by Luis Samways
“They don’t care!” the voice said.
“Fuck sake,” I muttered.
I slid back in my office chair and opened my top drawer. I searched for my pill container. I found it. I immediately popped two pills into my mouth. My condition makes me edgy. It makes me off kilter a bit. I need the pills to stay balanced. Or the voices will become plenty and frequent.
“Borderline schizophrenia” is what they diagnosed me with. I just think it’s a personality trait of mine trying to break through. You know — the bad stuff you try to bury deep in your subconscious. For some people, that works, but for me, I get feedback in the form of intrusive thoughts.
“They don’t give a shit.”
It takes a while for the voices to succumb to the pills. Sometimes the prescribed pills don’t work, and I often need to find another source of calm. But that’s a whole different kettle of fish there.
“Frank, in my office now,” I heard a real voice say.
I looked up and saw the ugly bastard who was my boss, Chief Shaw. He had a scowl on his face that fit my mood. I got up and brushed myself down.
“Crumbs of a psycho.”
It would take another couple of minutes before my mind was fully functioning again.
I followed the Chief into his office and shut the door behind me. It was only me and him in the room. His office was small and dank. It smelt of whiskey and cigarettes. My type of place. Even if the guy who occupied it was an asshat.
“Sit down, Detective,” he said, as if I needed telling. I had sat down before he managed to turn around. A look of annoyance crept across his fat creased face. “What you pulled today was by far the worst thing you have ever done. I’m forced to suspend you.”
My eyes lit up.
“See you later, then,” I said, getting up and fishing in my pocket for my badge.
“Not so fast. I may be forced to suspend you, but I could do it differently. There are many types of suspension, McKenzie,” he said.
I could see the fat bastard was enjoying this. I sat back down and put my feet on his desk. See how much he enjoys that.
“I’m docking your pay. For a month. And putting you on patrol with Mullins. You’ll be street sweeping for the month. No cases. No money. No detective work. Just a Boston PD patrolman’s uniform and twelve-hour split shifts.”
I smiled.
“Whatever. Last time I checked, I was doing my job,” I said, still with my feet up on his desk.
“No, you were not doing your job. You were beating up a suspect. That comes with a potential sacking and a lawsuit. Luckily, you scared the shit out of him. He actually defended you and said he provoked you.”
I laughed.
“Good. He knows what’s best for him then,” I said.
Shaw looked as if he was about to blow a gasket.
“No, it’s not good. It’s fucking terrible. Now get your ass out of my office. Go home. Turn up bright and early tomorrow, and learn from your mistakes,” he said, his face getting redder.
“I’ll try my best, boss,” I said.
I got up and winked at him. I turned around and walked out the door.
“Oh, and McKenzie, you fuck this up, and I’ll be forced to keep you on patrol for the rest of your damn career,” he said as I closed the door on him.
Four
Screw them. If they wanted to keep me down and out, then so be it. That’s just how I felt. I mean, how was I supposed to do my job if every damn thing I did was being investigated?
Sure, some people may disagree with my methods of police work, but I’m not asking for their opinions. I just want to get the job done, by any means necessary. If they don’t like it, stop putting me on the case. That’s the problem with Shaw, you see. For all the “wrong things” I had done, he always stood by my results. He liked my results, and so did the countless families of the victims that I had helped find justice for. Being suspended wasn’t going to stop me from doing my job. I’d have first contact with the scum now. I’d be attending crimes in progress instead of crimes already gone and forgotten.
It was dawn, and I found myself at home. I was told to go home and sleep. I had just been demoted and all, but felt a little happy regarding my situation. Maybe some time in a squad car would help me sort my head out. Maybe it’s what the doctor ordered. I had managed to sleep for a few hours. But then the inevitable happened. I woke up to the sound of a phone call.
“Yo,” I said as I opened my eyes and spoke into my cell phone, which I had managed to find in my haze.
“Rise and shine. I’m outside,” a voice said on the other end. It was Mullins. Good kid. Better cop.
“Hey, man. I’ll be out in a sec. Just need to find some PD clothes.”
“Don’t worry about it. I have a shirt and vest in the car. I brought it down for you. Thought you’d need it. Put some pants on and some shoes. I’m sure no one will notice,” he said.
“Sure thing.”
I hung up the phone and shot out of bed. It was unlike me to get up so quickly. Usually I’d have some left-over alcohol in my system, but I guess last night’s job prevented any “me time” from happening.
I found some pants. They were charcoal black. I put them on and found some matching socks. I went into the bathroom and had a look at my face. I was tired. Looked like I needed a few more winks. I didn’t have the luxury of that choice right now. I needed to get straight. I opened the cabinet up and swallowed a few home remedies. They should get me through the day. Hell, it was practically breakfast for me. A few pills and maybe a shot. I didn’t have any at alcohol at home, so I forfeited the shot.
I combed my dirty blond hair back. It was matting up, but I didn’t have time for a shower. I decided to roll on some deodorant and leave it at that. My scarred torso really stood out with no top on. I thought about the reaction I’d get from the kid downstairs if I showed up bare chested. It wasn’t so much my chest that would be the problem; it was probably the evidence of the self-inflicted scars.
I decided to put on an undershirt. That should cover it up.
I sprayed myself with some cologne. I went into the kitchen and pulled a stale pizza slice off the counter. It had been sitting in a box for a day. That was breakfast.
I raced out of my apartment and made my way down the decrepit-looking stairwell. It was oozing with graffiti and smelled of pickled urine. The light fixtures were flashing and buzzing. I could hear the nonexistent air conditioning buzz in and out of order.
I reached the bottom and took a bite out of my pizza. It tasted like shit. With that, I threw the pizza on the floor. It would probably still be there when I got home. I shoved the front door open and went outside. The Boston cold hit me hard. It was then that I heard a car horn go off. I saw the police cruiser sat on the cub. I waved at Mullins. He smiled back. I could see his white teeth gleam through the passenger window.
I reached the car and opened the door. The stiff breeze had nearly welded the car door shut. Luckily, it eventually budged after a few tugs. I got inside; the heat was a warm welcome compared to the cold.
“Hey,” I said.
“What’s up, Private McKenzie?” Mullins laughed.
“Detective McKenzie,” I said.
“For a month, you’re my bitch.”
I nodded.
“Oh, well, at least I’ll get some action,” I said.
“What are you after?”
I reached into my pocket and pulled out a cigarette. I lit up.
“Anal,” I said.
Mullins laughed. He looked as if he was about to burst at the seams.
“Sick puppy,” he said.
“You know that I have OCD and can get really anal about it.”
“Whatever. I know what you really meant,” he said.
He then handed me my vest and my PD shirt. It was black. I liked the look of it. The new Boston PD colors really went down well in my color palette. They were definitely to my taste.
“A bit LAPD, don’t you think?�
�� Mullins said with a smirk on his face.
“I couldn’t care, really. It’s the vest that I’m more worried about.”
“Stab-proof. Not bulletproof. Department cuts.”
I shook my head.
“Since when did bulletproof vests become stab-proof?”
“Since the US government grew a deficit.”
I shoved both the PD shirt and vest on. I then grabbed the sidearm that Mullins had in the cruiser. It fit nicely on my belt. I felt like a true trooper. It was years since I had been in a squad car, and even longer since I had even done a traffic stop. It looked like the past was sure to become my immediate future, for the time being at least.
Five
The man with the red sombrero pulled up to his destination. He shifted into neutral as he stopped dead on the dirt mound. An array of trees surrounded the parked van. He listened as the engine ticked and hissed as he turned the ignition off. He breathed in and exhaled. He felt a little woozy. It must have been the excitement of the whole ordeal. It was really getting to him. It was making the blood rush through his veins at a much faster rate than usual. This was what he had been planning for all along, and now it was finally coming into place. He felt good, if not a little overexcited.
He sat there in the driver’s seat for ten minutes. It was his cool-down time. He needed to relax. Every single day at a certain time he would take ten minutes out. Ten minutes to calm down. Ten minutes to gather his thoughts. He looked at his reflection as it shone off the side mirror. His red sombrero really stood out. He never really noticed it before. He never really noticed the evil in his eyes until then. He liked what he saw. It made his cheeks twitch.
His ten minutes were soon up. With that, he got out of the white van. The cold Boston air hit his face. He wasn’t used to the cold. In Mexico, he would bake in the sun on a regular basis. He was one of those men who believed the secret to a long life was a healthy bronze.
He wasn’t going to get any sun in Boston in the winter. He knew that and was prepared. Even if he did wear the summer clothes of a cowboy, the winter was the last thing on his mind. In all honesty, he didn’t give the weather a second thought. He had bigger things on his mind.
He closed the driver’s door and walked toward the back of the van. He thumped his fist on the metal door a few times, as if he was knocking on it.
“I’m coming for you. You sit tight. I’ll be with you in a bit,” he said.
He reached into his jacket and pulled out his silenced pistol. He started to pace back and forth, running through his plan as he did so.
“Import, export. That will do it,” he said as he continued to pace.
He opened the back door to the van and was met with a petrified-looking man curled up in the back. He had a suit on and looked flustered. He was gagged and taped-up. He was alive but looked like he was close to death, even though he wasn’t showing any signs of violence.
“Now you find yourself here, Mr. Johnson, tied up and ready to be shipped. You find yourself helpless, yet you hold the fate of your life in your hands. Tell me again, why I shouldn’t kill you?” the man said as he raised his silenced weapon at the terrified man.
The man tried to speak, but the gag was preventing anything audible from coming out of his mouth. The man with the red sombrero fired three shots into the back of the van. The muffled sounds of a struggle stopped.
“Import, export,” the man said as he took off his sombrero and wiped his brow down from the excitement of the evening. He shut the door and stepped back a few feet. He looked on as his masterpiece fell together, one bullet at a time.
Six
We were in the patrol car for a few minutes when we got our first call.
“Robbery in progress, Millard road,” the two-way had spat out.
“Floor it,” I said as I sat clenched up in the passenger seat.
Mullins did as he was told. We got to the scene pretty fast. We did about a hundred and ten through downtown traffic. It was light, so we were lucky. We pulled up to the liquor store and were met with another squad car. They were parked just outside the store.
“Shit, someone beat us to it,” I said as I took a sip from the Starbucks that Mullins had kindly bought me.
“Another day, another dollar,” he said as he hit the brakes.
We both got out of the car and put our hats on. As we walked to the storefront, I could hear both my and Mullins’ footsteps echo in the mid-morning air. A man I didn’t recognize was escorting a pissed-off looking youngster into his police cruiser. I smiled at Mullins.
“So they got the guy. Not bad. Wish it was that easy on a homicide,” I said, still sipping on my coffee.
“You know that it isn’t always that easy, Frank. Sometimes we get lucky — other times we have to work our tails to the bone. You know the drill.”
“Excuses, excuses,” I said.
I waved at someone I recognized. It was an old buddy of mine. Didn’t know he was still working the beat.
“Hey, man,” I said as he approached both me and Mullins.
“What’s good, Frank?” he said, shaking my hand.
He looked big and sturdy. We used to call him Brick at the academy.
“You staying out of trouble, Brick?” I asked, sipping on my latte.
“You know it, McKenzie. You must be behaving, too. I heard you left the beat and went to homicide?”
“I did. I’m on the naughty step at the minute. I’ll be back on the job soon. I’m trying to think of this as a holiday.”
Brick started to laugh as he playfully patted me on the shoulder.
“Better you than me. I’ll catch you later. I got to run this case downtown. Second robbery this week. Poor owners. Korean couple. Really pissed off. Insurance says they won’t pay. Oh, well. At least we got the kid.”
“Justice prevails,” I said.
Brick walked off and got into his car. He followed the arresting officer as they both sped off downtown.
I looked at Mullins. He could tell what I was thinking.
“Doughnuts?” I said.
“Sure. Might as well.”
We both got back into the patrol car and left the scene.
“Was hoping for a little more action,” I said.
“I’m sure we’ll get it. The day is still young.”
Seven
Jesse Foster was cleaning up the memo he had just re-written. It was an important memo. After all, it was announcing something that would change the lives of so many people in his company. He was trying to figure out the best way to word it. He was never really good at articulating himself. His wife would always remind him of that fault. Even so, he found himself scouring his brain for certain words. Words that would hurt less. Words like “progression,” “growth,” and “gain.” But in reality, all he could see when he was writing this memo was “pain,” “severance,” and “outsourcing.”
He had spent a long time thinking about the words he would use. Maybe he had spent too long on thinking about the wording. Maybe there wasn’t a good way of telling people they were going to lose their jobs to lower-paid foreigners. Maybe he was beating around the bush too much.
He sat there in his chair, his business associate looking over his shoulder, with a look of uncertainty on his face.
“You sure about this, Jesse?” his aide had asked.
“As sure as I’ll ever be,” Jesse replied.
“You could get a copywriter to write it. Maybe it would sound better. Roll off the tongue a little better?”
Jesse Foster shook his head.
“No, I want to be the one responsible for writing it. It’s better coming from me than some hack.”
Both men exhaled loudly. The office they were in was empty. They had sent the workers home. The factory below was still and quiet. Not a single soul, besides those two men, was present in the once-bustling Boston business.
“You don’t have to do it. You do know that, right? We could see what happens. We could ride it out,”
the advisor said.
“Ride it out? Into what? Bankruptcy?”
Jesse continued to write his memo. He had found the words he was looking for. They had made themselves present. Finally he knew what to say, even if he knew what he was saying wasn’t any consolation to the thousands of people he was about to affect.
“What about a loan? We could get a loan. Maybe we could let some people go,” the advisor said, continuing to advise his boss.
“No. That won’t work. We already let people go last year. Cutting more away would render our production useless. This is the only option. The lawyers said we won’t be liable. They said everything will be fine.”
Jesse Foster didn’t know if he was trying to convince himself or his advisor. He continued to plug away at the memo.
“But will it be fine? You seem to be having a hard time with this. Maybe it’s best if you let me do it?”
Jesse Foster stood up from his seat and turned to face his advisor.
“No. Let me fucking do my job! This is my company. I got us into this mess. I’m going to get us out of it! Go home, Nick. Your work here is done. Let me bury my father’s legacy on my own.”
Nick nodded his head. He knew it was time to go. Mr. Foster needed time alone. His advising was over. He now needed to find a new job. Mr. Foster wouldn’t need an advisor down in Mexico. Not him, anyway. He had found someone else. Someone who didn’t cost $65,000 a year with benefits. Maybe he would be able to visit his old friend someday. Maybe Mexico would be as welcoming to him as it had been to the company.
“Take care, Jesse,” Nick said.
Jesse Foster didn’t see his longtime friend and partner leave the office. He didn’t see anything. His eyes were too blurry from the tears running down his face. His heart was heavy as he pressed “Send” on the memo. He finally broke down into tears as he slouched against the keyboard.
Eight
We had just pulled out of the Dunkin Donuts when Mullins pushed hard on the brakes. A man had nearly been hit by our squad car. Luckily, Mullins had stopped just before hitting the man. I got out of the car and approached the uninterested-looking man. He just smiled at me and said “sorry” in broken English.
“You better watch where you’re going, mister. You don’t want to end up on our windshield, now, do you?” I said.