Warpath

Clevenger shakes his head. “He had the rapist, Chief. But that God-awful Big Fry overdose rose up—”

“I ain’t fuckin’ talkin’ to you, Detective!” the chief shouts.

“What he said was I had him. But you remember that huge Big Fry bust I got all those years ago that helped lock up three guys you could never nail when you were the Narcotics Commander? Remember that? That shit crept up while I was putting the gotchas on him. And while I was seizing on the ground he ran off. And none of your boys on the outside—”

“Shut up, Buckner.” The chief has ice on those words. Quiet; an arctic fury. He gets close, and still thinks that because I call him Chief I’ll give him the leeway of one. “You got jumped by some two-bit thugs because you never could watch your back. Any crook on the streets knew if they wanted to stand a chance against a brute Jarhead ape like you, all they had to do was stay out of your wingspan. You got OD’d by your own faults. I had those shitbags. Fuck you if you think you and Garrett did anything besides cherry pick my work.”

Close now, nose-to-nose. “I tell you what, Richard. Be the best witness you can be for the real cops, and then stay close to home. The DA might just want to talk to you.”

“If it bothers you that I’m the best cop out there for your people to learn from, so be it,” I say, finger in his chest. “You can hen peck me all you want to, but never forget that every time you’ve been close to something, I’ve already gotten there.”

“Except the rank of Chief.”

“Only because I wanted the streets, not a desk and all the city council dick-sucking I could stomach.”

“Look what it got you—” he says. I walk off. He takes a few steps after me, but even he knows better. Walking away I can see his shadow cast long and beside me, jumping up and down, waving his arms. Bits of words float to me from his vitriolic rant. Words like alcoholic. Brutal. Has-been and probably-a-murderer.

I don’t listen. I need a drink before I find the rapist and kill him.

Clevenger calls.

The secretary is no help. Shell shock; spent most of her time in the rapist’s trunk. Can’t ID the make or model. Parked somewhere near the meet at the bar. Cops have canvassed the area, running every tag. He’s long gone.

Tells me Willibald’s funeral is early next week. Wants me to come. I agree, get off the phone. Taped my right middle finger to my right ring finger. Might not be broke, but I could have used some stitches. Never got them. Get lost in the ice cubes of a scotch; the way all the angles turn smooth and roll along one another. How they refract the light through the booze. Leathery browns, sweet caramels. They all taste like oblivion.

Beyond it, the front door to my apartment. Braced tight with a chair under the doorknob. No break-ins. Bleary and stupored, I sink into my couch.

Then I sink further, and wash away from this life for a while.

33

Late evening

Back in the day this was some Protestant office building.

Built in the ’90s next door to a church which has now changed hands a number of times, sits the square, no-curb-appeal block of dilapidated shit where Thuggie supposedly hangs out. It’s in the right neighborhood. Has the right graffiti sprayed along the walls. The right ghetto sleds parked beside it.

Late night. Stillness abounds the way it does when the darkness is lazy; ebon layers tossed like gauze sheets across the world. When I move a step, adjust on the concrete, I can hear the pebbles beneath my shoes collide like landsliding boulders. That loud in this stillness.

Only three windows alight. Top floor. No silhouettes. No noises. Front door; dumb idea. Back door; just as stupid. Fire escape; why not?

There’s only so much quiet a lumbering man like me can maintain when he is precariously balanced on an alleyway trashcan as he reaches for a secured fire escape hatch.

I do it the best I can. Grab the frame, heave up. Stalk through the darkness, up the steps. Shadow passing by shadow, trying to avoid the metal creaks and groans like dead giveaways.

Third floor, two darkened windows down from the lit ones. I get to the glass and realize I didn’t really come with a p

lan beyond entering the building and hurting people. I brought enough lead. My travel-sized lock picking kit. A glasscutter. And, of course, my dancing shoes.

Inside, murmuring quiet. Just nothing. I squat down; cut the glass by the window lock’s latch. Tap in it; listen for alerts as the fragment falls noiselessly. Undo the latch, throw the window. Lucy, I’m home. The annoying wash of a lingering stench of weed. Mixes with cheap liquor. The carpet is pockmarked with cigarette burns. Stains. The walls have all been painted by graffiti artists.

No sounds. Corner room. The two darkened windows I was outside of lead into here. Dead space. There are two doors leading out; one to the lighted room and one to somewhere beyond. Something tingles my guts. Crawls along my skin like an insect. Set up.

I go to the dark door, stand near it for some time. Minutes drizzle along. There is a smattering of shitty furniture here. I take a cue from my own place and get a chair. Brace the door. Now, if fools are lying in wait on the other side, I’ll get a head’s up before they storm in.

But something tells me my efforts are lost.

I go to the lit door. A halo of light outlines the thing; a square phantasm in this graveyard corner room. I take the handle. Turn. Shove. Duck to the side; wait for the barrage of hot lead.