by Henry Perez
“Now what?”
“You need a statement from me.”
“Got one already, goes like this—being an idiot, you left your door unlocked and some punk who’s got it in for you walked in while you weren’t home and drew on your walls.”
On the drive over, Chapa had told himself that he wouldn’t lose control, wouldn’t get out of line by anyone’s definition.
“It isn’t that simple, Sergeant.”
“Yeah, it is,” Slattery said, cutting in. “You may not want it to be, but I do, so it is.”
Chapa could feel his cool, limited as it was to begin with, wandering off, down the hall, past the front door, and out into the night, never to be seen again.
“What’s it take to get you to do your goddamned job?” Chapa heard the words come out of his mouth, knew they shouldn’t have, but then a few more escaped. “No, it’s not that simple, though you apparently are.”
Slattery erased the gap between Chapa and himself, then started doing the bully bit with his gut again while Boris laughed to himself. It was all such a joke.
“Hey asshole,” Slattery was in Chapa’s face. His breath smelled of last night’s fast food. “I’m sorry we don’t have a better story for you to put in your paper tomorrow, which I could then use to wipe my ass.”
“Tomorrow is Saturday, Sergeant.”
“So it’s Saturday, so what?”
“I’d think your ass would require the Sunday edition, including the comics, and all the sale fliers.”
The veins in Slattery’s fleshy neck began to bulge more than Chapa would’ve thought possible.
“Go home now,” Slattery said in a no-nonsense voice that was thick and meaty.
Chapa got the message, got a grip, was ready to retreat. But Boris wasn’t about to let that happen.
“You know what, Sergeant, I think this prick is disappointed that more didn’t happen over at his house tonight.” Boris produced a crooked grin, left it there on his face as he continued. “Maybe if someone had broken in while he was home and carved his kid up some, that would’ve made for a better story.” Boris leaned his face toward Chapa’s and smiled more broadly now. “Look Sergeant, he’s thinking about it. That would’ve sold a lot more papers, huh?”
There was no thought directing Chapa’s movements as he lunged for the smirking weasel hiding behind his superior. No concern over how this might turn out or how badly it could all go down.
As Chapa rushed Boris, fist cocked and set to punch his smile into the next county, Slattery shifted his weight with surprising agility and slammed his gut hard into Chapa’s side, knocking him off balance and down to the floor.
Chapa started scrambling to get up, but that ended abruptly when Slattery dropped a knee onto his chest and pinned him to the filthy, cold floor.
“You fucking shithole, I could have your ass for assaulting an officer,” Slattery said, then pivoted and brought even more pressure down on Chapa.
“Get the hell off me.” Chapa’s chest ached as he pushed out each word.
Slattery laughed and called over to a pair of cops who’d been watching from across the room.
“Lake, Preston, take this piece of shit out of here and toss him in a holding cell for an hour or a day or a week. However long it takes for him to learn what’s what.”
The two uniformed officers grabbed Chapa off the floor and threw him face first into a wall, then pressed hard against his shoulders and yanked his hands down behind his back. The cuffs went on an instant later without Chapa being aware that they were there. His mind was spinning like a roulette wheel that refused to stop.
A few heads turned in his direction, and some of those same broken people he’d noticed on the way in now looked at him with disgust.
Slattery yelled, “This is for your own good, asshole,” as they led Chapa through a heavily secured door and down the hall toward the holding cells.
He managed to steal a look back before the heavy door closed and saw Boris staring at him, smiling like he’d just won some sort of prize.
Chapter 66
The other guy in the holding cell was sleeping on a thin cot, but that didn’t make Chapa feel any more safe or comfortable. Just the opposite.
What sort of a person would feel so at home in this place that smelled of rot and human waste, that they could fall asleep here? One who bears watching, that’s who.
The man’s slender back was turned to Chapa, his long black hair draped over the side of the cot. He was tall and wore a black denim jacket, blue jeans, and a pair of brown leather boots that looked like they’d been around, and into and out of all kinds of situations.
Chapa sat on a bench that was tucked between a grime-encrusted sink and the cell bars. Once he was sure the cops who put him in there were gone, out of sight and beyond earshot, Chapa pulled out his cell phone and called Joseph Andrews at his personal number.
Hi, this is Joseph Andrews. I’m probably out flying right now…
“No, Joe, you’re not flying, you’re home sleeping,” Chapa began after the beep. He left Andrews a message explaining what happened and asking for his help.
Then Chapa started to call Erin, but changed his mind. The evening already had more than its share of tension, no need to add to it now. There would be a time for him to tell her all about his visit to prison, but this wasn’t it.
Instead, Chapa put a call in to Tom Jackson, figuring that his best friend on the force might be his only hope of getting out of there anytime soon. Not that Tom would ever think of Chapa as a friend. Not that Chapa had given him much reason to lately.
He left messages on both Jackson’s cell phone and his voice mail at the station. It seemed odd to be calling a cop from jail when his desk was just across the building, but it sure wasn’t the strangest thing Chapa had done this week.
Chapa thought about calling an attorney, but decided he didn’t want to go that route just yet. It was best to keep this on the down low as long as possible. He hadn’t been booked or fingerprinted, so it was safe to assume that no official record existed of his arrest, not yet, anyway.
Getting thrown in jail can sometimes be a good career move for a journalist, but not under these circumstances. And never when your paper is already trying to figure out a way to get rid of you.
Two guys in a cell down the hall were speaking Spanish, comparing notes on the women they’d had. Another guy at the other end was talking to himself, engaging in a session of self-loathing and speculating on the stupid shit he’d done to get himself tossed in jail.
So what the hell am I doing in here? Chapa thought.
As he slipped the cell phone back in his pocket, Chapa noticed that the other guy wasn’t asleep anymore. He was sitting up in his cot, staring at him.
“They let you keep your phone? Why?”
“Because they didn’t exactly follow standard procedure when they put me in here.”
The guy had strong features, rich tan skin, and Chapa guessed he was in his mid to late twenties, though his dark, heavy eyes belonged to someone older.
“Before they put me in here, those assholes took my belt, laces, and bandanna,” Chapa’s cellmate said with a lot of street in his voice.
“Did they believe you were suicidal?”
“No, just very good at what I do.”
“And what would that be?”
He smiled at Chapa and ignored his question.
“But you. You’ve got technology on your side.”
Chapa sensed that his phone could become a liability in this place. He decided that if it came down to some sort of a challenge, he wasn’t going to die protecting it.
“I’m not exactly a typical prisoner,” Chapa said, then realized he didn’t like the way his words had come out. “I didn’t mean to say that you were.”
“Sure you did, Alex Chapa.”
“How do you know me? What’s your name?”
The guy leaned back against the cracked gray wall behind him as he pushed sever
al long strands of hair away from his face.
“Everyone calls me Ladrón.”
“Ladrón? Thief? You go by ‘Thief’ in Spanish? Why don’t you just tape an Arrest Me sign to your back?”
Ladrón was laughing, and Chapa hoped this was a good thing.
“I got the nickname back when I was a teenager because I could steal anyone’s girl away. Though I suppose I’ve earned it in other ways, too.”
Chapa had no trouble believing both claims. Ladrón could’ve been a Hollywood heartthrob, but he also looked like the wrong guy to line up against.
“How do you know who I am?”
“I was a kid in seventh or eighth grade when you came to my school and talked about what it was like to be a journalist.” Ladrón leaned forward on the edge of the cot. “It was inspiring and I went home that night and told my aunt, she’s the one who raised me, that I wanted to be a newspaper man when I grew up.” He looked toward the floor, his straight, shiny hair hanging down like a black curtain. “But things didn’t work out that way.”
“How did they work out?”
Ladrón offered Chapa a pained smile as he got up off the cot and walked over to the other side of the narrow cell. He was even taller than Chapa had thought.
“Is this off the record?” he asked, and sat down next to Chapa. “That’s the term you guys use, right?”
“Yes, we’re off the record, way off the record.”
Ladrón searched Chapa’s eyes for a moment, then having apparently seen what he was looking for, nodded. In a hushed voice he explained that he’d been a career thief, a damn good one. He hadn’t done any real time since his days in juvie, and the only reason he was being held now was because there had been a series of robberies on Oakton’s west side.
“I’m one of those special people the cops pick up any time they don’t know who else to pick up. I’ll be out of here later today. It’s just the routine. I’m used to it. How ’bout you, why are you in here?”
“I was about to beat the shit out of a cop who suggested I’d be happier if my daughter had gotten hurt tonight.”
Ladrón took a moment to process this, then nodded and said, “Works for me.”
That admission seemed to buy Chapa some sort of street cred. He did not ask Ladrón if he’d been involved in those robberies on the west side, figuring that there might be a kind of jail cell etiquette involved.
Over the next several hours they shared stories about their lives as Chapa gradually realized he was talking to someone who was almost as good at getting information from a stranger as he was.
“You would have made a damn good reporter.”
Ladrón looked off toward a blank wall.
“Maybe in another lifetime. I’d like to believe in that sort of thing.”
The conversation kept winding back around to their two kids. Ladrón had a son he rarely saw, a choice he’d made in the hope that the boy would avoid repeating his father’s mistakes.
“He’s got a good mom, and she tells him I work for the government, so I’m away a lot. My real life is no place for a child.”
“But you’re not going to be able to keep that lie going forever.”
“I can sure as hell try. No, look man, I know that someday my son will learn the truth about his old man, but maybe by then he will be on the way to a life that has nothing in common with mine.”
It was just before noon when a guard who led with his aftershave and the sound of his heavy feet came by and told Ladrón he’d be getting out in a few minutes, then looked at Chapa like he’d just remembered something.
“You’re that reporter guy Jackson told me about.”
“That’s me.”
He had a gray buzz cut and a face that had been through more than one war.
“You were supposed to be out a couple hours ago.”
“Yeah, well you know, I just couldn’t tear myself away from this fine establishment.”
The guard tilted his head to one side, his face now transformed by a scowl. It was a look Chapa knew well.
“I was hoping you’d invite me to stay for lunch. Are you here to take my order, officer?”
Over his shoulder, Chapa heard Ladrón laugh quietly.
“I’m gonna go double-check, but you’ll be getting out too,” the guard said as he turned and left.
“You wonder why I’ve told you all this?” For the first time there was some urgency in Ladrón’s voice.
Chapa shook his head.
“Not really. People need to tell their stories. It’s carved into our DNA. Some talk to a priest or a psychiatrist, others talk to me.”
“I understand what you mean, but that’s not my thing. I’m not exactly a candidate for that Dr. Phil’s show, you know what I’m sayin’?”
Chapa did.
Ladrón reached over to a battered wall and tore off a two-inch-wide paint chip.
“I know you got a pen.”
Chapa pulled out a Parker from his pocket and handed it to Ladrón, then watched as he wrote a number on the light gray chip.
“You call me if you ever need a favor,” Ladrón said, handing the paint chip to Chapa. “I can be a good person to know sometimes.”
That was not a difficult thing for Chapa to believe.
“And that’s it? You’ve told me all this about yourself because you want to offer your services?”
“Not exactly. Maybe you’ll do something for me, too.” Once again Ladrón searched Chapa’s eyes, this time apparently finding something that made him smile. “Don’t worry, it wouldn’t be anything too bad. Nothing illegal, you know, like beating the shit out of a cop.”
Chapa slipped the paint chip inside his wallet, then asked for his pen which he’d seen Ladrón discreetly slip into a pants pocket.
After a moment’s hesitation, which Chapa assumed was Ladrón trying to figure out a way to claim he did not have it, the pen appeared.
“You know, a pen can be a very useful thing, Alex.”
“You’re telling me,” Chapa said as he took it back from him.
“A man can do a lot of things with a pen. It’s very powerful.”
Chapa caught a whiff of the guard as he approached their cell.
“All right, Chapa, you first.”
He offered his hand to Ladrón, who at first seemed poised for a more complicated exchange, but settled for a traditional shake, then gave Chapa one of those single-shoulder hugs he’d seen athletes do on TV.
“Take care, bro.”
Chapa nodded and walked out of the cell.
He was heading for the door of the station, anxious to get the hell out of there and uncertain whether he’d ever be able to come back, when Tom Jackson called to him.
“Slow down, Chapa. We need to talk.”
Jackson was rushing in his direction.
“Don’t scold me, Tom. I know I screwed up.”
“You think?”
Chapa shook his head and made for the doors.
“C’mon, Alex, I’ll walk you to your car.”
A sharp pain stopped Chapa the instant he stepped outside as a shaft of cold air piped through his system. He pressed his hand to his side and imagined he could feel the imprint of Slattery’s knee.
For a moment, Chapa lost his bearings and could not remember where he’d left his car. It seemed like days ago that he’d driven here in the dark, determined to get some answers. He had parked on the street, a logical choice late at night when the meters aren’t running, not so good now.
“Can you take care of these for me?” Chapa asked, yanking two parking tickets from under his windshield wiper and offering them to Tom Jackson.
“No, I can’t. I’ve done enough for you, Alex.”
“None of this would’ve happened if those two cops had shown just a little interest in what went down at my house last night.”
“That may be, but you also played a role in this. Anyway, I’ve sent officers out to canvas your neighborhood today.” Jackson waved off a met
er reader who was closing in on Chapa’s car. “Look, I know Slattery is an asshole. The saying around here is ‘Slattery will get you nowhere.’”
“That’s good, Tom. Can I quote you?”
“No. The only reason you didn’t get booked last night is those two have had so many incidents like this one that they couldn’t afford another.”
“I was provoked.”
“Of course you were, dumb ass. That’s what they do. You gotta get a whole lot smarter, Alex.”
“I’ll get to work on that right away,” Chapa said, then offered the tickets to Jackson a second time. “C’mon, Tom, you know I’m not going to pay them anyway.”
Jackson grunted something under his breath, snatched the two long yellow slips of paper out of Chapa’s hand, and started to walk away.
“See, I’m starting to feel smarter already. Lunch next week, Tom, my treat?”
“I’m free on Wednesday, call me,” Jackson said without looking back.
Chapa saw Ladrón walking out of the station and heading the other way, past City Hall and into the shadows that led to the rest of the town. He thought about how comfortable the man had been in that cell, in this environment, and wondered what sort of person would find any of this, routine.
Chapter 67
Erin didn’t seem especially happy to see him by the time Chapa got to her house just after three in the afternoon, still wearing the same clothes he’d left in more than twelve hours earlier.
“I didn’t think you were going to make it,” she said.
“Make what?”
Her face curled up and she was about to answer him when a princess and a pirate came running into the living room.
“Hey, I think it’s Halloween,” Chapa said, making a fast recovery.
“Can we go, right now? Can we go?” Mike was saying, more as a demand than a question.
“Official trick-or-treating time begins at four-thirty, and that’s when we can start,” Erin said, lifting the large, black felt hat off her son’s head. “Now go play for a while.”
Mike reluctantly did as told, but Nikki grabbed her father’s hand and dragged him into another room.