ON THE BEAT
by James Vachowski
CONTENTS
THURSDAY
1.
2.
3.
FRIDAY
4.
5.
6.
SATURDAY
7.
8.
MONDAY
9.
10.
The night was quiet. The lack of street noise was an oddity in the downtown peninsula, even for a Wednesday evening. The middle of the work week usually saw all the young professionals coming out in force, shedding their mundane, white-collar office jobs in exchange for the much more alluring nightlife of the Holy City. Just a few blocks to the north, deep, bumping bass music echoed from behind the brick facades of late-night bars which lined both sides of Market Street. Here, though, in the gas-lit cobblestone streets that marked the boundaries of the more upscale and reserved French Quarter, the shouts of faraway revelers were mere echoes carried along on the still night air.
The businessman paused beneath a streetlight, stopping just long enough to look down at his watch. After confirming that the Rolex showed midnight exactly, he took a quick glance at the nearest street sign to confirm his location. He’d been to this same meeting place at least a dozen times before, and the man moved with a purpose as he set off down Unity Alley. Conscious of the immaculate shine on his wingtip shoes, the man’s careful steps made irregular tapping sounds as he picked his way down the narrow path of uneven cobblestones. The awkward noises mushroomed within the tight space, creating an eerie soundtrack that would have made any other man look back over his shoulder. This man, however, was oddly at ease, and the only discomfort he felt came from the heavy briefcase he carried in a manicured hand.
Just ahead, a screen door opened as a young black man stepped out into the alley. The kid wore a pressed set of chef’s whites which seemed even brighter in contrast to his dark skin. Behind him, the reckless clatter of pots and pans told that a full kitchen cleanup was in progress. Now that the late diners had yielded their tables to the bar crowd, most of the kitchen staff were rushing to end their shifts and salvage one last hour at the bars themselves before closing time.
The chef’s hands were sweaty, so he politely gave them a quick wipe on his pants before offering one as a greeting. “Right on time, as always.”
The man in the business suit shook it without hesitation. His handshake was a strong one, a practiced gesture that was finely tuned from the countless years spent in fraternity halls and corporate boardrooms. “Punctuality is the backbone of any successful endeavor.” After releasing his grip, he held the briefcase out with both hands.
The chef took possession of the battered leather case with a single, fluid motion. He set it down gently atop the lid of a plastic garbage can, then slid the clasps sideways using his thumbs. His hands were smooth and youthful, and although the kid moved with all the grace of a natural athlete his job had caused his palms to become covered with layers of telltale calluses. “You said it’s just three tonight, right?”
A nod. “Just three, but I should have another set available by Friday. I can drop back by then if you’re on the schedule.”
The young man nodded as he examined his purchase. Inside the briefcase was a series of thick, heavy rectangles, each identically wrapped in layers of clear packing tape. He gave one of the packages a quick squeeze, judging the finely packed powder within. “If you can, could you call me when you’re on the way? We’re always a little busier on the weekends so the kitchen will be full, and believe it or not there’s still a few people here who ain’t on the program. It might even be better to meet somewhere close by, if that’s not too much trouble for you.”
His partner gave a quick shrug of his shoulders, a slight movement that was accented by the contours of his tailored suit jacket. “Whatever works for you, Antoine. Just let me know.” He stretched up on his toes and craned his neck in order to peer inside the bustling kitchen. “Wow, the dining room must have been packed, and on a Wednesday! What do you need a side business for, anyway? A hard-working young man like you is probably making a killing on tips alone!”
Antoine, just as relaxed, allowed himself a laugh. “Have you seen the price of tuition lately? Culinary school ain’t gone’ be cheap, even at Trident Tech, and I sure as shit cain’t open my own restaurant if I’m buried beneath a big pile o’ student loans. Miss a single payment on one of those and you’re fucked for life. This little hustle we got? I’m just gettin’ me some seed money together. Just a small part of my long-term strategy.”
The businessman smiled at the initiative on display before him. “Good for you, Antoine. Good for you. Who says kids today don’t have any ambition? Keep this up and who knows? In a couple more years, you’ll probably be running your own kitchen down on Broad Street.”
Antoine smiled again. “Sho’ nuff, Mr. Regan. But I tell you what, you keep bringing me this kind of quality powder and the sky’s the limit. In a few more years I just might own the whole of Broad Street!” With a quick glance back over his shoulder, he snapped the briefcase shut and kneeled down to slide the contraband underneath an open dumpster.
Mr. Regan, or Duke to his friends, cocked an eyebrow at the apparent lack of concern for security, but he quickly pushed the thought from his mind. In all likelihood, most of the kitchen staff was also moonlighting as Antoine’s distribution network. Any concern Duke had for the safety of the cocaine disappeared an instant, just as soon as Antoine pulled a thick white bank envelope from his waistband and handed it over. Duke measured the thickness of the package with two fingers and estimated it to be fifty thousand dollars, give or take. That would have been full payment for the three kilos that he’d just delivered, plus a standard advance on their agreement for three more. There was no need to make a show of counting the money since Antoine was a good kid, one who possessed a personality that was both hardworking and trustworthy. Duke finally allowed himself a smile, enjoying the flush of success that came with any successful joint venture. No matter if it was selling real estate, exchange-traded funds or narcotics, good business was good business.
Antoine grinned back at him. His lower jaw held a pair of gold fillings that flashed in the streetlight, betraying his less-cultured upbringing. “There’s a down payment on the next load in there, and I’ll have the rest when I see you.” Antoine sucked at his teeth for a quick moment as if a thought had suddenly occurred to him. “Say, you know when you gone’ be bringing the wife by again? We’ got to put together the wine order tomorrow, so lemme know if you want something special!”
Duke smiled again. The tension had passed, and now they were just two old friends outside a restaurant, having an innocent discussion about the merits of fine wines. “Nothing off the top of my head, but be sure to save me at least one or two bottles of whatever you recommend. The anniversary’s next month, and you know we’ll be here for that.” He reached out to shake hands once again. “Antoine, you’re a lifesaver, you know that? I just don’t know where I’d ever be without you, son. Oh, and say! Don’t forget about that little side project of ours. Tomorrow night, after closing time?”
Antoine grasped Duke’s hand again and grinned, flashing his gold teeth one last time. “You know I got that covered, sir! Shit, some of my guys would’ve been happy to do that work for free, but I gave ‘em each a hunnert bucks anyway. I guarantee you, that job’s going to get done and done right!”
THURSDAY
1.
Well, it’s official. It took me a few years to catch on, which is probably a whole lot longer than
it should have, but I’ve finally come to the conclusion that I just don’t like getting out of bed. And when I say that I don’t like it, I mean I absolutely hate it. No matter what time of day it is, even on those rare occasions when I get to sleep in, waking up just seems to be a completely unenjoyable activity for me. Throughout my life, even going as far back as kindergarten, I’ve always had trouble dragging my big white ass up and out of the rack. Things got even worse once I graduated high school and had to get a real job working construction, since all the foremen would want a guy on site before the sun even came up! It was always so tough to get moving for work when there were just so many more, not to mention better, reasons for staying in bed. During the hot summer months, my sheets always feel so nice and cool after a night with that ceiling fan running on high. In the wintertime, my warm flannel comforter is definitely more preferable to putting on long pants and a jacket. But on that particular Thursday morning, I was filled with a particular sense of dread since my head was still pounding from all the booze I’d put down the night before. I knew from painful experience that the entire room was sure to start spinning the very second my feet hit the floor.
In the end, I decided to just lie there in a holding pattern for hours, staring up at the fan as it wobbled along in a weak rotation above my head. I did my best not to look over at the alarm clock, but I could still discern the time from the angle of sunlight coming in through the blinds. It must have been well past noon, and probably closer to three o’ clock. But finally, once the clouds in my head had begun to part and I just couldn’t think of a reason to stay down any longer, I flung my legs up and over the side of the bed. The rest of my body followed suit, shocking me into an upright position just as my toes hit the carpet. It was a risky, acrobatic maneuver, but my plan was to attack the day before my brain could kick in and order my body back into the sack.
I braced myself for the pain that normally comes hand in hand with getting out of bed, but was caught off guard as a blinding flash of color warped my vision. Waves of pain shot up my leg, stinging as if a firecracker had gone off next to my big toe! I lost my balance and careened hard into the wall, grabbing at my foot and falling to the carpet before coming to rest in a curled-up fetal position. The aching took a few long moments to subside, and I passed the time by trying to hold back my tears. Finally, once the hazy red cloud had cleared just enough for me to see straight, I looked out across the shag carpet to see what had bitten me. The culprit was lying right there in front of my face, a thick slab of varnished maple that was sticking out ever so slightly from beneath my bed. Even lying horizontally, I could clearly make out the big block letters that had been engraved into a shiny bronze plate atop the plaque: “Private First Class Michael Larsen: Police Officer of the Year, 2005.” I let out a grunt of disgust and gave the plaque a hard kick with my heel, sending it back amongst the dust bunnies and potato chip crumbs where it belonged. That damned award had been causing me nothing but trouble for over four months but honestly, I guess it was my own fault for not being smart enough to keep a low profile.
I found it only slightly easier to pick myself up off of the hard floor than it had been to rise from my comfortable mattress. After one last, long pause to catch my breath, I made a quick beeline for the bathroom. It turned out to be even later than I’d thought, nearly five o’ clock already, so I settled for a quick rinse beneath the showerhead instead of my usual leisurely bubble bath. It was all business, in and out in thirty seconds, no time for soap. It looked as if I was going to be cutting it close for work once again, so I scarfed down a stack of Ritz crackers for dinner while I went about getting dressed. There were no clean police uniforms in the closet, so I settled for recycling a set from the previous week. The mismatched combination of an older, faded dress shirt and a newish pair of size forty trousers gave me a salty look, almost two-toned. I was much too proud to re-use my dirty drawers, though, so I did the decent thing and went without. After a couple more minutes of frantic searching, I finally spotted my duty belt lying on the kitchen floor where I must have dropped it the night before. The loaded gun was concealed underneath a pile of beer cans alongside the refrigerator, right where I’d left it. Holding my breath, I somehow managed to get all my gear cinched tight about my waist. As I exhaled a sigh of relief and caught my reflection in the kitchen window, I just couldn’t hold back a smile. The old midsection wasn’t anywhere near as sexy as I would have liked to see it, but it was definitely at least a half-inch thinner than it’d been in my detective days. No doubt about it, this new exercise routine was clearly starting to pay dividends.
After one last glance at the clock, I snapped back to reality and rushed out of my apartment. My loyal old Tercel was occupying its usual spot in the closest handicapped parking space, and my heart fell just a little. That car was nearly fifteen years old, and over the past few months I’d taken to leaving the doors unlocked and the keys in the ignition. My master financial plan called for some crackhead to do me a favor and swipe it, all so I could file an insurance claim and trade up to a newer model. Something roomier would be nice, so I could recline the driver’s seat all the way back and sneak an occasional catnap during my shift. Just my luck, though, so far it seemed as if all the car thieves running around James Island had higher standards for automobiles.
It looked as if my broken-down ride would have to last through at least one more day, so I cranked up the engine and held on tight as the car shuddered to life. Thick puffs of black smoke kicked out from the rusty tailpipe, and I crossed my fingers while praying that the engine wouldn’t seize up before I got out on the road. After a few long, smoky minutes, the engine finally settled down and the smog cleared just enough for me to see out the rearview window. Very reluctantly, I popped the car into gear, backed out of my spot and pointed my ride in the general direction of work. The traffic on Folly Road was light, but I still slumped down in my seat so none of the other drivers could see me. Tooling around in a piece of crap car was humiliation enough, but it was even worse to be seen driving a piece of crap car while in full police uniform.
Once I’d made it safely up over the Connector, I coasted downhill into the city’s peninsula and did my best to dodge all the potholes on Broad Street. I actually enjoy taking a spin through the ritzy section of town every so often, but that night it seemed like my mere presence was enough to trash up the neighborhood. I passed by a couple of rich old men in their matching uniforms of khaki pants, light-blue oxford shirts and Sperry boat shoes. Uppity lawyers or real estate brokers most likely, if their high-dollar clothes were any indication. The two of them made a point of raising their eyebrows at me in unison as a clear signal of disapproval. I shrugged them off like I wasn’t bothered by their snobby ways, but I gave the engine an extra little rev in the hopes that the exhaust fumes might drift their way. After a few more turns I was safely out of sight and pulling up the entrance ramp of the municipal parking garage on Cumberland Street. Somehow my feisty little car managed to keep from stalling out on the inclines, and as I banked around the final turn onto the roof the rays of fading sunshine lit up the skyline of the Holy City.
Curly Wilds was holding down his usual spot along the wall, with his makeshift campground occupying most of an entire parking space. He was still in uniform, which was unusual for six o’clock in the evening. Still, it was pretty obvious that he’d knocked off patrolling at least a couple hours earlier. Curly was kicked back in a reclining lawn chair, his stocking feet propped up on top of a huge Coleman cooler. It was a position of relaxation that still afforded him a panoramic, yet commanding view of the Market. His boots, which were neatly lined up in formation next to his chair, bore a spitshine so fresh that it shimmered in the light. Judging by their pristine appearance, my guess was that Curly couldn’t have walked more than fifty steps all day. That dude’s feet were proudly out of uniform, as they were wrapped up in sensible white tube socks instead of the itchy black knee-length kind we’re supposed to wear.
I pulled my beater car in next to his money-green Ford F-150, then cut off the engine. Without the rhythmic clanking of misfiring cylinders to mask the noise, the rusty creak from my driver’s side door gave me a start when I hopped out to shoot the breeze. “What’s shaking, Curly?”
He politely lifted his stocking feet off the cooler, then used a big toe to nudge it my way. “Same ol’ same, Loosey Goosey. Just working hard, tryin’ to keep up wit’ you. Go on son, sit down now. You take a load off.”
I laughed as I took him up on the offer, but not before I cracked open the cooler and helped myself to a cold drink. “What is this?” I shouted, savoring the chill of icy water dripping down my bare arm as I examined the bright red can with its stylish white lettering. “Real Coca-Cola? Look at you, moneybags! What happened to the generic brand you usually get? What was it, Diet Chex or some shit? Did the Harris Teeter bump up your pay rate or something?”
Curly grinned, his pearly white teeth offering a sharp contrast to the slick black mustache perched above them. “Ain’t nothin’ changed, it’s still twenty bills an hour. Jus’ let me know whenever you need some extra cash, I’ll send a couple shifts your way. But check this out, last month I caught one of the cashiers slipping a few extra bucks out of the till, right? I guess his aim was off and he missed the register drawer, so the bills somehow ended up in his apron pocket instead, you dig? Well ever since I cleared up that little misunderstanding with him, I’ve just been parking my ride around back by the loading docks when I start my shift. By the time I knock off ever’ night, that damned truck bed is always full up with groceries! I tell you what, it’s almost like magic or something, the way that shit just seems to appear all by itself!”
I took a swig of Coke. Somehow, knowing that the soda was contraband made it taste even more refreshing. “Nice move, bro. Way to cut your old lady’s grocery bill in half.”
On The Beat (Goosey Larsen Book 3) Page 1