by Tommy Twist
"Hey, is that hot bitch back there watching me?"
Danny turned back towards Beauchamp. I could already see that he'd put his hard face back on, as if any minute he might lose his temper and put a fist through Beauchamp's teeth.
"The only hot bitch you're going to be seeing is yourself, when you look in a mirror on Cell Block D. They're going to love you. Those boys, they can't get enough of a pretty boy like you."
"She's there, ain't she?"
"You worry about me, hot shot. I'm your problem."
Ryan made a kissy-face toward the window. "Maybe I'll talk when you send in that fine-ass redhead."
I didn't like the flare of excitement, the flash of imagination in my head at several ideas I could think of that would get him to talk.
There was no way that would happen. He was deluding himself. Fantasies or no, I wasn't going to go for it, and that was that.
That didn't make the fantasies less tempting. I pursed my lips and settled into the seat. Danny was just getting to work, and though he wasn't exactly the greatest at playing bad cop, he would learn.
We all had to learn how to be the bad guy some day. That's what being a cop was all about. If he couldn't learn how to turn on the dangerous, then there was no way he was going to cut it.
He had to provide a good example for Beauchamp, as well, if Ryan was going to work with us.
Not that Ryan Beauchamp needed a cop to teach him how to intimidate someone.
Chapter Four
RYAN
They were trying to sweat me. It would have been cute, if it wasn't so boring. It's not every day that you get to watch someone go through their entire playbook, step by step. It's certainly a new experience for me. But still—that cop thought he was going to scare me. Now they thought they were going to sweat me, and it would be cute—if it wasn't so boring.
They'll send someone in soon, I'm sure, a friend. Maybe it'll be that redhead. Finally, they'll offer me a plea deal, and all I have to do is sign a confession, plead guilty in a court of law, and report the names of… what is it now? Three or four people, I reckon.
That's how it always is with these cops. No vision. They want it quick and painless for everyone, and it doesn't much matter what all I confess to, I'll get two years tops, and then I'm back on my merry way.
I should've hired better guys. The kinds of guys who would see this shit coming. But it doesn't matter now. I'm already in this mess, and I just want to get back out of it in one piece.
The door opens, seemingly for the hundredth time. The man, too straight-laced to do anything to me. Then a light of hope, just for me—Oh, praise the Lord!
At least, that's what they want me to think. She's working with him, and I'd be a damned idiot to trust anything she says, but at least she's back in the room again with me.
I let my smile show as she walks in, carrying a couple plastic cups no doubt filled with water. When she puts one down on the table, I reach for it.
I already know the drill. They try to put the screws on me for a while, then they come back with a cup of coffee or a glass of water or whatever the fuck.
The nice guy comes in to tell me that they don't want anything to happen to me. The mean guy tells the nice one to stop being such a namby-pamby. Then they turn to you, and they want you to beg Mr. Nice Guy to save your bacon.
The woman picked up the cup before I could close my hands around it. I do my best imitation of not giving a shit. She takes a step back, now, and I can see in her expression that I read the situation wrong.
She's not the good cop. She's the bad cop in a world of bad cops. Well, it's nice to at least work with someone telling it like it is for a change.
"Beauchamp, we've got you nailed to the fucking wall."
Her voice is nice, as nice as her tits, and they're out of this world. She's got a bit of huskiness to it, like she might have done too much smoking or too much shouting or both.
"I'm sorry, Miss—"
"You shut your fucking mouth. You think we want to hear from you? Fuck you, you small-fry piece of shit."
I can't afford to get riled up over that kind of shit, but I'll be God damned if I'll let anyone talk about me like that. That goes double for doing it right in front of me. The fact that she's a woman isn't going to get her off.
Instead, the chains around my wrists are what get her off scot free. I can feel the steel bracelets digging into my wrists.
"What the fuck do you want, then?"
"What we want is for you to know that we fucking own you." She set the cup down, a tiny reminder of how thirsty I was. "You can't do any God damn thing without us knowing about it. If we let you go, ever, it'll be because the United States of America decided to let you out, you slimy son of a bitch."
A snarl was already starting to form when she started saying it, and now I can feel my face, twisted in rage into a horrifying mask of fury. Even I can tell, though, that's exactly what she wanted.
She wants me angry, because there's not a thing I can do about it, no matter what I try. Well, I'm not going to let her get to me, not forever. I've got better things to do than let some bitch get my goat.
"Fine. You want to let me go, let me go. I promise I'll never do it again, massa—you kin' trust me!"
Nobody laughs, me least of all.
"Danny, get out of here."
The guy who's been trying to get a staring contest going, the one sitting on the other side of the table, looks over his shoulder for a minute. I guess that's his loss. You break eye contact, you lose, right?
"You got him?"
"Oh, I know exactly how to deal with this smug snake son of a bitch."
"Raven," I corrected her. It felt like the right moment to smart off.
"Shut the fuck up, you moron."
The guy across the table stands up, the sound of the chair scraping on the floor ringing between the concrete walls around us. "I'm not finished with you, Beauchamp. Not by a long shot."
He's already loosening his tie by the time the door presses open, and he's gone by the time the door slams shut behind. Out of my memory, like he was never even there.
Not, on the other hand, like this woman in front of me. She's got a hell of a lot more going on in my head. And besides that, it's clear that she's running the show. If I want to figure out what's up, then it's going to be talking to her.
She settles into the steel chair opposite me again. She's got to know what she's doing to me, the way her shirt is cut, the way she leans forward onto her elbows, propping her breasts up on the table so that they stay in sight.
The way she presses them together with her elbows, giving me a perfect shot of her cleavage. The smile that splits her face tells me all I need to know. Of course she knows what she's doing. She's doing it on purpose, after all.
"Ryan Beauchamp, born March twenty-first, nineteen-eighty five to one Martha Beauchamp. You grew up in Dayton, is that right?"
"Cut the bullshit, lady, who are you and what do you want?"
"Is that you, Ryan?"
"Say it is," I shrug. "What's it matter?"
"For my records, because you're not going to be around answering questions forever."
"No, I'm not. Eventually, one day, when you get done with your goddamn song and pony show, you're gonna tell me what you fuckin' want from me, and I'm going to go to jail for the rest of my life, or I'm going to give it to you."
"And you want me to tell you what it is we want, exactly?"
"Damn right."
"Fine, if you say so." The woman leaned forward more, pressing herself up so I got a look down her blouse, a look I couldn't help noticing. "I want everything you know, and everything you're ever gonna know."
"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?"
"You have a real dirty mouth, you know that, Beauchamp?"
"Don't like it? Wash my mouth out with soap."
"Is that how your mother did it?"
"You shut your mouth about my mother, how about that?"
>
"Oh, a sensitive subject, I see."
"Why don't you just tell me what the fuck you wanted?"
She took a deep breath, straightened back against her chair, and then she did.
Chapter Five
MAGUIRE
I don't like it when he looks at me. He looks like he's seeing right through me. But I'm in control, and I know it. I repeat it to myself. I'm in control, and there's not a damned thing that he can do about it.
"What we want? We don't want little shits like you, I'll tell you that."
I don't like the way he looks at me, but I like the way that hit him. Right between the legs, where it hurts. I keep myself from smiling at the thought.
"What do I have to do with this?"
"I just want to be clear about what we're trying to get out of you, Ryan. If you were our biggest concern? Hah. We'd leave you be. You're nothing."
His teeth grit together in frustration, but he doesn't respond to my jab. Smart boy. Smarter than I'd expected, to be honest. But that doesn't much matter, not in the long run. I turn back to the observation room, as if to say 'this is how you do this, Daniel.'
"What I want from you is to get in with the big fish. I want you to get an in with Brent McCallister."
He sucks in air through his teeth. That's what I wanted. A real response.
"That doesn't just happen, babe."
"No? You don't say. They don't just hire on any old body?"
"Cut the sarcastic bullshit."
I lean back in, giving him another view he's going to enjoy more than I'd like him to. Well, whatever. Whatever I have to do to nail McCallister.
"That's why we're prepared to give you enough leash to hang yourself with, Beauchamp. We're going to cut you loose because you're the kind of guy who wants to make a name for yourself, and that makes you perfect for exactly one thing, and one thing only: getting in with McCallister."
"Okay, well, if you think that shit's going to happen, then you're sorely mistaken. But fuck it. You guys want to let me go? Fine, I'll go. But if I get the stink of feds on me, then we're already up shit creek."
"What did I tell you about language, Beauchamp?"
"You finally got that soap you're going to wash my mouth out with?"
"I can, if you're not careful. Is that what you want, Beauchamp?"
"Whatever you say, boss. You got all that on camera, right? You'll let me go when all this is over, when I'm done playing errand-boy?"
I let him see a little smile slip across my lips. "You see, Beauchamp? You can learn. There may be a hope for you yet."
I like the look of annoyance that crosses his face. I like watching him squirm, knowing that I have the control. It's not a feeling that he gets often, with women. He seems like the kind who likes to be in control in bed.
Well, he'll just have to learn how to hold himself back. Because he wasn't in the driver's seat this time, he's going to have to learn to ride bitch some time, and that's how it's going to be.
"Well, if that's how it is, give me that cup of water, and let me the fuck go, and get that big fucker back in here."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means I know how this shit goes, and if I come back without a scratch on me, there's going to be some questions I don't look forward to answering, that's what it means."
"Alright," I said, already enjoying the idea of seeing this smug fuck get what's coming to him. "You hear that, Danny? He says he wants to make friends with you."
I hand him the cup, undo one of the handcuffs. His hand goes automatically to his wrist, rubbing the place where it was squeezed down too tight.
As I leave, he takes the cup, drinks deep, and crushes the paper in his large, thick hands. Danny's already there at the door, looking ready.
He was only ever good for beatings. A man from the wrong time, who might have fit in back in the sixties. Now, with all the cameras all over the place, there was no way that a bruiser like Danny would be able to do what he did best.
But if he had permission, well that was a very different thing. I pull the feed on the video camera as Beauchamp fits the key into the other handcuff, releases himself. Danny makes like a nice guy for a minute.
That doesn't last long, though. He pushes the table back out of the way a little, rolling his sleeves up. Beauchamp lifts his arms up, bracing them behind his head and getting ready for the beating of a lifetime.
It had better be a good one, I thought. He might have been the kind of stupid son of a bitch that gets into gun running, but he's right about one thing. It's too dangerous to go back out with nothing to show for his trip in to the station.
If he was never going to see the light of day again, they'd have gone in on him hard, and any one of McCallister's boys would know that. None of them were stranger to the insides of these cells.
They never got anything on them, though. Squeaky-clean. It was all innuendo and bullshit. None of them were strangers to the inside of these rooms, that was, except for McCallister himself.
So like it or not, Beauchamp was the only option, because whatever the fuck the good guys were doing wrong, someone must have been giving orders to the Crazy Horses.
I watched Ryan God damned Beauchamp for a year, and planned that grab for three weeks, and it couldn't possibly have gone one bit better.
Which made it that much more annoying that they were going to let him go, that they were going to give him immunity on that shit. But if it went down that I was the agent responsible for McCallister, then that was about all that it took to salve that pain.
I loosen my hands where I didn't notice them tightening into hard fists as Danny drives his own fist hard into Beauchamp's ribs. He stumbles back a step or two, breathing hard.
A few good hits will do that to a guy, and Danny knows how to hit. Could've been a real good boxer, if he wanted to. But instead, he wanted to be a cop. Like his daddy was, back in the day.
Well, there were no cops like his daddy, not any more. But sometimes it helped to have a bruiser on the squad, regulations or not.
Another shot comes in, batches Beauchamp in the gut. He turns over double for a moment, groaning in pain. Then he straightens back up, his arms locked once again behind his head.
If it wasn't for the breathing, if it wasn't for the way that Danny rubbed the pain out of his knuckles, I might not have been able to tell that he'd been getting hit for the better part of two minutes.
Danny pulls back his fist and jams it into the floating ribs, hard enough that one of them might have broken. He pulls back and watches Beauchamp straighten up again, his hands locked behind his head.
He braces again for the next hit. Danny should have stopped after the last one, but I understand. When you're dealing with a son of a bitch like Ryan Beauchamp, sometimes you bite off more than you can chew.
Chapter Six
RYAN
I'm a free man. The words feel strange in my head. They let me out of the station and I head back, my body aching from the unholy beating that big bastard did on me.
He could've done less, but there's that dedication to the job. You have to respect somebody like that, someone who's willing to go the extra mile. Maybe if some of his boys had been such eager beavers, I wouldn't have gotten caught up in this shit.
McCallister? Shit. There's no way I'm going to run into the guy. I don't even know any of his guys. How am I supposed to get in with a guy like that?
If I could join an outfit with that kind of clout, why the fuck would I even be doing any of this?
I don't need to answer that. I already know that I would do it again in a heartbeat. If I'd had an in with him, then it would have just been a matter of time until I was already sitting in the saddle of an Indian with a raven's head painted on the gas tank.
No way out of what I've done, not for me. Not a chance in hell. So I do what I always do when I'm in trouble. I pull out the phone.
Logan answers the phone the second time I call. Like he always does. The son
of a bitch has a modern phone. He knows who's calling. But he still plays some fuckin' phone-call screening games. Like if it's important I'll call back.
"Yeah?"
"I got trouble." I can practically hear him start moving through the phone. The sound of his pistol racking a round into the chamber sounds through the earpiece. "Meet me at the bar."
Logan grunts his understanding. I hang up first. The next call is to Brian. The third is to a cab. They pick me up ten minutes later, and I'm checking the paint on my Indian.
The cops were about as gentle with it as you'd expect. They knocked the fuckin' thing over on the way in. God damned typical. Did they not realize how much it cost to repair this fucking paint job?
The raven, though, is fine. Not scraped at all. I let out a breath of relief. It looks good, the whole thing. If it weren't for finding it laying flat on the asphalt, I might not be able to tell I hadn't just driven it off the lot.
Brian's bike beside it tells me that he already saw it, and walked right on by. I had to thank him for that. Logan drives up just as I kick the stand back down and lean the old girl over.
"You're going to have to move into the twenty-first century at some point, little brother."
"Fuck you," I tell him reflexively. He's watching me pick up my bike and giving me shit about it?
"What's the trouble?"
"Not here."
I guide Logan inside to find Brian already pouring out a drink for himself. I signal for him to pour two more, and he reaches down for the glasses from the freezer.
"You look like hell, man," Brian remarks as I turn to lock the door behind me, the sun already down. If this were someone's usual spot, he'd already be sitting at that bar across from Brian, but it isn't.
"You look great, too, Brian. You going to spend all day talking about my looks, or what?"
"Hey, man, I'm just saying. You look like you got run over by a truck."