CHAPTER 15 ? BEATING THE MAN
I don?t have a lot of patience for bull. I pick up my gun and investigator license from the front duty desk and get into my car and wait for Fat Man and Tall Boy to jump into their Chrysler. I can?t find my bottle of Jack?s, and I wonder if it got confiscated while I was getting pounded in there.
I follow them down about a mile and a half to the wharf entrance. There aren?t a lot of people there, but I can see a couple of blue boys with their thumbs in their pants, looking for all the world like two small boys on a playground of men. It?s not physical size, it?s just demeanor. Wharf cops make us all look small.
Toward the end of the wharf a buncha guys are standing around, some near a car that?s got a big puddle of water around it. Some of it has run down and collected around the body of Villig, which is now covered by a canvas sheet. Others are further in, and part as we come through slowly. They park, and so I do the same, right behind them. I step out of my car and over to Villig?s car. I?m just lookin? at it, trying to peer through the windows, but it?s kinda hard to see, what with little beams of light glaring off the windows.
A shadow appears in the window, and Tall Boy behind me says, ?It?sa damn shame.? Someone comes up to him, and says, ?Here?s the registration. And the vehicle identification. We also found a metal tool box in the trunk, empty, and a spare key, magnetically attached to the underside of the bumper.?
?Thank you,? Tall Boy says. I turn around to face him. I must have a look on my face because he smiles, kind of wan, and says, ?We do our jobs.?
?Yeah,? I say. ?A hell of a lot better job than the Fenton precinct boys. You wouldn?t believe what they missed on a recent murder investigation. I got knocked around for criticizing their operation.? He gives me a grim smile.
?You get that a lot, don?t you??
?Only when I?m sober.? Tall Boy?s eyes narrow. ?What?? I ask.
?Surprise, surprise. This car belongs to an Eva Mendoza.? I stare at the paper and then up at his face. ?Who do you suppose that is?? he says.
?What?s the address??
?Lakeside. West Orange,? Tall Boy laughs. ?Who said spics could own a fine automobile as this? And a bleeder at that.? He hands the card back to the sergeant. ?Sergeant, run the name through state, see what you come up with.? The sergeant nods and walks away. Tall Boy notices me staring at him.
?That bother you?? he asks. I look at him square in the face.
?What? Name calling? No. I just thought you were a better man, that?s all.?
?I?m not so bad, once you get to know me.? Tall Boy shakes his head. ?No, the only thing wrong with it is that everybody?s doin? it. You know. The niggers, the spics, the slants?hell, they practically started it.?
I turn back and walk around the back. ?I?d like to pop the trunk,? I say without commenting on his previous statement.
?It?s clean, but if it?ll make you feel better,? he says. I nod and read down under the cold metal that?s still drying in the cool night and pop the latch open. Water drips down the edges and into the interior. ?Hey, gimme a flashlight,? I yell. Fat Man comes around the side and hands me his stick.
The inside is dark, mottled with old leaves, and the bare metal is sludgy with grease and dark water. I check the top of the trunk lid, but it?s a bare metal slab, nothing to hide there. On one of the side panels is a latch, and a strap that looks like it once held something in place; there?s a slash mark at the end of it, and the end itself is somewhat more ragged than the rest of it. The strap, which is leather, is damp on the surface; I feel the end, and it is dry.
My search doesn?t reveal anything else, so I turn off the lamp and close the trunk, hand the light back to Fat Man. He stuffs it in his pants and smirks, and Tall Boy says, ?Find anything?? I shake my head.
?Alrighty. Now that we got that over, we uh, we do need to talk about what you know about the victim.? Tall Boy ambles over to me and I turn and stare at the mound of canvas covering Villig.
?He?s a?was a construction contractor, for the state. Wife and two kids, decent income, nice job. Beyond that? You know more than I do.?
?Where?s his office? We?ll need to take a look at it.?
?Aren?t you supposed to look that kind of thing up??
?It?d be a lot easier if you just told us. After all?? Tall Boy spreads his arms out and he shrugs, his shoulders and face with a kind of distanced magnanimity that I have grown accustomed to seeing in cops? faces. They think they?re doin? you a favor when really they?re foulin? up your day.
?Sure. Whatever. 120 Melinda Avenue. Building 211.? I know I told him the wrong building. I don?t want them getting there first.
?Alright, Mr. Jack, you?re free to go.?
?Actually, I was wondering if I could take a look at that lockbox your boys fished out. You mind?? Tall Boy looks at Fat Man and shrugs, looks back at me and says, ?Sure. Why not? Kerry!? he yells to the sergeant who had spoken to him a couple of minutes before. Kerry appears beside him and he asks, ?You fellas put the toolbox in process yet??
?Not yet, boss. We?re taggin? it now.?
?Bring it over for a sec. Just do it,? Tall Boy says after Kerry gives him a questioning look. Kerry heads over to a group of men who listen to him and then one of them hands him the box. I can see right away it?s not got a latch on it, or any way to secure it. Which means that someone opened the trunk and pulled something out before they pushed the car?
No. Wait. A. Damn. Minute.
Kerry brings the box over and opens it up. Inside is empty, but I?m not surprised. I nod, and Kerry closes it back up. Tall Boy says, ?Finished?? I nod, and reach out my hand. He shakes it, and I say, ?Maybe I?ll see you boys later. Good luck finding this guy.?
I get into my car and slowly turn around and roll out of there. I can see Tall Boy and Fat Man standing together, backs to the drowned car, watching me leave. In my mind, all I can see is that strap with the knife-cut end, damp on the outside, dry on the inside.
I jump on the interchange and head south and then get off on 73 for Union. It?s about when I pull onto Fairmont that I suspect someone?s tailing me. I do a few turns, nothing too suspicious, but that confirms it. A black Plymouth, what model or year I can?t tell. I don?t want to tip them off, so I continue on to Villig?s office, except that when I pull onto Melinda, I park as soon as a spot opens up, somewhere between Buildings 145 and 144.
I lose my lights and bend down and crawl across my seat and open up the passenger side door. My tail?s sitting at the end of the avenue, or rather is slowly riding down the grade, looking, I presume, for me. I race, crouched down up a couple of cars and then, because I have no choice, I dash out onto the sidewalk, for a few seconds in full view of the lamp from across the street, and then I?m back in the shadows, between a stairwell and a garbage can.
I need to get between the buildings so I can sneak around back. I glance around the corner of the stairwell and see my tail, still coming slowly my way. He?s at my car and now going past it, so it?s now or never. I sprint low, holding onto my flapping coat until I reach the shadowed shelter of the alley between building 144 and 143. I run quickly down the thin corridor, which is pretty clean except for a pile of wooden crates near a side door. I round the back and it?s a similar story: the alleyway is formed by the building on one side and a high wooden fence about five feet across?just enough room for a couple of bums to walk through without scuffing up their elbow patches.
Me, I race down, like Peter Lorry running from the police in M. I like Peter Lorry. He?s got these great roles, and a fantastic face to fill a part that a man twice his size could never do justice to. He?s a victim, but not hapless or crazy; just looking for the answers in all the wrong places. He could be me, I suppose. I pass building after building, running from shadow to shadow, jumping across the lit spaces where the alleyways intersect. It feels good. Exhilarating. I keep count as I pass each office. 140. 139. 138.
I pass 133, and out of the corner of my eye, as I cross the alley, I see a car, the Plymouth I think, and I?m so scared that he saw me that I imagine a man looking right at me from the passenger side window. In a split second I?m through the light and back in the shadows, but I can?t shake it; he saw me, and he?s coming after me. I slow down when I reach the next alley, peek my head around, but there?s nothing. I tap dance across, trying to stay hidden, and now I?m winded and breathing hard, and I can?t hear anything but my heart pounding in my head and my hot breath coming out like ripped organ notes from a page of music, so I ease up and walk, trying to measure my steps the way I used to. It?s not quite the same. I can?t hear anything, but that could be because I?ve got blood rushing through my ears, obscuring what could be a Very Bad Noise. The kind of noise you only hear once before it goes through you and then you die.
The kind of noise with a thin blade and an evil hand that wields it.
No wonder alleys are the criminals? play ground. They?re dark, quiet, and keep secrets well. I can?t imagine this alley?s seen much action, but right when I think that, I see a man in front of me, step out of the shadows. He?s in a white suit, with a white, wide-brimmed hat. I stop, turn, but there?s another man, in gray, and he?s got something in his fist.
I stop, turn my back on the Gray Man and face the White Man. I hold up my hands, pacifying.
?Look, fellas, I?m a law?? and then I feel my arms wrapped around my back, held behind me and the fella in white slugs me in the stomach.
?Shaddup. You?re no law abidin? citizen. You ain?t no lawyer,? says the man in white, and hits me again. Between my inability to breathe and the sudden sensation of weightlessness, I barely hear him say, ?And you ain?t no law dog.? I cough, and though it?s dark, I can see splatters land on the pavement, dark and wet and heavy. ?Well, shit pal, you just bought yourself a new pair-a shoes,? the White Man says, and something like a steel toe boot hits me behind one knee and I collapse, feeling the weight of the pavement on my knees and my stomach feels like hammered beef. I notice, in a brief moment, like you notice a particularly bright star for a second before it winks out of existence, that I have papered the White Man?s shoes with blood, though I can?t tell if it?s from my stomach or mouth. I hope it?s my mouth.
I hear a faint voice behind me say, ?Let?s drag ?im in.? They worked me over good, so I know they?re professionals. Professional at what, though, I?m not sure. They pull my arms over their shoulders, and together, the three of us lurch down toward more darkness. Occasionally, the White Man utters a curse, complaining about how heavy I am or how his suit?s getting ruined. The Grey Man just grunts, and after what seems like a thousand minutes of shadow and light alternating, they pull me into the adjoining alley leading back toward the light and the street.
They pull me out and I?m coherent enough to see the building is 120. Well, at least I made it back to Villig?s office.
There?s a car coming up the street toward us, and the monkeys flatten me against the wall and slouch beside me, acting nonchalant. Me, I act like a one-night performance of the 1812 Overture, with my stomach the bass drum, my ribs the xylophone, and my head a punching bag for a guy who can?t play anything at all.
The car slows down and stops on the street next to us, its lights on. Suddenly, a light from the driver side window shines on us, and I hear a voice say, ?You boys doin? out here?? like he forgot ?What?, and the White Man yells back, ?Just takin? our pally home.? There?s a pause, and then the door opens, and we can?t see anything because of the light, and anyway, my right eye is swollen pretty bad. I see feet, and then the man moves into the shadow of one of the parked cars and I can see him dimly, like a Blue Angel. I believe this is the first time I?ve ever been happy, I mean really happy, to see a cop.
I mumble out, ?Help me,? but it sounds like ?Happy? I guess. Gray Man steps on my foot, not too hard, just enough to keep me occupied.
?Looks like he?s had one too many. You boys from around here?? the cop says, and the White Man says, ?Sure, what?s it to ya??
?It so happens I patrol around here. I see a man with a black eye and I wonder what?s going on. There aren?t any bars around this part of town. Where?d you say you came from??
?Just a buddy?s house. You know, cards, gambling, drinks. Shorty here had a few too, if you know what I mean.? White Man laughs, but it?s short and fake.
The cop says, ?What happened to his eye?? He sounds doubtful. ?I suppose he fell off a chair.?
?Jimmy says something, Shorty took offense, they went at it. Nothin? to it. You shoudda saw Jimmy.?
The cop stands there, I guess thinking. I mumble some more and try to struggle, but I?m barely standing on my own power, that and my ability to speak is somewhat hampered by the fact that my jaw doesn?t seem to move on its own. It?s my imagination, I guess, because I cough, and dark blood splatters out onto the pavement. The cop steps back, and says, ?This man needs medical attention. We can go in my car.?
?We ain?t takin? him to no hospital,? says White Man. ?Get on.?
It?s about this time that things get confusing. I lurch forward, and I say, ?Help me,? in the strongest voice I can muster, through broken teeth and blood, and he stares at me for a microsecond and then grabs me and then there?s a flurry of movement. I see legs and arms someone gives a shout, and then there?s a gun and I?m falling and there?s a pair of shoes and then another with white pants attached to them and then I?m looking up and I see the cop holding White Man?s shoulders. I see an arm, a gray arm coming into my view, and it reaches under the cop?s arms and then a glint of metal, the gun, and it turns and it fires, and the cop stops moving, and goes limp, and White Man slowly lets him down, turning him over, laying him on the pavement.
Rough arms pull me up and White Man says, ?Go park that car. We?ll dump it later. I?ll get him inside.?
I see Gray Man pick up the cop and then White Man half drags, half carries me up the steps to the front door of Building 120, and he produces a set of keys. ?Got a set of these, don?t you?? he says. The door unlocks with a ponderous yawn, and we step into the darkness.