The Second Girl

by David Swinson

  I’m starting to fade fast. Davidson and his two cohorts return. They brief the white shirts. A lot of eyes have probably been on Davidson for this one, including those of the chief himself. I never liked working under those conditions. The politics of the job can wear you down faster than the actual work. I’m grateful to not be a part of that anymore. Caine looks at me and offers his hand. I accept.

  “I should probably see what’s going on,” he says, and after a hearty handshake he joins the team.

  Miriam’s parents come out of the back. The chiefs, along with Wightman, walk up to greet them. They shake hands like good politicians should, and I take it that means she’ll be fine.

  Davidson returns to me and confirms it.

  “They’re going to admit her, but she should pull through,” he advises.

  “Damn good to hear. Now, is there any way I can sneak outta here without those fucks seeing me?”

  “They’ve already seen you, but they’re busy taking all the credit so I don’t see why not.”

  “They got their job to do.”

  “We know better, though, and we’re the ones who matter, right?”

  “Whatever it takes to keep them off my ass. That’s all I care about.”

  “Well, you certainly accomplished that.”

  “I meant to ask, do you know about the search warrant they executed this morning?”

  “Yeah, we were there.”

  “Did someone get shot? I hope not an officer.”

  “No, just the one they called Little Monster. He thought he could make a last stand in the backyard.”

  “He dead?”

  “Howard Hospital. On arrival.”

  “Everything balanced itself out, then.”

  “I guess you could say that,” Davidson replies.

  I manage to sneak out and return to the car.

  I tap on the trunk as I walk by, and then enter.

  Before I start it up, I turn toward the rear and say, “Don’t worry, Playboy, I didn’t forget about ya.”

  Eighty

  It’s a cloudless day and getting chillier. It’s a good time of year. The Anacostia is still a filthy river, though.

  I power my cell phone off ’cause I know the calls will start flooding in soon, and I don’t want to be disturbed right now. I open the trunk, and I’m temporarily taken aback by the smell. He shit and pissed in his boxer shorts. They used to be white. Now they look like he rolled in mud, and there’s a bit of blood mixed in. Much of it worked its way into the fabric in the trunk of my car. That’s a difficult smell to get rid of, and something I hate cleaning up.

  He’s fucked up, with teary, red, puffy eyes, and the swollen left side of his face has now turned a purplish red. I don’t think he’s got any more struggle left in him, just some moans and groans.

  “She’s alive,” I tell him.

  He nods his head up and down quickly, and what looks like a smile is trying to work its way out of the duct tape.

  He’s struggling to say something through it. I pull it halfway so he can talk.

  “Oh, thank you, God. Thank you. I did what you told me, right?”

  “Yeah, I suppose. You’re responsible for a lot of people getting hurt, too.”

  “No, man, I told you I ain’t about that. That’s not me. That be them.”

  “No, that be you, too, little man. I want you to tell me something, though. Why didn’t you take that girl Justine to work the brothel like the others?”

  “Justine?”

  “The high school girl in Virginia. You know who I’m talking about. The one you got fucked up on crack.”

  “Oh yeah.”

  “So why didn’t you get her to work at the brothel?”

  “’Cause…I don’t know. I just didn’t like her for that.”

  “You just liked to fuck her, then?”

  “Fuck no. I don’t mean like that.”

  “Well, it doesn’t matter now.”

  I pull him out by the arms, careful not to soil my gloves. I let him fall over the bumper and to the ground. His feet are hogtied to his hands so he falls to his side.

  He sees the river. By the look he’s got, I know he knows what’s up.

  “Aw fuck no, c’mon, now. Fuck this.”

  I lean down to grab him.

  “Wait, wait…I can give you something else. I got somethin’ good you need to know. Maybe we can work this shit out, huh?”

  “What do you got?”

  It takes him a moment to catch his breath.

  “I can tell you who shot that officer.”

  “Didn’t we go over that shit already?”

  “Naw, man, naw.”

  “I must be tired, then.”

  “Little Monster did that shit.”

  “That’s old news, Playboy. He got himself killed by the police in the back of the house you ran out of.”

  “What?”

  “No shit. No more Little Monster. You can tell me one other thing, though.”

  “Yeah, man. Anything. What you need?”

  “Why did he have to go and kill the cop? I thought it was just me he was after.”

  “He crazy like that. He got himself all worked up when Officer Tommy rolled up and called it his.”

  “That’s some shit.”

  “Yeah, man, sure is, but he crazy like that.”

  “All those dippers he smokes, huh?”

  “Yeah, must be.”

  “But still, you were the driver.”

  “Fuck, man, shit… I had to drive. I told you he fucking crazy. But wait, I got somethin’ else for you. Something much better. You need to hear this shit, man.”

  “Make it good.”

  “That officer who got shot, he wasn’t all you think.”

  “Yeah?”

  “He got himself a girl at the brothel. This young Latina girl. He be up there almost every night with her. He never pay, either.”

  “He’s dead, so what the fuck do I care for?”

  “Instead of paying he worked it off in trade, with Cordell. Just a couple days ago he did somethin’ big for him.”

  “What was that?”

  “He shot some fucking kid in Virginia. Tapped him in the back of his head in his own bedroom.”

  “Fuck you,” I say.

  “No, man, this is for real. I’m like a witness to that shit. I heard it get set up through Monster and Cordell and Officer Tommy.”

  “Police will need more than you as a witness. You ain’t that credible.”

  “There is more witnesses. The hit came through one of the ’migos that got himself locked up. His name be Angelo, and then one of his other boys was with Cordell and Officer Tommy. A boy named José. He be Angelo’s brother, and the one that knew where the boy lived and shit.”

  “José gave the officer the address for the boy who got shot?”

  “Yeah, shit yeah. Cordell okayed it, but the request came through Angelo ’cause of some shit the boy got himself involved with.”

  “What shit?”

  “I don’t know about all that, but that’s good information, right?”

  “Yeah, that’s fucking good information, and I’ll pass it on.”

  “So you’ll let me go?”

  “Fuck no. You’re nothin’ but a piece of shit.”

  I tape up his mouth before he can talk, and give him a shove so he rolls down the slope. It’s an awkward tumble, like a quadruple amputee with a back deformity who is desperately trying but can’t stop himself. He lands on his side and gets caught up on some trash along the riverbank. I slide myself down. He’s jerking and trying to kick himself free.

  I give his body a good push off the bank with my foot and send him into the river so the current’ll slowly take him. His body naturally rolls upward, like a fishing bobber made for great white sharks. He sucks in air through his nose and his chest expands like he thinks that’ll keep him afloat.

  I pull out the Taurus and take aim at his chest. His eyes widen and nostrils flar
e. He struggles to break free, but all that does is take his head under. It quickly pops up again and he blows water out of his nose and almost pops the duct tape from his mouth.

  He stretches his neck out, trying to keep his head up. His eyes are glazed by the cold water. They fix on me, but only for a second. It’s an odd look.

  I put my finger on the trigger, and then his eyes turn away from me and toward the sky. It’s sudden. I know he realizes I’m not the one to give him grace, and so he doesn’t want to see it coming.

  I think about leaving him to the filthy river and let it do the job instead. Just turn around and walk away. But I can’t imagine drowning in that foul place, pulled under, or maybe I can.

  So why can’t I pull the trigger?

  I lower the gun and watch the light on the surface of the water, then toss the gun out, as far as I can, and I know Playboy sees it swooping over him, ’cause his black eyes follow it. It splashes into the river about ten feet past his floating body.

  I look toward my feet and the river’s edge. The dark water slaps at the muddy bank. It’s not even a foot deep at the edge and you still can’t see the bottom.

  I take my suit coat off, survey the ground above me, looking for a clean spot, but there ain’t one.

  “Shit,” I mumble.

  I gently fold the suit coat and set it on a small strip of dead grass.

  I step in the river. My feet sink into the mud, the cold water just below my knees. Playboy’s a couple of feet out. I pull my foot out of the mud to take another step and it’s like a mouth holding me in place.

  Now that it’s got me it doesn’t wanna let me go.

  I pull my right foot out of the mud and lose my shoe.

  “Fuckin’ hell…”

  The next step is a plunge and the water’s at my belly. The cold hits me with a sudden surge and I gasp and then belt out what was supposed to be “Fucking shit,” but sounds like,“Foggin-shh.”

  I step on something I hope is a log and almost fall forward, but I reach for a small branch above my head to steady myself. I think about turning back ’cause I get a strong feeling this is it for me. This is how I’m supposed to go—in the worst possible way.

  Playboy is right there in front of me. His head’s now just barely out of the water, but I know he sees me. I’m chest deep in this murk and ankle deep in muddy decay. The current is strong, but not so strong to take my feet out from under me. I feel for the next step and then reach for Playboy’s head. He goes under, but I manage to get my hand under his chin and pull him toward me.

  When his head is at my chest I secure his chin between my forearm and bicep and slowly sidestep back to the bank, careful not to trip over any sunken debris, like a fucking suitcase.

  I struggle to the bank and push him halfway up so he’s on his side. His breathing is labored and snot bubbles out his nostrils. He’s scratched up pretty bad and his left kneecap is swollen to the size of a softball like it’s been dislocated.

  I rip the duct tape off his mouth. He spits water, but not far enough to hit me.

  “Don’t move or I’ll leave you where you are,” I tell him.

  “Plea…” he struggles to say.

  “And shut up.”

  I kneel down so one knee is on the bank. I pull out my knife and fold it open. I cut the zip tie that binds his ankles to his wrists. He belts out a painful cry as his legs drop like he’s lost all muscle control, and his feet splash toes-first into the water. I grab his left ankle and pull it up and cut the zips from his ankles. His hands are still bound behind his back, but I don’t cut them free. I fold the knife back in place and slip it in my pants pocket.

  I crawl on my hands and knees out of the water and onto the river’s nasty edge. The mud’s so thick it’s still caked on my socks and pants legs below my knees.

  I grab him under the armpit and pull him out so he’s in a safer position on the bank. The heels of his feet are scraping the edge of the water.

  “The rest is up to you,” I tell him, and then grab my suit coat to make my way back up to the car.

  “I don’t think I can walk,” he snivels.

  I turn to look down at him.

  “That look you had out there, when you turned from me to the sky and you realized it was over—what was the first thought that came to you?”

  He looks up at me, not quite sure how to answer.

  I don’t expect him to, so I say, “You keep that thought with you. Don’t forget it ’cause if there’s ever a next time I’ll let you sink.”

  He’s smart enough to keep his mouth shut.

  I turn away and walk back to the car.

  Eighty-one

  I wash out the interior of the Toyota and then I park it about a block south of my house. I never expected to keep this car; I knew that when I bought it. Good thing about Toyotas is they are among the top ten most stolen vehicles in the District.

  I strip off my suit in the laundry room and let it fall to the ground. It’ll never be the same. Doesn’t matter how good the dry cleaner is. They’ll never clean out what can’t be seen. I’ll let it dry on the ground and then watch it burn.

  I don’t draw any lines, or drink scotch, or drop Klonopin. Just shower and sleep.

  The first thing I do in the morning is take another long, hot shower. Then I dress comfortably—khakis and an old faded blue T-shirt.

  I make some strong coffee and sit at the kitchen table to have a cigarette with it. I remember my cell is powered off, so I turn it on.

  A few messages. A few calls. Some of the numbers I don’t recognize.

  Leslie called again, but didn’t leave a message. Luna called, asking me to call back when I can, “Nothing urgent.” Davidson called, but didn’t leave a message. Miriam’s dad, Ian Gregory, left a message: “I don’t know what to say except how thankful we are for what you did. Miriam is in a recovery room, resting now. The doctors say she’ll be fine. I look forward to your call.”

  I’ll call him, but not now.

  I haven’t had much time to think about Leslie. I definitely want to talk to her. I fucking miss talking to her, seeing her on a regular basis, even if it is mostly at her office.

  My cell rings, startling me. I look at the display. It’s Luna again.

  “What the fuck you keep calling me for?”

  “Damn, Frankie, you’re a hero,” he says.

  “It’s too damn early for me to talk shop.”

  “It’s a working man’s time.”

  “Call me later. I’m not working.”

  “Seriously, though, you’re a fucking hero around here.”

  “You fucks got it all wrong. I’m just good at breaking the rules.”

  “Keep doing what you’re doing, then.”

  That’s so good I almost spit out my coffee.

  “Davidson said he talked to you at the hospital, so you know about Little Monster?” he asks.

  “Yeah, good job. Happy it wasn’t a cop.”

  “Me too, but this one was all you, brother.”

  “Shut the fuck up already.”

  “I’m just saying.”

  “Well, enough said, then. Tell me how the warrant went otherwise.”

  “Damn, I haven’t been home yet. That’s how good it was.”

  “Happy it’s you, not me,” I say. “Was it one of his stash houses?”

  “No big quantity of narcotics, but some PCP that looked like it was more for personal use so I don’t think it was a stash house. Lot of guns though. Lots. We’re thinking it was a safe house. A crash pad. You’d probably like to know: we got Cordell Holm in there.”

  “No shit.”

  “Yeah, in bed with a minor.”

  “Girl or boy?”

  “A little girl. She was reported missing out of DC more than four months ago.”

  “They’ll like him in prison,” I say, and have a fleeting thought about how Lenny Claypole might be able to work off the title to his truck. Just putting the word out to the right prisoners is al
l that would take.

  “You get a boy named José in there? I don’t know the last name, but he’s Angelo’s brother.”

  “Yeah, we got him, too. He had a gun on him. Lot of the main crew was being held up there. More than likely because of the shooting. Why?”

  “I know him from sitting on the house I got that girl Amanda out of. He’s one that got away from you all. That’s all.”

  “He’ll be visiting his brother soon enough. Let’s do drinks later this week.”

  “Sounds good.”

  “I’ll call you.”

  “All right, partner, you stay safe,” I say, and then disconnect.

  Eighty-two

  I’ve been thinking a lot about what Playboy told me and how I should handle it. I’m confident he won’t be walking into a district station to give up what he knows about Officer Tommy, including his story about a crazy uncle who almost killed him at the Anacostia River. I’m also sure he’s in the wind about now, and if and when he does get caught, whatever story he has won’t matter as much as the officer he had a part in killing.

  Officer Tommy’s death wish was that I “don’t tell,” but that had nothing to do with murder. I might do dirt, but I’d never hunt some punk down, let alone kill him because someone like Cordell Holm ordered me too. Tommy crossed the line with that alone.

  It doesn’t take me long to figure out that the Feds are more equipped to handle something like this than Internal Affairs. Not that IA wouldn’t. They just have a tendency to drag their feet. But for my own selfish reasons, I don’t want to have to talk to anyone there.

  After a nice long line, I call the FBI’s Washington Field Office and ask to be connected to Special Agent Donna Hernandez. They put me through, but it goes to her voicemail. I don’t want to call Davidson, so I call the WFO again and advise the operator it’s an emergency and pertains to the search warrant Hernandez is probably still working.

  I get put on hold.

  The operator comes back on and asks, “Do you have a number she can call you on?”

  I give it.

  Not even a minute later my cell rings.

  “Frank Marr,” I answer.