After the rain,
white clouds drift in the gutter,
flow down the storm drain-Soezi
A Zen riddle asks, how does a man proceed forward from the top of a hundred-foot pole? No doubt the answer is simply to step out, preferably with arms thrown wide open to embrace the consequences.
So it is that come morning, buoyed by something more like recklessness than actual bravery, I dress for work. In the shower, the water could be acid on my punctured abraded skin. There’s never a nurse around when you need one. I could use help getting the unbandaged parts of me clean while keeping the dressings dry. As I drag a razor over my cheeks, I wonder why don’t I just run my face up against a retaining wall?
Wheel-less without Old Paint, I cadge a lift to the station from a cruiser. After the first congratulatory backslap connects with my aching shoulder I learn to stick my hand out preemptively. When I finally pass the lieutenant’s office, Crowberry’s businesslike nonchalance is a relief. “Mansion, aren’t you supposed to be in the hospital?” he asks bluntly.
“Ready to return to duty, sir.”
“I doubt that.”
“I’m definitely not up to a foot chase. A nice desk job is what I had in mind, sir.”
“Are you up to bouncing this Waltann murder?”
I nod. “Laurel and Hardy around?”
“In Booking. They got back from Atlantic City this morning with the stripper,” he says. “I couldn’t see as how it was going to take them both to handle her, but ...” He opens a drawer and lays an evidence bag on the desktop. It contains my Beretta with a tag looped around the butt. “The men found it in the Eterniti. Apparently it was never fired, correct?”
“Correct, sir.”
“So is it material to the case? Used as a club, anything like that?”
“Overshort threatened me with it. Wasn’t much of a threat since I knew it wasn’t loaded.”
Crowberry purses his lips. “Guess that’s one way to avoid getting shot with your own piece.” He puts the bagged weapon in his out tray. “It’ll be in the Evidence Locker until the case is adjudicated. Better get yourself another sidearm. And I’d recommend loading it this time.”
“Yes, sir.”
Noise in the corridor drowns out his next words. Grady and Swbyra crowd into the doorway of Crowberry’s office, baggy-eyed and wearing twelve-hour-old five o’clock shadows.
“OK, Lieut’, we got her all tucked in, but she was a handful, oh baby,” Swbyra says breathlessly. He yells, “Will!” and takes a long step forward, arm outstretched, about to go for the shoulder. I head him off at the pass with a handshake.
“You back already?” Grady asks.
“That’s using the term loosely,” Crowberry says. “We’ll put him on a desk for a while.”
“We got the stripper,” Swbyra reports with a big grin. “Has she got a thing for you, buddy boy. Kept asking if you were OK and I don’t think it was ‘cause she was worried we’d be charging her if you weren’t.”
I manage a weak smile.
“I can’t believe the hospital discharged you already,” Grady says.
“Guess they needed the bed for a sick person.”
“Hmph. Well, I hope you have some good ideas about who did Waltann ‘cause the lady swears she had nothing to do with it.” To Crowberry he says, “I don’t know what it is with this bunch, Boss. They’ll own up to damn near everything else. But snuffing Waltann? No go.”
“Fortunately, we are not out of suspects.” I remind them that Marybeth Waltann stood to gain from Hector’s death and doesn’t have a decent alibi. “And then there’s Shrike. The gems that Hector traded him for dope were worthless, he owed him big bucks. Maybe Shrike tried to collect and ... well, you know the words to that tune.”
“We need to shake that fucker’s tree,” Crowberry says.
“Easier said than done, Boss,” Grady replies. “Shrike is harder to flush than a stopped up toilet.”
“Mansion got to him,” Swbyra points out.
“That was when he thought I was part of Carlotta’s organization,” I reply. “Now I’m just another cop. Shrike wouldn’t let me see his shadow.”
“He may not know that,” Swbyra says.
“He’s got to know it. He and Carlotta are tight.”
“Then he might meet anyway for a chance to take you out before you can do him more damage,” says Grady.
Now there’s a comforting thought. “He might not even still be holed up at the theater,” I reply.
“We can scout that out first,” Swbyra says. “Mansion?”
“Check that,” the lieutenant replies. “Didn’t you hear me? I said Mansion’s holding down a desk. Take Grady.”
“Boss, it’s got to be Mansion,” Swbyra says. “Shrike won’t open up for any of us.”
“I don’t think he’s in any shape to play decoy.”
“He doesn’t have to be in shape. Just get them to open the door, disarm the security system. I’ll take care of the rest.”
Grady shakes his head. “Sounds risky to me. Look what happened the last time. Swbyra got hosed and if it wasn’t for Mansion—”
Swbyra says, “It’ll be different this time, I promise you. I got to have this chance. Got to. It could be the last.”
Crowberry regards me with a steady gaze and Grady glares. A puppy wanting to ride in the car couldn’t look more hopeful than Swbyra. Maybe he thinks he’ll make it all up to me by doing it right this time, by getting Shrike once and for all.
“What do you say, Mansion?” Crowberry asks.
What I remember of the theater’s interior and its security system isn’t much of an asset. Even if I did recall something useful, I could easily brief another man. Yet over the past few weeks, the Terminal Road shootout has replayed itself on the screen of my mind in gruesome slow motion with the sadistic persistence of the Zapruder film. There’s no reason to believe it won’t continue to do so. Maybe rerunning that episode will consign it permanently to the vault. To not have to jump at shadows, Shrike’s shadow... We wouldn’t make the same mistakes this time. “I think it’s our best chance.”
Grady is detailed, under vehement protest, to follow up on Marybeth Waltann. That’s fine with me. I don’t know what’s been eating him, but I don’t want to attempt this recon with him staring daggers at my back. Swbyra goes off to put a plant on the theater and marshal backup forces—a veritable platoon in full riot gear, he promises. Meanwhile, I equip myself with handcuffs, body armor, a new Beretta, and rig.
At the range, the stiff leather, the weapon, feel exceptionally awkward and unresponsive. My shoulder protests every pound of recoil. The fact that I’m the one making the noise doesn’t make the gunfire less disturbing. Though muffled, each shot leaves me quaking until I can barely hold the weapon steady. I’m about to give up when I get a call from Swbyra.
“Shrike’s here,” he says.
“Where?”
“The theater.”
“So he hasn’t set up shop somewhere else?”
“No, he’s here, I’m telling you. Get your ass over here, now.”
“Now?”
“Fuck yes. Now!”
“Grady?”
“I called him, he’s on his way. But we got to make our move, now.”
“Backup?”
“Here. I’m getting in position. I’ll take the back door.”
The retreat position, if Shrike decides to run. In this case the “back door” would be the theater’s front entrance. Facing the street and boarded up, I doubt it’ll see much action. If he feels cornered, Shrike is more apt to lure us inside, which would be walking into a shooting gallery. Under other circumstances, Grady would lead the charge, the way he did on Terminal Road. It’s got to be this way, though. I’ve got to be the one to flush Shrike. I’m the bait. He’s not likely to open the door for anyone else, unless it’s someone from his organization.
That gives me an idea. Against the fading light I race back to the station. I borrow some gear from Ace and Spade’s stash: a leather cap and long coat not unlike what the King Phil Nearvana dealer wore, and darken my face and hands with copier toner.
On the Miracle Mile, I pause at the package store opposite the theater to scope out the scene. Miracle Mile’s shop-window lights only deepen the twilight. The sidewalk in front of the coffee shop and theater is empty. Swbyra’s team must be keeping people off the street. Swbyra himself must be holed up close by where he can monitor the action.
Across the street, the theater hunkers silently on the corner. Graffiti’d plywood sheets cover the once-celebrated Art Deco doors and the windows in the ticket booth. Yellow glows through cracks in the white paint that coats two street-side clerestory windows. A light’s on inside.
I dart across the Mile to the mouth of the alley. Gun at the ready, I peer down its narrow length. By day it is more revolting than in the disguising dark. The wet stinking piles reveal themselves to be waste—animal? human?—and dead things. Cats’ and rats’ eyes glitter from piles of crumbling boxes. A tawny streak reminds me of the fox-like stray dog from the Mercy Mission. In the vacant lot behind the theater, the night breeze stirs weeds that are tall enough to conceal the forces I suspect Swbyra has hidden there.
As I inch down the alley hugging the theater wall, sweat soaks my shirt and not because I’m warm in the body armor. My lungs are empty, my head hollow and light. I used to take the door with temerity but no more. Across the alley, nothing betrays the presence of backup at the coffee shop.
In the dusky light I’ve got a better look at the theater’s side door than I did the first time. It’s been reinforced with riveted metal plates. The narrow eye-level rectangle is fitted not with wire glass like the coffee shop but with a metal panel. No one can look in, or out for that matter, although those on the inside with the advantage of the video surveillance camera. Its red light glows in the eave trough’s shadow. There is no handle or knob, no getting in without being let in. No getting in without standing directly in front of the door, a target for whoever’s on the other side.
Inside I hear a rumble of voices, like a conversation. From the way my courage sinks I can tell I had been thinking I’d face Shrike alone.
Chin tucked, cap pulled low on my brow, I step into the camera’s range. If there is a secret knock, I don’t know it, can only pound the door with my fist and see what happens. A metallic click jolts me. Just in time I realize the sound was the door lock being released, not a weapon being readied. I flatten myself against the wall to the right. The door moves outward a few inches, nudged by someone inside? Pale, strobing light flashes across the crack in the door, and the sound of conversation is louder. Could I have slipped into flashback mode? Am I hallucinating? I wait for bullets or attackers to come flying out but nothing happens. Shrike does not appear. The next move is mine and it has to be to step through the opening.
I cross the threshold.
Flickering light, though not strong, strains my dark-adjusted eyes. At first I think I am hallucinating. Then I realize it’s coming from the front of the theater, from the screen where, incredibly, a movie is playing. A black-and-white Western.
With a pneumatic sigh, the door closes and clicks locked behind me. Dark holes reveal where a crash bar was once bolted to the steel. Now, there is no handle at all. A five-button access control panel guards the exit. Not only is there no getting in unless someone inside unlocks the door, there’s no getting out unless someone operates the panel.
The status light glows green. The word “armed” pops into my head. From where? The article in Modern Locksmith that I read in Secur-It’s office pictured a keyless system like this. To disarm it and unlock the door, giving Swbyra and backup access, I have to push the right buttons in the right sequence. The way Shrike did when he and his second escorted me out. Do I recall the sequence? If I hadn’t been high on Nearvana at the time, I might have a better chance.
I remember more of the article than I do of the code. This system has a feature to defeat working out the sequence by punching buttons randomly. The correct sequence must be completed within a preset interval after the first button is pressed. Otherwise, the system levies a five-second penalty before I can try again. No time like the present to start with what I think I remember from my last visit.
As I stand with my fingers poised over the buttons, the flickering light of the screen picks out the glossy-painted numbers on the surfaces of the keys and tiny particles of dust around them. Around some of them, not all. Not around the ones that have been used. Fingertips have wiped the dust away. That narrows my choices. Now all I have to do is work out the sequence.
“Hey, man, what gives?”
The voice comes from Shrike’s second-in-command, standing in the side aisle just above the door, TEC-9 held limply at his side.
“Nothin’ much,” I reply, trying to sound like the King Phil dealer. With my head down, I can’t scan the whole theater, but from what I’ve seen, Shrike isn’t here. “Shrike around?”
“Upstairs.” The second takes a step toward me. “What you doin’ messin’ with the door? You ... hey, you ain’t Skins!” He jerks his weapon up but I am already charging. I barrel into him. We go down in a tangle of big coats, caps, and armament, struggle to separate and get the upper hand. He finds his feet before I can get to my knees and whips the TEC-9 around, spitting bullets. Under the line of fire, I roll into his legs, sweep him off his feet. He lands on his butt, gun arm outflung. Bullets puncture the stage’s apron and the merchandise arrayed on its edge. He brings the awkward weapon forward but I’m faster with the nimble Beretta and from my knees, aim for body mass. Screaming, Shrike’s lieutenant claws at his gut and falls back.
Keeping him covered, I grab at his weapon and wrench it away. He puts up little resistance. His screams have already become whimpers. I hurt him bad. If I don’t get help for him soon, this man will bleed out.
Where is Swbyra? Where is backup? They could be just on the other side of this door, unable to get in. I take another stab at the control panel with no luck. Maybe there’s another way out. Beretta in my right hand, TEC-9 in my left, I start up the aisle toward the lobby, trying for both speed and caution. A shot from behind sends me diving for cover between rows of seats where I huddle until I realize it was a sound effect from the movie.
The door from the lobby opens. A dark figure in a sweeping coat starts down the aisle and I’m face to face with Shrike.
“What the fuck’s going on here?” He spots his second lying supine near the exit door. “Hey!”
“He jumped me,” I reply, backing down the aisle.
Shrike squints in the light from the screen. “Hey, you ain’t Skins ... Mansion? Stop your ass right there.” He steadies the barrel of his Cobray, already pointed at my belly.
At this range, Kevlar won’t save me, but neither will a poplin raincoat protect Shrike from my bullets, so it’s a stand-off. It’s up to Swbyra. Where the hell is Swbyra?
“Man, you some kind of suicidal motherfucker,” Shrike says.
“So are you.” I wiggle the Beretta, note with pleasure that Shrike’s glance follows the movement. Easily distracted.
“You scratched my man!”
“Damn, he never gave me a chance.”
“Neither will I.”
Before he gets off a shot, I take cover between the seats, crawl backward in the musty, narrow space, palms sticking to the tacky floor. Maybe I can get to the center aisle, get to the lobby. And then what? “Wait! Give me a minute!”
Shots whine overhead and I can’t tell if it’s real or from the movie.
“OK, be that way. You’re under arrest for the murder of Hector Waltann.”
“You stupid fuck, you want to die for that? I didn’t kill him,” Shrike shouts back. “That bitch Carlotta I might. You for sure. But why I want to waste Hector?”
I’m prepared to believe him, especially since he’s stopped shooting at me. “He stiffed you.”
“So how do I collect if he dead? You so stupid you deserve to die.” Shrike sends a spit ball of bullets in my direction for punctuation.
“I can do you just as quick,” I reply, but reserve any punctuation of my own. Who knows how many rounds are left in the TEC-9. “Talk to me and we both get to live.”
Shrike says, “You forget. I got backup.”
Damn, there’s more? “You think I came here alone?” Where is Swbyra?
“You stupid enough to come here in the first place,” he says, but he sounds unsure.
“Tell me about Hector. If you didn’t kill him, who did?”
“I don’t know, man, maybe his poke.” His tone is less abrupt, almost conversational. I push up from the floor high enough to see him. “Another hype. Hector was buying more smack than he could do hisself and live.”
“And paid you with fake jewels.”
“Don’t fuckin’ remind me. But I didn’t do him!”
“So if you didn’t kill Hector, you’ve got nothing to fear from me. Just come downtown, we’ll talk—”
“Then you let me loose to come nail me some other day?” He fires off another round.
“There isn’t going to be another day. Not for me. I’m history. They know about me. About the Nearvana.”
Shrike’s teeth show white in the light from the movie screen. His gun arm is slightly relaxed. “Yeah, and you liked it, too.”
And God, I could use some now. This was much easier to do stoned.
The door opens and a tall, thin form fills the side aisle. Shrike’s backup? Prepared to fire in both directions, I risk a glance over my shoulder.