City of Crime

by Warren Court

  The Crown attorney tried to bring up my suspected involvement in the much larger crimes—the street rips and association with the Scallas. Again, my attorney, god bless him, came back with the fact that associating with criminals was part of my job, infiltrating and building relationships in their organizations. As he summed it up, they couldn’t ask me to dive into the world of drugs and remain totally clean.

  The charges were dropped. The police force was trying to keep the lid on the major story that was waiting there under the surface. That for years, several of its members had been more criminal than cop. I walked, leaving behind my career, my pension, my wife and most of my possessions. But I was alive.

  PART THREE

  Chapter 45

  “So how did Garigue die?” Imelda asked me after I got through outlining Macintyre’s criminal organization within the police force.

  “I don’t know. I assume it was the Scallas.”

  “Bullshit. You know. They used your boat.”

  “If they used my boat, it was without my knowing.”

  “Right. Those two hoods stealing a boat, taking it out onto the lake by themselves to kill someone, and then tying it up so nice when they were done that you were none the wiser. Remember, we were on your boat the next day. The day we arrested you.”

  I shrugged. “Stranger things,” I said. “Besides, isn’t this about getting dirty cops?”

  “If Macintyre ordered the hit on Garigue, then we want him for that, too.”

  No way was I going to implicate myself in a premeditated murder. My chances of getting immunity on that were slim to none. Especially if they believed or could prove I’d put a bullet in Garigue’s head before we dropped him in the lake. If it got to court, if I didn’t get whacked waiting in a detention cell, the Scallas’ lawyer could say that I’d killed him and they were under threat of violence from me to dump the body. They’d get some out-of-towners on the jury who didn’t know anything about the Scallas and I’d end up doing twenty-five years. More like twenty-five days until I got a shiv in my back.

  “All you’re going to get is what I told you. You bring Macintyre in and I’ll testify about the drugs. That’s it,” I told her.

  “We’re going to want one more witness. For insurance.”

  “Who?”

  “The one Scalla you didn’t whack. You bring Enzo to us and we’ll talk about immunity.”

  “He won’t roll.”

  “You don’t know Enzo that well. He’s already rolled for us.”

  I was floored. Enzo Scalla a rat? “You’re kidding.”

  “Who do you think traded us Estrada? He wanted some insurance for himself.”

  I was about to say that the Scallas were the ones who’d set Estrada up but I bit my tongue. What a double play by Enzo—he’s in trouble with the law so he throws them Estrada then takes Estrada out.

  “I don’t know where he is,” I said.

  “Get creative. And I want him alive,” Imelda said.

  “I’ll try and control myself.” I finished my third drink and left.

  Chapter 46

  Enzo Scalla a police informant. I couldn’t stop shaking my head as I drove away from Imelda’s house. But the farther I got, the more I believed it. That double-dealing fat son of a bitch. Imelda had been right to caution me about killing Enzo when I found him; he would be useless dead. But it would be hard to restrain myself when I finally found him. Estrada had been my friend. Imelda hadn’t said anything about what shape Scalla had to be in, just as long as he was breathing. He’d be breathing when I delivered, but barely. I’d just have to try and stay clear of those fat hands of his.

  Hating Enzo was easy; finding him would prove to be hard. I ruled out all the local haunts, for starters—his bar, his home, the vending machine business. My first instinct was to ring up one of my snitches. But with Garigue gone and me tied into it, word would have spread and all my snitches would have dried up like autumn leaves and blown away.

  There was one person I could turn to. Rico. He must have gotten himself loose from The Chelsea by now. I didn’t think he’d go underground. No, he’d be out there hunting me, but he’d never in a million years think I would come to him.

  His home was a good place to start. I could give him his gun back. Yeah, right.

  I knew that Rico lived somewhere over on Nash Road, but I didn’t know the address. I decided to head over there and see if I could spot his car. It took ten minutes of driving southbound on Nash before I saw Rico’s Mustang. He was late putting it away for the winter. There was another car in the driveway, a four-door BMW. I drove by slowly, confirmed the license plate on the Mustang. It said RICO ONE.

  Rico had always been a player with his real estate, constantly moving and trading up until he had a huge home that overstretched his income—his reported income, anyway. I knew that Rico fed the river of money from the street rips we did into his cars and homes. And expensive vacations. But he was a family man and always took his wife and two girls everywhere. I’d invited him to Cuba for my wedding, but he’d declined. He didn’t want to take the girls out of school and wouldn’t go without Doreen and the kids. I’d respected that. Out of all the craziness in the HPD drug squad, he seemed to have the most stable marriage of any cop I knew. I wondered how long he’d known about Macintyre and my wife. If he had truly been my partner, he would have clued me in.

  I turned around at the end of Nash, then drove back and ducked down a side street just before Rico’s house.

  It was past midnight now and the house was dark. I figured the BMW was his wife’s. I snuck around the back of the house, my feet crunching on a pile of leaves. I waited and saw my breath in the cold night air, then resumed. The gate was not locked and I mounted the back deck to the rear sliding door.

  There was a big barbecue with a cover on it. I took the cover off, bunched it up and placed it against the glass door where the catch was. I took the butt of Rico’s gun and punched through the glass. The sound was muted and I waited for any signs I’d woken someone, then slipped inside.

  I knew there was no dog; he had cats. He used to get ribbed about that—a cop with cats. One of them ran into the dining room and did figure eights around my ankles. I stood there for a minute, letting my heartbeat settle, listening for any sounds. When I was sure that whoever was in the house had not heard my entry, I slowly slid out a dining room chair and sat there in the dark.

  I waited two hours until I finally saw a pair of headlights sweep into the driveway and park behind the Mustang. Moments later Rico came in the front door. He was alone, thankfully. When he’d locked the front door, I reached over and flicked the dining room light on.

  “You’re up?” he said, with his back to me, thinking I was his wife, and then he turned and froze. I had his Glock in my hand, resting on my thigh. I put a finger up to my mouth to shush him.

  “You’re a dead man,” he said.

  “Funny. I’m the one pointing the gun at you.”

  “Is that mine?”

  “Yup. I’m borrowing it. Hope you don’t mind.” I went to him and spun him around. After a quick frisk I said, “Let’s go downstairs for a chat.”

  He shoulders slumped and he led me down. I kept the gun on him the whole way. Made sure he flicked the lights on ahead of time.

  His basement was not finished.

  “You just move in?”

  “Last year.”

  “Nice place. You always made out nice. How are the girls?”

  “Cut the shit,” he said.

  I smirked. “Okay, pal. Where’s Enzo?”

  “How should I know where that fat prick is?”

  “You know his hideouts. I want him. Then I’m gone, understand? I get him and I’m all done getting people.”

  “Really? Not so sure we’d feel the same way about you.”

  “You’ll get over it. Now tell me. Here. Write down the addresses of his goomahs. Fatso always has several women on the go. You know who they are.”

>   There was a pool table in the middle of the basement. Rico was always a great pool player. I tossed the notepad and a pen on to the table. He went over to it. I got ready with the gun. There were a couple of balls on the table and a cue. I saw his hand inch closer to it.

  I moved in close and put the muzzle of the Glock against his ear. “I could take you out, make it look like you ate your gun,” I said. He froze. “I could have done you back in The Chelsea. You were certainly going to do me. I ain’t fooling, Rico. Write down the address, let me get out of here, and you can go up and kiss your girls goodnight.”

  “One’s at university.”

  “Really? Kylie? I did not know that. They grow up fast, huh? Now write.”

  He wrote a bit in the notebook and then straightened up. He handed the book and pen to me over his shoulder.

  “If he’s not at this place, I’m going to come back and kill your entire family,” I said. “Even the one at school.”

  “Go to hell,” he said.

  “Nice knowing you, Rico. I’ll send you a postcard.”

  I backed up the stairs. He turned around and leaned against the table. I flicked off the lights and closed the door and was out the back way before he could make it up the stairs. I was sure he had another gun in the house. Probably upstairs in a locked cabinet.

  Chapter 47

  I looked at the address again when I was back in my car. Fifty-nine Newton Avenue. That was in Westdale, near the university. The girl’s name was Shirley. That’s all Rico had written. Shirley—it sounded familiar. There had been a bartender named Shirley at Bannister’s.

  I speculated on what Rico’s first action would have been after I left his house. Hopefully it would have been to check on his wife and youngest daughter, but I knew he was scared. Under that tough-guy act, he was probably just as frightened as I was about the net that was closing in. He would reach out to Macintyre first, but that would only be to set up a face-to-face meeting. Macintyre would never talk about anything on the phone.

  They would probably place bets on who lived—me or Enzo—when I finally caught up with the remaining Scalla brother. Either way, it would work out for them. They would never fathom that I was trying to bring Enzo in alive.

  I slammed my car to a stop in front of 59 Newton. I sprinted up the front steps, placed my foot squarely against the door and kicked it in. No dicking around this time. Scalla would have a gun at his bedside; I had to get to him before he could rouse himself.

  I rushed up the stairs. A light had come on in a bedroom. I barreled through that door too.

  “Police! Don’t move,” I said.

  I saw Scalla’s enormous form under a sheet. He was snoring away. There was a naked woman in the room and she was scrambling at a bedside table, trying to cock a small-calibre pistol.

  “Drop it,” I screamed. She let the gun drop to the floor and raised her hands. It was the Shirley I remembered from the bar, though she was older and I’d never seen her naked. “Shirley,” I yelled. “Get in the bathroom.”

  Scalla kept snoring. She ran, covering herself as much as she could, into the ensuite bathroom and slammed the door. I went over to Scalla.

  “Wakey, wakey, Enzo,” I said, and put the gun to his ear. He snorted and licked his lips.

  “Seriously, dude, wake up. Eh, Enzo! Dis your mama! Getta your fat ass outta that bed.”

  He opened his eyes.

  “Morning, sunshine,” I said.

  “Oh, hell,” he said. I could smell bourbon and trench-mouth on him.

  “Get dressed. We’re going for a ride.”

  He roused himself and looked over at the other side of the bed.

  “She’s in the bathroom. Come on, let’s go.”

  Scalla moved quickly for a man who thought he was about to die. I stood in the room, never taking the gun off him. His clothes were in a pile by the bed.

  “Let’s move. Nothing funny or it’s one in the head. Keep those big fat sausage hands down by your side.”

  Scalla was now fully awake and taking in the situation. “Isn’t there a way out of this, Jack?”

  “Don’t worry, I’m not going to do a Garigue on you. I just want to introduce you to some people. You’ll be in good hands.”

  “The cops?”

  “Your friends in Internal Affairs.”

  He flinched.

  “That’s right. They told me you were a rat. The rat. Shame, shame, Enzo. Your queer brother must be rolling over on his slab down at the morgue.”

  Enzo’s hands moved.

  “Uh-uh” I said, waggling the gun. “No-no. Just get going. Maybe you and I can go a few rounds after you’ve talked to your friends in Internal Affairs.” I raised my voice. “Nice seeing you again, Shirley.”

  “Fuck you, Jack,” I heard from inside the bathroom.

  I put Scalla in my trunk. He was so fat I had to press the lid down on him.

  “You okay?” I asked after he stopped yelling.

  “No, I’m not okay.”

  “Okay. Just checking,” I said and laughed. I tried again to slam the lid down. Instead of the clunk of the trunk lock engaging, I heard Enzo wail. He was just too big.

  “Okay, get out,” I said. Scalla did so, and I opened the rear passenger door for him. He moved his enormous body into it. He was giggling now, compliant, happy to not be in the trunk and already waiting for the opportunity to get his hands around my neck.

  “Turn your head,” I said.

  “What?”

  “Just turn away.” Scalla turned and I whacked the back of the Glock on his skull. He was out and starting to slide to the floor, but his enormous gut kept him upright. I retrieved a pair of jumper cables from the car and, as best I could, tied his hands behind him. It wouldn’t hold for long.

  I stopped at a payphone in Westdale, keeping one eye on Scalla and the other on the street.

  “I got him,” I said to Imelda.

  “That was quick,” she said. “I really didn’t think you’d be able.”

  “I’m resourceful. I want to drop him off now.” There were two hours of darkness left.

  “The Brantford Motel on Old Jerseyville Road.”

  “I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

  I pulled into the parking lot of the Brantford Motel. It was dark and there were holes in the roof. Chunks of broken glass here and there. The parking lot had tufts of weeds growing up through it. I remember staying here as a teenager after my prom. We got a room at the far end and turned it into a party house. That was the night I got laid for the first time.

  There was one car at the far end, its front pointed to me. I approached it slowly and stopped thirty feet from it. I switched on my high beams and saw Imelda shield her eyes. Then I turned my car off, including the lights, and got out. I moved around to the front of it, leaving the driver’s door open.

  Imelda stepped out, a little dazed; my bright lights had robbed her of her night vision, as I’d intended.

  “Where is he?” she said as she approached.

  “He’s here,” I said. “Sleeping it off.”

  “Is he alive?”

  “He isn’t much good otherwise, is he?” I said.

  “Get him out. Let’s get this over with.”

  “My immunity,” I said.

  “You expected me to have papers here?”

  “Yes,” I said. “If you’re serious.”

  “It’s four in the morning. I’m not waking up a judge or Crown attorney for you.”

  “You haven’t even spoken with them, have you?”

  “Not lately,” she admitted. “Look, we’ll get it sorted at first light. What we need to do now is secure Enzo Scalla. There are forces out there that would want to take him out. You, too, for that matter. The sooner you come in, the sooner I can protect you.”

  “I’m not coming in. You can have Enzo, but I’m taking off.”

  “To the Caribbean? No way, pal.”

  “You going to stop me?”

  “We
could.”

  “And Macintyre could get a phone call.” I held out Enzo’s phone, pretending it was mine. “He could be out of the country before you could say Jack Robinson.”

  “You bastard.”

  “You can have Scalla. I’ll disappear for a while. Maybe the Caribbean, maybe somewhere else. I’ll even come back and testify, but only if I get that immunity. For now, you letting me go is a good-faith gesture.”