Dead Birmingham

by Timothy C. Phillips

  Broom sat down and produced an envelope. “You know these guys?”

  Ganato opened the envelope and looked at the pictures, suppressed a shudder, and slid the envelope back.

  “Broom, really, what is this? I don’t know those kids. You know what it looks like to me? Looks like they crossed somebody bad, someone dangerous.”

  “Someone like you, maybe, big G?”

  Ganato smiled. Much more a diplomat that gangsters of an earlier time, he was seldom ruffled, and he was, likewise, consummately polite. He was a thin and handsome man. The newspapers loved him, and all but celebrated whenever he beat the latest suite of charges leveled against him. Broom hated him, because a crook was a crook, and a cop was a cop, and one day the latter had to run the former to ground. But he could play nice, too.

  “Sorry, Detective Broom, but this unpleasant business has nothing to do with me. What good does it do me to have two teenagers harmed? You’re wasting your time if you’re trying to pin this on me. Go over to the North Side and hassle the Crips. Or maybe our Scotch-Irish friend, across the river.”

  Broom leaned forward. “It isn’t like we’d be talking it over like old chums if you were behind all this, is it? But, to tell you the truth, I believe you. You see, I think this is outside work. Not Lonny O’Malley’s boys, and definitely not the gangbangers, either. They’d both just shoot whoever pissed them off, and to hell with it. I came here because you are the guy in the know. Maybe I’m wondering if you’ve heard of any, let’s say, strangers in town.”

  Ganato gave Broom a flat stare. He was probably trying to figure out if this was some sort of sting operation, Broom figured. At last, he made some sort of determination that it was not, and said, cautiously, “I can assure you, I haven’t heard anything, Detective Broom. Things are quiet around here lately. Too much police activity.” He smiled and the two gunsels laughed obediently.

  Broom shrugged. “Somebody is out there, not playing by the rules. And theyh’re playing on your turf, Ganato, here in the Zone. I thought maybe you’d want to know, seeing as how you run things in this part of town.”

  Don Ganato offered up another wan smile. “The Zone. Quaint. I haven’t heard my little neighborhood called that in a while. Like I say, though, things are very quiet as of late.”

  “Maybe you’re losing your touch, Ganato. Maybe some younger talent’s got an eye on your corner booth here in the Manonera.”

  “Perhaps. If someone does, he would not be the first. In any case, I am a cautious man. Maybe I need to talk to this person, let them know I conduct business here, and don’t want any trouble.”

  “About that. I also wanted you to know that if you did happen across this person, I’m looking for him, and want him in one piece. I’d hate if you and me came to cross purposes. Understand?”

  “You have made yourself very clear. Sounds personal, Detective Broom.”

  Broom rose, and picked up the envelope. “Somebody is out there killing kids in my city.” His eyes met Ganato’s, and after a moment, the mobster blinked and looked away.

  “Yeah, you could call it that. Personal.”

  Chapter 9

  Broom found McMahon hunched over a table, poring over a stack of computer printouts.

  “Doing your homework, Mack?”

  “You bet. Jesus, Mary and Joseph, Broom. I have three months of police reports logged here. What exactly am I supposed to be looking for, the Brinks job?”

  “Like I said, something small that smacks of the pro. A group of kids who got away with something. One of them needs to fit Mueller’s description. These kids are small time as far as the dollar value of their heists, but they will probably seem practiced. This Mueller kid had quite a rap sheet. The fact that none of his arrests were recent seem to suggest he’s gotten better, maybe fallen in with some other young thieves who know the ropes. They’ll have priors, too. With any luck, they might have gotten popped as a group before. I’m thinking this time they might have gotten away with something . . . worthwhile.”

  “Ah. Do we know what this ‘something’ is?”

  Broom shrugged. “We do not. My hunch is, it must be something pretty valuable, though.”

  “Well, so far the closest I’ve come to that is a bunch of junior-high kids who pilfered the produce section of a supermarket over on Liberty Parkway.”

  “Nah. We’re talking at least four kids, maybe more, maybe college-age kids. And nothing that looks like an impulse grab. Whatever else these kids are, they aren’t first-timers. They’re living a sketchy life, but they know what they’re doing. They’ve picked up stuff they can move. Something that pays. I’m thinking that the owner would have made a stink about it.”

  “So what if he didn’t?”

  “We’re looking for patterns, Mack. Mueller had priors on his own. I think he must have fallen in with a pack of ‘experts’—or like-minded kids, anyway. They will have histories of their own, some of them at least, and therefore they will also have priors. I’ll bet we’ll find a report, or reports, from one precinct in this batch of stuff, which may indicate to us what area of the city they operate in the most often. When we find it, it’s going to stick out like a sore thumb.”

  Broom picked up some of the printouts and started browsing. There were about fifty entries per page. Birmingham was a big town, with many outlying communities adding to its sprawl. Fairfield. Ensley. Bessemer, Leeds . . . and others besides; a lot of things got stolen every day. He looked at the stack in front of him. It was as thick as a small town phone book.

  “You were right, Mack. This is going to take a while.”

  “Imagine the poor guys that have to wade through this stuff on a regular basis,” Mack said.

  Broom smiled. “I hear they’ve got a guy over in the basement of the East Precinct who does nothing but that.”

  He pulled up a chair and sat down. He set his jaw in grim determination.

  It’s in there, somewhere. It has to be.

  Chapter 10

  Excerpt from Scott Anthony LaRue’s unpublished manuscript, Shoplifting in the 21st Century: Boosting for Fun and Profit:

  The easiest score is the big store. That is, it is simple to lift small items and get away with it in a crowded, busy mall, or department store. But it is extremely difficult to lift anything major. It is a rule that the smaller the store, the larger and more valuable items you can get away with. This rule makes the medium-sized store the most profitable for the professional Booster. The drug store is the favorite of these, because the items stolen there are easily pocketed, and also easy to get rid of. Second is the electronics store, for these same reasons.

  * * *

  Broom and Mack were still squatting over the stacks of printouts an hour later, periodically rubbing their eyes and stretching and massaging their necks, when I called in.

  Broom picked the phone up on the first ring.

  “Broom.”

  “Hi Broom, what’s shaking.” I tried to sound rosy; I don’t think I pulled it off.

  “Roland Longville. I’ll be damned. How’s it hanging there, buddy?”

  I had been Broom’s partner until I left the force, after I encountered some trouble with the bottle. He had stood by me through those troubles, and many more that had come afterward. We had remained friends with the iron bond that only dealing with death and mayhem on a daily basis can forge between two people.

  “How busy are you?” I said.

  “Working on a case, and it’s a strange one, too. Sort of reminds me of some of the cases we used to get when you still carried a badge. Mack and me are giving it the old college try, but we’re kind of stalled on it right now.”

  “Well, then, Les, I’ll get right to the point, so as not to keep you. I hate to ask, but I might need a little favor.”

  “How little?”

  “I just need you to tell me what you can about a petty theft report.”

  “Theft?” Broom must have smiled at the printout in his hand. “Sure. What kind?�
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  “Shoplifting.”

  There was a long pause.

  “Broom? You still there?”

  “Did you say shoplifting?”

  “Yes. I know it’s small time, but I need to try to get a fix on a group of young kids who might have stolen something really valuable.”

  Again, there was a long pause.

  “Les? You still there?” I asked the silent line.

  “I’m still here, Roland. Now tell me about this group of kids you’re looking for. And please, go very, very slowly.”

  Chapter 11

  Excerpt from Scott Anthony LaRue’s unpublished manuscript, Shoplifting in the 21st Century: Boosting for Fun and Profit:

  We are young, and this world belongs to us. You past generations had your chance with it. It is obvious to all what a mess you made of it. Yes, the world is full of great buildings, but look at all the homeless that cower beneath them. There are great highways, great cities, marvels of engineering and planning. But is the plight of the little man any better than it was ages ago? The older generations will tell you they have given him freedom, but I say to you that the poor have the illusion of freedom, that the powerless are held down by far stronger chains than slavery. The few have it all, the many, nothing. The poor owe it to themselves to get back as much as they can, any way that they can.

  * * *

  Angel had met Scott in college, and immediately fallen under his spell. They were different, but the kind of different that compliments. They had never had an argument. They were one of those rare couples that intuit each other’s thinking, each other’s motivations, and each other’s pain. When she met him, she felt as though she’d known him her entire life; he felt the same toward her.

  They had moved in together after one semester of dating, and that had also been their last semester in school. Part of loving Scott had been accepting his strange manifesto, the unique, underground code by which he lived. It also meant that Angel had to adopt its tenants herself.

  Not that she had minded. She had always been the type of person who found rules confining. For her, most of society was an oppressive organization against which the only sane reaction was rebellion. She had disliked college for the same reason. Scott had introduced her to the others. Some of them had already joined his cause, dropouts from other universities and junior colleges. They had quickly formed an ersatz family, and had begun their strange cohabitation, and their meandering journey across the underbelly of society.

  Scott had taught them that modern society was all a lie, that it was just a host of phantom images sold to the people by the big corporations, that none of it really mattered; that what mattered was you got yourself born and learned the real deal as quickly as possible and didn’t buy into any of the corporate bullshit, because the corporations wanted to enslave humankind by having them live half their lives earning and the other half buying, and sooner or later the corporations would all be one big corporation, and they would own mankind, buy and sell his breed and kill him as it suited their soulless purpose. Scott was their prophet.

  She reached out for him in the dark.

  “Scott.”

  “I’m here. Baby.”

  “I’m scared.”

  “Everything’s all right,” he answered back. They kept their voices low, whispering together in their small secret part of the darkness.

  “Where’s Mule? Why haven’t we heard from him?”

  “Maybe he went back to school, or he’s at his folks.” He felt a tightness in his chest when he said those words to her. He loved her, and he wasn’t being straight. But, he reminded himself, he had his reasons.

  “I don’t know. Surely he would have told us, Scott. I’m worried that he’s in jail.”

  “Babe, if he is, his folks will get a call. They’ll get him out, they have before. He might have to stay with them for a while, if his old man puts up bail. That might have happened, and it might be a while before we hear from him. You know that. But we don’t know that’s what’s going on. We have to be patient.”

  “Well . . . I can’t help it. What if something else happened?”

  “Mule’s too smart for that, Angel. The most that happened is he got nabbed.”

  “I wish we could be sure. I have . . . I don’t want you to laugh . . . I have a bad feeling.”

  “Well, I’m sure. If he has to cool his heels for a few days, those parents of his are loaded. They’ll get him out after they think he’s learned his lesson. Don’t worry. Just sleep. It’ll be all right.”

  Angel hugged him, and he could tell now that she was reassured, somewhat at least.

  Scott LaRue lay beside the girl until her felt her breathing deepen and grow more regular. Then, he rose and went and looked out over the night city, the downtown streets all seemingly vacant at this hour, the city sleeping like a giant corpse beneath them all, he and his friends, a vast mausoleum in which they were the only youthful vital spark.

  He knew that something, in all likelihood, had happened to Mule. He didn’t like lying, most of all to Angel, but . . . something was wrong. He just didn’t know what to do about it yet. Taking the utmost caution, he walked quietly across the dark room and retrieved a flashlight from his backpack, which he had carefully placed in a corner where light fell at night. The key should have been his by now . . . what could have happened?

  When he reached it, he stepped silently out into the hall, and made his way to his hiding place. Scott LaRue peered cautiously around in the darkness. He peeled aside wallpaper from the secret recess that he had made in the wall of the ruined hotel suite. Then he reached in and lifted a hefty object from the hole. It was wrapped in old newspaper He removed the paper, and ran his hands lightly over the object. His eyes were wide with awe. It was a blocky box, almost a foot long on the sides, and nine or so inches deep. It was made of red wood, embossed in brass and gold. An ornate bird dominated the lid, its chest a shield of many colors. A coat of arms from centuries past, he reasoned. Underneath it was inscribed a name; Medici.

  He shifted the box slightly, felt the heavy weight of something inside.

  What’s inside you?

  Scott examined the hasp of the box. There was an ingenious brass lock, set into it centuries ago by some long-dead craftsman. Through tiny greaves in the face of the lock, springs and catches tantalizingly showed through. It looked more like a complex clockwork than a modern, conventional lock of tumblers and springs. It was a piece of art, more than a security mechanism. But it was a lock, and Scott could not bring himself to smash the lock or break the box.

  The lock itself might be the work of some craftsman that was worth thousands to someone, perhaps much more. Scott didn’t dare touch it. One single intrusion, one single broken spring, and . . . the lock was a dilemma to Scott. What if what was inside was relatively worthless? He risked ruining the box, which was, itself, undoubtedly valuable, for contents that might not be worth very much in comparison. Then his treasure would be worthless. He frowned.

  His instincts told him that whatever someone had put into such a valuable container had to also be valuable. More than likely, he sensed, the contents had been placed in the box not long after its manufacture. And this was a problem, because every fiber of his being told him that this was it, the big score, and he had violated his own code, his cardinal rule. He had acted alone and hadn’t told the others. He wondered at his own actions. But what if it made them all rich? Was it worth it, then, to break your own biggest rule?

  Scott remembered how it had all gone down. After they had taken the old man’s shop down, everyone had run in different directions, per their standard operating procedure. The old man had run after one of the others. He had simply squatted down behind a heaped table and waited a second or two, and this was because he had seen something the rest of them hadn’t. When they had come into the store, he had glimpsed the old man, in an office in the back, set something down from his desk onto the floor, with the shaky haste of the old.

&n
bsp; When the others had run out, he had run back to the office and snatched it up, his thief’s instincts not even allowing him a look until he was safely blocks away, squatting behind a dumpster, almost out of breath from running with such a heavy burden. And hoo, boy, had he been right. But now what to do? He slowly rewrapped the box, and slid it back into its hiding place.

  I’m no lock-picker; I’ll just break the damned thing, and then maybe it won’t be worth so much. I’ve got an idea, though, that just might work.

  Scott carefully restored the wallpaper to its former place, and smoothed it over until there was apparently nothing amiss with the wall. As for the dilemma of the box, there had been one obvious solution. The old man had the box, and he therefore would have the key. No doubt, it was still somewhere in the office, and perhaps not so well guarded since now the thing of principal value, the box itself, was gone. The matter was settled. The little old man still had the key. I’ll just have to return to that little shop, and relieve him of it. But not tonight. I’ll make sure the time is right, and then I’ll make my move.

  * * *

  A few days passed while Scott waited for that “right time” to make his move. But Fate intervened—as Fate occasionally does. On the night Scott chose, when he thought all the other kids were asleep, Mule surprised him.

  “Whoa, Scott, what’re you doing? In the dark, I almost walked right over you.”

  And then Mule had produced a light, a small key chain light, and he had given Scott and the box a quick scan. Not much, but just enough that he wanted details. Scott had no choice but to spill the whole story to him. Mule had listened, a bemused smile on his freckled face, because he no doubt realized Scott had broken every rule that he ever had set down for the rest of them.

  In the end, to buy his silence, Scott had turned the quest for the key over to Mule. Mule had left in the wee hours of the next morning to hunt for the key to the box. Only Scott had known that he was going, and only Scott had known where. That secret, too, he now kept from the others. But now he was worried. He was also stuck with an antique box he couldn’t risk opening. What to do?