Daggers & Steele 1 - Red Hot Steele

by Alex P. Berg

  I waltzed back to Griggs, who sat on the floor next to the naked girl. She seemed no worse for wear, though she still rocked her birthday suit. Her chest expanded and contracted rhythmically with her breathing, but she’d yet to crack open her eyes. I wondered if she might be in a coma.

  Griggs barked at me. “You going to stand there staring, or are you going to do something?”

  “You have to admit, standing and staring is something.” And I could stare for a while. Whoever she was, she was easy on the eyes.

  “Smartass.”

  “I don’t see you jumping up to help her,” I said.

  “I’m not sure I can even stand, much less jump,” said Griggs.

  “Fine, I’ll cover her up. If only to keep your lecherous, old eyes off her.”

  The drapes would do the trick. I pulled a set off the nearest window, letting in the waning light of dusk, and lay the thick cloth over the mystery woman’s private areas. As I did so, I heard sharp creaks approaching from the stairs. Bluecoats, coming to clean up our mess. Good timing, too. Badge or no badge, I didn’t want to get caught in the Erming long after dark. The lamplighters guild refused to service the slum for safety reasons, and city officials agreed that was probably best for all parties. Well, except for the poor saps who lived in the Erming, but who cared about them?

  “C’mon old-timer,” I said. “Let’s leave the mop up duty to the grunts. I’m pretty sure I saw a medic or two among the nightstick swingers. They’ll take care of our lady friend.”

  I gave Griggs a hand and pulled him up.

  He grimaced and clutched his back. “Give me some support, youngblood.”

  My eyebrows might’ve jumped off my face. Griggs never admitted weakness. His back must’ve been hurting him worse than he let on.

  With Griggs’ arm over my shoulder, we hobbled out past the blues and down the stairs. Griggs started to wax philosophical to me by about the second landing.

  “You know, Jake, I’ve got to be honest with you. I don’t know how much longer I can do this.”

  I chuckled. Griggs had been threatening to hang up his coat and boots since the day I joined the force a little over a decade ago.

  “Tell me about it. You’ve probably only got another twenty good years left in you. A score and a half, if you’re lucky.”

  Griggs shook his head. “No, I’m serious. I mean it this time. I’m too old for this crap. I let you down in there and we both know it. You’d be better off with someone else at your side. Someone with a fresh set of legs. I’m going to retire.”

  I’d heard that line a million times before, too. I nodded and made a noncommittal grunt of acknowledgement. “Come on, partner. Let’s see if we can catch a ride back to HQ on that paddy wagon.”

  4

  As it turned out, my unshakable confidence in Griggs had been misplaced. The old buzzard hadn’t been crying wolf after all.

  He came into the precinct the following morning, walked right into the Captain’s office, and slapped his badge on the desk. Said he was done. Said it was his time to go and wished everyone the best. No long goodbyes or tearful farewells.

  Or at least that’s how Quinto related it to me later—I’m not exactly one of the first employees into the office. It’s not that I hate mornings, it’s that they always come at such an inconvenient time of the day.

  Blissfully unaware, I followed my typical mid-morning routine, walking up Schumacher Avenue and onto 5th Street where I greeted the precinct’s imposing façade—a solid wall of granite featuring wide, iron-banded double doors and a massive bas-relief carving of the seal of justice which displayed a soaring eagle holding a pair of scales in its razor-sharp claws. I breathed in deeply at the sight of it, goose bumps rippling across my arms.

  When I arrived at my desk, I found Griggs surrounded by our office staff, all of them taking turns giving the old timer a hearty pat on the back. I figured the higher-ups were trying to cut back on healthcare costs again by indulging in some home-brewed chiropractic experiments. Then I realized what was happening.

  At first I couldn’t believe it. Griggs? Retiring? I sank into my chair and sat there in a dull stupor. I’d been on the force for a solid twelve years, and during that entire time the old buzzard had always stuck by my side. He wasn’t the most agreeable partner to be sure. His scowl could draw rainclouds, he was about as chatty as an oak tree, and his brand of compassion was strictly of the ‘suck it up and shut it’ variety. But Griggs was my partner. The only partner I’d ever had.

  As I sat there in shock in the hard-backed excuse for a seat the city hall penny-pinchers determined was suitable for all public servants, I reflected on how little I actually knew about my partner. Despite his occasional month-long vows of silence, we did talk on occasion. I knew once upon a time Griggs, like me, had made the mistake of getting married, and he had a daughter and two grandkids to boot. I knew he’d served in the army back when most of us were still evolving to walk on two legs instead of four. I knew he liked to play dominos and go fishing in the summer. But beyond that? Who was the man behind the dried leather mask? In twelve long years, I’d never taken the time to find out. I guess I never would.

  While I stewed in my emotional soup, the Captain negotiated for a farewell bash with Griggs, much to the buzzard’s chagrin. As some sort of cruel practical joke, the Captain sent Quinto out to get party hats and a cake. I envisioned Quinto at the party store, ordering a couple dozen conical hats and a frosted gateau from a terrified clerk—a clerk who probably couldn’t imagine anyone as ugly and intimidating as Quinto having any friends at all, much less two dozen. I then thought of Quinto sitting alone in a room, cramming fluffy white cake into his gaping maw with a two-and-a-half foot stack of party hats strapped to his egg-shaped melon.

  I smiled, but it was short-lived. I wasn’t in the mood.

  The party itself felt awkward, as all farewell parties do. I didn’t have much to say to Griggs, and he seemed intent on keeping the meaning of life to himself, so I sulked in a corner and filled the hole in my gut with frosted sugary grief.

  Before I knew it, the party was over and Griggs had left—for good. A strange knotting sensation filled the pit of my stomach. Even though the cake had been sweet enough to give me heart palpitations, I didn’t think it was the culprit.

  Captain saw me squirming and aimed a manly head nod my way. It was his way of showing concern, as if to say ‘Buck up kid, you’ll be fine.’ And I would be. Heck, I’d have to be. Our medical plan didn’t cover depression, and I couldn’t exactly be depressed about losing an old buzzard like Griggs. Could I?

  That night, I confronted my feelings of confusion and despondency head on like any other red-blooded male—by self-medicating myself with copious amounts of beer. I drank. A lot. I ranted. I ripped. I roared. I got thrown out of the bar. Well, not so much thrown out as escorted home. Luckily, I had the sense to fill myself with the nectar of the gods at Jjade’s, and by lucky, I mean it’s the only place I ever drink. I’m practically an institution there.

  Jolliet Jjade is the sole proprietor of the aptly named Jjade’s, a watering hole far nicer than it has any right to be, given its clientele. Jjade’s an interesting cat. With long, chestnut brown hair split right down the middle, caramel-colored skin, and an impeccable fashion sense, you’d think she’d have suitors lining up around the block.

  Only problem is she’s a he.

  At least I think she is. I’ve never asked to see the goods. Regardless of what’s going on downstairs, I consider Jjade a good friend, and I’m fairly certain she was the one who helped me home that night—though my recollection is fuzzy.

  The next day, the gods took pity on me. As a tribute to my stupidity they granted me an overcast morning as a boon, though their benevolence ended there. My head throbbed as if Daisy had pounded it during a bout of infidelity, and when I arrived at the precinct, I felt like nothing in the world would please me more than sharing some of my alcohol-induced misery with the rest of the s
ad saps in the city. Pounding heads and taking out my rage on poorly hinged doors would do the trick, but the Captain was having none of it. He took one look at my face and stuck me on paperwork detail.

  I thought my newfound assignment as a pencil pusher would only last until the end of the day, but the following morning I found a stack of old case files on my desk even Quinto would’ve had a hard time seeing over. The Captain was giving me a subtle hint—he didn’t think I was emotionally ready to hit the mean streets again anytime soon.

  Well if he wanted to play hardball, fine by me. I knew how to win the game he played, and it had nothing to do with how quickly I could scrawl my pencil across the mammoth-sized stack of files on my desk. The key to victory lay in how big of a pain in the ass I could make myself around the office.

  I re-acquainted myself with the coffee pot and got to work.

  5

  I sorely underestimated the Captain. No matter how much crap I flung around the precinct, none of it stuck to the pack leader’s office. I should’ve known better, but my hubris got the better of me.

  To be fair, I’d turned orneriness into an art form. Few men could put up with me at my worst, but the Captain was one of them. He was an old jarhead—even though he was balding, he still sported a high and tight. Being ex-marine, he was uniquely qualified to deal with rabble-rousers like myself, and he tended to do so with unmatched vocal ferocity, by which I mean he was a master at chewing people out. That, and not his flapping jowls, was what earned the Captain his nickname—the bulldog.

  My first day of paperwork detail I was a model of inefficiency. I stopped by the break room and commandeered the entire coffee pot, office ethics be damned. I hovered over every desk I could find, chatting up everyone from Rodgers and Quinto to joes I barely knew. Rodgers got so bored he ran out of zingers. Even the poor runners hanging around outside the front of the precinct got to hear my life story.

  I barely moved a quarter inch of paper before it was time to punch out. The bulldog gave me a murderous glare from behind his office windows as I left, but he kept his mouth shut.

  The next morning, a second Quinto-sized stack of papers awaited me on the opposite side of my desk, and my trusty hard-backed butt-supporter had been replaced with a three-legged stool. The Captain’s message was clear. Get your ass to work.

  I ignored the suggestion and moseyed off toward the break room to romance my mistress, the coffee pot. On the way I stopped by Rodgers’ desk to chat, but he scowled at me and told me to get to work. Apparently, the Captain had rallied the troops in my absence. My efforts at loafing were already meeting heavy resistance.

  Undeterred from my goal of turning the office into a churning morass of inactivity, I surged onward, but much to my surprise, the ever-present pot of coffee had disappeared. In its place was a handwritten note:

  Dear Officers of the Law,

  Coffee is a privilege to be consumed by productive members of the force only. Let it be known that I’ve confiscated the pot until such a point as Detective Daggers clears the stack of unfinished paperwork from his desk.

  —The Captain

  I gulped. The bulldog was pulling on his old marine training. Don’t punish the agitator. Punish his squad mates until they force him back in line.

  After I got over the initial shock, I realized the Captain’s plan might actually work to my advantage. A few days without coffee, and the entire precinct would revolt. Of course, my fellow detectives might kill me in the process, but at least my goal of spreading discord would be achieved.

  As I waltzed back to my workspace, several members of the squad shot me ugly glares. I responded with a collection of my most winning smiles, secretly thinking they could all go suck eggs.

  I settled onto my stool and into the chasm created by the Captain’s paperwork. Griggs’ empty desk glared at me like a sullen, silent sentinel. We entered into a brief staring competition. The desk won.

  Behind Griggs’ empty spot, Rodgers and Quinto’s desks sat face to face. Quinto scribbled away at some papers, oblivious to my recent defeat.

  “Hey Quinto,” I said. “You’re not much of a coffee person, are you?”

  He turned his big ugly mug around. “No. Why?”

  “No reason.”

  The rest of the office I could handle, but I didn’t want to piss Quinto off. I cast a quick glance toward the Captain’s office. The bulldog spotted me and looked pleased with himself. I smiled and waved.

  I started doodling. I’d half-finished a fairly decent sketch of a scantily clad water nymph when I heard the Captain’s door wrenched from its frame.

  “Daggers!” the Captain barked. “If you don’t get to work in the next millisecond, you’re going to find yourself on janitorial duty for the rest of the week. And if that doesn’t sound like your cup of coffee, then you might as well start packing your things now, because you’re headed for an extended unpaid vacation.”

  It’s amazing what the threat of starvation can do.

  I got to work on the pile in front of me. I’d figured I could wear the Captain down given enough time, but I was sorely mistaken. After about a week of butting heads, I started to despair that even I wasn’t hard-headed enough to out-stubborn the guy. Though I’d gradually waded my way through all of the paperwork, the old bulldog kept finding new mundane tasks for me, none of which included anything that resembled actual detective work.

  I became desperate. I pleaded with Rodgers to let me tag along with him and Quinto on a case. He took pity on me and agreed, but the Captain nixed that idea as soon as I’d taken two steps toward the door. I checked and rechecked my mail slot, to see if anyone needed my keen deductive skills. I even thumbed through old cold case files to get a fix.

  In only a week of inactivity, the Captain had turned me into a shaky mess. I’d blame the coffee, but the Captain was still strictly rationing the supply.

  The only good thing about my incarceration at the precinct was that I’d developed such an intense case of cabin fever it’d driven all thoughts of my old pal, Griggs, from my mind.

  In retrospect, I’m certain that had been the Captain’s plan all along. He’s a clever old goat. But as Griggs once told me, the only certain thing in life is change, and a whole bucketful was headed my way.

  6

  The sun beat down on my neck as I strode up Schumacher Avenue. Sweat beaded on my scalp, threatening to make a break for my collar. I sent a quiet prayer to the gods that the day would turn out cooler than advertised. Quinto emitted a unique and wholly unpleasant funk on hot days.

  As I turned onto 5th Street, I spotted my friend Tolek and his push broom-like mustache by the street corner and wandered over. Tolek was an immigrant of the human variety who operated a mobile kolache cart. He often propped it up under an awning across the street from the precinct. It was the worst of stereotypes, but the guy made a killing selling doughnuts to us gumshoes.

  Tolek waved at me as he saw me approach. “Mr. Daggers,” he said in his lilting accent. “Good to see you today. Your usual?”

  The guy knew me too well. I couldn’t say no to his apricot kolaches.

  “Make it two, Tolek. I have a feeling I’ve got another long day ahead of me.”

  As Tolek fished out the pastries, a gang of pre-teen ragamuffins begged me for coins. They tended to hang out around the precinct in the hopes that some of our regular runners wouldn’t show, but if that opportunity never materialized, they had no qualms about getting underfoot and being general pains in the rear.

  I shooed them away. They annoyed me to no end, probably because they reminded me of myself when I was their age. And even worse, they reminded me of my son—although at five, he was still a fair bit younger than the thieving rapscallions that surrounded me.

  Yes, I’m a father, but not a particularly good one. One would think with my childlike exuberance I’d be a great parent, but historical evidence has disproved that, I’m afraid. Really, my relationship with my boy never had a chance. By the time h
e was old enough to interact, my relationship with my ex, Nicole, had already fallen off the deep end. The infighting between us poisoned the interactions I got with my son, which were few and far between given the long hours I was putting in at work.

  Normally, I tried to avoid thinking about my failings as a father. I found it was easier to ignore problems than try to solve them, but Nicole insisted I could still salvage my relationship with my boy. For gods’ sakes, he was five. All he wanted was to toss a ball and run around and talk to me about his day. I could do that. The only problem was, due to the custody agreement, to spend time with my boy I also had to do the same with Nicole. Dealing with my guilt over poor parenting was one thing, but dealing with the simultaneous feelings of affection and loathing that wrestled through my brain every time I reunited with Nicole was something else—something I still wasn’t ready for.

  I headed through the station’s massive iron doors, under the seal of justice, and into the precinct, all the while thinking I needed to tighten my belt straps and give my little squirt a visit. I was so engrossed in my thoughts it wasn’t until I practically tripped over it that I realized my hard-backed lumbar supporter had returned to its rightful home. Before I had a chance to reintroduce my posterior to the seat, the Captain barked at me from his office.

  “Daggers! In my office, now.”

  I brought a kolache with me. No telling how long the old bulldog would chew on my hide.

  “Captain?” I asked.

  “Close the door. Have a seat.”

  I plopped my butt down in one of the no-frills government surplus guest chairs. I eyed the Captain’s padded leather throne, telling myself that with a few more decades of hard work and perseverance, I too might acquire that level of opulence.

  The Captain crossed his arms and leaned back, levying me with his steely gaze. His jowls quivered, and I prepared for a Grade A reaming.