The Second Girl

by David Swinson

  “You still live there?”

  “Yeah, I stay up in there.”

  “I’ll take you home.”

  “No, you don’t gotta do that. Just let me out back where we was parked and I’ll walk. Don’t be goin’ and dropping me off where I live. You trying to get me killed?”

  “I can do that myself, fuckwad. Now take me to your house so I can see you walk in. I want to know where to snatch you up if you’re lying to me.”

  When it’s safe, I make a U-turn and head north, toward Girard.

  “I ain’t lying to you.”

  “Just the same. You’re going to show me the house.”

  “Fuck, you’re—” but he doesn’t know how to finish the thought.

  I know that look he’s giving. I know it well. It’s the kinda look you have when you recognize your own kind. Or is it?

  I quickly let it go ’cause I’m probably reading too much into it.

  I turn onto the 1400 block of Girard. It’s a whole new crew in this area, and they play just as hard as the boys on Euclid. A lot of them hanging at the apartment building when we make the turn. First dead body I ever saw was on this block. He was on the sidewalk in front of the corner building, his head bent down into the gutter and his blood spurting out like a spout.

  “Where’s your house?”

  “Get past this shit here, man. Drive on.”

  Before we hit 15th, he points to a row of two-story connected row homes on the right.

  “The one right there past the alley.”

  It’s a one-way street, so I park on the other side, near a large community center. I remember when it was a smaller abandoned building with busted-out windows and occupied by squatters. Looks like DC did something right for the neighborhood by replacing it with a community center.

  “Your parents still live there?”

  “Just my moms. My pops passed on.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  He doesn’t respond; he’s probably not used to hearing people offer their condolences.

  I grab the bag of crack off his lap, reach in, and take five dime bags out of it. I drop the zips in his side coat pocket and then the large baggie back in my coat.

  “What the fuck kinda cop are you, man?”

  “The broken kind.”

  I turn the car off, find the handcuff key on the key ring, and reach over to unlock the cuffs.

  “Bend forward,” I tell him.

  When he does, I unbind him.

  “You know a kid by the name Edgar?”

  “Naw, never heard of him.”

  “He’s Latino, seventeen years old and lives in Virginia, but hung out with Angelo.”

  “No, man, don’t know him.”

  “You ever hear about any of the boys in Cordell’s crew taking a hit out on a kid in Virginia?”

  “No, I never heard nothin’ like that.”

  I grab his cell phone out of the pocket of my jacket.

  “You got Cordell’s number in here? Playboy’s or Little Monster’s?”

  “Fuck no.”

  I search it anyway. I find Angelo, José, and Viktor, but no one else I recognize.

  “I told you I ain’t got no numbers like that.”

  I tap in my cell number to call myself.

  “Now what you gotta go and do?”

  When my cell rings, I pull it out and look at the number.

  “I’ll save your number. You’re now a Cookie in my phone. You answer if it ever rings. Am I clear?”

  “Yeah, you clear.”

  “Now let me see you walk into your house.”

  He crosses the street. He takes some keys out of his pocket and walks the short flight of stairs to the porch. He fiddles with the keys, unlocks the door, and enters, shutting the door behind him.

  I wait a couple of minutes, then call him from my cell. He answers on the first ring.

  “You forgot some of your shit in my car.”

  Seconds later, the door opens and he returns.

  I roll down the window so he can lean in. I take out the large bag of crack and toss it on the seat.

  “You keep that shit. Don’t be seen for at least three days, and if anyone asks tell them your case got no-papered because it was a bad search. You understand that?”

  “Yeah, fuck yeah.”

  He snatches it right up. “Bad search, no-papered,” he repeats, then looks to his right, then to his left, and pockets the shit.

  “You better do just what I said ’cause you know what they’ll do otherwise. And you fuck with me I’ll do worse. I’ll bust into your home and kill your mom and then you.”

  “I got you, man. Shit, you don’t gotta worry about shit. But what about that powder you took off me?”

  “Don’t get greedy.”

  Seventy-one

  I make the turn in the alley behind the 1400 block of Euclid that leads to University Place. Several cars are parked in a small area at the back of an apartment complex. One of the cars is a black Lexus that looks exactly like the one Playboy drives. I get as close to being excited as I possibly can nowadays. And that fucking Cookie’s the man.

  I’m hoping Playboy doesn’t stay in that apartment complex. It’d be a nightmare trying to find his unit. Street-corner mopes generally don’t sign leases. None of the spaces are marked with numbers, so more than likely he’s just taking the space and calling it his own. I’m guessing he’s in the house my new boy Cookie pointed out.

  These boys have already proven they don’t mess around. I don’t have reinforcements. I’m not in the gang anymore. I’m tempted to call Luna—he’ll get a surveillance crew on the car and the house, but damn if they don’t spend too much time on shit like that. The Lexus parked in the alley doesn’t obviously connect Playboy to the house, even though I’m convinced it does. Police need much more than that before they go in. But I’m not about to go in that house with guns blazing, either, even if I do have a flashy throwaway. This ain’t the movies or one of those fucked-up cop shows you watch on TV.

  I back into one of the parking spaces at the far end, beside a Dumpster. I’ll sit here and see how this plays out. That pretty much sums up what you do in this line of work.

  Seventy-two

  Throughout the day and into the early evening, a number of people walk by the opening to the alley on University. I can’t tell how many of those folks are walking up to the house. The only visual I have on the house is the rear and the small backyard. A six-foot-high bent-up chain-link fence surrounds the yard. The windows are either blacked out or, like my bedroom windows, have thick curtains.

  My window is rolled down partway. Cars in the distance sound like gentle waves against sand. I got a bottle of Jameson in the pack, and now, with what I took off Cookie, more blow than I need. Only thing I forgot was my Gatorade bottle, but I’m far enough back that I’ll just piss behind the Dumpster if I have to. I’m prepared to sit for as long as it takes.

  I usually like the solitude, even the confinement that comes with conducting surveillance. But sometimes, like now, it triggers something in my brain, like a switch with a short, so I can’t do anything but yield to whatever my mind conjures up. I’m pretty good at blocking certain things out, but it’s getting tougher, especially after what happened with Leslie, and then losing Miriam.

  In my line of work the most commonplace decision can destroy a life, or take it. I don’t worry about things like that ’cause it’ll cripple you. I do have worries, though, and never talking to Leslie again is one of them. I don’t even know what we are…or were. Two lonely people who need each other? Or just one lonely man who thinks he needs her?

  These thoughts I’m having are more than likely the result of fatigue, too much alcohol, and not enough blow. But what can I do? Stop drinking?

  God forbid!

  Who the hell am I kidding? I’m too fucking needy sometimes. Maybe I should blame my parents, and growing up in a broken family, like some of these messed-up kids I’ve been dealing with d
o. Or maybe just blame my mother, the one responsible for all the destruction. She killed herself when my older brother and I were nothin’ but kids.

  At least that’s what our father told us.

  Enough of this shit. I grab my flask out of the center console and take a hard swig, and then another for good measure. As far as the blow, sometimes the knowledge that it’s there when I need it is enough. So I control the urge to self-medicate further.

  A couple of crackheads walk through the alley, coming up from Euclid, scoping out the garages and the cars on the other side for a quick hit. I tuck down and watch them pass. They slowly make their way to University, and walk right in the opposite direction of the house.

  The evening fades into night. There’s a heavy darkness over this alley. The streetlamps that are here don’t work. The only light I get is what filters out of windows.

  It’s 12:43 when I notice the headlights from a car entering the alley from the direction of Euclid. I lean back as it passes. It’s a newer-model Escalade. It drives slowly and then parks near the Lexus. The passenger’s side opens and a black man I don’t recognize steps out. He walks toward the rear of the vehicle and meets up with the driver. I creep up as best as I can to get a better look. They open the back of the Cadillac and the passenger pulls out a bag of groceries or something. When he steps back to allow the driver to close the hatch I can see the driver.

  Fuckin’ Little Monster.

  They walk toward University Place and then left toward the house.

  All the training I went through as a cop tells me not to step out of the car and go after them.

  I hit Luna on the cell, but it kicks into message.

  I try Davidson and it’s the same thing.

  “Fuckwads,” I say to myself.

  As I’m searching for Millhoff’s number, my cell rings. It’s Luna.

  “You’d better not be getting fucking drunk,” I say.

  “Hell no. I’m still working on the shooting. What do you need?”

  “I’m sitting behind a house that your shooter, Little Monster, just walked in.”

  “Fuck, you are kidding me?”

  “I’m pretty sure he’s going to be in there for a while, but you might want to get surveillance set up on it ASAP so you can get an emergency search warrant.”

  “And you’re sure about this?”

  “Hell yeah, I’m sure. That mope almost killed me, too.”

  “Where are you?”

  “In the alley rear of the fourteen hundred block of Euclid, parked in a four-door Toyota alongside the only Dumpsters in the alley. The house is on the twenty-five hundred block of University Place. I didn’t get an address, so I’ll have to point it out. Don’t drive in the alley. Come on foot from the Euclid side. You know where I’m talking about, right?”

  “Yeah, now you fucking stand by and don’t go stupid. You hear?”

  “Who do you think you’re talking to, partner? Now hurry up.”

  I pull out my flask and take a nice hefty swig of Jameson to calm my nerves.

  Seventy-three

  It doesn’t take Luna more than a few minutes to show, probably because the area they’ve been working is only a few blocks away.

  He’s dressed down for the occasion. Looks like a bum. I roll down my window.

  “Hop in,” I tell him.

  He walks around the rear of my car to the passenger’s side and enters.

  “See the Escalade and the black Lexus over there?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Little Monster got out of the driver’s side of the Escalade along with another subject, who I don’t know, and they walked to University Place. The Lexus there belongs to Playboy, the driver of the hooptie.”

  “Where’s the house?”

  “Straight ahead. The light green house to the left of the redbrick row house. It has the chain-link fence.”

  “Got it. I have to ask again, so don’t jump down my throat. Are you sure about this?”

  “When was the last time I wasn’t?”

  “I’m just saying, because we bust into that house and you’re wrong, it’s my ass that’s going to get spanked, not yours.”

  “They’re in there, Albino.”

  “All right, then.” He looks around the alley. “I can get an undercover car set up back here no problem. I need you to drive me through University Place to point out the house so I can get the address and a quick look at it.”

  “Just like old times.”

  “Hoorah, partner,” he says. “Stand by until I get the cars set up back here.”

  He pulls out his handheld radio, keeps it low and near his lap, and calls the undercover vehicle over the air. After they respond, he advises them to come in and park on the north side of the alley beside my car, and he gives them a description of my car.

  Not even a couple minutes later, an old beat-up Honda hatchback drives through from Euclid, pulls ahead of us, and then backs into a thin space on Luna’s side, between my car and a small truck.

  Luna rolls down the window partway.

  “The light green house straight ahead with the chain-link fence. You got it?”

  “Yeah,” I hear the driver say in a low voice. “We got it.”

  He rolls up the window and I start the car but don’t turn the lights on. I head toward Euclid.

  When I make the turn to Euclid, I turn on the lights.

  I loop around and point out the house.

  It looks hot, maybe five or six guys on the porch drinking and smoking blunts. I drive the speed limit, looking straight ahead, and turn left on Clifton.

  “You get what you need?” I ask.

  “I got it. Lot of players on that patio. ERT’s going to have to come in on this one.”

  “Where do you want me to drop you off?”

  “In the parking lot, rear of twenty-five hundred Fourteenth.”

  “I’m going back to my spot in the alley.”

  “Fuck no. You go home.”

  “No, fuck you, I stay until I hear from you and you tell me whether you have the girl or not. You get that Little Monster and hopefully I get the missing girl. You got no say.”

  “You just stay out of the way. And I only say that because I’m looking out for you.”

  “I can take care of myself.”

  “I’m not talking about that. I’m talking about a certain assistant chief that wants your head.”

  “Don’t worry yourself, I won’t go near the scene.”

  He picks up my flask from the center console.

  “Is this fresh water?”

  “Yeah, but it might have a little bite.”

  He tilts it up and takes a good swig.

  Seventy-four

  I have enough tint on the side windows that I don’t worry about the prying eyes in the UC vehicle parked next to me. Even though, I still try to be discreet.

  This was the part of the job I always liked, just sitting and watching. There’s no action to watch here, though, just the back of the house and the occasional drunk or crackhead pissing in the alley.

  Before I know it, the daylight’s breaking through.

  Just before the clock hits 0600, I notice four officers quietly exiting the undercover vehicle. They shut the doors without a sound. The driver taps on my passenger’s side window. I roll it halfway down.

  I recognize him from the branch, but forget his name.

  “What’s up, Marr?” he almost whispers.

  “You guys sleep well?”

  “I wish,” he says, and then: “Luna wanted me to remind you not to get out of your car and he’ll hit you on your cell when they clear the scene.”

  “I got ya.”

  “All right, then.”

  They move to cover the rear of the house. I roll the windows down all the way so I can hear. When they get where they’re supposed to be, they draw their weapons and tuck them to their sides.

  Two more unmarked detective cruisers drive past me and stop at the end of the alley, on
University Place. Plainclothes officers step out and all but one of them move toward the front of the house.

  The ERT wagon drives by quickly on University Place, followed by a line of marked and unmarked units, and then seconds later I hear what sounds like the front door getting bashed open by a ram—two quick hits. Obviously no knock-and-announce for this one.

  Then I hear them hollering out commands.

  “Get down!”

  “…Hands!”

  I hear what sounds like a window being smashed out.

  A flashbang, followed by a bright white light, like lightning, through a second-story window at the rear of the house.

  That same window squawks open; someone crawls out and hangs, and then drops down. Someone else jumps after him.

  Three of the officers at the rear of the house holster their weapons while the other one covers them and they climb the fence to the backyard. By that time, two more subjects have dropped down.

  It’s hard to tell from here, but I know they’re fighting. The sounds of huffing and whacking. They all seemed to fall to the ground.

  The cover officer holsters his weapon and climbs the fence, and just as he’s getting over and dropping to the other side, I see a black male in nothing but his boxer shorts start to scale the fence to get out. The cover officer leaps for him and grabs a leg. The guy in the boxers kicks at him with his bare foot.

  Two shots ring out from the backyard, and the officer lets go of the guy’s leg, draws his weapon, and turns. I’m thinking it’s about the time I should jump out and assist, but I see the flash from the cover officer’s muzzle as he fires two times, and then the boxer-shorts boy getting over the fence and running in my direction. No one is paying attention because of the shooting, and maybe they’re still fighting, ’cause I don’t see the cover officer anymore.

  The running boy in the boxers is Playboy. He’s approaching fast, about to run past me toward the cut that leads to Euclid.

  I step out of the car just before he’s about to pass. He doesn’t get a chance to outmaneuver me. I send him one solid punch, square on the left side of his jaw, and he can do nothin’ but drop to the ground.