Overkill

by Dylan Rust

  Jack heard a cough in the background. It was her husband. His cough was hoarse. He sounded sick.

  “I shouldn’t have phoned you. Don’t bother me.”

  She hung up.

  Something was wrong. It wasn’t just that the feds had visited her, something else was bothering her. She was used to visits from unwanted men with guns who had too many questions. Elaine was one of the toughest woman Jack had known. She shouldn’t have been bothered by a few boyscouts at her door.

  He got up from his couch and walked to his fridge. He grabbed hold of the handle.

  Emma.

  A picture drawn by a child was posted to the door.

  It was of a dragon, breathing fire over a medieval castle. A tiny knight was holding his sword and shield at the bottom of it. The dragon had a yellow beak and feathers. When Emma gave Jack the picture she said that Jack was the knight and the bad guys were the dragon.

  He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

  He swung open the fridge door. He nearly ripped it off. He wanted to scream. He didn’t. He slammed the fridge shut. He didn’t need food. He needed something else. He went to his liquor cabinet and poured himself a drink.

  The bourbon tasted good.

  Once the burn subsided, he pulled out his cell and called Elaine. It rang three times, then went to voicemail. After the beep, he left a message: “Elaine, it’s Jack. I’m coming around. Make sure you’re awake.”

  He knew that would piss her off, but he didn’t care. The feds, the interrogation, and now her call made him feel something he hadn’t felt in years.

  There was fire deep inside him. A fire he needed to extinguish.

  He finished the rest of his bourbon and made himself a coffee. As it brewed, he showered and cleaned himself up. Sleep would have to wait. Once out of the shower, he grabbed his coffee and placed his hand on the picture Emma had drawn for him. He closed his eyes. He remembered her voice. Her innocence.

  He made his way down the stairwell, stepping over the passed out crackhead in the lobby.

  A light rain was melting the mounds of dirty snow outside the building. It would take days for the snow to disappear. Maybe weeks. The storm the other night had shut most the city down.

  Jack walked down the small alleyway beside his building. It was littered with needles, cardboard boxes, and rats. He heard them scurrying from dumpster to dumpster.

  Behind his building was a large, caged chain-linked fence Jack had paid the landlord six-thousand to install. A wire netting was draped along the inside wall of the fence and two rows of barbed-wire prevented anyone from climbing over. Jack needed it to be secure. He entered the keycode into the lockbox and the chain-linked door chimed. He walked inside and pulled the cover sheet off his 1969 Ford Mustang. It glowed in the dark light from the cloudy evening sky. The smooth contours and metallic frame were mint. He got inside and turned the engine. It roared to life. The rats in the garbage bins scattered.

  He pulled the car out of the alley and onto Winchester and then toward the highway out of the city. He’d be in New Jersey by nightfall.

  6

  Tom pulled out a stick of gum and tossed it in his mouth.

  Claire closed her eyes. It was hard to focus. The sound of his mouth opening and closing distracted her. He was always chewing gum.

  It drove her insane. She knew he knew it bugged her. She was sure that was the point.

  “Another stick of gum?” she said. “Really?”

  “Just trying to get rid of my coffee breath,” Tom said. He winked at her.

  She sighed.

  The two agents were in assistant director Clarence Edward’s corner office. It was in a well lit room, on the twenty-third floor of 26 Federal Plaza. It was a lot nicer than the cubicles Claire and Tom shared three floors down. Clarence’s office overlooked Thomas Paine Park and had a view of the New York County Supreme Court building.

  They’d been waiting for the assistant director for thirty minutes.

  She knew that when he showed up, he wouldn’t be in a good mood. Jack hadn’t agreed to participate. She needed to stress that she anticipated that he wouldn’t help right away. It would take time to convince him. They just needed time.

  Clarence had never been enthused about bringing the ex-NYPD detective on to the investigation. He reminded Claire of that at every step. To him, Jack was not an ex-cop, he was just an ex-con. His past in law enforcement meant nothing.

  Tom had picked up on Clarence’s dislike of Jack early in the investigation. He quickly adopted the assistant director’s attitude.

  Tom looked at Claire. He could tell she was upset. He knew Clarence wouldn’t be happy.

  “It’s okay,” he said. “I knew he wouldn’t agree to help us. He’s a lost cause. The guy killed a man in cold blood.”

  “It wasn’t cold blood,” Claire said. “Did you even read the case file?”

  Tom scoffed.

  “It was in self-defense,” she said. “The man he killed was holding a gun. Jack killed him with a pencil.”

  “He was still charged with manslaughter. He pummelled the guys face to mush. He stabbed him in the eye with the pencil.”

  “The judge ruled that Jack didn’t have to kill the man, that he should’ve known when to stop. I’m not saying he’s a saint. But it wasn’t in cold blood. He was enraged.”

  “You’re too much,” Tom said. “You think he’s a saint.”

  Claire rolled her eyes.

  She wanted to lay in to Tom and tell him what an idiot he was for pulling the gun in the interrogation room. Jack could have walked away at that moment and not looked back. He would have had every right to do so. Tom’s pride was a risk.

  The only way she could explain Tom’s position within the bureau was perhaps through family connections. She imagined him growing up in a posh mansion on the New England coast or in a beach house in Malibu. Wherever he came from, he reeked of privilege and wealth. Everything had been given to him, he hadn’t worked an honest day in his life.

  “You know why we brought Jack on,” she said. “He’s the only man in the city who can get close to Igor without arousing Igor’s suspicion. Without him, this investigation is nothing. We can’t raid The Dacha House without some evidence. We can’t get the evidence without Jack.”

  “But Spade is an ex-con,” Tom said. “Once a con, always a con. It’s one thing getting someone Igor trusts, but can we trust him?”

  Claire didn’t respond. She sat in the chair and waited for Clarence. Her face was red. She was mad.

  Tom noticed.

  “Listen,” he said. “I’m sorry. I just think this all for the best. I’m glad Jack said no. He’s too much of a loose cannon. I was worried for my life in that interrogation room. That’s why I pulled my gun.”

  “He’s our best shot at getting close to Igor,” she said. “Let’s hope he changes his mind.”

  “He’s not going to change his mind,” he said. “Don’t be dense.”

  “I’m just telling you what I think,” she said. “For an ex-con, he seems to still have an urge to do some good in this world. He’s helping the NYPD.”

  “He’s not helping the NYPD,” he said. “He’s embarrassing them. And we threatened him in there. We said we’d investigate him if he didn’t help us.”

  “That was your idea.”

  Tom laughed. “My idea? I didn’t think you’d take me seriously.”

  “Jack wants to protect the city. I know he does. He wouldn’t be acting as a vigilante if he didn’t. He’ll come around. I know he will. He just needs time.”

  “He won’t.”

  “He was a cop, despite a family history of crime, despite how easy it would have been for him to just accept a path of darkness. He knows the underworld. He wants to change it. He wants to do good.”

  “You’re too idealistic,” Tom said. “If you want to get promoted, you’ll have to cut that shit out. Things aren’t black and white in the real world. They’re just shades of grey.
There is no good path or bad path.”

  “So all I should care about is a promotion?”

  “Yes,” Tom said. “If you want to change the world, do some real good, you’re not going to be able to do much as an agent. You need to be a director. Follow orders, listen to your director and do what he or she says and eventually you’ll get to be the one in charge.”

  Claire shook her head.

  She was going to say something along the lines that she didn’t see the world that way, but Clarence walked into the room.

  The assistant director sat at his desk. He was a big man. He’d been around the block. He’d served his country in more than one way. He started as a private in the Army and did three tours in Vietnam before moving to the FBI as an agent in the late seventies. It was his fortieth year with the bureau. His retirement party was only four months away. He was looking forward to handing over his gun and badge and replacing them with a cigar and a golf club. He wasn’t looking forward to the meeting with Claire and Tom.

  “Let’s get to it,” Clarence said. “What’s the situation with Mr. Spade? Is he or is he not on board?”

  “He refused to help,” Claire said. “But…”

  “But what?” interrupted Clarence.

  “We need time.”

  “He’s not going to help,” Tom chimed in. “The answer was no.”

  Clarence shook his head and rubbed his brow. He’d been dealing with shit all day. “We don’t have time for this. He’s an ex-con. You’re putting your career with the FBI on the line because of this. Are you seriously willing to do that?”

  “Yes,” Claire said. “If we want to get close to Igor and bring the Grekovitch gang down, Jack is our best bet.”

  Claire stared intently at Clarence.

  “If this goes wrong, it’s both of your heads on a platter,” Clarence said. “Claire you’ll be back in DC punching data points and, Tom, you’ll be back in Beverly Hills. The only reason you’re here is because of your father, you know that.”

  Claire shook her head. She was right. Tom was a rich, little California boy, after all. That was why he was so soft.

  Clarence gave them both a stern look. He closed the tab on his desktop and got up from his desk. It was a short meeting.

  “If we don’t hear from Mr. Spade by the end of the tomorrow, then we continue our surveillance and look for alternative methods of bringing the gang down.”

  “But, sir…” Claire said.

  Clarence interrupted her and said, “Enough, Agent Osgoode! You’ve given me enough headaches about this case. You’ll follow my orders. Understand? I’m giving you time. That’s what you wanted. I don’t trust this Jack Spade and I don’t want him thinking he is holding the cards. He’s an ex-con. Remember that.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good,” he said. “This meeting is dismissed. If Mr. Spade doesn’t reach out, I want to know ASAP.”

  The assistant director left his office. Claire and Tom followed. The meeting had gone about as well as Claire had imagined.

  The two agents walked back to their cubicles.

  “You should come to your senses,” Tom said. He unwrapped another stick of gum and put it in his mouth. “You know I want the same thing as you. I want Igor to be brought to justice. We just have to do it the right way.”

  “The right way?”

  “Yes,” he said. “Listen, I’ve been on the ground a lot longer than you…”

  Claire interrupted him. “One year isn’t that much longer.”

  “Come on,” Tom said. “Give me a break. Even Clarence thinks Spade is a bad play. He’s a bad guy. Bad guys don’t work with the good guys.”

  “I thought you said the world wasn’t like that,” Claire said. “I thought you said it was all just shades of grey.”

  She sat at her desk. Tom stood over her shoulder, still smacking his lips with that glob of gum in his mouth

  “You know, it’s not even the ex-con thing that really bugs me,” Tom said. “It’s not even his family connections to the mob.”

  “Then what is it?”

  “It’s the fact that he’s an ex-cop.”

  “Why does Jack being an ex-cop bug you?”

  “Because cops in this city are too trigger happy. They think they understand crime better than we do. I’ve never had a good encounter with an NYPD officer on any case. They’re territorial. They look out for their own.”

  “Aren’t we the same?”

  “No,” Tom said. “I don’t give two shits about you.” He smiled at her and gave her a wink.

  Claire didn’t respond.

  She just waited for him to get the hint. It took him longer than she thought it would. He walked away from her desk, chewing loudly.

  7

  Elaine Spade’s hands were shaking.

  Why did she call him? Why did she do that?

  She shook her head and stepped away from the sink. She walked to the living room. Rodney was on the ground, a belt was tied around his bicep. There was a needle in his hand. Its tip had a tiny drop of blood on it.

  He was somewhere else.

  If she didn’t have to work, she would’ve grabbed the small leather satchel from the couch and joined him. But someone in their relationship had to pay the bills.

  Seeing his drooling face bothered her. She didn’t like seeing what happened to you while you were on it. She didn’t want to know the ugly truth. She just wanted the bliss.

  She stepped over Rodney and sat on the crusty, yellow couch they’d dragged in from the street. Her mind was racing. She should have just let dead dogs lie. Her brother had fucked everything up. If not for him… If not for him…

  Her phone buzzed.

  It was a text message from the dead dog. She didn’t read it. She threw her phone on the ground. It hit Rodney in the face. He didn’t bat an eye.

  “Fucking hell,” she said. “What the fuck did I do?”

  Rodney moaned and flipped over.

  “It’s Jack,” she said. “I called him. Fuck.”

  Rodney didn’t respond. He couldn’t hear her.

  The heroin had just attached itself to his brain’s drug receptors. The enzymes within those receptors had begun the process of metabolization. Euphoric waves of bliss were shooting through Rodney’s body. Once the drug was done metabolizing, the euphoria would fade and Rodney’s body would start to crave more. As a result of that craving, his body would die.

  He laid on the floor and his chest slowly expanded and compressed. His pulse was thirty-six beats per minute, but not because he was an elite athlete. He was never good at sports. It was because the heroin was changing the neurochemical activity in his brain. His automatic bodily functions had been thrown out of order. His brain was being choked of oxygen. If he made it to forty, he’d have the brain of a ninety-year-old suffering from dementia.

  Elaine had just started to use. The long-term effects hadn’t affected her yet. But even if they had, she didn’t care. She wanted to die. She was just too scared to face death sober.

  Her phone buzzed again.

  “Fuck you,” she said. “Fuck you, Jack.”

  She picked up her phone from the floor and read the messages.

  ‘I’m on my way. You still at 121 Sullivan Rd?’

  ‘Fifteen minutes away.’

  She threw her phone again. It hit Rodney in the face again. He didn’t notice again.

  She screamed.

  She needed to get ready for work. If she was lucky, she’d be gone before Jack arrived.

  She got up and walked to the kitchen and poured herself a cup of water. She saw her reflection in a white porcelain cup. She could see the damage the drug had done to her. Lesions of necrotized skin patches were blotted all over her face, making it look like it was popping open. In 1989 she’d been nominated as one of the most beautiful women in New Jersey. She now looked like a walking skeleton. Her gaunt, jaundiced face made her look twice her age.

  She sighed.

  She walk
ed to the washroom and applied some makeup.

  It didn’t work.

  It just made her look worse.

  She decided she didn’t care.

  She grabbed her apron, coat and purse and made her way to the front door.

  Jack texted one more time. She didn’t read it. She threw her phone into her purse and cursed.

  She wanted to dig her nails into Jack’s skin and make him bleed. She wanted to make him feel the pain she could no longer feel.

  She slammed the front door shut. She forgot to lock it.

  Rodney didn’t notice her leave. A thick drip of snot hung from his nose. The dark circles under his eyes were made worse in the fading light of the day.

  ***

  Jack hadn’t been to Jersey in over a year.

  He wanted to visit Elaine, but every time he called she didn’t answer.

  So he just stopped trying.

  He parked his car and got out.

  Her house looked like shit.

  The broken windows and missing shingles were just the start of it. The paint had peeled off the siding, making the whole house look brown. It looked a crackhouse. Seeing it broke his heart. He remembered a time when it was painted light blue and there was a small swing out front.

  He jumped over the bent metal fence that surrounded the yard and walked up the front porch to the door.

  He knocked.

  No answer.

  He knocked again.

  No answer.

  Was she blowing him off? He didn’t want to push. She’d been through so much. But she was scared. He knew his sister well enough to know when something was off. He needed to talk to her.

  He held his hand on the door knob. He turned it. It was open.

  He walked inside.

  The inside of the house looked just like the outside. The wallpaper had peeled away, the floorboards were warped, and the place smelled like old, musty laundry.

  “Elaine,” he shouted. “Elaine.”

  There was no answer. No answer he could understand, at least. He heard a groaning.

  A man was on the ground in the living room. He was short, chubby, and had salsa stains on his shirt. He was passed out, high on heroin. Jack saw the leather satchel, the needle, the spoon used to cook the drug.