by Curt Colbert
Muffler Man shook his head. “He dragged off old Sue, said he’d teach him a lesson. Billy found him in the alley up by the brick apartments. He had kicked in Sue’s face. We called 911 from a pay phone and said we’d seen this body and where and hung up, quick.”
Bets raised her hand to catch Gus’s attention. “Mr. Mayor, I went to the emergency room at the hospital and asked if someone found on Capitol Hill had been brought in. They said yes, he was being operated on. I got scared and didn’t stay. I was afraid they’d ask questions or call the cops on me.”
Gus groaned and rubbed his shaved head. “When did this happen?”
“Last night. Late-like.” Muffler Man wrung his hands together.
Gus glanced at his watch, forcing his eyes to focus. It was almost noon. He shivered. It was getting colder.
He nodded at Bets. “You did good.” She dimpled and smiled. Then Gus added, “Can you give me any other description of the man?”
“He had a long kind of a blouse on.” Bets peered down at her clothes and then shyly back to Gus. “It had a picture of that singer on it…” She paused, her face distressed. Then she started humming and her face brightened. “Bob Marley. That’s who it was. No, not the bad man who hurt Sweet Sue. I mean the face on the shirt. Bob Marley.” Then Bets backed up, as if she’d done something wrong.
Gus smiled to reassure her. His teeth hurt; everything on him ached. “Way to go, Bets. Now, heat me up some water. I need to clean up and take care of business.”
* * *
Gus made it to the hospital an hour later, his face raw from shaving because he used an old blade. He’d put on decent clothes, a pair of clean Levi’s and a T-shirt under a Mariners jacket. He kept them stashed in a plastic garment bag for emergencies. He didn’t want a nurse calling security when she saw him, hollering to get the bum out of the hospital. Gus knew he could pass, at first glance, as a middle-aged, common Joe; someone with a house, a wife, and a kid he was putting through college. He’d had them once—he could play the part. The hospital security wouldn’t shuffle him off.
Gus also had a stash of cash in a bus station locker and a drop mailbox in his name at a place on Capitol Hill. That’s where he received his disability check. It was a kiss-off from the San Jacinto Police Department: leave the force, get out of the state, and don’t come back. Gus had been working a child molester case where a six-year-old kid died after being repeatedly raped. Following a four-month trial, the monster got off on a technicality. Gus couldn’t let him do it to another kid. The boy’s bruised body, his face like an angel’s in one of the cathedral windows, haunted him. He saw him in his sleep and would wake up crying. Hitting the bottle didn’t make the images go away. So Gus tracked the guy down, tailing him day and night and stoking himself on good old Jose Cuervo. When the guy took off on Highway 101 to get out of town, Gus followed him. On a lonely stretch, Gus did some fancy tailgating that he had learned in police academy training, fished the asshole in his Toyota off the road and over an embankment. The car rolled and then caught fire when it hit bottom. The perp toasted inside. Better than going to hell, the way Gus figured it.
Of course, the San Jacinto PD had their suspicions but didn’t work the case hard. Gus’s captain didn’t do much talking, but some suggesting. So Gus left the department after eighteen years, with a couple of commendations, a hearty handshake, and the warning, “Don’t come back.” Same held true for his marriage. “You’ve changed and I can’t live with you anymore,” his wife had said. She kept the kids and booted him out of the house.
He didn’t look back.
Gus had called from a pay phone to find out what room Sweet Sue was in—found he was in a ward, the kind with beds in rooms that ringed a nurses’ station. Gus fingered the hard peppermint candies in his pocket, Sweet Sue’s favorites. The ends of the cellophane wrappers crackled when he touched them.
The nurses and hospital aides at the station were deep in conversation when Gus walked by and entered Sweet Sue’s room. His roommate was sleeping, and so was Sweet Sue. The tread mark from a sneaker was outlined in ugly red and purple bruising on the old man’s left cheek. A bandage covered part of his skull and one eye. His arm was in a cast, and he had more bandages around his chest. A fury that Gus hadn’t felt in a long time boiled up in him, so thick and red that he couldn’t see for a moment. Then it subsided, chilling, turning into a sharp edge of calculating revenge that cut through the fuzz in Gus’s brain.
He stared at Sweet Sue. The man didn’t have a mean bone in his body and was as simple as they come. His shallow breathing hardly moved the covers on him. Gus thought he’d slammed the door on caring for anyone. But now Gus groaned and bent over the bed. He didn’t want to hurt, to feel. He couldn’t open up the logjam inside that kept everything behind it sealed out of sight and touch. Neither his daughter Jenny nor this old, broken-down hobo deserved what happened to them.
Gus leaned over and put his mouth close to Sweet Sue’s good ear. “I’m here, buddy. Gawd. I’m sorry.” He lightly clasped Sue’s scrawny good shoulder. “I’ll get the bastards. I promise.” Then he put the hard candy on the nightstand and left.
Gus took a bus and transferred and then got off on the east side of Lake Union. He had a favorite spot, a bench, where he could watch the boats and the seagulls. It was too cold, and there were no boats out sailing. The waves were an ugly gray, looking as mean as Gus felt. The seagulls did their thing, squealing and wheeling about, and he took the lid off his triple-mocha shot that he’d bought at Starbucks. He shivered in his thin shirt and windbreaker—but welcomed the cold. It crystallized his thinking. He didn’t have a lot of time. It was strange that a Rasta had kicked in Sweet Sue’s face—not any Rastafarians around, except the wannabes he’d seen from time to time. And the guy sure as hell wouldn’t be hanging around in the cold and rain of Seattle if he didn’t have to. He’d be on the first plane out of SeaTac, headed for Jamaica or wherever he came from, as soon as he’d peddled his weed and made some bucks.
The cold seemed to freeze the fuzz in Gus’s head, but made clear channels, letting ideas flow. It was like the synapses in his brain were snapping together, ones he hadn’t used in a long while.
He’d learned the hard way in investigations: look first for the obvious. Why was this guy hanging around a homeless camp, peddling dope to someone who probably only had chump change? He’d have easier chances making a sale with the potheads who hung out on Capitol Hill. A black man with dreadlocks, wearing a T-shirt with Bob Marley’s picture on it, would be accepted, fit in.
Gus reached into the bag of cookies he’d bought with the coffee. He broke off a piece from one and threw it by a dirty gray seagull, which inspected and then rejected it. Gus reflected again on the Rasta and thought about the stores and cafés that lined Capitol Hill’s main drag. They catered to a cultural mix of apartment/condo dwellers, community college kids, fringies, and refugees. Gus blew out his breath and it turned white in the cold air. Damn. He should have remembered before. A Caribbean jerk chicken place had opened up recently on Broadway. What if the creep was related or connected? It would make sense. Could be a reason for him setting up shop on the hill, making it his territory. Not much to go on—it was a stretch. But better than nothing. Gus drank the last of his cold coffee and then threw the remaining cookies on the grass. It’d be sunset soon. The leaden sky promised a dark night.
He shivered and stood up. What he needed was a plan…and a warmer jacket.
On the way to his locker at the bus station, Gus stopped at a liquor store and bought a couple bottles of Jose Cuervo. Then he continued on to the station to collect his winter jacket and stow away the one he had on. He took out his emergency envelope of cash and a gym bag that carried his essentials for late-night work. Then he stopped in the washroom. Now he had the beginning of a plan. But first he had to find this creep.
On the bus ride up Pill Hill, he kept his mind on Sweet Sue, picturing his pale, stomped-on face. He wanted to keep his focus
. But then at his stop, a young woman stepped in front of him as the bus door opened. She flashed an apologetic smile, and Gus’s heart froze for a moment. She looked so much like Jenny—at least his memory of her. How long had it been since he’d seen his daughter? Six years? No, seven. She was fourteen then. Now a mother… No, not a mother. That’s what the letter from his ex-wife was about. The one that sent him on a long-term bender. The baby had been stillborn.
Gus,
I’m only writing because Jenny wanted you to know. She was going to name the baby after you. Why, I’ll never know. I don’t even know if this letter will reach you. You’re probably dead too. But I did what our daughter asked me to do and it’s done.
His ex hadn’t even bothered to sign her name.
Gus didn’t blame her.
Old emotions, the guilt and anger, and a sorrow he couldn’t handle, collided inside him. They churned in his stomach and his hands trembled. He clutched the sack with the two bottles of tequila in it like they were his only lifelines. He needed a drink bad. He needed a whole damn bottle worse.
Gus forced himself to walk in the direction where he thought the Caribbean restaurant was located—he remembered it as a kind of hole-in-the-wall place. Along the way, he wandered around the area sizing up the traffic and turning down drug offers. Doorways and alleys drew dealers and buyers like old lovers who could sense a soft touch and a score a block away.
After a couple of hours, Gus stopped and asked a couple of punks with dyed hair if they knew of it. They shrugged, pointed down the street, and kept walking, their laughter trailing behind them.
Once Gus found the place, he went in, sat at the counter, and put the gym bag by his stool. There was a couple seated at a booth, but otherwise the place was empty of customers. A large woman who probably topped two hundred pounds took his order for jerk chicken and coffee and then waddled into the kitchen. Gus struck up a conversation when the woman came back to wipe down the counter. He found out that she was the Caribbean Breeze owner and came from Kingston, Jamaica. But she didn’t hum the song. Her eyes said she’d seen and heard it all, and Gus didn’t try to play her for a fool. She looked at the bulky brown paper sack that he’d laid on the counter; the tops of the bottles showed. She shrugged and walked away.
Gus ate slowly when his food came, small bites because his stomach couldn’t handle much. He bided his time, waiting until he was sure that the owner was watching him. Then he took out his wallet, bulging with bills, and opened it so she could see the twenties and fifties. She brought over his check and he studied it. “Seems fair. That was a nice meal,” he said. He glanced down, pulled out a couple of twenties, and murmured, “Any ganja around here?” He riffled through the money in his wallet again, but didn’t look up.
The owner didn’t answer. She took Gus’s two twenties and his bill to the cash register. She turned and glanced at the couple in the booth. When she brought back Gus’s change, he left the extra money on the counter. “You keep it.”
She scooped up the money. Then in a low voice she said, “Go behind, in the alley. Mon there, he help you.”
Night had fallen, streetlights had come on and shadows crept into the alley. Walking down it, looking for the dealer, made Gus feel as if he had a big S, for stupid, on his back. There was a naked lightbulb over the backdoor of the restaurant and a big metal dumpster to its right. Gus looked up and down the deserted alley. A few doorways further along had lights over them. When Gus drew closer to the restaurant’s backdoor, a shadow shifted and a figure stepped out from it.
Bingo! It was the Rasta. Bets had given a good description. Except she left out the evil grin, the stringy body, and his lean, muscled arms. His dreadlocks hung to his shoulders. He’d be a standout in a line-up.
“You wan’ somet’ing, mon?”
“Could be.”
Gus knew better than to be too eager.
The dealer nodded at the gym bag in Gus’s hand. “Wah you got.”
“The woman inside, the restaurant owner, says you have something I need. And I have something you want.” Gus picked up his bag slowly. He gestured as if opening it. “Okay?” he asked. The Rasta nodded.
Gus slowly unzipped the bag. He’d tucked the sack with the tequila in it when he left the restaurant. Now he pushed the sack to one side. Under it was a clean shirt, his jeans, and underwear. They covered a loaded Glock, duct tape, and a pair of handcuffs. On top of the clothes, though, was an envelope with his stash of cash. Some of the bills fanned out from it. They were easy to see. Impressive too.
Gus pointed at the bag. “I’d like to do some international trading. Your dope, my money.”
Even in the alley’s poor lighting, Gus could see greed overcoming caution on the Rasta’s face.
Then Gus prodded: “Is there some place where we can talk business?” He reached down slowly and pulled out one of the bottles of tequila. “This makes negotiations more fun.”
They ended up in a back room in the restaurant at a small table. The woman closed early and left some big pots soaking in the kitchen. She didn’t look at the men or say goodbye. Gus figured she wanted no part of what was going on. He was glad. It made things easier for him.
He set the bottles of tequila on the table, one for the Rasta and one for himself. Jose Cuervo grinned back at each of them.
They haggled over price as they took straight shots from their bottles. The Rasta brought out his dope; Gus whistled when he checked it out. The creep was doing some serious business. The Rasta had everything from weed to meth and even some OxyContin. Gus didn’t pay close attention to the Rasta, who was pretty much out of it. The whites of his eyes were a spiderweb of red veins fringing his dark, dilated pupils. Gus poked at the dope, stalling, thinking ahead, while the man talked about the Seattle women and how they couldn’t get enough of him. He made an obscene gesture and pointed to the words No Woman, No Cry under the headshot of Bob Marley on his T-shirt.
With a drunken leer, the Rasta said, “Me mek woman happy.”
Gus let the silence build. Then he asked, “You score big with your weed around here? I hear some of the guys out in the homeless camp by the big church carry cash on them. Heard they made some big scores and don’t like banks.”
The Rasta sneered and took a deep drag on his tequila. “No way, mon. Me been there.” He shrugged. “Old mon try to stop me. T’ink he boss? Me fix him.” The Rasta punched the air and twisted his two hands, like wringing a chicken’s neck. He grinned with drunken satisfaction.
Gus leaned back in his chair and looked away. He didn’t want the guy to read the deadly anger in his eyes. Gus had his answer. The time had come.
The tequila had gotten to the Rasta, but not to Gus. Earlier, in the bus station washroom, he’d dumped one of the bottles in the sink and refilled it with water. The Rasta was the only one drinking the real stuff.
Gus was as sober as a judge and about to pronounce sentence.
He took the money from his bag and put it on the table. The Rasta leaned forward to count it—and then Gus pulled out the gun from his bag and pointed it between the Rasta’s scared eyes.
“Hand over the weed.”
The Rasta tried to focus, pull himself together, but he was too drunk. He fumbled for the package with the weed and put it on the table. Gus dumped it into his bag. Then he picked up the money lying on the table and jammed it beside the weed in the bag.
Gus motioned with the gun. “Stand up, scumbag, and take off your clothes.”
The guy looked at Gus, blinking, weaving on his feet.
“You heard me. Strip, take off your shirt and pants.”
The Rasta looked around, fear growing in his eyes. Slowly, he removed his shirt and then his pants.
“Underpants too, stud.”
The Rasta stood naked as the day he was born, except for his bare feet in large loafers. “Put your hands behind your head and keep them there,” Gus commanded. He could see the man was trying to sober up. But he’d had way too much to d
rink. The dealer couldn’t get his brain into gear; he could only let his eyes flick about, trying to find a way to escape.
For a moment, the image of Sweet Sue’s battered face and body replayed in Gus’s head. He felt like shooting the bastard weaving in front of him. But Gus had a better plan. He motioned the Rasta over to the backdoor and made him stand beside it. Then Gus opened the door, stuck out his head, and checked the alley. It was clear, and it was cold—freezing cold. The Rasta hung back.
Gus made him turn around so that he stood in the doorway, facing the alley. Then Gus cold-cocked the Rasta behind his left ear with the gun’s butt. The Rasta crumpled and sagged to the floor. Gus flipped him over and removed the handcuffs and duct tape from his bag. No ex-cop should leave home without them, he thought. He cuffed the dealer’s hands behind him. And then Gus stuffed a wad of the money in the dealer’s mouth and wrapped duct tape around it and the Rasta’s head. The man wouldn’t be running his mouth off any time soon.
Gus slipped out the backdoor and opened the dumpster’s cover, swinging it back against the building. Then he dragged the Rasta to it and, grunting, heaved the man over the side and into the dumpster. Gus looked over. It was about a quarter full. He figured the city wouldn’t be doing a pickup for at least a few days. No matter. He wasn’t through with the Rasta yet.
Gus took a deep breath in the cold air. It hurt his lungs—he wasn’t used to breathing that deep. Next, he hoisted himself up and into the dumpster, gingerly stepping into the smelly mess. He pushed aside the gunk until he’d made a place for the dealer’s body. Gus turned him over so that he lay facedown, his dick on the freezing metal bottom of the dumpster. Then he covered him with the stinky mash of rinds and peelings and other discarded food.
It was a fitting end and a lesson the dope dealer would live with painfully for a long time.
Gus climbed out, closed the lid, and went inside again. He tidied up after himself, cleaning his pants and shoes and socks. He found white vinegar in the restaurant kitchen and wiped down all the surfaces he had touched, then moved outside and wiped down the dumpster too.