Angelos Odyssey

by J. B. M. Patrick

  L looked away, his demeanor resembling one of shame. “It don't mean shit… Ain't nothing you need to know about it.”

  “See, you're wrong there, buddy; there's a helluva a lot I need to know like now unless you want to sit in a cell tonight.”

  Lorrie was bluffing.

  “I know you've never been in before—that record of yours is solid… you don't want that to change, do you? Because trust me, I can make it change; jail food just isn't worth it, kid—trust me on that one.”

  There was something almost sincere in the look given to the wannabe mobster.

  L laughed. “So, you think I'll start snitchin' because I'm afraid of some stale fuckin’ bread?”

  “If only you got that,” the Corporal sneered, “more like water soup and some moldy yeast you can snack on if that’s what you’re into.” He shrugged nonchalantly before issuing an exasperated sigh. “—Look, just cut the bullshit and tell me what I need to know so I can help you out, okay? C'mon, let's not fuck up your chance at getting a real job later in life here—you don’t wanna be like these other clowns in here gettin’ booked for being jackasses, all right?”

  “Shit, man… a ‘real job’, huh?” L replied in a facetious tone. “You’re scheming to get me to sell out my own family so I can get a ‘real job’—that's all you got for me? No money, protection, benefits? Ya'll got me fucked up, you know that, right?”

  Officer Lorrie ignored the response altogether and took a different approach: “Hey, you know we got our own restaurant here? Tell me what you want, and I'll grab you something from one of the guys we got working in the kitchen. It's funny, because some of them sat where you are right now… they didn't want to help themselves; now, the only careers they can hold onto are positions serving people like me or dudes in the military at the worst kind of pay… because most places discriminate pretty heavily against a background giving off bad vibes, know what I mean?”

  “You act like we made the system.” L snorted. “I was just mindin' my own business when you decided to take me in and fuck up my whole night! Now my girl's gonna be mad she ain’t get no action tonight—I mean, how you expect me to deal with all that mess whenever I get back? She's probably already mad as hell; cops be makin' every working man's life stressful!”

  “Look, do you want something or not?”

  L reclined in his seat, feeling defeated. “Yeah, grab me a double hamburger with everything on that shit, officer; extra salty fries—and I mean extra, man, don't short me—and lemme get some booze with that.”

  “Water's gonna have to do, boss.” Lorrie winked. “But I got you… just remember to get me back.” Lorrie stood up and began to walk out of the interrogation room.

  L yelled after him. “Ay, and get me that attorney while you're at it! —and let me get some phone time with my girl before the night's out! C’mon man!”

  As soon as the Corporal had shut the door behind him, he muttered “punk” under his breath and was almost immediately confronted with a female officer.

  “Hey Lorrie-”

  “What's up, Sergeant?” He responded nervously. “I didn’t know you were scheduled tonight…”

  “Tonight? The sun is on its way up, Lorrie—how much you had to drink?” She snickered and continued without awaiting a response, “—and I should be the one asking questions because you were supposed to sign out of this place long ago—What's keeping you here?”

  Lorrie pointed his thumb back toward the room. “I got a kid with info on one of the major players in town. Some kingpin dropped dead—”

  “I’d heard about that…”

  “Yeah, and this little shit was there at the scene trying to give me attitude the whole time, Sergeant!”

  “Wait, that’s…” She gazed with more focus on a wide monitor displaying L, who appeared more than disgruntled.

  “I'd watch your back on this one, Lorrie.” The Sergeant suddenly looked much more concerned.

  “What do you mean?” He smirked, surprised at her changed outlook.

  She rested her hands on her hips and said, “I recognize that boy; it’s not the first time he’s passed through here… but he's not someone you need to be interrogating or even talking to at all.” The Sergeant paused and laughed. “I get it; he's a scrub for sure, but you won't believe who his keeper is—and we don't need him in here stirring up more problems for us than we already got to deal with.”

  “Huh? Who could he know that would cause 'problems' for us?”

  “Don't worry about it, Lorrie.” Her disposition was stern. “Just know that you're better off getting his ass out of this place before word gets around.”

  “Nah, I can't.” Lorrie folded his arms and shook his head defiantly. “The kid knows too much for me to budge on this one; the work's there, so I'm gonna move on it no matter what. Especially since I’ve been at it for this long!”

  She stared at him for a moment and sighed. “Don't you ever go home? I've met your wife, Lorrie, and I know she's not the type to let her man stay out late.” The Sergeant's expression changed to that of a half-smile.

  “What can I say, you caught me.” He smiled back. “We've been arguing over getting the new virtual reality gig they sell now installed in the house; she's obsessed with watching and being in some show—I think it's something to do with a bunch of old broads who don't do anything and have all this money, see. They throw it all away on their hair and fake tans and pets… I think one of them bought a goldfish, and it died the same day—”

  “I love that show!”

  “Oh god…” He groaned. “I don’t get it. They just sit around a table and talk shit to each other all day. Like, if they don’t like each other, then why don’t they just find some better company to keep around? It doesn’t make any sense!”

  The Sergeant rapidly grew annoyed. “You’re obviously sleep-deprived… It's deeper than that, Lorrie; you've got to watch the whole show to understand—but wait, you're always on overtime so you at least gotta be getting paid fat, huh?”

  “Sometimes,” he shrugged, “I always fold and get her the news things. It's better than going back and forth about it; she talks so much that she could probably do the whole show with just herself.”

  “C'mon now, you've got to have more faith in her than that. Tell you what: stop what you're doing and let me take this one. You deserve some time with your family—aren't you guys trying for a kid anyways?”

  “Ha! We've been working on that one for a year now—but I can't let you take this one, Sergeant. I brought him in so I should be the one to deal with his bullshit.”

  She groaned, “Ugh! Fine, Lorrie, but you're gonna let me help you on this one way or another. Let me make a phone call that might speed things up for you.”

  “Phone call?” Lorrie appeared to be taken aback. “Who are you going to talk to about this?! He's just some stupid kid who’s caught up in something he doesn’t get.”

  The Sergeant brushed off his question as she began to head toward her own desk. “Like I said: you're not going to believe who you've got on your hands. What'd he say his first name was again?”

  Officer Lorrie quickly glanced at his file and looked puzzled. “It says 'Lance,' but the punk wants everybody to call him 'L.'”

  He was surprised when the Sergeant began laughing hysterically as she dialed a number on her cell phone. “Oh, I know him—or I know his dad at least…”

  -

  “I'm going to ask you one more time: who raised you?”

  Sergeant Aden Kaust of the Dawn Bureau glared at his son, whose hands slightly shook as they grasped the cold exterior of a cup from the cafeteria.

  Lance stared back at him in a feeble attempt to appear as if he was a stronger man than his own father.

  “I said who the hell raised you, punk?!” Aden jumped out of his seat and flipped over the desk separating the two of them as his voice boomed in one singular, blaring direction. “Because I sure as hell didn't raise you to be fallin’ in with some dumb
ass goons, chasing trouble, and disrespecting the people I work with like a MOTHERFUCKIN’ BUM! And you already know your mama wouldn't be having none of that shit, either, Lance Kaust! —don't you remember who whipped you into shape when I was busy at work? Huh?!” The detective’s rage emerged and seemed unquenchable in its aim. “I know she taught you discipline, so what makes you think you can start callin’ yourself a fucking ‘Blood Disciple?!’”

  Lance, who'd now begun to visibly tremble all over, struggled to maintain what he sincerely hoped was a calm, confident composure. His voice cracked as he retaliated with: “I ain't some kid you can just boss around like a damn slav—”

  Aden smacked his son with enough force to put Lance on his back. As a Dawn Bureau Agent, he retained the authority to treat all suspects however he pleased in accordance with the vague tenets upheld by the Bureau.

  “Son, I don't give a DAMN about how old you are, because you better believe I'll humiliate your ass in front of this whole station if you want! I can show you what it means to really be tough in this world, the same way my father showed me.” Aden forced his son to back away with his intimidating presence.

  “And don't you dare cuss at me again, you feel me?” Aden smirked ever so slightly. “We raised you to use better language than that, so you best stop acting like a stupid fool and speak the way you were taught!”

  Finally, Lance Kaust mentally gave in after finding his mind going through flashback after flashback of his own upbringing under the stern, unforgiving detective.

  “Yeah, I understand, dad; chill out—”

  The door to the interrogation room opened to reveal one of the officers, who peaked her head in and failed to conceal a look of wild curiosity clearly expressed across her face.

  “Is everything all right in here? I heard a noise…”

  Sergeant Kaust looked around in bewilderment before calming his demeanor. “Damn.” He returned her glance. “This getup isn't soundproof? They've really been skimping ya'll haven't they?”

  “Well, Sergeant,” she giggled anxiously, “the rooms aren't made to block every noise you can come up with…” Aden picked up a hint of irritation in her tone.

  Aden sighed before returning the table on the ground to its original position in a controlled, deliberate manner. He stretched and yawned before taking a seat while unbuttoning the jacket of his suit.

  “We're all good in here, ma'am.” Aden spoke nonchalantly. “I just felt the need to go over some… family values with my son.”

  The officer ignored the response and simply closed the door without pressing the matter further.

  Sergeant Aden Kaust was a rather large, stocky man who kept his curly, dark hair short in an attempt to hide the extent to which it had greyed over time. He possessed a slightly roundish face and sported a chinstrap beard narrowly complemented by a thin mustache barely connected and thinned out almost completely before reaching his prominent chin; a chin attached to a broad jawline which extended from his features and looked as if it contained the potential to knock someone unconscious if used in the right manner. Although he hated them, Aden had recently begun wearing a set of brown, horn-rimmed spectacles that made his nose and ears appear much smaller due to their own thickness in comparison. The Sergeant was known for sporting pinstripe suits of a charcoal shade complete with a black tie and pocket squares that never quite matched anything he was wearing but still displayed eccentric patterns on them nonetheless. Before coming to berate his son, Aden Kaust had worn his favourite alligator shoes but spilled coffee on them earlier and thus was still upset at what he considered another ruined pair.

  Having prior military experience as well as considerable time on the force, Aden suffered from a body which—while it remained mostly sturdy—was broken down in several areas. Having refused any kind of advanced biosynthetic enhancements, his body had been subjected to numerous surgeries over the years due to the rigorous stress it had been put under for such a lengthy amount of time. But Aden didn't give a damn about any of that; in his eyes, he was “perfectly healthy.”

  “Your mother and I spent years trying to keep you away from this sort of mess, Lance. We know about what it's like to struggle… to barely be able to carry your own and not know where your next meal is coming from—so we for damn sure weren't about to let you want for anything when you were growing up. After all that work we put in—work that tore apart our own marriage—neither of us are about to let you get yourself locked up. We’ve already invested too much in your dumbass, and I know she's not here right now, but best believe I called her while I was on my way over.”

  “No! Why would you do that?” Lance quickly became defensive. “She didn't need to know about all this!”

  “She's your mom! It's her motherfuckin' right, Lance, as it is mine as your motherfuckin’ father. Now look…” He held up the same file Officer Lorrie had been using earlier. “I know there’s gotta be some of your mama in you yet, boy—use ya head, hear me? You don't have to go to jail, and you don't gotta be stuck with some petty weed charge, son. Tell me the truth: did you know Ekwueme? Do you have any info on that man?”

  While Lance remained silent, his father opened the folder and began spreading out a series of graphic photos; scene portraits depicting several deceased individuals who’d been the victims of what appeared to be brutal violence. One of the photographs to the far left of Lance contained the body of a woman decapitated as the result of an explosion, and a picture at the center of the display revealed a young boy who’d instantly succumbed to a bullet wound which traveled through the his heart. To the boy's right, there laid an older man—High Rise—who’d passed away due to physical wounds incapable of being inflicted by normal means.

  There were several more, some of which were even more horrifying to look upon and ultimately forced Lance to rise up from the table and move toward the wall behind him. He was trying to escape from it all in his mind. Aden’s demeanor remained somber as he simply watched…

  “This wasn’t no ordinary banger, dad… that guy, he was like some sorta super person. Somebody part robo or something!” Lance rested his head against the wall and closed his eyes in deep thought.

  Saving him from further reflection, Aden spoke, “He's been on and off my radar for some time now, but I would've gotten to him much faster if I knew he was trying to own you like he already did everybody else in Zone D! You might as well stop pretending you don't know anything, because your boy Nathan definitely ain't nobody to be trusted; he gave you and Magellan up in a heartbeat.” The detective looked at his son smugly.

  “What?” Lance perked up. “There's no way—That old fuck snitched on us?!”

  “What did I tell you about that mouth!” Aden hammered his fist authoritatively on the table.

  “I-I'm sorry, it's just… Nathan? Really? He really did us like that?”

  “Sure did, Lance. Tch. ‘Blood Disciples.’” Aden rolled his eyes. “Motherfucker was ready to spill everything to the Bureau—Ekwueme was a big fucking deal, Lance. We brought up some drug charges Nathan couldn't handle hearing about, and, damn, was he ready to get everything off his chest… the drugs, extortions, dead people—I mean, did you know that Ekwueme had a thing for killing prostitutes?”

  “Nah, I—”

  “That’s the right answer.” The detective cut him off. “He'd set them on fire or use some explosive. Guy was sick, angry… a big player who was the perfect target for my people. And the political ties he had… oooh yeah, the Bureau's gonna be following that money trail for the next four months.” He sneered. “As my luck would have it, I'm not on that case but I can at least make sure that my family isn't anywhere near this mess.”

  He’s always trying to do so much more than he’s got to. He really wants to rank up on everyone… huh, my dad’s dreaming big…

  “So then, what do you need me for?”

  Aden gave him a sly smile. “I mostly don't, if we're being real, son. When I walk out of here, Lance becomes the guy who
gave us the intel… not Nathan.”

  “I don’t know if I’m comforta—”

  “Boy!” Aden looked at him in astonishment. “Shut your mouth! Damn. Now Nathan might get some help out of his own struggle, but I'm about to make sure that no son of mine ends up shaming what this family has fought so hard for. Even if nobody believes me, I think you can still make something of yourself, Lance.” Aden’s face burned crimson for a moment.

  “I get it now…” Lance nodded while maintaining a generally respectful demeanor.

  “Tch. You don’t.” Aden paused. “I'm gonna see that you land okay after this incident; you'll return the favour by staying the hell away from those damn corners. This is Zone D, Lance, a revenue trap purposefully set up by the government to breed and exploit enterprisers like Ekwueme. You aren't trying to be the next Ekwueme, are you? Beaten to death and left in the streets?”

  “Hell n—I mean… no. I’m not trying to end up like Ekwueme.”

  Aden chuckled. “Maybe one day you'll learn to listen to your parents.” He thought to himself for a moment while scratching his chin and inspecting one of the photos…

  “Although I do have one question…”

  “Yeah, what's up?” Lance once again sat at the table. His genuine personality had broken through in light of the deaths around him.

  His father pushed the photo of High Rise toward him. “Did you know this guy?”

  “Psh,” Lance looked away for a brief second, “would you believe that fool used to run things in the projects? Last time I saw 'em… that tweaker was trying to tell Magellan that he'd changed and stuff and wasn't no junkie anymore.”

  “Hmm…” Aden’s mind paced erratically over a multitude of cases. He had a bad habit of attempting to link everything together when often such connections weren’t even present; Kaust was obsessed with the work, even though he was often misguided in his assumptions.

  “We pulled his records; his name was Isaac Reaver, the father to David Reaver…” Aden tore his gaze away and seemed to fight back a surge of emotion. “David was killed by a round from a sniper. What I don't understand is this, Lance: did Ekwueme have a partner? As in someone close, someone who helped him 'eliminate' rivals?”