The black Dodge Charger sped past. It swerved up onto the snowy sidewalk, spinning one-eighty and shaking side to side as it mounted the curb, and came to a screeching halt maybe only ten feet in front of him. The side of the car was emblazoned with a thin beige stripe, alongside the words, 'Police Rockwood,’ running through the middle in black, beige outlined text.
Beck watched the Charger’s front doors swing open and saw two male police officers dive out. They had stern looks in their eyes and each man was holding a black Smith & Wesson M&P45 semi-automatic pistol in his right hand.
"Freeze, motherfucker!" the cop on the left shouted, standing upright, his arms extended and the muzzle of his M&P45 aimed straight at Beck's face.
He was tall and thin and somewhere in his late thirties, as far as Beck could tell. Maybe early forties. He was pale-skinned and sandy-haired. His hair was flat, combed over to his left. A pair of rimless eyeglasses rested atop his nose and he had the gaunt, bony-looking face of an alcoholic or a chain smoker. He was wearing a black police uniform. Dark boots, dark pants and a thick dark cotton long sleeved shirt underneath a black kevlar vest. There was a black name badge stitched to the left breast of his vest. It said, 'Harper,' stitched in white writing.
"You're under arrest," the other cop said, having also adopted the police shooting stance. Right leg in front of his left, his right foot firmly on the floor, his back straight and chest puffed out, and both arms fully outstretched, straight ahead, about chest level, with his M&P45 also pointed toward Beck's face.
He was older than the other guy, maybe closer to fifty, and fatter. He had the round-bellied plump figure of a man who always ate well and never worried about anything other than how many eggs to have with his ham in the morning. He had peach-tinted cheeks on a puffy round face with an obtrusive cherry chin, a bushy black moustache basked under a Greek nose that looked a bit like a slug seeking refuge in the shade of a sharp, pointed rock. He had a thin set of brown eyes with narrow, well-kept, dark eyebrows and short dark hair streaked with flashes of grey. He was dressed like the other guy. Black police uniform and matching kevlar vest, except the name badge on his vest read, ‘Strand.’
An incredulous expression swept across Beck's face. He flicked his eyes from the muzzle of one M&P45 to the other, then onto the guy named Harper and, then, over to the guy named Strand, wondering what the hell was going on. He didn't know who these cops were, or what they wanted, or what they thought he had done.
Maybe the two pimps called them, he thought. Or Vanessa. She was pretty annoyed. Maybe this is her. Maybe she’s called and told them some bullshit. Said I assaulted her or some shit.
"Get down on your knees, hands behind your head," the cop named Strand snarled.
Beck sucked a breath of the icy winter air. His right hand was still stuffed into the pocket of his coat, his hand wrapped around the butt of his own Smith & Wesson. His first thought was to draw the firearm. But he realized a street-side shoot-out with two cops wasn't the smartest move. So, instead, he asked them what this was about.
"What's going on here? What’s this about?"
"You're under arrest," Harper replied. "Now, take your right hand out of your pocket, slowly, and get down on your knees, placing both of your hands on the back of your head."
"Arrest? For what?" Beck asked.
"Assault,” Strand answered, and prodded the air between him and Beck with the gun.
"On who?" Beck asked him, expecting them to answer with the pimps or Vanessa.
"A man in a hair salon," Harper answered.
"You've got be kidding. Is this a fucking joke?"
"Does this look like a joke to you?" Strand replied.
"Now, hands up. And get down on your knees. You’ve got three seconds, or I'll shoot you dead right here," Harper barked.
Beck shook his head.
The first second ticked past.
He looped his right forefinger through his Smith & Wesson's trigger guard.
The next second ticked past. One more to go.
Harper's eyes narrowed. He stepped forward, pulling the M&P45's trigger about another quarter inch, its muzzle now maybe just two feet away.
Beck sighed. "OK. OK," he said and raised his raised his left hand, open-palmed, up into the air.
"Your right hand, too, asshole," Strand growled. "And slowly. You even pull as much of a smoke from that coat and I'll shoot your ass where you stand."
Beck hesitated.
Strand stepped forward and squeezed the M&P45's trigger. His knuckle turned chalk white.
Another tense second ticked past. All three men standing deathly still, breathing tense breaths of the cold Winter air, not moving a single muscle. You could have cut the tension with a knife.
"OK," Beck said, eventually, and let go his Smith & Wesson. "Take it easy," he added and began to draw his right hand.
The cops watched as he drew his hand from his pocket. They inched forward and squeezed the triggers of their guns even more. Another hair's width pull and they would have gone off, killing Joe Beck where he stood.
"Easy," Beck said and eased his hand from his pocket and raised it, open-palmed, up into the air high above his head.
"Now, down on your knees," Harper commanded.
Beck glanced around, but otherwise didn't move.
"We gave you an order, asshole," Strand snarled, taking another step forward. "And when a cop gives you an order, you follow it. Now, get on your knees or I'll put you on the ground."
Beck grimaced and, realizing he had no other options, did as the cop asked. He dropped to one knee. He felt the damp chill of the snow creep through the fibers of his pants. Then, he dropped to his second knee.
"That's it," Harper said. "Now, clasp your hands behind your head."
Beck complied. He placed his hands on the back of his head and clasped his fingers together, his left hand on top of his right and his right palm resting against his short, dark hair.
"That's it," Harper said, again, then glanced toward Strand and nodded toward Beck.
He lowered his gun. Holstered it on the left side of his belt and drew a pair of steel handcuffs from the right. Walked around behind Beck and took hold of his wrists. He pulled his left arm down first, hard and rough.
Beck's shoulder popped. It hurt.
Strand slapped the handcuffs on and clasped them shut, tight, then did the same with Beck's right, fastening his hands behind his back as he stared straight ahead at Harper who stood watching with a smirk across his face. He, then, proceeded to give Beck his rights. Although, his speech was short and sweet, almost as if he didn't have any, other than the right to remain silent.
Beck said nothing.
"On your feet," Strand barked and huckled Beck up by his left underarm.
His shoulder twinged. He winced.
Strand, then, patted him down. He started with his shoulders and arms, made his way down his sides and reached the pockets of his coat. He felt a hard bump in Beck's right front coat pocket. "What do we have here?" he asked.
Beck said nothing.
"That a firearm I can feel?" Strand asked him, patting his pocket for the second time.
Beck remained silent. He wanted to hurl something crude and witty at him, but handcuffs around his wrists and the other cop still pointing a loaded gun straight at him, he knew now wasn’t the time or place.
Strand reached in and lifted it out. "My, my, my. A Smith and Wesson Five-nine-owe-six," he said and waved Harper over.
He walked forward, keeping his M&P45 raised, its muzzle on Beck, and took it from Strand's hand.
"Wonder if he's got a permit for this?" Harper asked Strand.
"I doubt it," Strand replied. "Considering the serial number is missing."
Harper glanced down at it and nodded. "Only one type of guy carries a gun with no serial number."
"A guy with something to hide," Strand replied.
"Yes. A criminal," Harper added. "I wonder what else he has on him?"
/> "Let's find out," Strand said and frisked the rest of Joe Beck's body. He took his gloves, cell phone and car keys from the other pocket of his coat and his wallet from his pants saying what he found and stuffing them into his pockets as he went. "A pair of gloves. Black Samsung smartphone. Set of keys, for that black Camaro. One black leather wallet."
"Check is ID," Harper said. "Make sure he's who we think he is."
Strand opened Beck's wallet and lifted out three cards. Two of them were plastic. One of them was paper. The first plastic card was aqua-colored with the word ‘Nebraska’ along the top on bold blue capitalized text and the phrase ‘Operator’s License’ below it in white capitalized text on a blue rectangle background. It was a Nebraska driver's license. It had the seal of Nebraska in the top left corner and Joe Beck’s photograph underneath it on the left hand side with his identifiable information next to it on the right. Strand read the information and said his name.
"Joe Beck,” he said and paused. “From Sioux Falls, South Dakota, with a Nebraska driver’s license.”
Harper pulled a face. “Ain’t that illegal to have a residence in a different state to your driver’s license?”
Strand shrugged. “Probably,” he replied and and flicked his eyes over the second plastic card. It was Joe Beck’s private detective ID, the one he had produced at the Hamlin & Hughes offices to set up the conversation with Jerry McDan. "What do we have here?" Strand asked and glanced up at Harper and showed him the ID card. “An identity card for a private dick.”
Harper nodded and pulled a fish-like frown. "Probably of the kind who thinks he's better than us. Who thinks he's above the law."
"Oh, I'm definitely above you," Beck said.
Harper moved the muzzle of his gun closer to Beck's face.
The third card, the paper one, was a little business card, three and a half inches long by two inches wide. It was made of thick white card stock paper that had a sturdy feel and it had Beck's contact number and website address on it alongside the words: Joe Beck. Private Detective. His name was in the middle along the top in navy blue capital letters with ‘Private Detective’ below it in similar, but smaller, navy blue capitalized font, with his contact details underneath a thin black dividing line that was below it.
"Yeah. An unlicensed private dick," Strand said and flicked the business card to the floor. "You won't be needing that much longer," he said and continued on with the frisking, running his hands down Beck's legs. Thighs to knees, then onto his shins.
Feeling another hard bump by Beck's right shin, he rhetorically asked, "What's this?" and unfurled Beck's trouser leg to expose a black holster strapped around the crus of his leg. He unclipped it and stood upright and ran his eyes across it.
"Looks like a knife," Harper said.
Strand nodded and pulled the black six-inch Smith and Wesson HRT from the pouch. "Man alive," he said. "Man could do a lot of damage with that thing. Look at the damn size of it."
"Yeah," Harper agreed, nodding.
"You won't be needing this anymore, either," Strand said and shoved it down his vest.
"No. Not where you're going," Harper added.
Harper and Strand, then, marched Beck along the snowy sidewalk to the rear of the black police cruiser at gunpoint, where Harper reached out and opened the back door, holding the muzzle of his M&P45 against Beck's right side. "Get in," he growled and prodded him with the gun.
Beck shook his head and, no other choice, bundled into the back of car.
They slammed the door shut behind him. The car shook side to side from the force.
The back was cramped and uninviting. A length of heavy-duty cross-cut black steel mesh separated it from the front, like it was a cage. And it smelled of a mixture of puke and piss. There was almost no sitting space. The seats were short and hard, like the wooden benches found in the lockers of dirty high school gyms, except they were leather. Toughened leather, marked with stains from the fluids of uncouth lowlives who had sat on it before him.
It wasn't the first time Joe Beck had been in such humble surroundings. He pulled himself up onto the seat and sat quietly, staring straight ahead, watching Harper holster his gun on his belt as both men walked down the sides of the car toward the front. Beck watched the bastards grin at each other before opening the front doors of the car and climbing in. Harper in the driver's seat and Strand on his right on the passenger's side.
A far cry from the back of the car, the front of the Cruiser had soft, padded leather seats, a radio, cup holders, heating, and the sweet, hungering scent of muffins and donuts and coffee. Harper settled in nice and started the engine. A blast of hot air blew out from the Charger's vents as the engine sprang to life. Then, Strand lifted a black radio from the dashboard and brought it up to his mouth.
"We have the target in custody, Chief," he said.
The radio crackled. Then, Chief Malenko answered from the other side. "Excellent. Bring him in, boys. I'll make the provisions."
"Copy that, Sir," Strand replied and hung up the radio and looked at Harper and nodded. “Let’s get this asshole where he needs to be.”
Harper nodded and slipped the Charger into gear and moved off of the sidewalk, back onto the road. He looked up at Beck's reflection in the rear view mirror, a smirk on his face.
Beck made no reply.
THIRTY-FOUR
Vladimir Polanski's iPhone pinged with two new messages. It was sitting on the arm of the pink leather sofa he was lounging on inside his office at Amaranth. He scooped it up and glanced at its screen. One was from Kanchelskis. The other was from Malenko. He unlocked the phone and read the information, looking at the message from Kanchelskis first.
It said, ‘We have the boy, Boss. We're on route to Amaranth. Be down within the hour.’
There was a picture below the text. It showed a little boy curled up in a foetal position in the trunk of their black Altima. He was doubled over, a length of brown rope tied tight around his ankles and wrists. He was small and thin. And he had blond hair, just like his mother. It was cut in the shape of a pudding bowl and it hung down his forehead and touched the top of his ears. His eyes were red and teary. There was a terrified look on his face and a thick brown strip of duct tape was slapped across his mouth. He was so small that it seemed to cover his full bottom jaw.
Polanski grinned with malevolent delight, then looked at the message from Malenko. It said, ‘We have Joe Beck in custody. He's in the back of a squad car on his way to the station house, now. I'll let you know when he comes in. And the cell phone number for Naomi Hefter is....’ Her number was listed at the end of the message.
Polanski beamed. His face had the grin of a Cheshire cat. Things were going exactly like he wanted them to. He locked his iPhone and slipped it into his pocket, then savored another delightful fruity, almost pear-tasting sip of expensive champagne.
Just as he swallowed the bubbly liquid down and leaned back with an opulent sense of satisfaction, there was a knock on the door.
It sounded like knuckles lightly tapping against wood.
The door swung open and Trudeaux stepped in. His navy suit looked sharp and his pink shirt appeared crisp. His tie looked like it had just been done up. It was perfect. As was his pompadour. Not a strand of hair looked out of place. There was gleaming look in his eyes and a smile on his face. And, in his left hand, he was holding three things.
"Boss," he said to Polanski, nodding his greeting, and walked over and presented the things to him, one by one.
The first two things were small A5 flyers printed on shiny gloss paper. They each had a rousing aerial photograph of people dancing in a nightclub, accented with a pink overlay underneath a light grey hazy blanket of smog. Along the top of each flyer were nightclub names in bold pink font: Amaranth on one and Magenta on the other. Below the club names was a couple of lines of bold white text that said, 'Entry - Free before 12 midnight. $25 afterward.'
Polanski flicked his eyes across them and smiled. He saw the ca
sh in his eyes. Hundreds of great big twenty-five dollar bundles of it, each passing through the accounts like it was indeed paid by a reveller to enter one of his nightclubs.
"All of the provisions have been made, Boss," Trudeaux said to him. "Just as you asked, the twenty-five dollar entry fee starts from midnight tonight, in both clubs."
Polanski smiled and took a sip of champagne. It tasted divine.
Trudeaux smiled back and shuffled the two sample flyers behind the other item in his left hand. It was a black leather document wallet with a zip. He unzipped it and opened it up. Inside was paperwork. A contract. Black ink on a few sheets of white paper, stapled together in the top left corner. He flipped it over to the back page and presented it to Polanski and pointed to the date and signature at the bottom. It featured Trudeaux's name in black squiggled writing, along with the title 'Business Manager' and the day's date.
"The paperwork for the six self-serve car washes," he said. "That now belong to you."
Polanski exhaled a deep, satisfied sigh and nodded, slowly.
"That only cost eighty-four thousand dollars to buy."
Polanski pulled a face and looked up at him. "I thought you said it was going to cost one hundred and two?"
"I did," Trudeaux answered, smugly. "But that was before I found out you were the only buyer and played hardball."
Polanski smirked, a surefire sign of approval.
Trudeaux smirked back. "Fourteen thousand per location. An offer the bank practically snapped my hand off to accept," he said, glowing with pride.
"Good. Very good," Polanski said. "That's why I picked you, Trudeaux."
Trudeaux smiled.
Polanski drank the last mouthful of the of the Louis Roederer Brut that was left in his flute, imagining the colossal pile of money that was going to be run through them. Not only would the near $1.9 million stockpile soon be cleared, but all these new avenues opened up even more opportunity to push more drugs.
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