by Brent Pilkey
Jack rolled his eyes. “Enough. Let’s just lay it all out, shall we? Evelyn, you’re probably pissed at me right now for finding out about your baby plan and depriving you of a lever to use against me.”
Evelyn opened her mouth to protest but Jack ran her over. “But you, George, are most likely ecstatic Karen’s not pregnant. But I wonder, did you even know about their little plot? I’d guess not. But it doesn’t matter. Now you can get back to convincing Karen to leave me.”
“Jack! Dad isn’t —”
Again, Jack cut her off. “He is, Karen. He’s been after you to dump me since our first date. Your dad hates me and your mom hates what I do for a living.”
“Hate is a strong word,” Hawthorn cautioned.
“Yeah, but it fits.”
Evelyn quickly jumped in. “Don’t you see why we’re concerned, Jack? This time last year you would have never been so confrontational.”
Jack smiled and it was grim. “Maybe I just got tired of being your husband’s punching bag and your puppet.”
Justice must have heard the tension in Jack’s voice. He sat up and nosed his head under Jack’s hand.
“And that dog is another example,” Evelyn added. “You brought it home without even consulting Karen. Bringing in a dog of that size and unknown temperament . . .”
“Oh, yeah, he’s vicious,” Jack joked, rubbing Justice’s ears.
“And his name, Justice,” Hawthorn added, picking up where his wife left off. “As in street justice, I assume. Karen told us how you . . . relieved the original owner of the dog.”
“Relieved?” Jack laughed. “Why not use something a little more blunt? How about I stole him? Or, actually, I committed robbery because the theft was accompanied by violence. And, yes, we both dished out a bit of street justice. What was I supposed to do? The asshole had him tied up and was beating him with a metal pipe.”
“Don’t you see?” Hawthorn persisted. “The dog’s mere presence is a constant reminder to Karen of what type of person you have become.”
“He’s a constant reminder of the good that can be done down in 51. But enough of this,” Jack declared, waving a hand to encompass the four of them. He shifted to face Karen and took her hands in his. “Karen, I love you and I want to be with you, but I was a cop before we met. I was a cop when we were married and I never said anything about it being a temporary job. Why do you want to take something I love away from me?”
Karen pulled her hands free and her words were ice. “Because I don’t know who you are anymore.”
“Oh.” Despite everything that had been said, Karen withdrawing from him hurt Jack the most. She wouldn’t look at him and there was no way he was going to beg her, not with her parents here.
In a flat voice, with the pain and tears hidden away, he said, “I guess there’s nothing left to say, then.”
Jack got up and walked out of the room, Justice at his side.
Jack was sitting on the steps leading down to the backyard. Justice was curled up beside him, the dog’s weight against his leg a comforting presence. Jack was working on a bottle of cider as he stared out into the darkness. In the distance he could hear the passing of cars and wondered if the drivers were happy with their lives. Or were they running away from their problems?
Jack knew showing his back to his troubles was not the solution but the thought of jumping in the car with Justice and buggering off was undeniably appealing. He chuckled grimly and Justice whined.
Jack scratched behind a furry ear. “Yeah, I know. It’s not an answer.”
But, God, it was tempting. Especially with the Hawthorns sitting inside. He had come home with the hope of patching things up with Karen. Instead, she and her parents had jumped him. That same old fucking argument two nights in a row.
Ease off, Jack. It won’t help, going down that road and getting all pissed off.
He blew out his frustration and took another swig of cider.
The kitchen door slid open. Jack hadn’t bothered with the lights when he had come out; they flashed on, leaving him squinting in the sudden brilliance.
“Hiding in the dark?” Karen accused.
Guess she didn’t come out to apologize. “Nope. Just enjoying the night,” he replied, struggling to keep his voice neutral.
“You were quite rude to my parents.” She was standing behind him and he knew he should turn and face her but right now it just felt like way too much effort. Instead, he sipped his drink.
“Well?” she demanded.
“Did you know,” he said to the darkness, “I came home tonight hoping we could talk, maybe work things out? But instead I get ambushed by you and your parents.”
“We didn’t ambush you,” she scoffed.
“Well, that’s what it felt like to me.” He sighed then stood to face her. “Why are you always different around them? Why do you always give in to their wishes?”
Karen folded her arms across her chest defensively. “I don’t. We all care about you, that’s why they’re here.”
“But you do act differently,” he insisted. “I used to think you stood up to your parents, your dad especially, but now I see what you were doing. You always did what he wanted but just differently enough to tell yourself you were defying him.”
“This isn’t about me, Jack.”
“No, it isn’t,” he conceded sadly. “It’s about us. Tell me, Karen, did you ever approve of me being a cop? I know it’s not prestigious or well paying enough for your parents’ liking, but was there ever a time you were content to be a copper’s wife? Or was the plan all along to get me to quit and get a different job?”
“You just don’t get it, do you? This isn’t about you being a cop,” she insisted, sidestepping his questions. “It’s about how you’ve changed. Do you realize that in less than a year, you’ve killed two people?”
“Well, forgive me for shooting the asshole who broke into our house and was going to kill you,” he said rather sarcastically. “And the other one was going around mutilating people. Not exactly the type to submit peacefully to being arrested. And his death was an accident. Hell, even the SIU said that.”
“Of course, an accident.”
“Are you saying you think I deliberately killed him?” Jack was angry she would ever say such a thing, hurt that she would think it.
“I never would have had to doubt that with the man I married. And I deserve better than this.”
“Karen . . .” He stepped toward her but she backed away, thrusting a hand out at him to stop.
“Don’t touch me, Jack. Dad’s right, you’re becoming some sort of savage and I don’t want you touching me. If you want to fuck someone, go see your girlfriend.”
Jack was ready to explode, to let loose the stifled anger churning his guts. “Damn it, Karen! I told you —”
“I don’t believe you!” she screamed. Abruptly, she composed herself, as if her outburst had shocked her as much as it shocked him. A cold mask slid over her face. “Why don’t you go sleep with her tonight? Because you damned well aren’t sleeping with me.”
The kitchen door slammed shut behind her and the deck lights cut off, plunging Jack into darkness. He stood there for a very long time.
Wednesday, 25 July
1112 hours
Heavy-metal music blasted from the speakers, deafening as it howled off the cinderblock walls in the small workout room. Jack was alone in the station’s gym and had the music cranked to an almost painful volume, but he was oblivious to it. The music’s anger was nothing compared to the rage that gripped him, the rage that lashed out as he hit the punching bag.
Every time his right fist slammed into the heavy bag his rib screamed in pain but he only swung harder. His shins were red from striking the bag and he thought the knuckles of his left hand were bleeding, rubbed raw by the worn gloves. He ate the physical pain
but it couldn’t mask the pain he felt deep inside.
The music suddenly dropped.
“Cripes, Jack. You trying to go deaf?” Tank brought the music back up to a reasonable level.
“Was in the mood for something loud.”
“I guess.” The big man eyed Jack speculatively. “You okay? Last time I saw someone hit something like that, it was Kris beating the shit out of some poor bastard who called her a dyke then goosed her.”
Jack laughed. “Man, I’d love to see the guy stupid enough to goose her.”
“Before or after she was done with him?”
“Both, just for the full effect. Thanks, Tank. That was the first laugh I’ve had all day.”
“I aim to please, my man. If you want to be alone, I can get out of your face. I just came in to do some stretching.”
“No, I’m good. Stretch away.”
As he settled down on a mat, Tank asked, “Does the bag have a face on it?”
Jack snorted. “My in-laws’.” And I guess my wife’s, too, but I’ll keep that to myself.
“Say no more. We’ve all had our share of those.” Tank spread his legs and leaned forward until he was close enough to kiss the mat. Besides being ridiculously and deceptively — so many people just saw a fat guy — powerful, Tank was also as flexible as a ballerina.
Jack plopped down on a bench and stripped the gloves off. Sure enough, the knuckles of his left hand were four islands of raw, brutalized flesh.
Tank was watching him from between splayed legs. “You sure you’re okay, Jack? Your fingers look sore as hell and I can’t imagine it felt very good hitting the bag with them.”
Jack brushed the big man’s concerns aside. “Pain can be therapeutic.”
“Yup, it can be.” Tank twisted where he sat and lowered his upper body along one leg.
Jack went over to the fountain to rinse his knuckles, wincing as the cold water hit the tender skin. “Guess I’ll have to hide these from my wife or she’ll think I’ve been in another fight.”
“Not a big fan of the job?” Tank was now bent double over the other leg.
“Not the job, not my partner, not my workouts.” Jack snickered as he flicked water from his hand. “Hell, she’s all but accused me of taking steroids. Sometimes I think I should juice myself to the hilt and see what she thinks of that. Hell, after running into those two steroid monsters the other day, I’m tempted to shoot up myself. I’ve never felt so fucking small before.”
Tank sat up, a thoughtful expression on his round face. “Well, if you ever were interested in trying something,” he ventured, “I could probably help you out.”
Jack sat silent for a moment, considering. “Probably not a good idea,” he decided, shaking his head. “The way things are in my life right now I don’t need to worry about ’roid rage and shit like that.”
Tank giggled, a rather surprising sound to come out of such a large body. “That’s been exaggerated and hyped up by everyone against performance enhancers. The ones that have problems with ’roid rage —” he crooked his fingers around the phrase “— are either the dummies taking way too much for too long or they were an asshole in the first place and just use the ’roids as a scapegoat.”
“Really?”
“Absolutely. Do I look like I have a problem with my temper?” Tank was back to resting his elbows on the floor between his splayed legs.
“Not like that, you don’t.”
“You take the right dosage of the right stuff and there’s no trouble. A lot of the morons juicing are buying shit from drug dealers and injecting themselves with stuff labelled ‘Veterinary Use Only.’”
“What’s it feel like to be on steroids?” Jack was interested. Not tempted, just curious.
Tank grinned. “Remember when you were eighteen, twenty? Work out all day, fuck all night, sleep for a couple of hours then get up and do it all over again? Like that. More energy, faster recuperation time. And having more energy, size and strength sure ain’t a bad thing on our job. Especially down here.”
“Hm. Sounds interesting but . . .”
“Hey, man. No pressure. Just offering.”
“Thanks, I appreciate it.” Jack also recognized the trust Tank was placing in him by having this discussion. He wasn’t sure how much shit it could cause Tank, but it would undoubtedly be enough to drown in.
“Good that you’re here too, Jack.” Detective Mason stood in the doorway leading to the men’s change room. “Tank, I need you up in the office with the rest of us. Jack, we’re going to be tied up for a couple of hours. Why don’t you and Jenny grab one of our cars and keep yourselves busy? Come back in around two and we’ll start the sweep.”
“Wanna buy some crack?” Jenny asked.
“Sure,” Jack agreed quickly. “Regent Park or somewhere else?”
“Let’s try the park.”
“The park it is.” Jack swung off Regent onto Dundas. They were driving the MCU’s old Ford Taurus and Jack squirmed in the seat. “No offense to Tank but it feels like I’m trying to sit in a bathtub.”
Jack parked on Oak Street and they cut across River Street to enter Regent Park. Despite the sweltering weather and the deserted walkways and lawns — anyone with half a brain was somewhere air-conditioned — Jack was confident they could find a dealer. Unlike cops, a dealer was always around when you wanted one.
It was just a matter of finding one and convincing him they weren’t cops.
When Jack had told Jenny the sweep was on hold, she had downgraded her look from crack whore to crackhead. Unfortunately, in Jack’s opinion. She’d had her shirt tied up again and the strings of a thong visible above low-riding jeans. A good look for a sweep but kind of hard — okay, impossible — to hide a gun. She’d lowered her shirt and swapped her heels for some runners.
Jenny shifted to Jack’s left side, touching his tattoo and sending a pleasant shiver running through him. Jack was wearing an old denim shirt with the sleeves cut off and the tattoo — an angry angel bearing a sword — was exposed to the light.
“‘Simon, Never Forgotten,’” Jenny read, quoting the banner under the angel. “That’s nice.”
As they strolled along, trying not to look like cops — Jenny may have been succeeding but Jack, with his regulation haircut, didn’t blend in so well — Jenny slipped her hand in his. He knew it was just for appearances but his stomach still did a quivering tumble.
“Are you okay, Jack? You’re trembling.”
“You have that effect on me, I guess,” he joked, silently begging his hand to stop its embarrassing shudder.
They wandered the stairwells, exchanging sun-seared heat for stale heat, gloomy and oppressive. They crossed from building to building, zigzagging through the park, never bothering to climb above the first floor; dealers tended to position themselves near as many escape routes as possible.
They came out of 259 Sumach Street and Jack gratefully sucked in a lungful of humid, polluted air. “Fuck! It stank like an outhouse in there.”
“A very old outhouse,” Jenny added. She plucked the front of her T-shirt from her belly and flapped it in the stagnant air. “I could use a drink.”
“Good idea. I think all the dealers are taking their afternoon siestas.”
Sweaty from the heat and irritated by the lack of success, they trudged up the sidewalk, heading for Gerrard Street and a convenience store.
“I say we grab a drink then head back to the car. Either there’s no dealers about or one of us is scaring them off,” Jack decided, casting an accusing eye at his partner.
“One of these things doesn’t belong,” Jenny chimed as she tossed her waist-length hair. “Me? Or Mister Clean-Cut and Muscle-Bound?”
Jack perked up. “You think I’m muscle-bound? Wait, is that good or bad?”
Before Jenny could answer, a shirtless man rod
e up beside them on a bicycle, his black skin glistening with sweat. He looked them over, his eyes lingering on Jenny.
He must have approved of them, because he asked, “You lookin’ to buy, mahn?”
“We’ve been looking all over,” Jack complained. “Ain’t no one selling.”
Their new friend flashed them a toothy grin, a gold incisor winking dully in the sun. “Ah seen you lookin’. Ah can help you, mahn. Deval —” he crooned the name, Deeee-vahl “— will take good care of you.”
Deval’s Jamaican accent was about as genuine as his gold tooth, but he could try to pass himself off as a Russian czar for all Jack cared. As long as he had some crack to sell.
Straddling the bike’s frame, Deval walked it onto the sidewalk. “Let’s take our biz’ness someplace private so Five-Oh don’t see us.”
The east side of Sumach below Gerrard was a short stretch of townhouses and Deval led them to a small corner at the north end. Bordered on two sides by brick walls, the patch of grass was shaded by an old maple tree. As they stepped off the sidewalk to the grass, Deval asked how much Jack was looking to buy.
“A forty piece,” Jack told him, rubbing a hand across his mouth. “I ain’t got much money.”
Deval shoved his hand down the front of his pants, then displayed a cluster of crack cocaine in the palm of his hand. The yellowed rocks were of different sizes but Jack estimated it to be about a hundred dollars’ worth.
“How ’bout more’n forty, mahn? A little more crack never hurt.”
Jack smiled. I can’t believe he just said that. I can’t wait to say that on the stand.
Deval interpreted Jack’s smile poorly and grinned in return.
They stepped into the shade of the tree where its thick trunk and low-hanging branches screened them from the traffic on Gerrard. Deval was still astride his bike and had unknowingly placed himself between a tree and a plainclothes cop. Jenny, like any good crackhead girlfriend, was hanging back while her man conducted business. She also happened to be between Deval and Sumach.