Revolver

by Duane Swierczynski

  “I know he didn’t kill himself. But nobody wants to listen to me. Especially your father.”

  “Don’t take it personally. That’s just his way. Grim and cryptic.”

  “He wasn’t always that way.”

  “No, I know.”

  Bethanne leans forward and crosses her arms. Either she’s cold or she’s trying to stop herself from shaking.

  “So what did you two talk about last week? I know you had drinks with him. He came home all tipsy. Which wasn’t him.”

  “I was planning on doing a project about Grandpop Stan’s murder. Staś stopped by to talk me out of it. He thought the Captain’s heart couldn’t take it. That me asking questions would push him over the edge.”

  “Did you stop working on the project?”

  “What do you think?”

  Bethanne allows herself a small smile. She’s known Audrey since she was five years old, even babysitting from time to time. The surest way to get Audrey to do something was to tell her no, you can’t.

  “I came up here to see if Staś was working on anything.”

  “The department already sent people to look through his things. They told me nothing looked out of place.”

  “What about this?” Audrey says, picking up the Kelly Anne Farrace murder book. “This was one of my father’s cases. Why does Staś have this?”

  Bethanne nods. “He always told me that was the case that made him want to become a cop just like his father—but it was also the case that broke his father. Don’t you remember? I guess you were too young. Staś and I had only been dating a few months back then.”

  “That’s the year my mom and dad split up,” Audrey says.

  “It was the next year, but yeah, that’s when things started going wrong. Staś would stay over my house whenever he could. He just couldn’t deal with being home.”

  “Lucky him,” Audrey says, and looks down at the binder in her hands and notes the date range on the cover: 11/1/95 to 3/17/97. Early November 1995, she realizes. Holy shit. This was the case her father was investigating when Terrill Lee Stanton died of a drug overdose in a halfway house near the Frankford El.

  Dupek

  April 17, 1965

  George gets it first and worst.

  He’s making his way home first thing in the morning, headed up Washington Lane to his quiet little house, when he hears the scream of tires and rustle of bodies. He grew up in a shitty neighborhood; his street radar is fine-tuned. He knows the sounds that indicate he’s about to get jumped.

  And these assholes should know better than to mug a goddamned cop on the way home from his shift.

  But these are no ordinary assholes. They’re a precision strike team. They move faster than anticipated. George’s hand is barely on the grip of his service revolver before he feels his knuckles explode in white-hot agony before going mercifully numb. Then more whipcrack strikes on his upper arms and knees, which is when he feels his body drop to the ground.

  Far as he can make out, there are three of them—all with hardwood nightsticks.

  George feels a stick around his throat. Hands and knees on his body, pinning him to the concrete. A masked face up close in his, telling him:

  “Back off, nigger.”

  “Who the—”

  Someone snaps a cheap punch into his mouth. The lower half of his face explodes. He drinks his own blood.

  “Or you’ll be next.”

  George tells Stan about this the next day—not like he can hide the bruises. But he waits until they’re in the car, away from other ears. They sit there in their big red machine, not pulling away, their bagged lunches on the console between them.

  “You want to tell me what happened?” Stan finally asks.

  “We’re pissing somebody off,” George says. “That’s what happened.”

  “Yeah,” Stan says in a faraway voice that makes his partner turn around and really give him a close look.

  “Holy shit. They get to you, too?”

  Last night was Tuesday night—trash night.

  Stan is hauling the dented silver can down the alleyway to put it out on Ditman Street. He’s just cleared the building on his right—the back end of a corner grocery store—when a hunk of steel taps the left side of his skull. Stan bites the inside of his cheek and sees stars.

  “Don’t move, dupek.”

  Stan doesn’t move, still holding the trash can, because he knows that’s a revolver to his head.

  “I don’t have anything on me,” Stan says, which is the truth. He’s wearing his undershirt, slacks, and slippers, for Christ’s sake, because he was just taking the trash out. No keys, no wallet, certainly not his piece.

  “Don’t want your money,” the voice says, and jabs the gun against Stan’s head again to emphasize the point.

  “Look, I’m a cop, all right? Don’t do anything stupid.”

  “Yeah, we know you’re a cop. We also know your wife and kid are back in your house, defenseless. Any idea what could be happening to them right now?”

  All the muscles in his body go tense. Rage floods his bloodstream instantly, powerfully. He wants nothing more than to tear this man apart for just uttering the words wife and kid.

  “Don’t,” the man with the gun says, now pushing the business end of the revolver into Stan’s head with enough power to force his head against the wall. His ear scrapes the rough brick. He’s still holding on to the trash can. Not out of fear. If it comes to it, Stan has no objection to beating the hell out of this guy with the can. That is, if he’s not shot in the side of the head first.

  “They’ll do her first, so your son can hear. And maybe if you’re lucky we’ll drag you back there, give you the chance to beg for your kid’s life.”

  “What do you want?” Stan says through gritted teeth.

  “Get your murzyn to mind his own business.”

  “Rosie and the kid?” George asks quickly.

  “They’re fine, it was just a bluff,” Stan says as he drives up Broad Street.

  “Huh,” George says. “You get a bluff. I get the goddamned black beat off me.”

  “I’d rather a beating than for anything to happen to my family.”

  “Yeah, I see your point. Guess they don’t know about me and…hang on hang on.”

  “What?”

  “They don’t know about me and Carla getting back together, because according to my file, we’re still separated.”

  “Your file? What, at headquarters? What does that have to do with anything?”

  “Come on, Stan. They knew our home addresses. They knew we were cops. They knew exactly how to threaten you. They knew they had to beat the shit out of me to make their point. That’s because they’re fucking cops, man. We’ve been chasing cops this whole time.”

  They drive in silence for a few minutes, both processing.

  “This is messed up for real,” George finally says.

  “Doesn’t have to be police, you know. Just someone with access to our files.”

  “Which makes it the same thing as the police, if you think about it.”

  As Stan drives he can feel his heart racing even before he’s consciously aware why. He’s been sitting on this for a while. If he doesn’t bring it up now, he never will.

  “Do you know a guy named Sonny Kaminski?” Stan says.

  George turns to look at him. “Well, that’s a question out of fucking nowhere.”

  “Well, do ya or not?”

  “Not personally, no. Don’t want to. We have what you might euphemistically call some, uh, family history.”

  God no. Please, God, don’t let him say the words.

  “How’s that?”

  “I never told you this, because I didn’t want you to think you were jinxed or something, ridin’ around with me. You know my daddy was a cop, but I never told you the whole story. John Quincy Wildey was one of the few black men on Smedley Butler’s squads of Prohibition raiders. Got himself a commendation by ol’ Gimlet Eye himself. And a
fter they booted Smedley out of the city, my daddy kept on fighting. He hated liquor, and hated those who peddled it. No offense to your beer and all. Guess it was the Southern Baptist in him.”

  “What happened to him?”

  George exhales slowly. “One night he got a tip—somebody was ripping off a government liquor warehouse down on the waterfront. He and his partner went to check it out, partner took the front, my daddy took the back. Sure enough, yeah, there was a whole gang of them, truck waiting and everything.”

  God no, Stan thinks. Please stop now.

  But Wildey continues.

  “Now, my daddy—who I’ve gotta say was a fairly clever man—knows that it’s like, six heisters versus the two of them. They’re outnumbered, outgunned. Not as if they can call for backup in the middle of all this. So my daddy goes to their getaway truck, knocks out the driver, opens the hood, and messes with the engine some. Heisters come out, see their driver missing, and freak out. Say something about him chickening out. A plan’s a plan, though. They load the beer and after they’re finished one of them gets behind the wheel to start the truck. It won’t start. Which really pisses him off.”

  It’s surreal, hearing an oft-told tale from the other point of view.

  “My daddy comes out, Freeze, police! Gun out, got the drop on these stupid bastards. His partner got them covered from the other side. Nowhere to go. They’re exhausted, and two cops have them in their sights.”

  The guy behind the wheel is named Jan Kaminski.

  “So the guy behind the wheel, he’s madder than any of them. He takes one look at my daddy, revolver in his hand, and says…now, this is according to my father’s partner…he says, ‘Goddamn you, nigger, making me do all that work for nothing!’”

  Actually the way Stan heard it was You goddamned murzyn, making me do all that work for nothin’!

  “And then he shot my daddy.”

  And then Jan Kaminski pulled the trigger and shot that black bastard dead.

  “Killed him right there.”

  And then all Jan Kaminski’s pals would laugh, because the execution was the punch line.

  “They all ran, leaving the beer behind.”

  That black bastard still owes me for a night’s work!

  Haw haw haw…

  “My daddy died at the scene. I had no idea until the next morning. I was only, shit, four years old. But that morning I knew everything would be different from then on. And you want to know the truly messed-up thing?”

  “What’s that?”

  “A year later President Roosevelt made beer legal. A year later, it would have been like my daddy died stopping a bunch of assholes for stealing soda pop.”

  They share a moment of silence for John Quincy Wildey, killed in the line of duty, December 1932.

  “They ever catch the guy?” Stan says, knowing the answer already.

  “No,” George says. “But that’s what I was getting at. They never caught the gang, but a few months later someone else arrests this band of bootleggers. Word is, their leader always bragged about killing some black cop. His name was Jan Kaminski, father of the guy you asked me about. So how do you know him?”

  At this point they’re almost at Broad and Columbia but Stan can’t hold it in any longer. He pulls their Falcon to the side of the street, leaps out of the seat, runs to the corner, and pukes on the side of a building.

  Orphan with a Gun

  November 5, 1995

  “This is a courtesy, Sonya,” Jim says. “Nothing more. I just want to let you know we’re going after him for this.”

  “Hear me out. Five minutes is all I need.”

  It’s almost closing time at the Palm. Sonya wanted to go somewhere private, but Jim purposefully chose a public place, just to make sure things remained civil. Once they arrived Sonya insisted on ordering drinks, even though alcohol is the last thing Jim wants worming through his bloodstream. He needs to be more clearheaded than he’s been in his entire life. Christ, what was he thinking? He shouldn’t even be here with Sonya. He should be rousing Aisha from sleep and preparing to take this raping, murdering motherfucker down.

  “Two Stoli martinis, very dry, three olives,” she tells the bartender.

  “One martini for her,” Jim says. “I want a tonic and lime.”

  “Is this Jim Walczak, turning down a free drink from the City of Philadelphia?”

  She’s trying to keep it light, like it’s all no big deal, hah hah won’t you look silly in the morning. But her eyes tell a different story. They’re predator eyes. She wants to sink her teeth into Jim and give it a snap and a jerk.

  “The only thing I’m going to suggest,” Jim says, “is that you contact your attorney. For both of you.”

  She moves in close. “I need to explain something to you.”

  “Just tell me one thing, Sonya. Does the mayor know?”

  She ignores the question. “Johnny had nothing to do with this. The only thing I’m guilty of is protecting a young man’s future. When that girl turned up dead, Johnny told me everything. That he was talking to her in the club that night. He wanted to turn himself in for questioning!”

  “He should have. You should have told him to talk to me.”

  “And have his name all over the fucking papers? Nuking his future? No, I don’t think so. You know how this works, Jim. It’s like chewing gum stuck to the bottom of your shoe. It sticks to you all day long.”

  Jim shakes his head. “This is a murder, Sonya. You can’t go playing around with this like it’s some bond issue or whatever the hell it is you people do.”

  Sonya’s martini arrives and she takes a healthy swallow. Jim watches her carefully. Here is a mother whose son is about to be accused of one of the most horrific crimes in recent memory. Yet she’s out here, sipping her Stoli like there’s nothing to worry about. He’d love to see one little tremor, one tiny tell. Her cool resolve worries him. This were him, with Staś or Cary in this kind of hot water? Jim would be jumping out of his own skin.

  “You knew all along,” Jim says. “The mayor didn’t send you. You asked for the assignment. To protect your kid!”

  “Mea culpa, Jim. And don’t pretend you wouldn’t do the same. But that’s not all.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Ever wonder how you caught this case? You weren’t next on the rotation, were you? Hmmm.”

  “Are you saying you got me on this case?”

  “Well, no, I don’t have that kind of power. But when the horrible news broke, I immediately thought of you—my favorite homicide detective. And I made a simple suggestion to the mayor.”

  “After you spent a long night cleaning up after your son.”

  Sonya frowns. “You’d better watch what you say, Detective. You’re tap-dancing with a slander lawsuit.”

  Jim rests his head in his hand, elbow on the bar. “Look, Sonya, it doesn’t matter what you say, I’m going after him for this.”

  She locks eyes with him. “I’d offer to blow you in exchange for your courtesy, Detective, but that would be a little creepy. Even for me.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You still haven’t figured it out, have you? I guess that makes sense. You were only twelve when my uncle died. Suppose your mom never told you.”

  “Your uncle? Who the fuck is your uncle?”

  “His name was Stan Walczak. He was a Philadelphia police officer, killed in the line of duty.”

  She’s either drunk or insane. Most likely insane. Bringing his father into this, trying to save her own son.

  “John is your nephew,” she continues. “You bring him in, you’re destroying your own family.”

  “Jesus Christ, Sonya, this is a new low, even for you,” Jim snarls. “I know my family. You’re not my fuckin’ family.”

  “Jim, for a smart man, there’s so much you don’t know. I’ll bet you never even thought about where your name came from.”

  “What?”

  Was she honestly sug
gesting that he was named after “Sonny Jim” Kaminski? That the union boss and his father were siblings? No, sorry, can’t be. Though something tugs at his memory. One afternoon, a few months before his father was killed—a man stopped by the house. A guy in a fedora, nice clothes. He and Jim’s pop went for a walk. Pop came back angry. When Jim asked about the guy, his pop snarled and said he was nobody. A gangster.

  Sonya leans into Jim now, her lips to his ear. “I don’t care what you believe, cousin,” she says. “But if you bring in my son, your nephew, I will destroy you.”

  Jim takes this moment to suck in some air, clear his thoughts for a moment. Don’t let her taunt you, Inner Jim. You’re leading the most important homicide investigation of your life—Outer Jim needs to be in charge here. But it’s hard to keep his composure. The entire world seems to be spinning a little faster now. He feels a strange lightness in his head. Like he’s been in an accident and the shock is preventing him from remembering what the hell just happened.

  “Go right ahead,” he finally says. “You’ve got nothing on me.”

  “Really? Then tell me what you’ve been doing visiting a certain halfway house on Erie Avenue for the last three days in a row.”

  A cold little ball forms in Jim’s stomach.

  “Don’t make me do this, Jim. For your family’s sake.”

  “Do what, Sonya?” he says robotically, because he already knows what she’s going to say. She’s been orchestrating this from the beginning. Probably before the body was even discovered in that stairwell. Arranging the pieces on the board so her son would come out the winner no matter what. Asking for Jim—secret cousin Jim—to be assigned to the case. Dogging it every step of the way. Ears in the department and eyes on the street. Watching Jim’s every move, so that if he got close to John DeHaven she’d be ready. Only, the people watching Jim saw something else, didn’t they.

  “I have photographs,” she says quietly. “Friday morning, Friday night, Saturday morning. Saturday night…Do you want to take the stand and explain why you were visiting a parolee’s halfway house all weekend long?”