by Luis Samways
“Get the fuck up,” the uncle said. “You think you’re gonna get away with sending my nephew to the slammer? You think I don’t know you fitted him up for murder? You fucking rat bastard. You’re gonna be one fucking dead rat bastard, you prick!” he sneered as he wiped his now bloody nose. He must have caught me with it. Amateur head-butt at best.
I wasn’t in the mood for a fair fight against this asshole. Still on the floor, I swung my feet under him and caught his legs. He flopped onto his back next to me. I quickly turned and lunged into him. I laid down a barrage of lefts and rights to his head and ribs. I could hear the wind sucking out of him. And then I got a clean elbow into his chin, and he went lights out.
The place erupted, and I got up. I wiped my face, which was now bleeding. I didn’t go away totally untouched from that fight. A few bruises and a black eye. Less than the four men in the bar, but it didn’t really matter. I guess I went to the bar looking for trouble. Maybe trying to decompress after all the shit that had been happening. I felt better afterward, but it still didn’t change the fact that I had ratted on one of my own.
That was what was really playing on my mind. I had to find out how to stop feeling so down. Turns out beating the shit out of Ricardo’s uncle and three cousins didn’t help me feel any better. It just added to the already empty feeling that settled deep in my stomach.
Eight
I left the bar pretty fast. In my experience it was always better to leave a bar after a fight than to stick around and wait for somebody meaner to show up. I got into my Ford Capri and hauled ass all the way home. I even managed to run a few stoplights. Didn’t bother me anyway; I was sober by then. I might have drunk a little, but I knew my limits. Most people would call that reckless, but they don’t know the meaning of the word. Sure, I may do things that get people scratching their heads, but I’ve never done anything that out of whack. Well, that’s what I think, anyway. Some may disagree.
I was in my apartment by ten past four in the morning. I was asleep ten minutes later. I didn’t even bother to shower. I knew I was a little bloodied from the fight, but that could wait. I had better things to do. Getting some Zs was one of them.
***
I woke up at two-thirty in the afternoon. It wasn’t like me to sleep half the day away. I had a pounding headache from the fist throwing and the shot downing of the night before. My head felt like cotton wrapped in barbed wire, and my nose was running hot sticky snot as I wiped my mouth dry from my drooling pillow. I got up from my bed, cracked my knuckles, and reached for a cigarette. I lit up and sat on the edge of my bed, smoking for a minute or two. I dropped the ash on the floor and watched as some hit my feet. It was cold once it hit me, so I didn’t flinch in pain. Either I was still out of it or I had gotten lucky, because in my experience as a smoker, ash dropping on one of your limbs always resulted in a nasty pus-ridden burn.
Luck it was, I guess.
I got up after I smoked my cigarette and stretched. I was still in my tightie-whities, having gone to sleep in the near buff. I had seen my underwear whiter but wasn’t in the least bit embarrassed by my stained cottons. Obviously, if I was with company, then I would have changed my underwear, but in the mind frame I was in, hygiene wasn’t on my top list of priorities. To be honest, I was far too focused on staying out of jail. Last night’s shenanigans hadn’t helped my confidence about staying out of the clink. In fact, it had made it a tad worse. If I wasn’t going to get arrested for the gun-lending incident, then I was sure I’d have uniform at the door within the hour regarding the fist-throwing incident.
I cracked my neck and stretched once again. I needed to be worked on by a physical therapist soon. My back had started to really bother me. I wondered for a minute or two if the state would pay for one of those, too, but then dismissed the idea and got into the shower. I had a quick one, just shampoo all over the body, really. I’d run out of shower gel and didn’t have any soap. Either way, I was cleaner than before, so it suited me just fine.
I got out of the shower into the now steamy bathroom and assaulted myself with the towel. I rubbed myself raw and put on some new clothes, a simple white T-shirt and some grey slacks. I went up to my cabinet and had a look at my face in the mirror, which was fogged over with condensation. I took a swipe at it with my hand and wiped it clean. What I saw was a beaten-up man. My face had a few cuts and bruises that made me look rugged and, if I may say so myself, a little handsome. You know that look, the type of look that dons the face of a hero in an action flick after a hard day’s work of kicking ass, and then the credits run and everybody leaves the theater. Difference was, the credits weren’t running on my action flick. Instead, the marks on my face were a precursor of my not so action-like escapades of the night before. What came afterward was anybody’s guess. I didn’t know how much time I would have left as a free man. I was pretty sure that the night before in the bar I had seriously injured somebody, if not all four of those jerks. Only time would tell. I had bigger things on my mind. I knew those men at the bar wouldn’t be making any police statements, that was for sure. Men like them – men like me; we settle things on our own. Even though I’m a cop, I know when I need to involve the police in my own personal matters, and to be honest, my personal matters are of no matter to my boss or his snooping goons. Right at that very second I bet somebody down at the precinct was looking at some papers on me or going through my sheet, evaluating me, trying to get to grips with the “real Frank McKenzie.”
There wasn’t much to get to grips with. Just pain and anguish. Hell and fire. Brimstone and burning coals. That was me all over. A man on the edge of melting away into the abyss, only to realize there wasn’t enough left of him to burn at all. I was broken and I knew it, but I decided that maybe it was best if I rode out the storm. I didn’t need to make anybody aware of my state of mind. I didn’t need a fucking shrink poking his nose into my well-being. I was done with it. From that very second, I had made the decision that would shape the rest of my career. I was done with trying to find the answers I was looking for. I was done trying to change me.
I went into the kitchen and grabbed a class of water. On the counter was another pack of smokes. I obliged and lit one up, leaving the cigarette crooked in my mouth as I grabbed my cell and dialed Dr. Martins.
“Pick up, you prick,” I said, muttering to myself.
There was a long dial tone, and then finally somebody picked up.
“Dr. Martins office…please leave a message after the tone,” a voice said.
“Shit!” I shouted, hanging up and slamming my cell down on the food counter.
Suddenly there was a rattle at my door. Somebody was knocking on it. I walked over to the door and peeped through the spyhole. I shook my head at the sight I saw and opened it.
“What the hell are you doing here, man?” I said, staring at Santiago in my doorway.
“Charming. May I come in?” he said and then smiled. “What happened to your face?” he asked.
I didn’t bother saying anything in reply. I just let him in and slammed the door behind us. I walked up to my counter and took a stool from underneath it. I offered the stool to San. He obliged, and I knelt against the counter, both hands cupping my face. Supporting the mess that was my obvious depression.
“You look like shit, dude. What happened?” he said.
“Went down to Musty Joe’s last night,” I replied.
Santiago’s face was a picture. He nearly burst out in hysterics. “And why would you do a thing like that?” he said, still creasing his cheeks in subdued laughter.
“I figured it would be a laugh,” I said.
Santiago nodded his head and shrugged. “Looks like you had a ball!”
“I did,” I replied.
“You got into a fight or something?”
“Yeah.”
“With who?”
I lit up another smoke and passed the pack to San. He didn’t go for a cigarette straight away, but as I told him what happened, he l
it one up and joined me in my self-pity.
“That was a stupid thing to do, Frank. It’s probably ill-advised to go looking for trouble down there. You seem to be forgetting that you put Ricardo in prison,” San said, dragging hard on his cigarette.
“I didn’t make him shoot anybody. It’s not my fault,” I replied, feeling a little irritated with San.
“True, you didn’t make him shoot Larry, but at the end of the day you went looking for trouble down at Musty Joe’s. You found it, and if Shaw finds out you’ll look guilty as sin,” he said.
I sat there, hands still cupping my face, and exhaled loudly. “What is it you wanted anyway?” I asked.
“To see how you were coping. I wanted to know how the psychiatrist was going.”
I stood up straight and shrugged. I didn’t know how to answer that question. Who was I to self-evaluate myself?
“I don’t know, man — it’s just going, you know?”
“I have an idea,” he replied.
We sat in silence for a few seconds. It was the sort of awkward silence one finds themselves in when talking though problems with a friend and then stumbling onto a sore point.
“I have things to do, man. I don’t mean to kick you out and all, but I’m looking to end my sessions with the shrink,” I said.
Santiago didn’t look offended at my wanting to get rid of him. He just nodded his head in understanding. He’d known me for far too long to get offended by my bad moods. He was a true friend. He knew me better than most. That’s why I was surprised at what he said next.
“You know, Frank, if you did accept any money from Ricardo, it’s fine. We all know how hard it is to get by on what we make,” he said.
My face dropped a little. I couldn’t believe Santiago would come out with something like that.
“What are you saying? You think I actually took the money?”
San put his hands out in defense. “What money?” he said, matter-of-factly.
“Exactly,” I replied.
After another minute or two of silence, Santiago made his way to my front door. He stood with his back to me and then turned around. “You know Shaw will find the money,” he said.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about, San,” I replied.
“I’d burn it,” he said, and then walked out of my apartment without looking back.
I didn’t know what he was up to, but part of me didn’t care. I’d been called many things in my career, but a bent cop, a crooked cop? Never. Never then, and never now. You’d have to cart me off to my grave before those words came out of your mouth.
Nine
I burst into Dr. Martins’ office and steamrolled over to the woman behind the desk.
“I’d like to see Dr. Martins,” I said. The woman gave me a look and pressed on the intercom. “McKenzie is here to see you, sir,” she said. “Please take a seat on…”
“I’ll stand,” I interjected.
The woman behind the desk scowled, as if she was seething at my response. I didn’t care what she thought. I was here to get answers, and that was what I was determined to get.
Not long passed, and Dr. Martins’ door opened up. He came out of his office looking a little disoriented. I could see he had been eating or resting. He had the lull about him that certain people get when in their own company for a while. He looked at me inquisitively and ushered me into his office. I nodded at the lady behind the desk, and she forced a smile. I walked up to Dr. Martins who was still standing in his doorway. “What’s up Doc?” I said sarcastically as I waded past him and walked on through. Martins just stood there for a while and then gave in. I saw him give his secretary a wide look as he shut the door behind him. As he turned around, I grabbed him by the collar.
“Why the hell aren’t you answering my calls, Doc?” I said. I could see the utter look of surprise on his face but something was telling me that he had expected this. Something deep inside me was telling me that he’d expected nothing less from me.
“Let go of me, Frank,” he said, squirming.
“No! Now tell me why you are not answering my damn calls!” I said.
“I have been — I mean, I am,” he said.
“Bullshit. You haven’t been answering your damn phone. You told me that you were here for me. That you would be just a phone call away if I needed any of your help,” I said.
Martins nodded his head emphatically as if he agreed with my statements. “I am here for you. I only just got in, Frank. Surely you can understand that?” he said.
I put both of my hands on his collar this time and started to rip at his shirt. “You listen here, you prick. You tell me what is going on! Tell me now, or I’m gonna beat the living shit out of you,” I shouted. I could hear some movement on the other side of the door. It sounded as if the secretary had picked up the phone as if she was calling somebody. Probably the police. “Why did you make me dredge up my past like this? Why did you turn me into the monster I am?” I asked.
Martins’ face went red. He didn’t know what was happening. Neither did I, if I was being honest. All I knew was I was angry. Angry enough to rough up my state-appointed therapist. Angry enough to go down to Musty Joe’s and finish off the joint with my damn gun.
“You gonna tell me what is going on?” I asked.
Dr. Martins just shook his head. I could see he didn’t know what I was going on about. I could tell the man had no idea what was really going on. I decided to fill him in.
“You know why the department is paying you all this money, right?” I asked.
“Yeah, to make you better, Frank. To make you whole,” he replied.
I still had a tight grip around his collar. “No, you idiot. The reason they are funding my therapy is because they want me to spill the beans on what happened to Ricardo, am I right?”
Dr. Martins looked blankly at me as if all his motor abilities had gone out of the window. He looked half scared, half angry. I still thought he was holding back on me, so I thumped him in the stomach. I could hear all the wind suck out of his lungs, and then I put my hand over his mouth, safeguarding his scream. “Don’t you say a word, you prick. I’m onto you. I’m onto all of you! You wanted me to go for a drink last night, didn’t you? You wanted me to get my ass kicked. I bet you were the one who warned them I was coming. How else would they arrive so fast?”
Dr. Martins had nothing left but complete shock on his face. I decided to let him go. It was no use. I knew he wasn’t going to tell me anything, so I decided to leave. I didn’t bother apologizing. I knew what I had to do. I knew I had to pay Ricardo a visit.
Ten
I pulled up to the precinct in my Ford Capri. The squealing tires plumed smoke upward as I screeched to a stop. I didn’t even put the handbrake on. I just got out of the car and went for the precinct door. Looking back, I saw my car mounted up on the curb. It looked worn and dirty. I could hear the engine ticking down as I went up the steps and burst through the precinct doors. I was greeted by a sea of faces looking at me in dismay.
“What the hell are you doing here, Frank?” I heard somebody say. I barged past the person and continued straight.
I jogged down the hallway, barging past more unwanted attention. Some people didn’t bat an eyelid, while others were visibly upset at me. “Watch where the fuck you’re going,” I heard a guy say.
I didn’t pay them any attention. I knew where I was going and what I had to do. Word was that they were holding Ricardo in lockup at the precinct. They feared that if they let him go to county jail, then he’d be murdered within a minute of setting foot there. Police officers turned inmates don’t tend to fare too well in their new homes. I heard the commissioner wanted to keep the case low-key so the press wouldn’t run on it like they usually did. That meant keeping everything a secret. That’s why I was booted out for the time being. And I figured that was why they set me up with a shrink, to preoccupy my mind, to keep me from seeing what they were truly doing. I knew they were setting me up. I c
ould feel it in the pit of my stomach. I was ready for the bastards. They wouldn’t have to look too far for me. I was in their backyard now. And I was pissed. But if I was going down, so would Ricardo. I’d take him down faster than he would ever believe. He shouldn’t have screwed me over like this. I didn’t know about the gun until he told me. I figured that he told me because he was feeling guilty about using mine. Something told me that he was trying to set me up, but the bastard had fallen through and set me up anyway.
He had given me that money as an apology for getting me involved. I had accepted it for that reason only. I was going to give the money to Larry’s wife. His widow. But no, the inconsiderate prick had decided to rat me out, all because he wanted somebody else to go down with him. I guess that was his plan all along. Kill Larry and take me down with him. I should have seen it coming. Ricardo never liked Larry. But I didn’t think he disliked him enough to kill him. I guess I didn’t know people as well as I thought I did. I guess everybody was guilty of something. I was guilty of two things: letting Ricardo get away with murder because of a nonexistent code between cops, and not killing the fucking prick when I had the chance. I was set to right both of those wrongs at that very second.
I jogged around the corner and saw the precinct lockup door. They were keeping him in the cellar lockup, away from the pimps and drunk tank guys. I keyed in my PIN, and the door unlocked. I was amazed at the fact that the door opened at all. I thought the Chief would have changed the codes by now. That was his thing, you see, but he hadn’t. It seemed too good to be true, like undressing your favorite movie star in your dreams and then waking up. Come to think of it, the whole situation had resembled a nightmare. But who was I to question it? Who was I to question the reality I lived in?