0742 hours
“He’s an asshole. A freaking asshole.”
“We know, Jenny, we know.” Jack handed her a cup of coffee and steam wafted free into the cold, damp air as she pried the lid off. She wrapped both hands around the Tim’s cup and tentatively sipped the hot liquid.
Tuesday of day shift, day four of seven. They were over the hump, on the down side of the shift and should have been feeling a renewal of spirit as days off drew within reach, but good old call-me-Staff-Sergeant-Greene-or-I’ll-do-you had ruined the day minutes into parade.
Sergeant Johanson had finished reading the assignments and was into the day’s alerts — a teenager with a drug history missing from his group home who was no doubt catching up on his habit, Jenny’s purse snatch suspect from yesterday who had struck twice again and still no decent description and the marker of a car involved in a drive-by shooting in 52 Division last night — when Jenny had checked her hair. The French braid had passed Greene’s inspection, but she must have thought it was too loose. Jack had watched in fascination as she had freed her waist-length hair and rebraided it in less than a minute. As simple as that and Greene had spent the next three minutes chewing her out in front of the platoon.
“You’re right, Jack; he is a prick. If he was a woman, I’d call him a cunt.” Jenny sipped her coffee.
“Don’t worry, Jenny. We all know he’s an idiot.” Manny brightened a touch, offering what consolation he could. “We’re almost done. Just two more wake-ups to go.” Manny was the type to cross the workday off once he got to the station.
Jack didn’t close the book on the day until he wrote “Report Off Duty” in his memo book. He envied Manny’s way of thinking.
And right now it seemed Jenny was firmly entrenched in Jack’s view of the world. “As if embarrassing me wasn’t enough, he documented me for having my hair down on parade.”
“That’s bullshit!” Manny blurted, spilling hot chocolate on his hand. He sucked on his hand, then waved it in the cold air. “He can’t do that without cautioning you first.” He turned to Jack, seeking reassurance. “Can he?”
Jack nodded solemnly. “He can. Technically, she wasn’t prepared to go on the road during parade.”
“Jack, we have to do something,” Manny implored, trusting Jack to find a solution.
“I know, I know.”
All week Jack had pondered the problem that was Staff Sergeant Greene. The solution Johanson had offered on Friday — fuck, had he been back in the division only five days? — was a tried and true method of passive resistance used by coppers everywhere. If everyone stopped putting in numbers for tickets, tags or 208s, it sent a clear message to the higher-ups that something was not right on the platoon. In professional sports, if the team kept losing, the coach got fired. In a division, the staff sergeant got transferred. The plan could backfire, though: management would have an excuse to transfer the perceived troublemakers. Passive resistance took a long time and Jack knew the platoon needed to make a statement soon.
He leaned against the scout car and tried not to feel his friends’ weighty gazes. Everyone on the platoon was looking to him to fix the problem and he didn’t have a fucking idea.
What a perfect start to a shitty day.
Snow so wet it was almost rain dropped from a grey and miserable sky. A day meant for staying indoors with a fire and a good woman in your arms. Not a day for driving, especially in big rear-wheel-drive cars whose asses tended to slide out at the slightest change in direction on wet roads. But on the plus side, the snow-rain had a dampening effect on the radio: the dispatcher had no calls to hand out.
The three of them were at the Waterfall, out of the drizzling slush. The water pipe was quiet for the time being, but the bridge’s underside resounded with the morning’s rush-hour traffic. The noise did little to help Jack’s thinking.
“That was quite the scene you guys had yesterday,” Jenny offered. “You’ve had one hell of a homecoming week, Jack.”
He snorted. “A paramedic said the same thing to me yesterday. Did the victim say anything at the hospital? Last we heard, she wasn’t talking.”
Jenny sadly shook her head. “I didn’t have much of a chance to talk to her before they took her in for surgery and she wouldn’t tell me anything. Not even her name. I had to get all her info from Sherry the roommate.”
“Did the roommate know anything that could help us?”
Again a negative shake. “Just what I added to your report. So, unless the victim changes her mind, we’ve got squat.”
A silence slipped over them once more as they all fell into their own thoughts. Jack couldn’t fathom the hatred, the sheer loathing, the victim must have had for herself to take a butcher’s knife to her breasts. And then try to cauterize the wounds with a blowtorch. Next time he ran into the CIT unit, he’d tell Aaron, the psych nurse, about her and see if he could shed some insight on it.
“I guess I shouldn’t bitch so much about Greene; life could be a lot worse.” Jenny held her cup aloft. “Here’s to a speedy recovery and a better life for that poor girl.”
They touched cups and drank, then Jenny hugged herself and shivered. From the cold or memories of yesterday, Jack didn’t know and doubted she would like to say. Sometimes it was better to jam the bad memories behind the cop mask and deal with them later.
“I know I said I shouldn’t bitch, but I’m still pissed off about Greene. I can’t believe he documented me.”
“You’re going to fight it, right?” Manny asked.
“Damn right I am.” She blew out a frustrated breath. “If Greene wants to treat us like children, why doesn’t he just spank us and get it over with?”
Jack wagged a cautionary finger at Manny. “Don’t start visualizing, grasshop —” A smile flickered over Jack’s lips, then settled in and grew to a face-splitting grin.
Manny’s eyes widened with elation. “You’ve got an idea, don’t you? What is it?”
“Get everyone down here, Manny. We need to have a platoon meeting.”
“I’m not doing it.”
“What do you mean you’re not doing it?” Six pairs of eyes stared at Borovski in silent accusation. It was Paul who spoke.
Boris wilted under the scrutiny but found the courage to stand his ground. “I don’t want to do it.” He searched for a friendly face, some sympathy, but found none. “It’s stupid,” he added lamely.
Six police cars and seven officers — Jack and Manny were once again the only two-man unit in the division — were grouped under the bridge. Karl Morris and Gerry “Double G” Goldman had joined the group. They were the entire head count for the early portion of day shift and Jack hadn’t seen much of them this week. It was amazing how starting an hour earlier could offset you from the rest of the platoon for the whole day. But they were part of the shift and had braved the crappy weather and roads to join the meeting. The drizzling wet snow had turned to rain and the waterfall was gurgling to life.
Jack could understand Boris’s reluctance. In his head, Jack’s idea involved a shocking display of platoon unity. When he’d said it aloud to Jenny and Manny, it had sounded stupid and childish. But they had both jumped on it eagerly and Manny had texted the other cars to join them. Jack was surprised that Boris had showed up until Manny explained he had told Boris there was a box of Timbits to share.
Suckered in by the promise of free doughnuts. Could the guy be any more stereotypical?
“It’s because it’s stupid that it’s the perfect thing to do,” Jack explained. The other coppers nodded in agreement. “Come on. Even Morris and Goldman are in on it.” The early shift officers would parade at six, as usual, then return to the station to join the “rebellion” at seven.
“You gotta do it, man,” Morris chided. “If I can do it, so can you.” Morris was a human scarecrow with a shock of red hair and long, gangly legs.
“Forget him, Sean.” Sean was Borovski’s first name. Like everyone at the Waterfall, Jenny was being careful not to use the detested nickname Boris. “If anyone should be bitching about this, it’s me and I’m all for it.”
Boris studied Jenny with his little piggy eyes. Jack could see the image developing behind the eyes, but even that visual wasn’t enough to sway Boris. He hooked his thumbs behind his gun belt — his belly flab pushed out in the gaping expanse between belt and the bottom of his external vest carrier — and shook his multiple chins and jowls defiantly.
“I’m not doing it.” He thrust a sausage of a finger at Jack. “And you can’t make me.” Apparently, even Boris regarded Jack as the platoon leader, but unfortunately the position was honorary and carried no actual authority.
“So you’re just going to show up on parade tomorrow like normal?”
Boris’s smile was greasy. “Yup. But the rest of you can go right ahead with your little demonstration.”
You fat fuck. Jack burned with the desire to smash that grin off Boris’s pudgy lips. He kept the tension from his voice. “We need the platoon to stand together. If it isn’t all of us, then it means nothing.”
Boris shrugged his meaty shoulders. “Like I care.” He dismissed his fellow officers with a flick of his fat fingers and headed for his car.
“For fuck’s sake, Boris,” Jack snapped. “Be a team player for once in your life.”
Boris had his car door open but slammed it shut. He stalked back to the group, the force of his steps sending ripples through his fat, from thighs to chins. For the second time, he shoved a finger in Jack’s face. “I am a team player!” he shouted, spittle spraying from his lips. “Who keeps this platoon’s numbers at the top of the division, huh? Me, that’s who!”
Morris spoke. “And while you’re doing radar, the rest of us are covering the calls in your area.”
There were murmurs of agreement.
Boris whirled on Morris. “Fuck you! Fuck all of you!”
Jack figured his team player comment had struck a buried nerve; Boris had never before shown such fervour. Unshed tears glistened in his eyes. For the first time, the angry, hurt child that was Sean Borovski was pushing free of the man that was Boris.
“Sean,” Jack said softly, “we need you.”
“Uh-huh. No way! And if you try to make me, I’m going straight to the staff sergeant.”
“With what? What we’re talking about here?”
Boris laughed and the child was smothered. “Don’t forget I saw you beat that guy up in the stairwell. Oh, yeah. You thought I forgot about that? Well, I didn’t and I’ll tell Greene all about it. How’d you like to have some assault charges against you? Huh, tough guy?”
Boris stomped away, the hotdog-like rolls of fat on the back of his head quivering with each step.
So much for platoon unity.
Paul stopped Boris dead in his tracks with two words. “Amber Smith.”
Boris slowly turned. “What?”
Paul was smiling, but the smile wasn’t friendly. “You forget we arrested her a few weeks ago? And how your hands got a little too personal during the pat down?”
“That’s a lie!” Boris blustered, but the colour had suddenly drained from his face.
Paul wasn’t finished. “I imagine I could persuade Amber to lodge a complaint regarding sexual assault.”
“Like they’d listen to some crack whore.” The strength was gone from Boris’s voice.
Jack thought Boris was close to whimpering.
“I imagine my recollection of the events might mesh closer with her version than yours.” Paul crossed his arms over his massive chest and waited.
“Professional Standards, dude. Those guys are nasty,” Manny added, shoving the verbal knife in a little deeper.
Jenny took hold of the knife and buried it completely. “Forget Professional Standards, Boris. Sexual assault. That’s Special Investigations territory.”
Mention of the cop-crucifying civilian watchdog unit whipped the last resistance from Boris. Meekly, he plodded to the group. He studied the unyielding faces and knew he was beaten. He sighed. “What should I wear?”
Oak Street apartments — Regent Park’s dirty little cousin. Technically not a part of the park, the three high-rises were separated from the government housing complex only by the four lanes of River Street and were therefore seen as an extension of it and its drug-infested reputation. Guilt by association.
Oak Street, looking more like a glorified driveway, ran east off River and looped back on itself, resembling a lower-case b that had smoked too much crack and fallen on its back. The three apartment buildings sat in a triangle around the loop. A single tree, looking as tired and ailing as the dogshit-choked grass, held court over the tiny island in the centre of the driveway.
The rain had petered out with the end of morning rush hour, but dark clouds hung heavy in the sky, threatening more rain. Manny eased the scout car to a stop in front of 220, the tires scrunching on deposits of winter road sand made muddy by the morning’s rain. He was trotting toward the lobby doors before Jack was even out of the car.
“Slow down, Manny. It’s just a crack house,” Jack said, giving a verbal jerk on Manny’s leash.
Manny waited impatiently by the door. “But if we hurry they might still be there.”
Jack smiled, amused by his friend’s enthusiasm. Four years in 51 might have hardened Manny as a cop, but they hadn’t even dented his boyish spirit. He liked to tell people he got paid to play cops and robbers for real.
They were responding to a simple noise complaint, people yelling, possible sounds of a fight, but the apartment was well known to the residents and security as a crack house. Manny was hoping to grab a pinch to finish off the day. The lock on the inner lobby door was broken — were they ever not broken? — and they went in.
A scrawny mess of a human was sitting on a lobby bench reading the newspaper. Or examining the pictures. He looked up when the door opened and a flash of fear darted across his face. It was quickly gone, and he held his hands up in mock surrender. “I didn’t do it,” he declared, grinning and showing a set of badly stained teeth. His army jacket hung loosely on his emaciated frame, a sleeve flapping like a loose sail as he wiped his crooked nose.
“You sure?” Manny asked seriously. “Maybe we’re looking for a guy matching your description.” The man’s smile faltered. “Relax, bud. We aren’t here for you.”
Jack gritted his teeth. Fucking crackheads are everywhere. Probably coming from the apartment we’re heading to or waiting to head up.
He and Manny headed for the elevator. Manny’s enthusiasm ended at taking the stairs to the seventeenth floor. Had Manny suggested it, Jack would have smacked him; they’d had a pretty heavy leg workout before shift.
Only one of the two elevators was working. They waited patiently.
“You think tomorrow’s going to work?” Manny asked as he tugged his new leather gloves on. The ones soaked in the woman’s blood had gone straight into the garbage.
“Depends what you mean by ‘work.’” Jack flexed his fingers to smooth out a roll in the Kevlar lining of his gloves. “It’ll get a reaction, that much I can tell you.”
Manny suddenly smiled. “Hey, maybe it’ll give Greene a heart attack.”
“Our luck it’ll give Johanson the heart attack and Greene’ll do us all with manslaughter.”
“You’re not telling the sergeants?”
“Nope. Where the fuck is the elevator? If the sergeants don’t know, they can’t get in trouble for it.” Jack thumbed the call button a few times. He knew it didn’t do anything, but it felt better than doing nothing.
“You think Boris will do it? Here we go.” Manny stepped forward as the floor indicator hit Ground, but the car headed for the basement without stopping.
“We may end up taking the stairs after all.” Manny blanched at Jack’s suggestion. “Boris better join in.”
“Would Paul really go to the staff about . . .” Manny quickly looked around. The paper reader was listening intently. “About that search thing?”
“Of course not. But Boris thinks he would because it’s something Boris would do. Finally.”
A weary ping — more like a pang — announced the elevator’s arrival and the doors wheezed open. An elderly lady stood huddled in the far corner, her small purse clutched protectively against her stomach. She relaxed her stance and the death grip on her purse when she saw she was going to be sharing the ride with two policemen. Jack and Manny nodded hello, then turned to face the doors for the long, slow trip to the seventeenth floor.
“Think we’ll find anything?”
Jack shrugged. “It’s a crack house. We could find nothing, or the fecal matter could hit the oscillating blades, as my training officer used to say.”
Manny cocked an eyebrow at Jack before understanding blossomed on his face. He smiled and tented his gloved fingers in front of his face. “Ehhh-xcellent,” he hissed.
Jack snorted. “That’s got to be the worst Mr. Burns I’ve ever heard. But I’ll tell you this, if we get a body, we’re taking the stairs down.”
There was a horrified gasp behind them and Jack quickly turned to the elderly woman. “No, not that,” he reassured her. “I meant if we arrest somebody. Not a dead body.”
She edged past them when the doors opened on her floor, not looking completely at ease with Jack’s explanation. Manny waved goodbye.
A man’s hoarse yelling and a woman’s harpy-like screeching greeted them as the doors sagged open on their floor.
“Please, not a domestic,” Jack groaned, but it sure as hell sounded like one.
Manny, ever the optimist, chimed in. “Maybe it won’t be a domestic. Remember what we got last time for a call about a woman screaming?”
“What? Oh, right.” Visions of a self-mutilated woman flashed through his head. “Okay, I’ll take a domestic.”
The apartment was at the end of the hall — naturally — and they were met halfway there by the complainant. His door was open and he was leaning against the frame watching the end of the hall. An unlit cigarette dangled from his lips.
“Thought I heard the elevator.”
He appeared to be in his forties, but his raspy voice sounded twice that old. Jack figured the cigarette wouldn’t be unlit for long.
“You heard the elevator over that?” Manny asked. The screeching could have drowned out a buzz saw.
“Oh, yeah. My vents rattle when the doors open.” He snapped open a beat-up Harley-Davidson lighter and touched the flame to the cigarette. He flicked the lighter closed with an unconscious snap of his wrist and blew a lungful of blue smoke over his shoulder into his apartment. “You guys made good time.”
“We were in the area.” Jack hooked a thumb down the hall. “This been going on for a while?”
“Nope,” Mr. Harley-Davidson said, spitting out a bit of tobacco. “The fight I called about ended a few minutes ago. Couple guys tore outta there like their asses were on fire. This one’s new. Girl with a shitty green dye job went in not too long ago and started screaming like some wild she-bitch.”
“The two that ran out,” Jack wanted to know. “Were they running to get away from something or being chased out?”
Mr. H-D scrunched up his face in thought and the cigarette’s tip bopped up, spewing a cloud of greasy smoke into his eyes. He didn’t seem to notice. “Being chased, I’d say. Weren’t carrying nothing either.”
“One of them a skinny white guy in a big black army jacket?” Jack was thinking of the crackhead in the lobby.
Mr. H-D thought for a moment. “Nope. Does it matter?”
“Just someone we passed on the way in.”
“Customers low on cash?” Manny suggested.
“Probably,” Mr. H-D agreed. “The guy in there don’t seem too friendly.”
“But a lot of buyers?”
“Oh, yeah. Day and night. ’Round the clock. You guys be careful. And could you do me a favour? Don’t be letting him know who called.”
“Anonymous call,” Jack assured him.
Manny added, “Happens all the time.”
“Then I’ll bid you fellas good day.” Mr. H-D saluted, fingers to forehead and stepped into his apartment.
Manny checked the stairwell; then he and Jack took up positions on either side of the door. They could make out the words perfectly.
“I don’t care who your man is, bitch,” a male voice roared. “No money, no rock. Now get the fuck outta my face ’fore I kill you.”
Who could ask for a better trafficking utterance? And a death threat. Well, a quasi-conditional threat but good enough.
Now, if only he’s left his door unlocked. Jack turned the knob and the door clicked open. Sometimes the gods of policing smile on us. Manny’s thinking must have been along similar lines; his grin just about split his face in two.
Manny tapped his gun butt and looked the question at Jack. Jack nodded and rested his hand on his Glock but didn’t draw the pistol. Luck had been with them so far, but there was no need to push it. Someone inside could hear the safety clasps popping open now that the door was ajar. Walking into a crack house blind was bad enough. Giving the occupants a heads-up was just plain stupid. And stupid cops ended up dead cops.
Of course, technically, they weren’t allowed to draw their guns anyway. Under the Police Services Act, police officers couldn’t even unholster their guns unless faced with serious bodily harm or death to themselves or someone else. Obviously, whoever had made the rules for policing had never been a cop, let alone gone through a door not knowing what was on the other side.
Manny flung the door open hard, slamming it against the wall in the narrow entryway. Jack was through the door and drawing his gun before anyone inside knew what was happening. Anyone turned out to be two people: the green-haired girl Mr. Harley-Davidson had seen and one very angry black guy.
They were in the living room and the woman was on her knees, but not by choice. The male had her right wrist in his hand and was wrenching it at an awkward angle. His free hand was cocked as if he was getting ready to slap her head from her shoulders. And judging from her twig-like arms, that was a real possibility. But what caught Jack’s eye was the handgun tucked into the waistband of the man’s jeans.
“Police! Don’t move!” Jack’s Glock was up and targeted on the man’s chest. “Move and you die. Your choice. I’ve got him, Manny. Check the apartment.”
“I’m on it,” Manny called, moving into the apartment.
“Let her go and put your hands over your head. Do it now,” Jack ordered, never taking his eyes from the man.
With a contemptuous sneer, the man tossed her away as if she was a piece of trash. She scurried on her hands and knees as far as the room would let her and huddled against a wall. They stood, or cowered in her case, at the points of a triangle.
Jack thought they all looked like actors out of a bad remake of The Good, the Bad and the Ugly. If she’s the Ugly, then that makes this guy the Bad. All we need now is a soundtrack.
And as in the movie, Bad’s hand was ever so slowly drifting toward his gun.
“I said put your fucking hands up. Now.” Jack’s words were calm, strong.
Bad had a look in his eye that Jack didn’t like, as if he was calculating the odds on drawing down on Jack before Manny finished clearing the apartment. It made sense; if Bad was going for a shootout, he had to do it before he was outnumbered.
“If you reach for that gun, you die.” Jack’s voice turned hard. “I got news for you, bud. I’m going home tonight. I don’t care where you go. Jail, hospital or morgue. Makes no difference to me.”
Bad smiled and Jack knew he was going to go for the gun.
“Apartment’s clear,” Manny announced from behind Jack, then ducked into the little walk-through kitchen to face Bad from a different direction.
The triangle had grown a fourth point and Bad had to deal with two guns.
“Hands up. Now.”
Still Bad hesitated, his eyes flickering between cops.
There was a scramble of motion to Jack’s right as the woman bolted from the room. Seconds later the stairwell door slammed open and the frantic clacking of her heels on concrete quickly faded.
Guess that makes Manny the Ugly now.
And still Bad hesitated. The sneer on his lips — why did that sneer look so familiar? — had reached his eyes. It was the look of a man who had nothing to lose and was willing to gamble it all.
“Think about it, man,” Manny said, sounding much calmer than Jack felt. “Two cops, one bad guy, no witnesses. Who’s to say you didn’t go for that gun after all?”
The silence stretched out and no soundtrack was needed to build the tension. Hours were squeezed into heartbeats. Finally, Bad raised his hands above his head, then spat his disdain on the floor.
Jack heaved a relieved sigh; Manny had the last word. “Spitting aside, that’s the first smart move you made today.”
“I don’t believe it. I don’t fucking believe it.” Jack deposited Bad in the caged back seat, then slammed shut the car door. “Charged with attempted murder on two cops, not to mention a shitload of gun and drug charges and an outstanding warrant for sexual assault and he gets bail? Can you explain that to me?” he beseeched.
Manny shrugged. “Welcome to the Canadian legal system,” he offered and actually, that summed it up quite well.
Bad’s sneer had seemed familiar because Jack had seen it over the barrel of a gun once before. Bad, or James Dwyer, had shot through a bedroom door at Jack and Detective Mason with an assault rifle last fall. Only bad ammunition had prevented someone, cop or criminal, from dying that day.
And here he was, out on bail and back in business, self-employed and doing rather well, considering the wad of cash Jack and Manny had found on him during the search.
“What does it take to get someone held in custody? I just don’t get it.”
“We deal in real life, dude, but lawyers work with technicalities and judges live in, well, I don’t know what world they live in, but it sure ain’t this one.”
“Maybe we should have shot the fucker and been done with it,” Jack muttered as he climbed into the passenger seat. They were heading to the station with the body — the elevator had been surprisingly prompt and the stairs hadn’t been necessary — while Morris and Goldman were up at the apartment. Sergeant Rose was on her way over to make sure they didn’t fuck anything up.
“We could have taken the stairs. He could have tripped somewhere on the walk down,” Manny proposed.
All it took was a single glance at Manny’s stern expression — about as natural on his face as a smile was on Staff Greene’s — and Jack burst out laughing. Manny joined him and both laughed out the tension left from the arrest.
“No, thanks,” Jack managed at last, wiping away a tear. “Two investigations by the SIU are enough for my career, thank you. Let’s get buddy here to the station.” Jack picked up the mike. “5106, heading to the station with one.”
“10-4, 5106. Time, 1537.” The dispatcher paused, then came back at them. “5106, I know you have a prisoner on board, but could I get you to take a look at the parkette at the southeast corner of River and Oak on your way in? I’ve got a call on my screen that’s about ten minutes old for a male abusing a pup. Could you just spin the area, see if he’s still there?”
“10-4, dispatch. We’re on our way.”
Jack didn’t have to check with Manny. Most cops were able to distance themselves from the tragedies they encountered every day, usually by developing thick calluses on their souls, but even the most hardened coppers had a weak spot, an Achilles’ heel. For some it was children. For others it was animals. And dispatchers were no different.
“Thanks, ’06. The male you’re looking for is short with red hair, wearing a jacket. The dog may be a German shepherd. The complainant saw him kicking the dog. Last seen by the playground.”
“10-4. We’re right around the corner.” Jack cradled the mike. “It sounds like that asshole again.”
Manny nodded. “Joey Horner. Let’s hope he’s still there.”
There was a convenience store at the corner of Oak and River and the little park was nestled in behind it, bordered by a townhouse complex on the east and Cornwall Street on the south. A small playground and benches shaded by trees made it a family-friendly spot in warmer weather, but only if the crackheads and dealers weren’t around.
The drug trade was quiet in the park today, but that could have been due to the scout cars parked around the corner. There was no one in the park and no dog.
“Damn. This is what? The third time we’ve missed this prick?”
Manny nodded. “Something like that. Where to?”
“Let’s take a quick look down Cornwall, then check inside the store. Something tells me James here isn’t all that anxious to get to the station.”
“You sure it was him? The cop with the scar?” Jesse dragged a finger through his eyebrow to illustrate in case Lisa was too stupid or cracked out to know what he meant.
“Yeah, the one with the scar,” she snapped. “Now get the fuck off my back, asshole!”
“That’s him. That’s fucking him.” Jesse rubbed his hands together gleefully. The Grinch had nothing on him for sheer evil expressions.
“What about him?” Kayne was propped against the couch, his long legs sprawled out before him.
After nipping at Jesse, Lisa rested her head on Kayne’s thigh, the faithful crack poodle. Kayne absently stroked her filthy green hair.
“He’s the one I told you about.” Jesse was too wound up to sit still, no matter how much grass he had just smoked. He paced the floor of the one-room apartment, flicking his fingers as thoughts came to him. “The cop who iced that dealer. The one everyone was afraid of.”
That caught Kayne’s interest. Jesse watched, irritated and worried, as Kayne tried to focus his eyes. Jesse studied Kayne closely. He still wore the same sleeveless sweatshirt — fuck, how it stank! — and his arms were still thick with muscle despite all the crack and weed he’d smoked since Jesse had met him. But how long would Kayne last before the crack burned the muscle from him? Not long, since he was smoking more than he ate.
Kayne’s pet bitch was looking pretty bad. Her face was nothing but sunken eyes and hollow cheeks. Where Kayne’s face was all sharp angles and tight skin, Lisa’s was slack and sickly looking. How Kayne could stand to have her touch him, let alone fuck him, was beyond Jesse. That Kayne was keeping her to himself and not letting Jesse fuck her was fine by him. Jesse wouldn’t even stick his dick in her mouth for fear of what he might catch.
“The cop’s name is Warren. Jack fucking Warren.”
“I don’t give a fuck what his name is,” Kayne laughed and his crack poodle cackled along with him. Suddenly, his eyes narrowed and he peered at Jesse suspiciously. “How come you know his name? What’s he to you?”
Oh, fuck. “Nothing, man. Nothing.” Jesse back-pedalled frantically. If Kayne figured out that Jesse was trying to use him to exact his own revenge — although Kayne wasn’t the brightest, he had a predator’s natural cunning and Jesse had to make sure not to dismiss it — then he would be in shit and sinking fast. At the least, Kayne would cast him aside and the free ride would be over. More likely, though, Jesse would end up bearing one of Kayne’s marks for the rest of his life. And the length of that life would definitely be in question.
“So how come you know his name?” Kayne asked again, the shrewd look never leaving his eyes.
“His name was all over the place when he iced the dealer, that’s all. I got nothing against him personally.” Jesse fingered his broken nose unconsciously, the one Warren had smashed into Jesse’s breakfast.
Jesse heaved a sigh when Kayne waved the thought of the cop aside. Jesse still had to push forward with his plan if he didn’t want to start all over again once Kayne was straight. If he planted the idea while Kayne was baked, Kayne would need just a little nudging in the right direction later. Hell, he might even think the whole thing was his idea.
Jesse squatted between Kayne’s legs. He balanced himself with a hand on Lisa’s grungy head. Lisa didn’t mind; the crack poodle had passed out.
“This is how we can set it up. . . .”