USA Noir Noir

by Johnny Temple

* * *

  Detective Robert Schaeffer could’ve been the host on one of those FOX or A&E cop shows. He was tall, silver-haired, good-looking, maybe a bit long in the face. He’d been an NYPD detective for nearly twenty years.

  Schaeffer and his partner were walking down a filthy hallway that stank of sweat and Lysol. The partner pointed to a door, whispering, “That’s it.” He pulled out what looked like an electronic stethoscope and placed the sensor over the scabby wood.

  “Hear anything?” Schaeffer asked, also in a soft voice.

  Joey Bernbaum, the partner, nodded slowly, holding up a finger. Meaning wait.

  And then a nod. “Go.”

  Schaeffer pulled a master key out of his pocket, and, drawing his gun, unlocked the door and pushed inside.

  “Police! Nobody move!”

  Bernbaum followed, his own automatic in hand.

  The faces of the two people inside registered identical expressions of shock at the abrupt entry, though it was only in the face of the pudgy middle-aged white man, sitting shirt­less on the bed, that the shock turned instantly to horror and dismay. He had a Marine Corps tattoo on his fat upper arm and had probably been pretty tough in his day, but now his narrow, pale shoulders slumped and he looked like he was going to cry. “No, no, no . . .”

  “Oh, fuck,” Darla said.

  “Stay right where you are, sweetheart. Be quiet.”

  “How the fuck you find me? That little prick downstairs at the desk, he dime me? I know it. I’ma pee on that boy next time I see him. I’ma—”

  “You’re not going to do anything but shut up,” Bernbaum snapped. In a ghetto accent he added a sarcastic, “Yo, got that, girlfriend?”

  “Man oh man.” Darla tried to wither him with a gaze. He just laughed and cuffed her.

  Schaeffer put his gun away and said to the man, “Let me see some ID.”

  “Oh, please, officer, look, I didn’t—”

  “Some ID?” Schaeffer said. He was polite, like always. When you had a badge in your pocket and a big fucking pis­tol on your hip, you could afford to be civil.

  The man dug his thick wallet out of his slacks and handed it to the officer, who read the license. “Mr. Shelby, this your current address? In Des Moines?”

  In a quivering voice, he said, “Yessir.”

  “All right, well, you’re under arrest for solicitation of prostitution.” He took his cuffs out of their holder.

  “I didn’t do anything illegal, really. It was just . . . It was only a date.”

  “Really? Then what’s this?” The detective picked up a stack of money sitting on the cockeyed nightstand. Four hundred bucks.

  “I—I just thought . . .”

  The old guy’s mind was working fast, that was obvious. Schaeffer wondered what excuse he’d come up with. He’d heard them all.

  “Just to get some food and something to drink.”

  That was a new one. Schaeffer tried not to laugh. You spend four hundred bucks on food and booze in this neigh­borhood, you could afford a block party big enough for fifty Darlas.

  “He pay you to have sex?” Schaeffer asked Darla.

  She grimaced.

  “You lie, baby, you know what’ll happen to you. You’re honest with me, I’ll put in a word.”

  “You a prick too,” she snapped. “All right, he pay me to do a round-the-world.”

  “No . . .” Shelby protested for a moment but then he gave up and slumped even lower. “Oh, Christ, what’m I gonna do? This’ll kill my wife . . . and my kids . . .” He looked up with panicked eyes. “Will I have to go to jail?”

  “That’s up to the prosecutor and the judge.”

  “Why the hell’d I do this?” he moaned.

  Schaeffer looked him over carefully. After a long moment he said, “Take her downstairs.”

  Darla snapped, “Yo, you fat fuck, keep yo’ motherfuckin’ hands offa me.”

  Bernbaum laughed again. “This mean you ain’t my girlfriend no more?” He gripped her by the arm and led her outside. The door swung shut.

  “Look, detective, it’s not like I robbed anybody. It was harmless. You know, victimless.”

  “It’s still a crime. And don’t you know about AIDS, hepatitis?”

  Shelby looked down again. He nodded. “Yessir,” he whispered.

  Still holding the cuffs, Schaeffer eyed the man care­fully. He sat down on a creaky chair. “How often you get to town?”

  “To New York?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Once a year, if I’ve got a conference or meeting. I always enjoy it. You know what they say, ‘It’s a nice place to visit.’” His voice faded, maybe thinking that the rest of that old saw—“but you wouldn’t want to live there”—would insult the cop.

  Schaeffer asked, “So, you got a conference now?” He pulled the badge out of the man’s pocket, read it.

  “Yessir, it’s our annual trade show. At the Javits. Outdoor furniture manufacturers.”

  “That’s your line?”

  “I have a wholesale business in Iowa.”

  “Yeah? Successful?”

  “Number one in the state. Actually, in the whole region.” He said this sadly, not proudly, probably thinking of how many customers he’d lose when word got out about his arrest.

  Schaeffer nodded slowly. Finally he put the handcuffs away.

  Shelby’s eyes narrowed, watching this.

  “You ever done anything like this before?”

  A hesitation. He decided not to lie. “I have. Yessir.”

  “But I get a feeling you’re not going to again.”

  “Never. I promise you. I’ve learned my lesson.”

  There was a long pause.

  “Stand up.”

  Shelby blinked, then did what he was told. He frowned as the cop patted down his trousers and jacket. With the guy not wearing a shirt, Schaeffer was ninety-nine percent sure the man was legit, but had to make absolutely certain there were no wires.

  The detective nodded toward the chair and Shelby sat down. The businessman’s eyes revealed that he now had an inkling of what was happening.

  “I have a proposition for you,” Schaeffer said.

  “Proposition?”

  The cop nodded. “Okay. I’m convinced you’re not going to do this again.”

  “Never.”

  “I could let you go with a warning. But the problem is, the situation got called in.”

  “Called in?”

  “A vice cop on the street happened to see you go into the hotel with Darla—we know all about her. He reported it and they sent me out. There’s paperwork on the incident.”

  “My name?”

  “No, just a John Doe at this point. But there is a report. I could make it go away but it’d take some work and it’d be a risk.”

  Shelby sighed, nodding with a grimace, and opened the bidding.

  It wasn’t much of an auction. Shelby kept throwing out numbers and Schaeffer kept lifting his thumb, more, more . . . Finally, when the shaken man hit $150,000, Schaeffer nod­ded.

  “Christ.”

  When T.G. and Ricky Kelleher had called to say that they’d found a tourist to scam, Ricky told him the mark could go six figures. That was so far out of those stupid micks’ league that Schaeffer had to laugh. But sure enough, he had to give the punk credit for picking out a mark with big bucks.

  In a defeated voice Shelby asked, “Can I give you a check?”

  Schaeffer laughed.

  “Okay, okay . . . but I’ll need a few hours.”

  “Tonight. Eight.” They arranged a place to meet. “I’ll keep your driver’s license. And the evidence.” He picked up the cash on the table. “You try to skip, I’ll put out an arrest warrant and send that to Des Moines too. They’ll extradite you and then it’ll be a serious felony. You’ll do real time.”

  “Oh, no, sir. I’ll get the money. Every penny.” Shelby hurriedly dressed.

  “Go out by the service door in back. I don’t know where
the vice cop is.”

  The tourist nodded and scurried out of the room.

  In the lobby by the elevator the detective found Bernbaum and Darla sharing a smoke.

  “Where my money?” the hooker demanded.

  Schaeffer handed her two hundred of the confiscated cash. He and Bernbaum split the rest, a hundred fifty for Schaeffer, fifty for his partner.

  “You gonna take the afternoon off, girlfriend?” Bernbaum asked Darla.

  “Me? Hell no, I gots to work.” She glanced at the money Schaeffer’d given her. “Least till you assholes start paying me fo’ not fuckin’ same as I make fo’ fuckin’.”

  * * *

  Schaeffer pushed into Mack’s bar, an abrupt entrance that changed the course of at least half the conversations going on inside real fast. He was a crooked cop, sure, but he was still a cop, and the talk immediately shifted from deals, scams, and drugs to sports, women, and jobs. Schaeffer laughed and strode across the room. He dropped into an empty chair at the scarred table, muttered to T.G., “Get me a beer.” Schaeffer being about the only one in the universe who could get away with that.

  When the brew came he tipped the glass to Ricky. “You caught us a good one. He agreed to a hundred fifty.”

  “No shit,” T.G. said, cocking a red eyebrow. The split was Schaeffer got half and then Ricky and T.G. divided the rest equally. “Where’s he getting it from?”

  “I dunno. His problem.”

  Ricky squinted. “Wait. I want the watch too.”

  “Watch?”

  “The old guy. He had a Rolex. I want it.”

  At home Schaeffer had a dozen Rolexes he’d taken off marks and suspects over the years. He didn’t need another one. “You want the watch, he’ll give up the watch. All he cares about is making sure his wife and his corn-pone cus­tomers don’t find out what he was up to.”

  “What’s corn-pone?” Ricky asked.

  “Hold on,” T.G. snarled. “Anybody gets the watch, it’s me.”

  “No way. I saw it first. It was me who picked him—”

  “My watch,” the fat Irishman interrupted. “Maybe he’s got a money clip or something you can have. But I get the fucking Rolex.”

  “Nobody has money clips,” Ricky argued. “I don’t even want a fucking money clip.”

  “Listen, little Lime Rickey,” T.G. muttered. “It’s mine. Read my lips.”

  “Jesus, you two are like kids,” Schaeffer said, swilling the beer. “He’ll meet us across the street from Pier 46 at eight tonight.” The three men had done this same scam, or variations on it, for a couple of years now but still didn’t trust each other. The deal was they all went together to collect the payoff.

  Schaeffer drained the beer. “See you boys then.”

  After the detective was gone they watched the game for a few minutes, with T.G. bullying some guys to place bets, even though it was in the fourth quarter and there was no way Chicago could come back. Finally, Ricky said, “I’m going out for a while.”

  “What, now I’m your fucking babysitter? You want to go, go.” Though he still made it sound like Ricky was a complete idiot for missing the end of a game that only had eight minutes to run.

  Just as Ricky got to the door, T.G. called in a loud voice, “Hey, Lime Rickey, my Rolex? Is it gold?”

  Just to be a prick.

  * * *

  Bob Schaeffer had walked a beat in his youth. He’d inves­tigated a hundred felonies, he’d run a thousand scams in Manhattan and Brooklyn. All of which meant that he’d learned how to stay alive on the streets.

  Now, he sensed a threat.

  He was on his way to score some coke from a kid who operated out of a newsstand at Ninth and 55th, and he real­ized he’d been hearing the same footsteps for the past five or six minutes. A weird scraping. Somebody was tailing him. He paused to light a cigarette in a doorway and checked out the reflection in a storefront window. Sure enough, he saw a man in a cheap gray suit, wearing gloves, about thirty feet behind him. The guy paused for a moment and pretended to look into a store window.

  Schaeffer didn’t recognize the guy. He’d made a lot of enemies over the years. The fact he was a cop gave him some protection—it’s risky to gun down even a crooked one—but there were plenty of nutjobs out there.

  Walking on. The owner of the scraping shoes continued his tail. A glance in the rearview mirror of a car parked nearby told him the man was getting closer, but his hands were at his side, not going for a weapon. Schaeffer pulled out his cell phone and pretended to make a call, to give himself an excuse to slow up and not make the guy suspicious. His other hand slipped inside his jacket and touched the grip of his chrome-plated Sig Sauer 9mm automatic pistol.

  This time the guy didn’t slow up.

  Schaeffer started to draw.

  Then: “Detective, could you hang up the phone, please?”

  Schaeffer turned, blinked. The pursuer was holding up a gold NYPD shield.

  The fuck is this? Schaeffer thought. He relaxed, but not much. Snapped the phone closed and dropped it into his pocket. Let go of his weapon.

  “Who’re you?”

  The man, eyeing Schaeffer coldly, let him get a look at the ID card next to the shield.

  Schaeffer thought: Fuck me. The guy was from the depart­ment’s Internal Affairs Division—the boys that tracked down corrupt cops.

  Still Schaeffer kept on the offensive. “What’re you doing following me?”

  “I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

  “What’s this all about?”

  “An investigation we’re conducting.”

  “Hello,” Schaeffer said sarcastically. “I sort of figured that out. Give me some fucking details.”

  “We’re looking into your connection with certain indi­viduals.”

  “‘Certain individuals.’ You know, not all cops have to talk like cops.”

  No response.

  Schaeffer shrugged. “I have ‘connections’ with a lotta people. Maybe you’re thinking of my snitches. I hang with ’em. They feed me good information.”

  “Yeah, well, we’re thinking there might be other things they feed you. Some valuable things.” He glanced at Schaeffer’s hip. “I’m going to ask you for your weapon.”

  “Fuck that.”

  “I’m trying to keep it low-key. But you don’t cooperate, I’ll call it in and we’ll take you downtown. Then everything’ll all be public.”

  Finally Schaeffer understood. It was a shakedown—only this time he was on the receiving end. And he was getting scammed by Internal Affairs, no less. This was almost fucking funny, IAD on the take too.

  Schaeffer gave up his gun.

  “Let’s go talk in private.”

  How much was this going to cost him? he wondered.

  The IAD cop nodded toward the Hudson River. “That way.”

  “Talk to me,” Schaeffer said. “I got a right to know what this’s all about. If somebody told you I’m on the take, that’s bullshit. Whoever said it’s working some angle.” He wasn’t as hot as he sounded; this was all part of the negotiating.

  The IAD cop said only, “Keep walking. Up there.” He pulled out a cigarette and lit it. Offered one to Schaeffer. He took it and the guy lit it for him.

  Then Schaeffer froze. He blinked in shock, staring at the matches. The name on them was McDougall’s Tavern. The official name of Mack’s—T.G.’s hangout. He glanced at the guy’s eyes, which went wide at his mistake. Christ, he was no cop. The ID and badge were fake. He was a hit man, work­ing for T.G., who was going to clip him and collect the whole hundred fifty Gs from the tourist.

  “Fuck,” the phony cop muttered. He yanked a revolver out of his pocket, then shoved Schaeffer into a nearby alley.

  “Listen, buddy,” Schaeffer whispered, “I’ve got some good bucks. Whatever you’re being paid, I’ll—”

  “Shut up.” In his gloved hands, the guy exchanged his gun for Schaeffer’s own pistol and pushed the big chrome piece into the dete
ctive’s neck. Then the fake cop pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket and stuffed it into the detective’s jacket. He leaned forward and whispered, “Here’s the message, asshole: For two years T.G.’s been setting up everything, doing all the work, and you take half the money. You’ve fucked with the wrong man.”

  “That’s bullshit,” Schaeffer cried desperately. “He needs me! He couldn’t do it without a cop! Please—”

  “So long—” He lifted the gun to Schaeffer’s temple.

  “Don’t do it! Please, man, no!”

  A scream sounded from the mouth of the alley. “Oh my god!” A middle-aged woman stood twenty feet away, staring at the man with the pistol. Her hands were to her mouth. “Somebody call the police!”

  The hit man’s attention was on the woman. Schaeffer shoved him into a brick wall. Before he could recover and shoot, the detective sprinted fast down the alley.

  He heard the man shout, “Goddamn it!” and start after him. But Hell’s Kitchen was Bob Schaeffer’s hunting ground, and in five minutes the detective had raced through dozens of alleys and side streets and lost the killer.

  Once again on the street, he paused and pulled his backup gun out of his ankle holster, slipped it into his pocket. He felt the crinkle of paper—what the guy had planted on him. It was a fake suicide note, Schaeffer confessing that he’d been on the take for years and he couldn’t handle the guilt anymore. He had to end it all.

  Well, he thought, that was partly right.

  One thing was fucking well about to end.

  * * *

  Smoking, staying in the shadows of an alley, Schaeffer had to wait outside Mack’s for fifteen minutes before T.G. Reilly emerged. The big man, moving like a lumbering bear, was by himself. He looked around, not seeing the cop, and turned west.

  Schaeffer gave him half a block and then followed.

  He kept his distance, but when the street was deserted he pulled on gloves and fished into his pocket for the pistol he’d just gotten from his desk. He’d bought it on the street years ago—a cold gun, one with no registration number stamped on the frame. Gripping the weapon, he moved up fast behind the big Irishman.

  The mistake a lot of shooters make during a clip is they feel they’ve gotta talk to their vic. Schaeffer remembered some old Western where this kid tracks down the gunslinger who killed his father. The kid’s holding a gun on him and explaining why he’s about to die, you killed my father, yadda, yadda, yadda, and the gunslinger gets this bored look on his face, pulls out a hidden gun, and blows the kid away. He looks down at the body and says, “You gonna talk, talk. You gonna shoot, shoot.”