Princes of Arkwright

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Princes of Arkwright Page 2

by Trafford, Daniel


  His skin shone like phosphorous as he stood up and faced his assailant, yet his features remained unchanged and betrayed no anger or any other emotion. Without a word, the stranger raised his hands over his head with his fingers splayed. He brought his hands down fast and suddenly, as if throwing an imaginary beach ball. A pulse of light and energy, bright as the sun, flashed from every point on the stranger’s body. It knocked the murderer to the floor and knocked Tucker out for the second time that night.

  When he finally regained consciousness, the bar was bathed in silence. Tucker’s headache had disappeared. Bobby’s lifeless body still lay sprawled on the floor. A stout rope bound the three criminals in one corner. Then Tucker thought he could hear them whimpering, but it was drowned out by the sound of approaching sirens, and the bar was flooded by flashing blue police lights.

  Tucker stood up to survey the scene. He glanced down at the far end of the bar. The bottle of Narragansett was gone.

  So was the stranger.

  3. FOUR MONTHS LATER

  Detective Sgt. Tucker Bromley walked down Station Street with a box of saltines tucked under his arm.

  “Hey there, cutie,” said a beckoning voice. “Looking for a good time?”

  The woman was a short Latina with big brown doe eyes and long-flowing black hair. She was wearing a short, ass-hugging black skirt with thigh-high stockings and stiletto heels, and a white ruffled blouse. Her ankles were crossed as she rested against the edge of a brick wall.

  “That depends,” said Tucker. “How much do you charge for a half-and-half? I can get one for 10 bucks on the next street over.”

  “That’s gross,” said the girl as she adjusted her too-tight bra.

  “What’s wrong, Rochelle?” answered Tucker. “Not getting any bites tonight?”

  “Just one,” she answered. “I thought he was looking for action, but he just laughed at me and said he knew I was a cop.”

  “Of course, he did,” Tucker explained with feigned exasperation. “Your hair is washed, your clothes don’t have a single stain, and worst of all, you have all your teeth.”

  “Maybe I should have a few knocked out?” she said, throwing her head back with a laugh.

  “We could get my ex-girlfriend to do it,” said Tucker. “She’s good at kicking you in the teeth.”

  “Oh no!” said Rochelle, standing up straight. “You and Crystal broke up? You guys seemed like you had a good thing together. When did it happen?”

  “About four months ago, right after I was promoted to sergeant.”

  Rochelle eyed him, waiting for more details, but Tucker just stared at an empty car about 20 yards away.

  “Well, some women just can’t handle dating cops, I guess,” she finally said after realizing no more information would be forthcoming.

  “Sure,” said Tucker, looking down at the sidewalk. “That must be it.”

  “Hey Tuck,” she said softly, “I never heard; what happened that night in the bar?”

  “There’s nothing to tell. Bobby got stabbed by a couple of losers.”

  “Right. Then alone and unarmed you took down two men and a she-devil, each one of which was twice your size.”

  “They were pretty drunk,” said Tucker. “I don’t want to talk about it now.”

  Rochelle sighed.

  “Whatever you say. But you don’t have to do that, you know.”

  “Do what?”

  “That loner cop thing you like to do.”

  Tucker rolled his eyes.

  “You’re not the only one who feels alone, you know,” she said, with a slight edge in her voice. “Do you know what it’s like being the one Latina in a predominantly white male police force?”

  “I don’t know,” said Tucker. “Is it anything like being the one Protestant in an entire city of Roman Catholics?”

  “That’s different,” said Rochelle. “Nobody cares about religion anymore.”

  “Well, I guess that’s true.”

  “All right,” she said, “now get out of here and let me do my job. How can I attract johns if they see me talking to a cop?”

  “I’m not in uniform,” said Tucker, pointing out the obvious.

  “No offense, Tuck, but you couldn’t look more like a cop if you dressed up like Wyatt Earp.”

  “OK, OK, I’m going. By the way, are you armed?”

  “Of course,” said Rochelle, wrinkling up her face.

  “Where do you keep a gun on an outfit like that?”

  “Want to search me and find out?” she asked with a grin.

  “Nope,” said Tucker, walking away. “I can’t afford it.”

  Rochelle laughed for a while at this parting shot until the sounds of the city finally drowned her out. Tucker had always thought of her as his best friend in the detective division, and was surprised to realize how long it had been since he had even talked to her. Four months is a long time to be friendless, but Tucker had settled into a routine that didn’t allow much human contact beyond cuffing suspects on their way to arraignment.

  He hadn’t gone far when he almost tripped over a man who was sitting on the curb and having a conversation with the twilit cumulous clouds. He was wearing an oily tan overcoat and his long hair was stringy and greasy.

  “Sátanam aliósque spíritus malígnos,” muttered the shabby man, his voice trailing off as Tucker quickened his pace.

  “Christ!” thought Tucker. “Doesn’t anyone in this city speak English anymore?”

  The shabby man wasn’t unknown to the detective. He was as much a fixture of Station Street as the ancient brick mills that lined the riverbank.

  It didn’t take much imagination to picture the mills in their glory days, for their towering facades were still intact. Only now, most of the windows were bricked or boarded up, and savage weeds choked the shrubbery. Tucker glanced up at a tall, silent belfry atop the largest mill on Station Street and noticed that several of the bricks had fallen. In front of the mill, close to the road, was a shiny new sign that read, “Arkwright: A City Reborn” in both English and French.

  In the mind of Tucker, the original immigrants who first came to the city looking for work looked at the mill companies the way a toddler looks at his parents, relying on them for everything, until the companies closed and moved south, leaving behind an entire community of hopeless orphans. Generation after generation, they remained, waiting for some economic messiah to come and restore the city to its glory days. Others, like Tucker Bromley, were wise enough to know it would be a long wait.

  Station Street was built along the river, and boasted just as many twists, turns and backflows. The red maples that lined the road were old, and had long ago outgrown the holes in the sidewalk where they were planted as saplings. Their mighty roots pushed up the pavement, turning the sidewalk into a terrain of concrete hills and valleys. St. Michael’s Church was the largest building on the street, its twin spires shooting into the skyline like great granite missiles. The one on the left boasted a clock that hadn’t worked since as far back as Tucker could remember. In the other was a solitary bell that now groaned rather than rang. The massive front steps that were once lined with bridesmaids and altar boys were now the final resting place for cigarette butts and the occasional beer can. Now the only time they attracted a crowd was during funerals where they served as a platform for seeing off the newly dead.

  This heap of cold, gray building loomed over the whole community – the very stones and bricks passing silent judgment on a populace that didn’t bother to pass through its arches anymore. In stark contrast to this monument to faded glory, a trite movable-letter sign sat near the front steps in a weak attempt to capture some lost sheep with an inspirational quote of the day.

  “Always be sure to entertain strangers,” read Tucker as he passed, barely registering the meaning of a single word, “for by so doing, some have entertained angels unaware.”

  Tucker had taken this same route home every day since he first started work as a patrolman. Tod
ay, just as he was about to head down a side street toward his apartment, he glanced across the Lovecraft Street Bridge at Wallbangers at the other end.

  He hadn’t set foot inside it since that fateful night four months ago. He even found it difficult to pass by in the car, and would often change his route to avoid it altogether – a fact that didn’t go unnoticed by his fellow officers.

  The trio of criminals had all pleaded guilty, testifying separately that it had been Tucker who overpowered them that night, even though he had been completely unarmed. It was enough to make him the youngest sergeant in the history of the department, but it left him feeling emptier than he normally did. He hadn’t told anyone about the stranger, or the mysterious light that blinded and knocked out everyone in the bar.

  Something held him at the crossroads that evening for the first time in four months. He had to know. He had to find out if the stranger really existed or was just a figment of his imagination. He had heard of other cops losing it in stressful situations – even hallucinating. With one deep breath, he set out across the long bridge that spanned the Arkwright River. As he made his way to the front door, he wondered what balding, pot-bellied bartender had replaced Bobby. The city certainly had no shortage.

  “Oh my God! Tucker Bromley! I haven’t seen you in like 10 years,” said a lyrical voice as he stepped across the threshold. It wasn’t the same bar he had been in before. The bright red tile was still there. The same sports memorabilia crowded the walls. But it seemed brighter and cheerier somehow. Tucker looked around to see the source of the angelic voice and was surprised to see a girl behind the bar. She was short and slender with black hair in a pixie cut. Her brown eyes sparkled as she leaned forward onto the bar and laughed.

  “What can I get you, Tuck?”

  “Um, cranberry juice,” stammered Tucker, as he stared at the girl intently. “I’m sorry, do I know you?”

  The girl stuck out her lower lip and adopted a hurt expression.

  “Glad to know I’m so memorable,” she said, faking offense as near she could. “We went to Arkwright High together.”

  Tucker stared at her more intently, but still said nothing.

  “Jeez Louise,” she laughed. “No idea? I’m Victoria Lemieux! We were on the chess team ? Remember? Lots of chess, lots of free pizza?”

  Tucker’s first reaction was to look over his shoulder to make certain that nobody heard he had been on the chess team. His second reaction was to flash a dimpled smile at his old classmate.

  “Oh my God! Victoria! I didn’t recognize you. You look great. So what have you been doing for the past 10 years?”

  “Well, let’s see. I graduated, got pregnant, got married, gave birth to a little girl named Lenore, got divorced, got kicked out by my parents and got a job as a bartender in a place where nobody else wanted to work because the last bartender got stabbed.”

  She spoke without stopping for a breath. But before Tucker could respond, she added, “So, cranberry juice, you said? Wow, that’s pretty strong. What are you, on duty?”

  “No,” said Tucker, “kidney trouble.”

  “Well that sucks,” said Victoria, pouring his cranberry juice and giving another coquettish pout.

  “Wait a minute,” said Tucker. “How do you know I’m a cop?”

  “Tucker,” she answered, rolling her eyes. “There’s not a person in this city who doesn’t know who you are after what happened here.”

  Victoria thought she saw Tucker’s shoulders sag and she imagined a dark look move across his face.

  “Besides,” she added brightly, reaching across the counter and tugging his sleeve, “I always had a little crush on you when we were in school. And I love a man in uniform —especially one who can rock a blitz tournament. Do you still play? You were a wicked good player, that I remember.”

  She continued before Tucker could respond. “Oh my God! Remember that year we beat St. Albertus Academy? We kicked ass. And that kid, Randy ... I forget his last name. Remember he was so psyched and then someone dared him to pound two milkshakes and Mr. Farley was driving us home and Randy couldn’t get the window down; he couldn’t find the button and then he threw up all over the inside of the window? I thought Mr. Farley was going to leave him on the side of the road,” she said, laughing. Tucker smiled at her. He remembered her now. She was leaner. But she was always quick to laugh.

  “Say, Victoria, um, I take it you still hate being called Vicky.”

  “Awww, see, you do remember me!” she said, smiling and biting her lip. “it was the vomit story that brought it back, right? I knew we had bonded that night.” She winked at him.

  This time Tucker blushed. “Have you ever seen a guy in here about 35 years old, six feet tall, short dark hair and iridescent eyes, kind of good looking?”

  “No,” said Victoria, “but I’d like to. Is he married?”

  “No. I mean ... actually, I don’t know. I’m just looking for him.”

  “So you are on duty,” she said. “Is he a criminal?”

  “Well, no. I just want to find him.”

  Victoria shook her head. “Most of the customers in here are 50-somethings in the pool leagues. I never see any young, good-looking guys in here – except you, of course. I hope this is the start of a trend.”

  Tucker pulled out a card and wrote his cell phone number on the back of it.

  “Being a little forward aren’t you?” Victoria joked, taking the card.

  “I want you to call me if you ever see him in here, OK? The last time I saw him he was wearing khakis with a green T-shirt and a black button-down shirt over it.”

  Victoria nodded. She looked at the card, then tucked it into her jeans and walked away to take care of some of the other customers.

  It was getting louder now. It was about the same time as it was when Tucker had last come to the bar, but now it was already half full. Tucker couldn’t help glancing over at Victoria as she bent over a table to wipe it off. She was wearing tight black jeans and tall boots. She turned around quickly and caught Tucker looking. He went back to examining his cranberry juice.

  “So, you ever see anyone from school,” she asked when she finally got back to Tucker.

  “No,” he replied, “well, unless you count the ones I’ve arrested.” The fact was that Tucker didn’t really have any friends even when he was in school. “How about you?”

  “Do you remember Aly Kat?”

  “Alley Cat? You mean that stupid song you used to play in band?”

  “No. Aly Kat. As in Alyson Katherine?”

  Tucker just stared blankly.

  “Alyson McLaughlin.”

  “You mean that goth chick with the red hair? And the safety pins in her ears? She was a weirdo.”

  “Yeah, well, she’s my best friend.”

  Tucker, having no response ready for this awkward moment, simply gulped down the rest of his cranberry juice and threw a couple of bucks on the bar.

  “I guess I’d better be going,” he said as he stood up, knocking over his barstool. “Just call me if you see that guy in here.”

  “I’ll do my best,” she said, waving his business card to show him she hadn’t forgotten it.

  “Thanks,” he said, walking out the door. “You’re an angel.”

  4. WAYNE NEWTON

  That night, Tucker dreamed about the stranger in the bar. He could see his Roman nose and sharp iridescent eyes. He was certain it hadn’t been a hallucination. But if it wasn’t, then who was this guy?

  He got up and dressed, pulling on his charcoal gray suit and topping it off with a black raincoat that he didn’t really need. He often wore his badge on his belt, even though it wasn’t part of the department regulations. He wanted everyone to know he was a cop. He was always one of the shorter kids in school and he had tried everything to make himself bigger: working out, drinking raw eggs. But he always felt like a pipsqueak even though the only person who saw him that way was himself. In a way, it was the very thing that attracted him to
police work. If people wouldn’t respect him, at least they would respect the badge. Since he no longer wore a uniform, this was the next best thing. He even tried wearing a fedora a few times, but the ridicule from the other cops was more than his ego could endure. So he satisfied himself with the raincoat and a pair of dark aviator glasses. He checked himself in the mirror to see that his costume was complete and headed down the stairs.

  “Hey, Tuck,” said a man at the bottom, carrying a recycling bin packed tightly with green bottles of Heineken. It was Tucker’s neighbor, Wayne Newton. He had malleable cheeks and a bulbous nose. One got the impression that God got drunk one day and sculpted his face out of Play-Doh. He was wearing a purple jump suit, and his ill-fitting toupee was sitting further back on his head than usual.

  “Going out for a run?” asked Tucker, eyeing his outfit.

  “No,” he responded. “No.” Each word took an eternity. As Tucker passed the open door of the first-floor apartment, he caught a strong wet odor.

  “What the hell are you cooking in there?” he asked. “It smells like boiled cabbage.”

  “Yeah,” Wayne replied. “Boiled cabbage.”

  They stared at each other for a moment while Tucker nodded a few times. Once the detective felt the silence had been long enough, he headed off. As he reached the threshold of the front door, Wayne called out to him.

  “Wayne, I’ve really got to get to work,” said Tuck, his hand on the doorknob.

  “Just a sec. Just a sec,” drawled Wayne, his head cocked and his eyes peering out at Tucker through tiny slits. “I’ve decided to run for City Council.”

  “Well, that’s great, Wayne. I wish you luck.”

  “Yeah,” he said, stepping closer to Tucker. “You’re a detective. You know how it is. You’re onto a guy and the necktie gets tighter and tighter. Then, when you finally have him, it’s time to loosen the necktie.”

  “Right,” said Tucker, unwittingly imitating Wayne’s drawl. “Well, I’ve gotta go now. Catch you later.”

 

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