At Their Own Game

by Frank Zafiro

  I wasn’t sure if I was happy about that or not.

  “Did they hear this upstairs?” I asked Damon. “Because if the cops are on the way, we’re all fucked.”

  He shook his head. “Between the jukebox and the soundproofing, they didn’t hear shit. And so what if they did?”

  I thought about that for a second, then decided he was right. This was a hard neighborhood to start with, one in which people excelled at minding their own business. And anyone who knew anything about what lay behind that door next to the bar would probably just assume that Ozzy was taking care of some loose ends. Better to ignore things than to risk being a loose end themselves.

  “If you’re going to shoot us, just fucking do it,” Damon said. “We’re not going to beg, if that’s what you’re looking for.”

  “I don’t want to shoot you,” I said. “And I don’t want you to beg. I’m not that kind of guy.”

  He glanced over at Ozzy’s still gurgling body, but didn’t say anything. Randall leaned back against the concrete wall, still breathing through gritted teeth. He didn’t meet my eyes.

  I considered both of them. They were both scared. Who wouldn’t be? But neither one gave into that fear. Neither one betrayed.

  I thought about that for a while. Damon waited without a word, his implacable expression watching me. Randall fought the pain in his leg, but didn’t let out anything louder than a grunt.

  While I thought, I reached out and grabbed onto the chair I’d been sitting in earlier. Had that been just fifteen minutes ago? It seemed like a lifetime, or like it was another person who sat down. But it wasn’t. It was me.

  I dragged the chair toward the center of the room, away from the overturned table. Behind that table, Ozzy had ceased to make noises and had gone still.

  Once the chair was where I wanted it, I sank into it with a heavy sigh. Already, the adrenaline dump was fading, and I felt a weariness settling in. I wiped at my brow, surprised at the sweat I found there. Blood dripped from my ear every once in a while.

  That’s when it occurred to me that I’d been shot in the head.

  I switched the gun to my left hand, then reached up tentatively with my right and felt around. Damon watched me wordlessly as I explored the side of my head. I was relieved to find only a minor scrape behind my ear. Then I discovered that the ear itself was missing a chunk about the size of a dime.

  All in all, I was better off than everybody in the room, besides maybe Damon. And he still wasn’t sure if I was going to kill him or not, so advantage me.

  Satisfied I wasn’t hurt badly, I turned my attention back to Randall and Damon. I thought about it for another minute or two, then I made my decision.

  “I have an offer to make,” I said. “I can offer you life, or I can offer you death.”

  Randall didn’t reply. He didn’t meet my eyes, either. He just stayed focused on his injured leg. So I focused on Damon instead.

  He didn’t answer right away. Finally, he said, “Any fool would choose life.”

  “Are you a fool?”

  “No. But I’ll take life over death any day.”

  “There’s a catch,” I said.

  “I figured.”

  I pointed at Ozzy. “There’s the old boss,” I said. Then I pointed at my own chest. “Meet the new boss.”

  Damon considered, his gaze not wavering. But Randall chuckled a little bit before his laughter turned into coughs, then he grimaced in pain.

  “Something funny?” I asked him.

  “Yeah,” Randall gritted. “You as a drug boss.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “You aren’t a drug guy. You’re a goddamn fence.”

  I shrugged, then motioned at Ozzy and Brent’s still forms. “I guess people can change.”

  He grunted.

  “Your leg hurt, by the way?” I asked him.

  Randall didn’t reply.

  I turned back to Damon. “Your call,” I said.

  Damon stared at me while Randall avoided my gaze. I could sense the turmoil both were struggling with. After a few moments, I raised the stakes.

  “Let me sweeten the pot,” I said. “If you choose, life, I’ll give you each twenty-five percent.”

  For the first time, Damon’s eyes showed some reaction. “Twenty-five?”

  “Each.”

  He glanced down at Randall, but the older man didn’t respond.

  “One-time offer, gentlemen.” I waved the gun barrel. “And the time to decide is now.”

  Damon looked at Randall one last time, then returned his gaze to me. “Twenty-five percent of all of it?”

  “Yeah. Twenty-five net.”

  He considered for another moment. “I’m in,” he said.

  “Good. Randall?”

  Randall’s jaw was set, though how much of it was pain and how much of it distaste, I couldn’t begin to guess. He didn’t answer me right away. I waited. After a long minute, I decided his lack of an answer was his answer.

  I leveled the gun at his chest.

  “I’m in,” he finally grunted, not looking up.

  I lowered the gun. “Good.” I turned to Damon. “Your first job will be to clean up this mess. Get rid of all the bodies. Don’t just dump them somewhere, either. I want them dismembered and buried with lime or in acid. You get me?”

  “I know the drill,” Damon said.

  “I’m sure you do. Second, get Randall to a doctor. Nothing official. Hospitals have to report gunshot wounds, and the cops know who Randall is with. I don’t want them getting interested in Ozzy’s disappearance any sooner than they already will be. Do you have a doctor on payroll already?”

  “No, but I know a guy we can use. A vet.”

  “You knew him in the Army?”

  Damon shook his head. “No, not that kind of vet. A veterinarian.”

  “Oh.” I considered that, then shrugged. “Well, do it, then.”

  Damon nodded that he understood. His eyes still held some vestige of contempt for me but I saw some measure of newfound respect, too. Either way, I was going to be fighting an uphill battle with both of them.

  One thing at a time, I told myself.

  “We won’t talk for a week or two,” I said. “Keep selling whatever product you have on hand, but don’t take on any more from current suppliers. I’ve got my own supply coming. We’ll meet in a week or so to iron out the details.”

  “All right,” Damon said.

  “Do you see there being any trouble when you cut off the current supplier?”

  “Nothing we can’t handle,” Damon said. “They’re independent. Besides, we’d talked before about whether or not to keep with them.”

  “Why?”

  “Ozzy said he got another offer.”

  “Does that happen a lot?”

  Damon shrugged. “Seems to happen every so often. But he’s pretty happy with our supplier. They make a good product, and since they’re not with the bikers or any other gang, we get a good price. Plus, we can control them.”

  “So he turned down the deal, then.”

  “Yeah. He thought this last one over for a while, but he turned it down just like all the others.”

  Something chimed at me from the back of my mind. “What made this one special?”

  “He said it was a better offer than most.”

  “Who was the supplier?”

  “I don’t know exactly,” Damon said. “Some Mexican guy out of Arizona. But it was his woman who brought us the offer.”

  TWENTY-NINE

  I left Damon to his work.

  When I exited the door beside
the bar and walked out of the Livermore Tavern, I didn’t get so much as a sidelong glance. I guess he’d been right about the sound.

  The rental car started easily. I drove away mechanically, my mind exhausted, my body drained from all the emotion and adrenaline over the past several hours. I was careful to obey every traffic law. When I approached the Monroe Street Bridge, I rolled down my window and slowed down. I remembered the dozens of marijuana pipes and other pieces of irrelevant evidence that I’d seized when I was a cop and then threw over this bridge into the Spokane River below. The criminal didn’t get charged and I didn’t have to book the evidence onto property, so everyone came out a winner.

  When I reached the middle of the bridge, I pulled the small recorder from my coat pocket. Without hesitation, I hurled it out the window and over the edge of the bridge. I knew it would fall into the cold water of the Spokane River and be gone for good. Even if someone recovered it someday, the recording would be ruined as soon as it sank into the river or was blasted into the rocks below the water.

  “Sorry, Falkner,” I muttered, not meaning it. “I guess you’re on your own.”

  I drove north on Monroe, finally turning off the main street and into my neighborhood. When I pulled up in front of my house, the light was burning in the kitchen and in the living room, both through drawn shades.

  I got out of the car, my body aching. Every muscle in my body twinged and sang as I walked slowly up the sidewalk to the front door. I could feel every shovel of dirt I’d thrown. I could feel the burning on my ear, underneath the bloody crusting. I could feel the deep weariness from adrenaline and battle.

  But I also felt more alive than ever in my life.

  I unlocked the door and walked in. Helen was seated on the couch, and she sprang to her feet.

  “You’re safe!” she nearly shouted. “Thank God. I was starting to worry.” Then she saw my ear, and concern flooded her features. “Are you all right?”

  I nodded.

  She threw her arms around me. I let her kiss me but didn’t kiss her back. She pulled back. “Jake…what’s wrong?”

  I didn’t answer. I pulled out of her grasp and went into the kitchen. The nearly empty bottle of whiskey was still on the counter. I poured a glass and sat down at the kitchen table.

  Helen came in tentatively, confusion etched on her face. She started to say something, but stopped. She poured herself the final drink from the bottle. Then she sat down across from me.

  We sipped our whiskey for a minute or two. I stared at her. She stared back, trying to decipher what was happening.

  Finally, she asked, “What happened, baby?”

  “I won,” I said simply.

  That brought a hesitant smile to her lips. “Good. That’s good. Then everything is all right?”

  “No.”

  Her eyes flicked to my ear. “Are you hurt?”

  “More than I can say,” I said. I reached into the small of my back and withdrew my pistol. The weighty metal clunked against the wood of the table as I set it down in front of me.

  She stared at the gun. Then she looked up at me. “What is it?”

  “I know,” I said.

  “You…know? Know what?”

  “I know you went to Ozzy with your offer first. With Arturo’s offer.”

  Her eyes flared slightly, but she recovered. “That’s not true. Whoever told you that is lying. Jake, baby, I love you. Why are you acting this way?”

  I shook my head. “It is true, Helen. We both know it is.”

  “It’s not.”

  I took a long sip of the whiskey. Then I picked up the gun and leveled it at her. “Yeah, it’s true. Don’t deny it. Do you really want a lie to be the last thing that passes your lips?”

  She stared back at me, her lip quivering. “Jake…please…”

  “I tried the whole way home,” I told her.

  “Tried what, baby?”

  “I tried to tell myself it didn’t matter. Or that I could just pretend it wasn’t true, and we could go on. Move forward. Water under the bridge.”

  “It is ,” she insisted. “We can .”

  “No,” I said. “Because there’s a fundamental difference between us, Helen.”

  “No, baby. We’re the same. We’re –”

  “You know what that difference is?” I asked, ignoring her protests. “The difference is that loving you was real for me, and it was just a means to an end for you. Even way back when, I was just a tool for you to use to suit your purpose.”

  “No, Jake. Honey, I –”

  “It’s over, Helen.” I raised the gun a little further. “If you want to make some kind of peace with God, do it now. I’ll give you that much.”

  Tears sprang into her eyes. “Jake, no. Baby, I don’t know what you’re thinking, or who told you what, but –”

  “Shut up, Helen.”

  She wiped away her tears, then turned her eyes back to me. Instead of the soft, fearful, confused gaze, she gave me a defiant glare. “Fine, asshole. You want the truth? You’re right. I offered it to Ozzy, and he turned me down. So I turned to you. You know why?”

  “I already know why,” I whispered.

  “Because I knew you’d do it. I knew you’d do exactly what I wanted you to do. Because I knew you still loved me.” Her face was hard and unrelenting. “And that’s why I know you’re not going to shoot me now, Jake.”

  “Don’t count on it.”

  “You need me, Jake. I’m your connection to Arturo. We can still be partners.”

  “My heart doesn’t work that way,” I said.

  “You’re not going to shoot me,” she persisted. “You’re not the kind of man who kills people. You’re not a bad guy, Jake.”

  I stared at her for a final, few moments. In those moments, I wished that were still true.

  And then I stopped wishing.

  Acknowledgements

  The author would like to thank the following readers for making this book better: Louise Saylor, Brian Triplett, John Emery, Melanie Donaldson, and Brad Hallock.

  Thanks again to Jill and Asa, both of you for asking the right questions and for being thorough.

  And Kristi, for reading it first. Always first.

  About the Author

  Frank was a police officer from 1993 to 2013. He is the author of numerous crime novels.

  In addition to writing, Frank is an avid hockey fan and a tortured guitarist. He lives in Chattaroy, Washington.

  You can keep up with him at http://frankzafiro.com .

  Want a free book? If you’d like to review some of Frank’s titles, contact him at frankzafiro@msn.com for a free copy of the book you’d like to review. Kindle or ePub versions only.

  Other Books by Frank Zafiro

  River City Series (Crime Novels)

  From Gray Dog Press

  Under a Raging Moon

  A violent robber is loose in River City. Meet the cops that must take him down.

  Stefan Kopriva, a young hotshot. Katie MacLeod, a woman in what is still mostly a man’s world. Karl Winter, about to retire but with one more good bust left in him. And Thomas Chisolm, a former Green Beret who knows how dangerous a man like the Scarface Robber can be.

  These are the patrol officers of River City – that mythical thin blue line between society and anarchy. They must stop the robber, all the while juggling divorces, love affairs, internal politics, a hostile media, vengeful gang members and a civilian population that isn’t always understanding or even grateful.

  Written by a real cop with real experience, Under a Raging Moon is like a paperbac
k ride-along. Enjoy the ride.

  Under a Raging Moon is the first River City novel.

  “Engrossing, fast-paced, suspenseful…highly recommended.”

  LJ Roberts, DorothyL Mystery List

  “Gritty, profane, and compelling.”

  Lawrence McMicking, curledup.com

  “If you like McBain, or any gritty police procedural, then Zafiro is someone for you to pick up, enjoy, and then wait for the next book.”

  PJ Coldren, Amazon.com review

  “Under A Raging Moon is an extraordinary crime novel. Like Ed McBain’s Isola, River City is a combination of the best and worst of the human species, and its cops are as complex and haunted as the criminals they battle each day. Frank Zafiro has created a gritty, totally authentic world with believable characters, nonstop action, and snappy dialogue (think Hill Street Blues in Washington state). Don’t miss this book–It’ll keep you turning pages well into the moonlit night.”

  John M. Floyd, award-winning author of Rainbow's End

  “In Under a Raging Moon , Frank Zafiro doesn’t tell you about the mean streets, he takes you to them with clear, concise writing as solid as the asphalt beneath your feet. You feel the tension between those out there to prey and those there to protect. You feel the anxiety of knowing every routine traffic stop could turn into a killing, and every junkie and pusher you bust wants you dead. He also takes you deep behind the badge. His ensemble cast of cops have issues within themselves and with each other and can’t leave them at home any more than we can. You’ll be there with them in the squad room, in the patrol cars and in their favorite watering hole.

  “Frank Zafiro has woven a powerful story with realistic, memorable characters, a suspenseful plot and a climax that will leave you breathless. If you’ve ever wanted to know what it would be like to put on the blue uniform, wear a badge and carry a gun, this one is highly recommended.”