Beneath a Weeping Sky rcc-3

by Frank Zafiro

  He glided up next to her in his respectable four-door compact. She glanced over at him, glanced around, then approached the car.

  “Hi, baby,” she said.

  “Hello.”

  “You lookin’ for a date?”

  He nodded. He doubted she was an under-cover police officer, but he was not taking any chances. He would make her say everything just to be sure.

  The prostitute got into his car and directed him where to drive. He drove silently, mostly in circles as she watched to see if they were being followed. He noticed she was unable to sit still, another characteristic of crack addicts. He was almost certain she wasn’t a police officer now.

  She directed him to a dead-end street. He parked next to an abandoned house. As he put the car into park, he felt her hand snake out and squeeze his crotch. He became erect immediately. She grinned at that and removed her hand.

  “So what are you looking for?” she asked, leaning back against the door.

  “A good time,” he said.

  She frowned slightly. He could tell she was still trying to decide if he was a police officer or not.

  “A very good time,” he added.

  She chewed on her lip, remaining cautious, but he could see the desperation in her eyes. He waited.

  Finally she said, “So you want head or straight sex or what?”

  “Straight would be good,” he told her and waited.

  She paused again, chewing her lip. The pause was not as long as the first one when she said, “Fifty.”

  “Okay,” he said. He slid his seat back. She reached out and began to unbuckle his belt with one hand. She held out her other hand. He put two twenties and a ten in her hand and watched her slip it into her bra.

  With both hands free, she slipped his pants down around his knees in a matter of seconds. She reached into her purse and removed a condom.

  “Can’t be too careful,” she explained with a wink. She tore open the wrapper and slid the condom expertly onto him.

  “I agree,” he said. To his disgust, he realized his left leg was twitching uncontrollably. That’d happened to him the first time he was with a woman, too. He cursed his weakness.

  This is just a dirty little whore, he told himself. Nothing to be nervous about. It’s not like you haven’t had a whore before. My father fucked one every time the ship docked in the Philippines. So what’s the problem? Get tough.

  She climbed on top of him, being careful not to bump the horn on the steering wheel. Guiding him into her, she settled onto his lap.

  “How’s that feel?” she asked him.

  He avoided her gaze, running his hands up her arms to her shoulders, where he grabbed hard and pulled her into him. She grunted in pain.

  “Hey, watch it-”

  “Shut up,” he growled and began thrusting hard. “Just shut up, you dirty little whore.”

  “Easy on my goddamn arms,” she complained.

  He released her arms and grabbed her around the throat with both hands, squeezing hard.

  “Do you like this, you little bitch?” he asked her as her face flooded red. Her hands flew to her throat and she tried to pry his fingers loose.

  He continued to thrust into her, watching panic enter her eyes. “Yeah, you like it, don’t you? Oh, I am going to lay the whammo on you, my sweet little bitch.”

  He closed his eyes as he came, arching his hips up and forcing the small of her back into the bottom of the steering wheel. Her fingers pulled weakly at his hands as his orgasm caused him to squeeze harder. He finally relaxed his grip as he collapsed back onto the seat.

  He sat still for a moment, surprised both at how fast he’d climaxed and how quickly his choking had affected her. He released his grip on her throat. She breathed raggedly and in gasps, her hands massaging her throat.

  “Stupid little whore,” he muttered. He opened the car door. With his hips and right arm, pushed her from his lap, out the door and onto the ground. He grabbed her small purse from his passenger seat and hurled it at her. She sat blinking stupidly at him as the purse bounced off her forehead and fell onto her lap.

  “You’re lucky,” he told her. “I let you live because you’re beautiful.”

  Women are vain, he thought as he pulled up his pants. Compliment them and nothing else matters.

  Then he drove away quickly, leaving her to sit along the side of the road in front of the abandoned house.

  Ten blocks away, he pulled in behind a convenience store. A large fence blocked the view from two directions and the store from a third. Quickly, he unzipped his pants and cleaned up. He threw everything into the dumpster. Then he changed his license plates back to the proper ones, backed out and drove away. The entire process had taken him less than three minutes. The car-clock told him he still had twenty minutes of his lunch hour left.

  I wish I could have gone to the Philippines, he thought as he drove towards his workplace. But the military wasn’t right for him. He was certain that if his father had stuck around long enough to know that his son hadn’t followed in his footsteps, the old man’s disappointment would have been even greater than it already was.

  He frowned at that. Still, he’d done a number on that last bitch, hadn’t he? She got a taste of what it was like to have a real man lay the whammo on her.

  As he drove back to work, he whistled tunelessly to himself. But already, the gnawing desire within him began to grow again.

  FIVE

  Tuesday, April 16th

  Graveyard shift

  2014 hours

  The ring of the telephone stopped Katie MacLeod at her door.

  She paused, considering whether to answer it or not. As it was, she was going to have a difficult enough time getting her patrol uniform and gear on before roll call. Depending on who it was on the phone, she might not make it. And if it was her mother…well, forget it. She’d be on the phone for an hour.

  I’ll wait to see who it is, she decided. In case it’s an emergency.

  After the fifth ring, the answering machine kicked on. Her own voice sounded strange to her as it pleasantly asked the caller to leave a message at the beep.

  The machine beeped.

  “Katie?”

  It was Stef.

  Katie clenched her jaw.

  “Are you there?” he asked, his words slurred. “If you’re there, pick up.”

  Katie considered it for a moment. She thought very seriously about picking up the phone and telling Stefan Kopriva that he could go straight to hell. Which was where he seemed bent on going anyway, with the drinking and the pills.

  “Katie, please. I… I have to… talka someone…”

  The anger brewed in the pit of her stomach. Who did he think he was, calling her now? A year later? A goddamn year?

  After what they shared together? What he threw away?

  “Everythins’ so fucked up,” he slurred. “I’m so fucked up.”

  She thought of Amy Dugger, the six year old girl that had died because of Kopriva’s mistake. A stab of pity cut through some of the anger in her belly. She took a step toward the telephone, letting the door swing closed.

  “Jus’ the whole world,” he said.

  She reached for the receiver. When her fingers touched the plastic, she paused.

  Remember what he said to you? After what happened to you on the bridge, do you remember what that selfish bastard said?

  She stood stock-still, struggling with her own thoughts. The cool plastic of the phone vibrated slightly with every word that came through the tiny speaker of the answering machine.

  “Are you even there?” Kopriva asked, a tinge of anger settling into his voice.

  “I’m here,” she whispered, but kept her hand still.

  “Oh, fuck it,” he said. “Like you even give a shit.”

  The line disconnected. A pair of clicks came through the speaker, then a dial tone. The answering machine stopped recording.

  Katie stood at the phone, surprised that no more anger well
ed up inside her after his parting shot. Instead, she felt a deep sadness overcome her. She choked back the tears that rose in her throat.

  “I did give a shit,” she whispered at the flashing red light on her answering machine. “Once. I really did.”

  The light blinked in steady cadence.

  “But not anymore,” Katie said.

  She knew it was a lie as soon as she said it.

  “Oh, Stef,” she said in a hoarse whisper. She reached out and pressed the delete button. The long beep that sounded when she pressed the button took on an almost accusatory tone. “Please don’t call me again.”

  She’d considered changing her telephone number when she moved out of her apartment, but hadn’t. It was the same number she’d had since she moved to River City after graduating from WSU. She’d felt sentimental about it somehow. It was the first telephone number that belonged to her. Not her mother in Seattle. Not the entire dorm floor. Not her and three roommates that final year at college. Just her. So each time she moved, she kept the number. Now, she questioned that decision. The silence of her small house seemed to throb around her while she stood next to the telephone. She wiped away the beginnings of a tear from her eye and glanced up at the clock.

  Great.

  Now she was going to be late.

  Katie turned and walked away.

  2237 hours

  “Adam-122?”

  Battaglia reached for the mike. “Twenty-two, go ahead.”

  “Respond on a vehicle theft report.”

  “Great,” Battaglia said sarcastically, ignoring the dispatcher’s description of the call. “A real challenge.”

  O’Sullivan didn’t reply.

  The dispatcher relayed the address and Battaglia copied the call. Then he turned to Sully. “So I guess there’s no RPW to be done tonight.”

  Sully made a U-turn. “Since when are stolen cars not real police work?”

  “Stolen cars are real police work. They can even lead to pursuits. Which is fun.” Battaglia replaced the radio mike on the hook. “But stolen vehicle reports suck. There’s no challenge to them.”

  “A call is a call.”

  “A call is a call,” Battaglia mimicked. “Well, these calls suck. Every one is the same. And that’s if it is even actually a real stolen.” Battaglia mimed removing his notepad and flipping it open. He poised an invisible pen above his open palm. “Do you own the car? When did you see it last? Do you know who took it? What color is it? What do you want us to do with when we find it? Blah, blah, blah, boring.”

  “Sometimes life is not all about every call being exciting,” Sully said.

  “Oh, aren’t we just the philosopher tonight?” Battaglia observed. He paused to look through the windshield, then left and right. “What the hell?”

  “What the hell what? That there’s actually a world out there?”

  “Screw you, Soh-crayts.”

  “Soh-crayts?” Sully shook his head. “It’s Socrates, you idiot. Sock-Ruh-Tease.”

  “Like you know,” Battaglia said, waving his hand. “And the what the hell is, where are you going?”

  “To the call.”

  “Not the way you’re headed. Take Wall. It’s quicker.”

  Sully snorted. “I’m driving, Guido. So don’t worry about it.”

  “I’m telling you, Wall is quicker than Monroe.”

  “It’s the same.”

  “It’s quicker.”

  “Shut up. Like you know this town.”

  Battaglia raised his eyebrows in indignation. “I know this town like the back of my hand.”

  “Bullshit. You can barely find the station on a good day. That’s why you always ride with me and that’s why I always drive.”

  “I ride with you because no one else will and Sarge wants me to keep an eye on you.” Battaglia sniffed dramatically and rubbed his nose. “And I let you drive so I don’t offend your Irish sensibilities.”

  “My sensibilities? Coming from Captain Sensitivo over here, that really hurts.”

  “I know this town,” Battaglia insisted.

  “Not only do you not know this town, you don’t even know anything about this town. You’re ignorant of your own city’s history.”

  “Oh really? And what are you? The River City History Channel?”

  “No,” Sully said, “but I know a few things.”

  “So do I.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like it’s called River City because it was founded by a river.”

  “Oh, that’s good. Don’t stretch your brain.”

  Battaglia shrugged. “It’s true. Deal with it.”

  “So why’s Mount Joseph called by that name?” Sully asked.

  “It’s named after some guy named Joseph.”

  Sully slapped the steering wheel. “Another brilliant insight. Okay, Mensa boy, who was Joseph?”

  Battaglia paused. “Some Indian, right?”

  “Good guess. Yeah, some Indian. A chief, actually.”

  Battaglia snapped his fingers and pointed. “That’s it. Mount Joseph was named after Chief Joseph.”

  Sully sighed. “No kidding. So what tribe did he belong to?”

  “Sioux?”

  “No.”

  “Pawnee?”

  Sully shook his head. “Uh-uh.”

  “Apache?”

  “Oh, come on. The Apache live down in the desert.”

  “We’ve got deserts around here. You ever been to Yakima?”

  “Real deserts,” Sully said. “As in New Mexico and Arizona?”

  Battaglia shrugged. “A desert’s a desert.”

  “It’s Nez Perce,” Sully told him. “Chief Joseph was a Nez Perce Chief. From where the sun now stands, I will fight no more forever. You didn’t learn this stuff in school?”

  “Hey, I went to Rogers. We learned From where the sun now stands, I will kick your ass forever. And so what? At least I got that he was an Indian Chief.”

  Sully stopped for a red light and looked over at Battaglia. “Fine. How about the river, smart guy? Why is it called The Looking Glass River?”

  “Easy. It’s named after that Alice in Wonderland movie.”

  Sully gaped at him. “You’re kidding me, right? I mean, you’re totally screwing with me here?”

  Battaglia shook his head. “No.” He pointed at the stoplight. “Light’s green.”

  Sully glanced up at the light and goosed the accelerator. “Unbelievable,” he muttered.

  “What? You gonna tell me it’s not named after that Disney cartoon, then?”

  “News flash. That cartoon was made back in the forties. The river was named about a hundred years ago. Do the math.”

  Battaglia scrunched his eyebrows. “You sure?”

  “Yes.”

  Battaglia considered a moment. Then he said, “Well, wasn’t there a book or something that they based the cartoon on? It coulda been named after that.”

  “Yes, there was a book. But-”

  “See?”

  “No, no, no, no,” Sully said with an emphatic head shake. “The river was named after one of Joseph’s sub-chiefs, Chief Looking Glass. It was named after a man, not a cartoon.”

  Battaglia shrugged. “I didn’t know that.”

  “I know!” Sully said, nodding repeatedly. “You could fill a large museum with what you don’t know, Batts.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “No, you could.” Sully raised his hand from the steering wheel and mimed a headline in the air. “The Official ‘Stuff That Anthony Battaglia Doesn’t Know’ Museum. It’d be a huge building, too. Bigger than the Louvre.”

  “The what?”

  “The Lou-never mind. It’d be a big building and it would be full of shit. Just like you. That’s my point.”

  “Whatever, dude. The only point I’m seeing is the one on top of your head.”

  “Oh, har-dee-freaking-har.” Sully picked up the radio mike and held it out toward Battaglia. “Hey, 1972 called. They want their joke
book back.”

  Battaglia clapped his hands together slowly. “Ha. Ha. Ha.”

  Sully re-hung the microphone, turned onto Dalke and killed the headlights.

  Battaglia shook his head. “It still woulda been quicker to take Wall.”

  Sully pulled to the curb two houses from the complainant’s address. “Guess we’ll never know, will we?”

  The two clambered out of the car, shutting the doors quietly.

  The home was a small yellow rancher with a well kept yard. A pair of lawn gnomes stood as stoic guards on either side of the concrete steps up to the front door. The officers climbed the stairs. Without discussion, each took up a position on opposite sides of the doorway. Battaglia rapped on the door.

  After a few moments, a short pudgy man in his forties answered. He wore khakis and an unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt over a white tee. Sully glanced at the man’s thinning hair, which was plastered tight to his skull with gel and drawn together into a nub of a ponytail.

  Ooh, he thought. A hipster.

  “Good evening,” Battaglia said. “You called about a stolen car?”

  “Yeah, yeah,” the man said, opening the screen door and waving them in. The officers filed past him and into a living room furnished with post-modern furniture. Several stark, nude line drawings of Marilyn Monroe encased in neon frames dotted the walls.

  Battaglia removed his notebook and flipped it open. “Tell me about this stolen car.”

  The man sank into an armless futon. “It’s my Beemer,” he sighed grandly.

  Battaglia’s eyes flicked to Sully’s, then back to the complainant. Sully knew what the glance meant.

  I’m supposed to be impressed?

  “And?” Battaglia’s tone held the barest hint of his unspoken sarcasm.

  The man seemed to sense Battaglia’s subtext. “Well, it’s stolen.”

  Battaglia nodded his head. The man pointed to his notebook.

  “Are you going to write that down?”

  Battaglia’s head stopped moving up and down and shifted seamlessly to a left to right head shake.