Overkill

by Dylan Rust

  Jack read him like a book.

  “I have a sister,” Jack said. “But I haven’t spoken to her since Rikers. She’s in Jersey. She with a new guy, I think.”

  “Her daughter?”

  Jack ignored the question.

  “Her daughter?” asked Claire.

  “You know damn well what happened to her daughter,” Jack said. “She’s dead. Six-feet under. She was kidnapped by some predator and her body was found in a dumpster in Jersey. What’s the point of all this?”

  Claire pulled out another picture from the envelope. She placed it on the table.

  The picture was of Jack. He was in a police uniform. He was twenty-five years old. It was taken fifteen years ago.

  Jack remembered the day it was taken well. He remembered feeling like he was going to make a difference. He remembered feeling like he was finally going to be an end to his family’s cursed name.

  “You were in the NYPD for how long?”

  “Ten years,” Jack said.

  “Why’d you leave?”

  “I had my reasons.”

  “Reasons?” Tom said, rolling his eyes. “How a dickhead like you ended up in the NYPD escapes me. Did they not know you were related to one of America’s most infamous hitmen?”

  “They knew,” Jack said. “They reminded me about it everyday.”

  “You were top of your class,” Claire said. “You were promoted quick. You were detective by your third year. That’s fast for an NYPD cop. Says here you had a talent for detail. You saw things others didn’t.”

  “I was pretty good at my job,” Jack said.

  “It also says you had a knack for getting under people’s skin.”

  “Some people have thicker skin than others,” Jack said. “Some people can handle the truth, others can’t.”

  “You were good at your job but you gave it all up. Quit. Cold turkey. The report here doesn’t specify why.”

  “Law enforcement wasn’t for me,” Jack said.

  “Weeks after you left the NYPD, you were arrested and charged with manslaughter,” Claire said. “You killed a man, beat him to death. The judge agreed that it was in self-defense, but he concluded that you should have shown restraint. You served five years in Rikers, and a year on probation.”

  Jack nodded.

  “You’ve been out of Rikers for a little while now. What have you been up to?”

  “Odd jobs,” Jack said. “This and that. Keeping busy.”

  “Fuck you,” Tom said. “Do you mind explaining these?”

  Tom pulled out three NYPD case files with pictures attached to each one. He placed them on the table.

  “Each of these men was found alive, hog tied or constrained in some manner with all the evidence the NYPD would need to lock them up for a long time. The media says there is a vigilante cleaning up the streets in Brooklyn, cleaning up the streets under his own terms.” He looked at Jack. “Have you heard of the Brooklyn Vigilante”

  “Yeah,” Jack said. “Last thing I read, they weren’t sure if it was a man or a woman.”

  Tom slammed his fist on the table.

  “Are you the vigilante?”

  Jack looked at the pictures then at Tom. “No.”

  The first picture was of a man, hogtied, in a garbage bin. The panicked expression on his face was priceless. Stuffed into his pockets were the lewd photographs of young children he’d taken. Beside the photo was the case file: Robert McCutcheson, Known Child Predator: Arrested and charged with underage sexual assault, the production of child pornography and kidnapping.

  The other photos showed men in similar states. Each was tied up, one in a back alley, the other in the back of a squad car, put there while two cops were grabbing their coffee. All the evidence the NYPD would need to convict them was stuffed into their pockets.

  “These were all open and shut cases,” Claire said. “These were wanted men. They’d been on the watch list of the NYPD for years. They were being investigated, but detectives had nothing, no leads. It wasn’t until they were found hogtied with all the evidence needed for a conviction that any big break occurred.”

  “Strange,” Jack said.

  “Cut the bullshit,” Tom said. “This is your handywork, isn’t it?”

  “No, it’s not.”

  “All of these men were found in Brooklyn, not more than a four block radius from your residence,” Claire said. “Vigilanteism is illegal, Mr. Spade. It carries a minimum sentence of ten years in New York.”

  Jack didn’t respond.

  “You’re behind these arrests,” she said. “Aren’t you? Do you want to end up in Rikers again?”

  “Do you have any evidence? Any proof?” Jack asked.

  “No,” she said. “Only suspicions.”

  “Then why am I here? Why the accusations?”

  “You’re an ex-cop and ex-con with connections to the mob and an odd moral compass” Claire said. “That’s why you’re here.’

  Jack rolled his eyes. He knew what they were getting to. “You want me to help you?” he said.

  “Yes.”

  Claire pulled out a photo from her envelope and placed it on the table.

  It was of The Dacha House.

  Jack had heard about it. Everyone from Brooklyn had heard about it. Prostitutes, drugs, murder were all said to be commonplace within its walls.

  It was a popular club.

  The building looked like any other shady club in New York. Neon lights, black brick and thick, fire proof steel doors. If you were walking down the street, you might not even notice it and, if you did notice it, you’d stay away.

  “Do you know this place?” Claire asked.

  Jack nodded.

  “It’s Igor Grekovitch’s club. He’s the head of the Grekovitch Gang,” Tom said.

  “You put that together yourself?” Jack said.

  “You’re an asshole,” Tom said. “Do you know who Igor is?”

  “I’ve heard of him. Small-time Russian gangster.”

  “I bet you have heard of him,” Tom said. “He’s just like you. Family connections to the mob, history of violence, and a penchant for not giving a fuck about the law. The only difference, he didn’t pretend to be a cop. He just accepted what he was: a piece of shit low-life.”

  Jack cracked his knuckles.

  Tom jumped back.

  Jack smirked. The agent was jumpy. “And what are you?” he said. “A career focused, ass kissing maggot who’s after a promotion not justice? How long before you decide to run for office?”

  “Ass kissing maggot? How much dick did you suck in Rikers not to get shanked? An ex-cop would have had a pretty big target on his back in prison.”

  “Is that one your fantasies?” Jack said. “Sucking dick in prison?”

  “Hey, fuck you!” Tom said.

  “Go fuck yourself.”

  Jack cracked his knuckles one more time. He knew he’d get another reaction.

  Tom jumped and pulled his weapon. The fed was breathing heavily. He wanted to assert his authority, to regain control of the situation.

  It didn’t work.

  Jack was quick. He kicked Tom in the groin and, as Tom fell to the ground, grabbed the gun from Tom’s hand before the clumsy FBI agent could fire. Jack dislodged the clip. It fell on the ground. Jack placed the gun on the table and raised his hands.

  In the frenzy, Claire pulled her gun out. She aimed it at Jack and checked on Tom.

  “Stand down,” she said. She looked at Tom, who was holding his groin, his face red. “Both of you.”

  She gave her partner a stern look.

  He’d realized that he’d lost his edge. He recomposed himself, closed his eyes, and felt around his jacket pocket for a pack of gum. He grabbed a stick and shoved it into his mouth. He looked at Jack, who was smiling. He’d read in the report that the ex-con had a knack for getting under peoples skin. He’d just learned that first hand.

  “Heel, boy, heel,” Jack said.

  “Fuck you,”
Tom said, under his breath.

  Claire put her gun back in its holster. She knew Jack would be difficult to deal with, his psychological profile made that clear. She’d been prepared for this.

  “Let’s take a few steps back,” she said. “We’re not here to threaten you. We need your help. We think you will be interested in what we are offering.”

  She opened a file that contained Jack’s report. Clipped to the first page was his mugshot. She looked at it then at the man across from her. He didn’t look any different. Maybe a few more grey hairs above his ears and on his chin, but that was it. He didn’t look forty years old.

  His eyes caught hers as she studied his face.

  She turned away, blushing.

  “Okay,” she said. “We need you to go into The Dacha House. We need you to get close to Igor. We believe you’re the only man in the city who can do this.”

  “You want me to help you bring down the Russian mobster?” Jack said.

  “Yes,” she said. “He’s suspected of sex-trafficking, smuggling women from Ukraine to New York.”

  “Why not work with the NYPD, get an undercover cop to do your dirty work?”

  “Because, asshole, Igor is careful,” Tom said. “The NYPD raided the place years ago and found nothing.”

  Jack didn’t buy the answer. “What is it?” he said.

  Claire gave Jack the truth. “It’s because of your uncle,” she said.

  “My uncle?”

  “Yes. You’re uncle did odd jobs for Sergei, his father, in New York,” she said. “Igor is always looking for good men he can trust. We believe that if you can get close enough to Igor, earn his trust, he’ll slip, he’ll reveal something that will bring him down. Your job is to find the dirt on him and report back to us. This would be covert work. Strictly off the books. And, of course, we reserve the right to disavow any connection with you.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” Jack said.

  “What?” Claire asked. “This should be the perfect opportunity for you. This is far better than acting like some vigilante on the streets. I know you want to clean these streets. Why not help us clean the streets with you?”

  “I’m not going to do it. I made a promise to myself never to work for law enforcement again. I’m not breaking that promise.”

  “It’s just one job,” Claire said.

  “It’s going to take months,” Jack said.

  “He’s kidnapping people,” she said. “He’s not just some small-time Russian gangster. He’s a threat to the safety of this city.”

  “The answer is no. He’s your problem. Not mine.”

  “If you don’t do this, we’ll spend all of our energy tracking you down,” Tom said. “If you don’t help us, you’ll be our problem. You’ll be our focus. We’ll put an end to your little Charles Bronson act.”

  “Fuck you,” Jack said. “You’ve got nothing on me. Go ahead, waste your time.”

  “Please think about it,” Claire said. “If you don’t help us…”

  Jack interrupted her and said, “The answer is no. I worked with the feds when I was a cop. Your just another bureaucratic shit show. You’re not interested in cleaning up the streets. You’re interested in your careers. Say I do accept the job. You’ll just offer old Igor Grekovitch a plea deal. He’ll accept it and not see a day behind bars. He’ll agree to be an informant for you, just like what you folks did with Whitey Bulger in Boston.

  “That was different,” Claire said.

  “The answer is no,” he said. “I’m not working with you. You can spend all your energy tracking me down, but you’ll find nothing. If you want Igor, you’ll have to get him on your own.”

  Both agents looked at each other and nodded. The interrogation was over. They’d have to update the assistant director.

  5

  Winchester Ave. was one of the last vestiges of old New York. Unlike Manhattan, it was still rough around its edges. No Williamsburg hipsters had moved in yet and the coffee was still cheap. It was as it always had been. The old men who’d called it home since the forties sat outside their favorite mom and pop shops on garden chairs each day until the sun went down. They’d drink their bad coffee and spend the entire day arguing about the Yankees, Knicks or Rangers.

  The feds were nervous to drive down the dilapidated street. It was one of the few areas of New York the NYPD had written off. Too many rats under the floorboards.

  1761 Winchester Ave. was nestled between a laundromat and pawn shop. It had a thick layer of grit on its red and brown brick. The hallways smelled of damp musk and boiled cabbage. Its original cast iron fire escape ran up the street facing facade. You wouldn’t want to use it, though. It’d been rusted out long ago.

  Jack lived on the top floor of 1761. He’d lived in the apartment since he came to New York from New Jersey in the mid nineties.

  Claire and Tom drove him there and dropped him off. They didn’t say much to him on the drive from the precinct. They understood that he wasn’t in the mood to chat.

  As he got out of the car, they handed him a piece of paper with a phone number.

  He was to call it if he changed his mind.

  Tom reminded him that if he didn’t help, he’d make it his life’s mission to throw Jack back in prison.

  Jack didn’t buy it. He knew he’d be fine. He’d just have to go quiet for a few months. The feds would lose interest and find someone else to bother.

  He made his way up the building’s stairwell, stepping over a passed out junkie and a pile of needles in the lobby. He made it to the top floor and noticed his apartment door had been left open.

  “Fucking feds,” he muttered to himself.

  He pushed it open, half expecting to find them still searching through his stuff. He knew what they were doing there.

  They were looking for dirt.

  At least they had the decency to leave his morning paper.

  It was on the floor.

  He picked it up.

  The front page headline was about Lyle Cunningworth, the son of disgraced Wallstreet trader Samson Cunningworth. The senior Cunningworth had been charged with operating a ponzi scheme that had swindled millions of dollars from hundreds of people ten years ago. The senior was sentence to five years in a white-collar prison. He lasted two. He was found hanging in his cell. He took the easy way out. According to the paper, it looked like his son was taking up his father’s business, albeit in a slightly more legal manner. The headline: ‘Lyle Cunningworth Shuts Down Recently Purchased Indiana Plant, 20,000 Jobs Lost.’ Just below the story about Lyle was a story about the missing cop; Lieutenant Ivan Rivers Missing For Two Days. Jack flipped through the the first couple of pages. He was looking for something specific.

  There it was.

  On the fourth page.

  Brooklyn Vigilante Strikes Again

  He skimmed through the story. They’d gotten most of it correct. NYPD commissioner Hugo Green commented briefly about the rapist they’d found tied up behind the bowling alley, but he’d spent most of his time commenting about the vigilante. There was a reward of over $100,000 if anyone had any information on who the vigilante was.

  Jack threw the paper on the ground.

  The asshole.

  The feds left his apartment a mess. His mail had been opened and was scattered on his kitchen counter. He looked through it, just bills and flyers. His living room was in a similar state. Books, records, and clothes were dispersed on the floor. They even ransacked his liquor cabinet. He didn’t pick anything up. He just left it where it was. He’d clean it up later. He needed rest.

  He walked to his bedroom. They had ransacked that, too.

  The closet and dresser were opened. Their items sprawled out on the floor. They even cut open his mattress. They were looking for anything and everything.

  He checked his closet.

  That was where the where the only that mattered was held.

  He pulled out a large cardboard box full of old family photos. Under
it was a loose floorboard. He pulled it up. The shoebox was still there. They’d missed it. The GLOCK 17 Gen 4 was inside. He checked that it was loaded. He put the weapon in a pocket inside his jacket. Ex-cops were allowed to carry weapons in New York, but Jack’s ex-con status made it illegal for him to carry. That was why he had to hide it.

  Inside the shoebox was also a red key. He left the key in the shoebox and put it back under the loose floorboard.

  He wouldn’t need to visit the storage locker.

  Not yet.

  He walked to his living room and sat on his sofa. He rubbed his temple. He didn’t want to think about the feds. He didn’t want their mess.

  He was more interested in focusing on cleaning the streets in his neighborhood.

  He turned on the TV and flicked through the channels. A reality TV show, sports, and the news. He closed his eyes. It didn’t take long for him to fall asleep.

  The sun descended over the New York skyline. Darkness crept over the city.

  Jack’s phone rang.

  He opened his eyes and looked to see who it was. It was his sister. He hadn’t spoken to her in years, not since Emma’s passing. She’d blamed Jack for everything.

  Why would she be calling him?

  “Hello,” he said.

  “We need to talk,” she said. “Two FBI agents came by asking about you. They were looking for dirt. They said they suspected that you were the Brooklyn Vigilante.”

  “Don’t worry,” he said.

  “Fuck you,” she said. “Fuck you and fuck all your problems. You fucking idiot. What did you do? You’re acting like our uncle right now. I feel like mom. You fucking prick.”

  Elaine hadn’t changed.

  “Glad to hear you’re doing alright,” he said.

  “Stop with the bullshit,” she said.

  “The feds want me to help them,” he said. “I told them to fuck off.”

  “That’s why I called…” She paused.

  She was crying. It wasn’t like her. It wasn’t the Elaine he remembered.

  “Are you okay?” he asked. “You sound scared?”

  “A friend of mine…” She cried. “Jack, I don’t know what’s going on. I shouldn’t have called. I’m sorry.”