He nods.
I go into my pack and pull out a pair of latex gloves. I pull my tactical gloves off and zip them up in a side pocket of the pack. Slip the gloves on.
“I got almost five hundred cash outta your pockets and that nice new half a brick, so I know you have a good amount stashed somewhere. Where is it?”
Older turns to Younger, shakes his head several times, tries to speak through the duct tape, but it just sounds silly.
I stand up, take the coffee cup, dip it into the bucket. It’s tough, but I bring it out. Some of it dripping down the cup, but I’m careful to keep it from getting on my latex gloves. They both start trying to scoot, but that only shakes up the bucket.
“Sit tight, you shits!” I command.
“C’mon, sir,” Younger begs.
I dump the cup on Older’s lap. He looks up and away from it. Closes his eyes for a second.
“I’m going to force-feed him the next cup,” I tell Younger.
He looks at Older, who looks back down to him, nodding several times.
“In the kitchen! The fucking kitchen,” Younger blurts.
“Where else?”
“Nowhere else. I fuckin’ swear.”
Fifty-Six
Where exactly?” I ask.
“You gonna get us killed,” Younger tells me.
“What the fuck you think I’m gonna do?” I threaten.
“Gonna get yourself killed.”
“By who, your grandma?”
“We got people. People you should be worrying yourself about.”
I slap him hard on the face.
“It’s you who should be worrying,” I tell him.
“We got the police. You fucking can’t run from them.”
I wanna slap him again but don’t. His brother’s shaking his head, like Shut the fuck up.
“You got the police on your side, huh? Protecting you? You think they’re gonna protect you when you’re locked up and they’re thinkin’ you’re gonna roll on them? You little moron.”
I grab him by the neck, squeeze hard so he has a hard time breathing.
“This is your last chance to tell me what I need to know. This is for real, little man.”
It doesn’t take him long to figure out I’m telling the truth.
“Behind the stove.” Younger coughs.
“Stove. That can be dangerous. Start a fire.”
“We never use it.”
“Still, not the best place to store your cash.”
I take them one by one and put them belly down on the floor. Careful not to get any of Grandma’s shit on me. I grab a few more zip ties, then secure their legs to the ties around their wrists. I stick the duct tape over Younger’s mouth, walk to the kitchen, click on the Streamlight, and find the stove. I can see skid marks on the vinyl floor where it looks like the stove has been slid out several times. It’s an old electric stove.
I grab it from behind and easily slide it out. It’s unplugged. Grandma was probably the last one to use it way back when she could walk up and down the stairs.
Secreted inside the open back is a construction-type black trash bag. I pull it out. The opening is tied in a single knot. I open it.
“Fuck,” I mumble.
I don’t even know how much they have here, but it’s a damn good hit. Folded and crumpled-up bills fill almost half the bag. I grab it, but before I go back to the living room I scan the kitchen area with my light. An unopened bottle of Grey Goose is on a counter near the rear door. I pick it up and bring it and the bag back to the living room. Then I set the bag next to my pack and the bottle of vodka on the coffee table.
I push the boys one by one with my foot so they roll over onto their sides, facing me. I rip the tape off Younger and Older, sit back on the wooden chair, grab the bottle, and open it.
“You lied to me, said you didn’t have any more alcohol.”
“No, sir, you were drinking somethin’ different, so we figure…” Younger says.
“I’m kidding. Just shut the fuck up.”
I down at least a three-shot swig of vodka.
I need to get more information, but doing so will alert Jasper and the rest of his crew. So the best thing is to let these two mopes think all this is about is hitting them for their stash. When I’m a bit more clearheaded I’ll figure out how to get the cops here, maybe help out Grandma along the way.
“Who is your supplier?”
“I—” Younger begins.
“Shut the fuck up!” his brother says. “You already said too much.”
I give big brother a swift, hard kick with the toe of my shoe. He hmmphs a release of air.
“You shut the fuck up,” I warn him.
“I ain’t gonna tell ya who it is, so do what you gotta do,” Younger says, suddenly getting brave. “They’ll come for you hard, and they’ll find you.”
“You don’t know who you messin’ with,” Older begins. “We gots people lookin’ out for us. People who’ll find you.”
“You do, now?” I say with a smile, but I believe him.
“Yeah, we do.”
They’re not gonna talk. I got enough, and they’re gonna have to pay for what I got. I need to get the fuck outta here.
How the fuck can they treat their grandma like that, anyway, fucking shitting in a bucket, withering away in her own waste?
Down some more vodka. Bottle’s almost half empty. I need another bump. I empty two of their little zips onto the back of my hand and snort it up. One is worth shit. Two almost gets me there, but not quite. I empty another one and whiff that up, too.
Younger and Older are watching, both of them breathing heavy. Such little fucks, thinking they’re players, going out clubbing, and all the while their grandma is upstairs stewing in her own feces.
They deserve so much worse.
Older looks direct at me like he knows what’s coming. “They even watchin’ other police officers, one who lives up the street a bit. Eyes on fucking everybody,” he says like he’s pleading. “Even this cute little lawyer. No one be safe with them.”
The fuck? Leslie?
That more than throws me. My stomach aches, and I want to heave. I want to question him about that but can’t give it up that I care. That’d be giving them too much knowledge. They may look stupid, but they’re not, especially Older. What the fuck have I gotten myself into?
A deep breath, then I stand up. Spin a little. Regain myself, set the bottle down on the coffee table, pull off the latex gloves, and stuff them into a side pouch of my pack. I replace them with my leather tactical gloves, down some more vodka, then just drop the bottle to the floor. The thud echoes through the room.
I walk over to them, hovering over Younger.
“C’mon, now,” he begs. “You got what you came for.”
“I realized there was more. And you said, ‘Do what you gotta do,’ right?”
I clock Younger on the same side of the face as before, but with more force. Yeah, hard as shit. I hear something crack, and I know it isn’t my knuckles. He goes out. Like nothin’. Split his cheek open. Blood oozes from between the folds of skin and down, dripping off his chin and onto the side of his neck.
I drag the huffing and puffing Older by the neck of his T-shirt toward the center of the living room, away from his little brother. I kick him hard in the gut. Snot shoots out his nostrils. More of Grandma’s shit spills off his lap. I don’t want any of that on me, so I’m careful.
I kick him again, and again, then one more time, even harder. No other position he can put himself in ’cause of how he’s zip-tied together. He has to take it like I give it. I start to punch him in the face. I don’t know how many times. He’s bleeding through his nose. After one more punch my head’s spinning. He’s out, but I kick him again. I straighten myself up and feel the house tip. My damn heart’s trying to beat its way through my chest. I was somewhere else for a minute.
The room steadies. I look at the both of them, walk over to Younger, and de
cide to kick him in the gut, too, but only twice. Still hard. I have to sit in the wooden chair to catch my breath. I notice the bottle of vodka that I dropped. At least one more swig left that didn’t spill out of the bottle. I pick it up and take it, set the bottle on the coffee table.
“Fuck,” I say to myself. “Oh, fuck.”
Did I just kill them?
I don’t want to know, so I just stand, pick up the shit bucket, and walk up the stairs to return it to the old lady.
She’s sleeping. I place the bucket near her bed and put the toilet seat quietly back on it. I gotta leave it like this, the way I found it. Mostly full.
I go in the room where I stuffed the crack under the mattress and retrieve it along with one of the semiautos.
I walk back down the stairs, still feeling a bit racy. I pull my knife out of my pocket and flick it open. I try not to look at their faces as I cut the zip ties that bind their feet to their hands, then I cut the rest of them off, freeing their hands and legs. I shove the gun under Younger’s body and toss the bag of crack on the sofa near the vomit.
I pick up my pack and the bag of money and exit the way I came in.
Fifty-Seven
I have to get to Leslie. Fuck. I gotta get there now.
When I get in my car I turn it on for the air. I’m too fucked up to drive. Too fucked up to walk. Here I am with a backpack filled with more coke than I’ve seen in years and a black construction bag almost half full with dirty money. It’d be enough to get me in federal court. Still, I have to get to Leslie’s house.
What did I do? What the hell did I do?
Damn. I haven’t been this fucked in a long, long time. Close my eyes, and the whole world spins. Burns to keep my eyes open. I adjust the vents so the cool air hits my face. That helps.
I give myself a bump to clear my head.
I back up to wedge my way out of the space. I hit the car behind me. “Shit.” I do the same to the car in front. I manage my way out, though, and drive.
Fucking autopilot.
And like time stopped, I’m on her block. How the fuck that happen? I drive by her house. Slow. Front door’s not busted in.
I park alongside a fire hydrant.
Something I gotta do before I go in. Can’t let too much time pass or everything I did at Riggs will go to fuck.
I call 911 on my burner.
Dispatcher answers.
I act as drunk as I really am: “I live on the thirteen hundred block of Riggs Street…Northwest…I saw two guys with guns run into the house across from me. Just now…yes…”
I give the address.
“It was too dark. An old lady lives there…no…I work nights…I heard screaming. I think the old lady is in serious trouble…no. She needs help!” I even let myself sob once I’m so crazy. I disconnect.
I think this is the drunkest I’ve ever been. Hope I didn’t screw up just now, but I had to get the police there for that old lady’s sake, and I can only pray I didn’t kill one or both of those punk-ass thugs.
I down two Klonopin with what I have left of my bottled water. That should ease my mind a bit. Too late to worry now. Shit, even in the fucking messed-up state I’m in, I know I wasn’t fucked up enough to leave anything on the scene that can connect to me.
They’ll find the old lady. See the state she’s in, and, I hope, do the right thing. I did my part.
I check the time on my phone: 5:30 a.m. Fuck.
I snatch up my pack and run to her house. I have to ring the doorbell three times before I hear her on the other side of the door.
Gotta be looking through the peephole.
She unlocks the dead bolt, then the handle. Door opens.
She’s wearing a white bathrobe I bought her when we were at Greenbrier a few months ago over her pajamas. The air-conditioning feels like a godsend through the open doorway.
“What the hell, Frankie?” She looks me over. “Are you all right?”
“I needed to make sure you’re okay.”
“Why? What are you talking about?”
“I think I really fucked up,” I say, but I meant to say, “I think I’m really fucked up.” Before she can answer I spit out, “I think I’m really fucked up.” And hope she’s too tired to realize.
“What happened? Come in.”
I walk in. She closes and dead-bolts the door behind me. Locks it.
She looks at my backpack.
“You were working?”
“Been a long night of surveillance.”
“You’re drunk as shit.”
I’m still spinning bad, so I guess I am.
“Maybe a little. I’m…I’m sorry. I had to come over. Make sure you’re okay.”
“You said that. Why would you think I’m not?”
“I don’t…” I try to focus, but it’s impossible.
“Get in here,” like an order.
I stumble in and follow her to the living room.
“You smell terrible. Did you soil yourself?”
I check with my hand.
“No.”
“Maybe you should take a shower.”
“Don’t think that’s possible right now. I got clean clothes in my pack.” I don’t know why I said that, because I don’t.
“You take the sofa, then. I’ll get you covers. Don’t go on the sofa until I get the sheets. And try not to pass out.”
I don’t even know what she said.
She walks toward the hallway and the linen closet, and I fall into a reclining position on the sofa, dropping my pack and the bag beside my feet. I close my eyes and concentrate hard on trying to control the spins.
Fifty-Eight
Feels like a faucet running in my head. Maybe tinna…what the fuck’s it called?
“Frank!” I hear but can’t place it.
Eyes feel glued shut.
Try to open them.
See red through eyelids.
Light.
Tinnitus.
“Frank!” Again.
Leslie?
Eyes open.
She’s standing over me.
I must have fucking blacked out. I don’t remember shit or how I got here.
Leslie is fully dressed. What the fuck?
I’m on her sofa, covered with a soft blanket, and my head is on a pillow. Shoes off.
“Frank, it’s time for you to get up.”
There’s firmness in her voice. Not something pleasant.
I remember where I was before here.
Fuck.
Did I say that out loud?
“Leslie.”
I push myself up to a sitting position. Still a bit light-headed. Pants are still on, and I’m wearing the T-shirt that was under my regular shirt. My belt is off, along with my gun, mags, and handcuffs. I turn to notice they’re on the end table. The blanket is over my legs. Faucet turned off in my head, but left me with a throbbing headache.
“What time is it?”
“It’s almost four in the afternoon.”
“Damn. Are you kidding me? I slept that hard?”
“I let you sleep because I’ve been trying to figure out how to approach this.”
Approach?
“Approach what?” I say, still groggy. “Oh, last night. I don’t even know how I got here. Sure as hell hope I didn’t drive.”
I have to cup my hands over my face, rub my eyes. I look at her after.
“A tough night on surveillance. Must have gotten stupid with what I had left in a bottle of Jameson. So much going on.”
“Yes.”
“I don’t remember the last time I got that drunk. I think I blacked out.” I shoot her my best playing-dumb look.
I got a feeling that won’t help, because I finally notice my backpack on the floor at the other end of her coffee table, not where I left it, and the cocaine test vial that I used at the house on Riggs—still filled with bright blue liquid—also on the coffee table along with the white shirt I wore, now spread out as if to display the blood t
hat’s heavily soaked the right sleeve, and the bloodied tactical gloves. Then, on the floor between the sofa and the coffee table, my brown shoes, the right one with dried-up spots of blood soaked into the fine leather. Displaying evidence?
What can I say other than “I can explain”?
Fifty-Nine
I didn’t dare handle all the other contraband I found,” Leslie says.
Feels like a large-gauge bit drilling through my frontal lobe now. I need Advil—coffee at the least. I don’t ask her, though. I pull the blanket off my legs and straighten myself up on the sofa. I notice my socks. I wore the black ones with yellow polka dots. Happy socks. I feel embarrassed.
“Will you let me explain?”
“Sure. Why not? Is it going to be a good story?”
“It’s all related to the case I’ve been working.”
“The blood on your clothing, the weed—oh, and the nearly half a kilo of cocaine? I know I’m just a defense attorney now, but I used to be a cop like you, so I remember what coke looks and smells like.”
“You said you were going to let me explain.”
Her lips tighten. She backs up and sits on the armchair to my left. She lifts her hands, palms up, like Let’s go.
I bow my head for a second but realize that’s what guilty people do, so I look up at her directly.
“I’m sorry I lied, but I have been looking into my cousin’s homicide and burglary at my house.”
She’s giving me that look you get from defense attorneys when you’re on the stand and they don’t believe a word you’re saying.
“Actually, Frankie? I don’t want to hear this. I can’t—”
“I got a possible suspect for the burglary, maybe even Jeffrey’s homicide, and was able to identify one of the fencing locations where the burglar went to trade stolen property for narcotics, and so, you know, I…I went there.”
“What do you mean, ‘went there’? And why wouldn’t you take that information to the police?”
“C’mon, Leslie. Do you really want to know that?”
“Did you hurt them? Wait—what am I thinking? Don’t tell me. In fact I don’t want to hear any more about this.”
Crime Song Page 18