buttoning my jacket over my chin and pulling down on the peak of my Chicago Cubs cap.
The steer spots me before I am halfway along the block. “What’cha looking for man? Down?” From a mile off, he can spot a heroin addict in withdrawal. His ravaged face tells me he’s been a user for a long time. Is this where my face is headed?
“Yeah.”
He walks me into the alley beside the library and leads me to another ravaged face slouching beside a dumpster. A frisson of fear passes through me. I drop my head further forward, the better to cover my face. Street dealers work in groups of three or four: the steers who guide customers to the dealer; the dealer who holds the drugs and does the actual transaction; and the money man—who is often the muscle too—he holds all the cash. I don’t care if the dealer sees me; it’s the guy holding the money I worry about. I don’t know which of the people hanging in the alley is the money man—a quick glance doesn’t reveal any familiar faces—but if he sees me and recognizes me, I am screwed.
I offer the dealer five of Kevin’s twenties. “Gimme ten points.”
He does not take the cash. He looks long and hard at me. Maybe an ex-cop gives off a vibe these guys can sense; it’s one of the two reasons I get Roy to buy for me. Maybe he is going to refuse to sell to me. As if in anticipation, the pain ratchets up a notch and I hear myself groan.
He too is a junkie. He recognizes the groan and knows it is genuine but still he holds back. I want to grab him, shake him and scream my need into his face.
He looks up and down the filthy alley and turns back to me.
“Fuck off,” he says.
Hating myself for it, I plead, “Please man, I really need it.”
No reaction.
“Please.”
He looks up the alley again and makes a small gesture towards me with his head. He is signalling the muscle. I’ve got to go. Fast.
All choice is gone. I have to go to the dealer in the alley where I woke up this morning. The alley fills me with dread and the man who holds the money there knows I’ve stolen from him. But I have no choice. I shuffle down Hastings, trying to avoid any movement that exacerbates the pain. It is impossible but I try. I ignore the Guatemalan and Salvadoran dealers who control this block. No matter what I offer, they are not going to sell to me. They deal only with their own and anyway they mostly deal in coke.
Finally I make it to the maw of the alley. It beckons me in and for an instant my fear almost overcomes my need. Who am I kidding? Nothing overcomes this need. I plunge in and make my way to the dealer standing beside the dumpsters. He looks askance at me; he is searching his memory.
I brandish the hundred dollars, still clutched in my hand—it’s a miracle someone didn’t see it and mug me en route—“Gimme ten points.”
He looks long and hard. “Hundred fifty.” Bastard! So much money for a gram of powder that started life in the poppy fields of Afghanistan and sold for a hundred and fifty bucks a kilo. Only criminal enterprises can make markups of one hundred thousand percent.
I don’t want to show that I have more money on me. “OK, how about seven points?”
He shrugs. The money and the seven flaps of precious powder change hands. As I push past the dealer, I notice he is looking at a big guy, dressed in black, standing about twenty yards away. The money man. He is looking at me and talking on a cellphone. I recognize the face. He knows me and he knows Roy.
I run out of the alley as fast as I can.
The need to be indoors and off the streets is warring with the burning need to get well. I am only three blocks from the Lion Hotel, staggering from the pain as I walk there.
Then I see him, standing outside Sunrise Market. Roy. My relief at seeing him safe is eclipsed by my anger. Where the fuck was he when I needed him to buy me my drugs? He sees me and says something but I cannot catch what he’s saying. I don’t have time for him now. Saturdays he likes to cross examine me about my visit with Ellie.
He looks agitated. “Rocky—”
“Not now Roy.” I do not have time for his drama. I push past him. “Come and see me in an hour.”
He grabs my arm. “Rocky, you gotta listen to me—”
“In an hour Roy.” I order as I snatch my arm from his grip.
I run past Sunrise and through the door to the Lion Hotel.
Only a few minutes now. Hang on. Hang on.
The room is bleak. Four walls, dirty and battle scarred from the drunks and junkies who are the only denizens that the once-respectable hotel has known in its recent past. But at least it will provide me shelter for a week, thanks to ninety of the dollars I withdrew shamefully from Kevin’s wallet.
I’m slouched on the rickety old bed. The place provides clean sheets but the bed beneath them…
But right now my mind is focused on the eight items in my lap.
There is no world outside this room. No daughter. No friends, dead or alive. Nothing but me, my need and my heroin.
As always, I force myself to do it right, subjugating the burning need to be rid of the pain to the consequences of screwing up. I slip off my jacket and roll up my left sleeve, over the elbow and halfway up my bicep.
Tear open the first package, remove the swab, find a good site—they’re getting fewer and fewer—and rub the alcohol over the target. Wipe my fingers with the swab.
Now the rubber tie. Tie it tight over the muscle and grip the long end with my teeth.
My avowal to Sam inserts itself into my consciousness. I promise you and I promise Ellie that by New Year’s day, I will be clean. Nothing will stop me this time. What if they could see my now? What would they think? Will I ever be able to rid myself of this need and follow through on that promise? Somehow I must.
Can I stop now? Go cold turkey in this ruined room?
Maybe I can…
But not now. I can’t think about that now.
Open the little pill box of filters, place one on my right knee. Remove the safety cap and balance the needle with great care on my left knee.
Hang on, the pain will soon be gone.
Force my hands to be steady, open four flaps and pour the precious contents into the spoon; I shouldn’t be using four points, it’s too much but I need it right
now. Rip the plastic container with my teeth and pour half of the sterile water over the white powder.
Soon, baby, soon.
Fumble for the lighter. Why does it take four tries to light, for God’s sake?
Heat up the spoon. Come on, come on, COME ON.
A junkie’s a good thing, right Daddy?
Through the pain, I burn with shame. If Ellie could see me here, doing this, what would she think?
The liquid is bubbling. It’s ready. Don’t rush at the end.
Put the spoon on the bed beside me and hope it doesn’t scorch the blanket but I can’t worry about that now. Drop in the little cotton filter.
As I reach for the needle, the tremor in my hands causes me to fumble and knock it. It falls and lands point down in the floor, spearing a wad of dried bubble gum spat onto the disgusting carpet by a previous inhabitant. Revulsion rises in my gorge as I carefully pull it out.
I can’t find the antiseptic swab. I need it to clean the needle.
Where the fuck is it?
Careful not to spill the precious liquid cooling in the spoon, I scrabble among the things around me but it’s nowhere to be seen.
A fresh wave of pain runs through me. Cal would never use this contaminated needle but Rocky can only think of getting well. I’ll have to risk it, even if it kills me.
Spike into the filter, beveled side up, draw back on the plunger.
Almost there, almost. Needle at the proper angle, try not to think about the saliva in the bubble gum or the mouth from which it came. Slide it into the vein. Pull back a little on the plunger.
No blood in the needle. Damn it, I’m not in the vein.
Try again. No go. Shit. Shit. It’s getting harder and harder to find veins.
Again.
Blood, thank God, got it.
Yank off the rubber tie with my teeth.
Push the plunger home slowly, slowly, slowly.
Cal Rogan Mysteries, Books 1, 2 & 3 (Box Set) Page 4