A Man's Partner: A Detective Jericho Single

by Walter Marks

  “Yeah, okay.”

  “If he’s alive, he can’t keep hidin’ forever. We’ll just wait the fucker out.”

  Jericho lay perfectly still as he heard their footsteps passing above him.

  Suddenly he felt a prickling sensation along his neck and then something scratching across his scalp. In a split second he knew it was a rat. Reflexively he let out a loud grunt.

  The rat was gone. But two flashlight beams lit him up as he cowered in his hiding place. He pulled out his Beretta.

  One of the men shouted at him. “Hand that piece up here, asshole. Or we’ll blow you away.”

  “Do it slow, dude.”

  Jericho knew he was out-gunned. He could maybe kill one of them, but the other would blast him to hell. He got up slowly and passed his gun up to the men on the platform.

  One of them grabbed it and said, “Okay, now get your ass up here.”

  He saw both gunmen were standing close to each other. Gotta chance it.

  Surreptitiously, he pulled his tactical flashlight from its holster. He placed his thumb over the control button.

  He clambered up onto the platform and stood there.

  One of the gunmen shouted at him. “Put your hands in the air!”

  Three taps, he remembered. Three taps to get to Strobe.

  One...two...THREE!

  The high-speed flickering, super-bright strobe popped on, flashing its coruscating light into the eyes of the gunmen. Suddenly they looked like two crazy dancers in a silent movie, gesturing in mad-cap spastic movements. Jericho kept the strobe going as they collapsed helplessly to the platform floor.

  He turned his flashlight to bright mode and began running towards the manhole ladder. After about ten seconds, he realized he’d forgotten to retrieve his gun. Too late now. Can’t go back.

  The Army-Navy salesman had said the disorienting strobe effect would only last for thirty seconds. Jericho had to get to the ladder and climb it before they recovered and started shooting.

  Legs pumping, heart pounding, he ran as hard as he could. He had to cover about forty yards. He was in the unlit section when he heard shots from behind him. A bullet whizzed by his head. Knowing he was an easy target, he cut off his flashlight.

  All he could do was crouch as low as possible and keep moving forward.

  More shots rang out, and he could hear the men shouting behind him.

  In the darkness he couldn’t see the ladder any more. He knew he’d have to access it from down on the subway tracks. But where?

  He moved to his left until he felt the edge of the platform. Here goes nothin’. He swung his body over it and dropped to the tracks.

  He was groping around for the ladder when the gunmen’s own flashlights lit it up for him.

  He rushed forward, grabbed the handrail, and climbed; practically flying up the ladder’s rungs. A sharp pain flared in his arm as a bullet grazed his left triceps. He ignored it.

  A cool night breeze blew across his face when he emerged from the manhole and stood up. Breathlessly, he bent over and shoved the heavy cover, hard. It clanged back into place.

  He got in his car and started the engine. When he turned on his headlights, he saw the manhole cover directly in front of him. It was starting to move. He saw two hands pushing up on the thick metal disk. As it began to rise, Jericho put the car in gear and drove forward till his front wheel was directly over the manhole cover. The weight of the car slammed the cover back down.

  He could hear the angry curses of the men on the ladder below. Then there was the sound of muffled gunshots, and bullets clanging fecklessly against the thick cast iron cover.

  He kept the car there for a few minutes, till he was sure the two gunmen had given up and left.

  Then, with a sigh of relief, he stepped on the gas and headed back to Manhattan.

  As he drove, several thoughts ran through his mind:

  1) This Mexican drug trade was clearly the object of Mouse’s investigation. How much he’d learned, I may never know. But I’ve got enough now to blow the lid off this whole operation.

  2) I know from what the guards said that Mouse was captured down in the subway tunnel. Once he was in El Picador’s hands, the gang boss would’ve had the opportunity and leverage to force Mouse to write the suicide note and kill himself. But do I have any proof? No.

  3) The Koreans? Still a question mark.

  4) I wish I had my gun.

  CHAPTER 20.

  It was almost seven in the morning when Jericho got back to his hotel room. He was exhausted.

  His upper arm, where the bullet grazed him, had started aching a little on the drive home.

  He took off his jacket and saw a small rip near the shoulder. He pulled up his shirt sleeve, which had a bloody stain, and examined the skin under it. It wasn’t much — just a ragged abrasion and some clotted blood. He’d deal with it later.

  He kicked off his shoes and flopped down on the bed. His clothes were muddy and he knew he should take them off. But weariness overcame him.

  I’ll just lie down on the bedspread for a few minutes, then get undressed and take a shower...

  He closed his eyes. His mind drifted.

  ...I bet the Mexicans use those Bella Beauty Supply trucks to distribute their product.

  So what was the BBS truck unloading at the Happy Day Nail Spa? Narcotics? That hardly seems like a place where illicit drugs are sold.

  Then what was in those cartons…?

  Jericho’s random thoughts faded away.

  He fell into a long, deep sleep. He woke up once and looked at his watch. It read 1:05. My God, it’s afternoon. Oh well, just another hour or so. I need the sleep.

  The darkness closed in on him again.

  He dreamed...

  He was back in the Korean deli, holding the switchblade knife to the gang-banger’s throat.

  He pricked his neck skin with the point of the knife, and then took it away. “All right, cabrón. You can get up now.”

  “Thank you...thank you...”

  “What’s your name?”

  “...Cristóbal.”

  “Cristóbal. You were named after Christ? ... Well you better start living up to your name.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Before you go, I want to give you a little reminder.”

  “Okay.”

  He slapped the guy forehand and backhand three times, with all the force he could muster.

  Cristóbal lunged at him and grabbed his Beretta from his shoulder holster.

  He felt the cold, hard metal pressing against his temple.

  “It’s my turn now, cabrón.”

  Fear froze him.

  “It’s my turn now, cabrón.”

  He woke with a start.

  This was no dream. The words were real. The gun against his head was real. “You like how it feels, pendejo?” Cristóbal said.

  Someone else spoke. “Good afternoon, Detective Gooden.”

  Jericho saw a short, wiry, nattily dressed man sitting on one of the room’s wooden chairs. He had slicked-back gray hair, a pencil-thin mustache, and a glass eye that stared straight ahead, no matter where he was looking.

  “I advise you to play nice with my nephew,” the man said. “Cristóbal’s a bit of a loose cannon — he might get trigger-happy. So just sit up slowly and hand him your wallet and cell phone.”

  There was a forced eloquence to the man’s speech, but it was still tinged with the accent of El Barrio.

  Jericho reached into his jeans pocket and gave the punk his wallet. “Cellphone’s in my jacket on the chair.”

  “Bring ‘em both over here, Chris.”

  Cristóbal complied.

  When the man opened Jericho’s wallet, he saw his gold shield.

  “Ah, Detective...Jericho!” he said. “You registered with a phony name. Undercover, huh.”

  Jericho said nothing.

  “EHTPD? What the hell’s that?”

  “East Hampton Police.”

&n
bsp; “East Hampton. What are you doing in Manhattan?”

  “Catchin’ a few Broadway shows.”

  “I’ll bet.”

  “Who the hell are you?” Jericho asked.

  “Oh, forgive my manners. I am Edgardo Dionisio Zambada, AKA...El Picador.”

  “My uncle’s a good guy,” Cristóbal said, grinding the gun barrel into Jericho’s head. “Except when somebody messes with him. Like you did last night.”

  “Quite true,” Zambada said. “That subway station’s my pride and joy. I discovered it and I set it up, and I don’t take kindly to anybody who tries to fuck with it.”

  “I didn’t...”

  “Puh-leeze, Detective,” Zambada said. ”One of my Korean associates told me some guy was nosing around their manicure joint — asking for that snitch Rosie. So it had to be a cop.”

  “Okay, I was there. But I was getting my nails done. I like to be neat.”

  “You like to be neat? Well, Mister Clean — I see you went to sleep in a very messy bloodstained shirt,” Zambada said. ”Which proves you were down in my storehouse last night — the bullets were flying and obviously one of ‘em nicked you.”

  “I cut myself shaving…my armpits.”

  “You’re a cool customer,” Zambada said. “I’ll give you that.”

  He called out to his nephew. “Hand me the gun,” he said. “And keep the detective covered while you do.”

  Cristóbal complied. Jericho could see the pistol had a silencer on it. He also saw the punk was wearing a backpack.

  “All right, Detective,” Zambada said, now holding the gun. “Come over here and sit on this chair.”

  Jericho got up and sat down, facing the gang boss.

  Zambada issued him an order. “Take off your shirt!”

  Jericho didn’t move.

  “Take it off, or I’ll shoot you right now.”

  “You gonna give me the same treatment you gave Rosario Sanchez?”

  Zambada grinned proudly. “I guess you’ve seen my work.”

  Jericho looked at him intensely. This may be my last chance to ask this question.

  “Would you at least let me commit suicide — like you did with Mickey Davis? I promise I’ll write a very convincing suicide note.”

  Zambada looked surprised. “You know I did that?”

  At last — I know for sure.

  “Yes,” Jericho said. “Mouse would never kill himself voluntarily.”

  “Who the hell is Mouse?”

  “That’s what I called my ex-partner.”

  “Mickey Mouse. Cute.”

  “But why did you make him commit suicide. Why didn’t you just…kill him.”

  “I guess as a detective, you can’t help asking questions.” Zambada said. “Ah well, since you’ll soon be a member of the Mickey Mouse Club yourself, I’ll be glad to give you an answer.”

  He smirked before continuing. “As a detective, you certainly know the killing of an NYPD police officer would set off a major investigation— special task force, all kinds of raids, arrests, and so forth. That would be, to say the least, problematic for my organization.”

  Jericho nodded. “So let me guess — you forced Mouse to write the note and shoot himself by threatening his family with torture and death.”

  “Exactly. He knew my reputation for inflicting pain. Faced with that, he simply had no choice,” Zambada said, “And even after he died, we’d be assured that any evidence he had against us would never surface.”

  “You sure do think of everything.”

  “I try,” Zambada said. “Now enough with the Twenty Questions…”

  “One more,” Jericho said. “What have you got to do with the Koreans?”

  “They launder our cash,” the boss said. “Now take off your shirt, or I’ll have Cristóbal rip it off for you.”

  Jericho reluctantly did as he was told. When his torso was finally bare, he felt more naked than he’d ever felt in his life.

  Meanwhile, Zambada had removed the backpack from his nephew and taken out a roll of duct tape and an icepick.

  “You’re not NYPD, so — no suicide for you,” he said to Jericho. “I’ll poke a few holes in your body, tickle some bones, then you’ll just be…disposed of. In the Hamptons they’ll figure you ran off and got a job doin’ security work for some mega-mogul.”

  Jericho shuddered when he saw the icepick. But a plan was forming in his mind. Maybe I can get out of this, but it’s gonna be tricky.

  Zambada handed the duct tape to his nephew. “Tape him, Chris.”

  “Hold it,” Jericho said, playing for time. “Don’t you wanna know how I found out about your subway station?”

  “I’ll venture a guess,” Zambada said. ”Rosie Sanchez told you.”

  “You’d make a good detective yourself.”

  “I don’t care for the pay-scale.”

  I’ve gotta get them focused on each other, instead of me.

  I’m gonna wing it.

  “I bet you don’t know who ratted you out,” Jericho said to Zambada. “Who do you think tipped off Rosie about your 76th Street subway station?”

  “Who?”

  Jericho paused before he spoke.

  “Your nephew, Cristóbal!”

  The punk yelled at his uncle. “That’s bullshit!”

  “Rosie told me,” Jericho said. “Your nephew came to him and said for five hundred bucks, he’d give him something big.”

  “He’s lyin’!”

  “Rosie paid him the money and Cristóbal told him all about your underground storehouse. He even sent Rosie an online picture of the place, to prove it existed.“

  “He’s fulla shit!”

  “And Rosie sent the picture to me. I have it on my cell phone.”

  “That proves nothin’. I’d never sell out my uncle!”

  “But you did,” Jericho shouted. “Cristóbal needs money all the time — to support his heroin habit.”

  Cristóbal ripped a piece of duct tape off the spool. “Lemme tape up this fucker’s mouth before he comes out with any more crap.”

  “Fine,” Zambada said. “But then we’re gonna have a little talk. Lately I have been noticing that wasted look on your face…”

  “Check out his eyes,” Jericho said. “His pupils are like pin holes!”

  Zambada looked at his nephew’s eyes and nodded. “God damn it. Chris! You know our rules — We sell it. We don’t do it!”

  “C’mon, Unk. I don’t...”

  “Jesus Christ,” Zambada shouted. “If I didn’t promise your dear mother I’d always take care of you, I’d dump you right now, you dumb asshole.”

  “Dumb?” Cristóbal said. “Was I dumb when I followed this dick-head to his hotel, after he beat up on me? Was I dumb when I got his name and room-number outta the chick at the front desk?”

  Jericho cut in. “Did he tell you I slapped him around because I caught him robbing a

  deli — to get money for drugs?”

  Zambada glared at his nephew. “I pay you good,” he said. “But not enough to pay for a smack habit.”

  Now’s my chance. Jericho sneaked his right hand behind him, feeling for the back pocket of his jeans.

  “I swear on Mama’s life — I ain’t no...”

  “We’ll straighten that out later,” Zambada cut in. “Now tape him up; mouth, arms, legs — the whole deal.”

  “Don’t worry. I got this.”

  As Cristóbal approached him, Jericho’s hand was in his back pocket, gripping what he’d carried there all this time — the 4” switchblade knife.

  Jericho launched into a hysterical, screaming fit. “Please...please. I’m begging you. Don’t hurt me. I’ll do anything. Oh, God...please don’t do this. I don’t wanna die!”

  All this was to cover the sound made by the automatic knife as Jericho flicked it open, exposing the razor sharp blade.

  Cristóbal was in front of him, holding the piece of duct tape in two hands. “Them’s the last words you’ll ever
say, hijo de puta.”

  He leaned over the detective, bringing the tape towards his mouth.

  Jericho leaped up, grabbed him and spun him around till he was facing Zambada. In a few seconds, he had the punk by the waist, the switchblade at his throat.

  “Drop the gun or your nephew gets it.”

  “Please, Unk.

  “I mean it.”

  “You call that a threat, Detective? I’d just as soon shoot him as not.”

  “Maybe. But he’s family.

  “Sure. But he turned out to be a piece of shit.”

  “Still,” Jericho said. “You made a promise...”

  “Por favor, Tio,” Cristóbal cried out. “A sacred promise. You swore to your sister.”

  “If I shoot him, you’ve got no leverage,” Zambada said to Jericho. “You’re a dead man.”

  “I’ll count to three,” Jericho said. “If you don’t drop your gun I’ll cut his throat.”

  “Unk! I’m beggin’ you...”

  “One...two...”

  “Three,” Zambada said. He fired three shots. The silencer muffled the sound as the bullets tore into Cristóbal’s chest.

  Jericho rushed at Zambada, using his nephew’s body as a human shield. He barreled into the gang boss, knocking him backwards. The gun flew out of Zambada’s hand as he tumbled to the floor.

  Jericho shoved Cristóbal to the side. Meanwhile Zambada had gotten up — holding his icepick. He lunged at Jericho.

  Jericho backed up, brandishing his switchblade.

  It was mano a mano.

  Jericho thought it wouldn’t be a fair fight. He was younger, stronger, and quicker.

  But as Zambada crouched and began to make flashy moves with his icepick, Jericho realized he was facing an experienced street fighter.

  The gang boss began shifting his weapon from hand to hand, taunting Jericho.

  “They call me El Picador for a reason,” Zambada said, grinning. “You think you can take me?”

  He charged at Jericho, making quick jabs with the icepick. Jericho had to bob and weave to avoid being cut.

  The detective slashed back at his adversary. Zambada retreated and made a showy, whirling move — a 360 that landed him right back in front of Jericho.

  Shit! Jericho thought. He’s got the advantage. I know nothing about knife-fighting.

  The switchblade felt alien in his hand.