THREE
Jack
I sat casually at my desk, left elbow resting on the corner of the wooden surface, leaning forward with my chin on my left palm. I was drumming the fingers of my right hand steadily on the desk. My eyes were half closed, and to most I probably looked tired or hungover.
But my mind was racing. It was 09:00am, the day after Lucas had brought in the sample of meth for me. I’d spent the rest of the afternoon brainstorming ideas, where the meth was coming from, who the key players could be.
I’d even built a little case wall next to my desk, which had brought laughter from some of my fellow Detectives. They had scoffed at the idea of the O’Rourkes resurfacing and had taken great pleasure of mocking me as I went about pinning scraps of paper to the board.
Yeah, the idea probably does seem stupid to you. Probably because you haven’t been approached with a bribe yet. You slimy asshole.
After getting bored of the old deadbeats, I had told them precisely where to shove their criticism and carried on with my theorizing.
This is what actual Detectives do. Look and learn. You won’t be the ones laughing if this theory actually turns out to be something. Nah, you’ll be wishing you were the ones to crack the case and save the citizens.
I had smiled at the thought of getting one over on the old detectives, most of whom had made my life really difficult when they realized I wouldn’t take a bribe or look the other way for them.
Eventually I’d have to get some actual evidence to take to the Lieutenant. If I went with what I had now, which was just a hunch, he would tell me to stop wasting his time.
However, if I actually pieced just a little of the puzzle together, I knew he would listen carefully. Might even let me open a case.
My case.
I still had a few contacts from my days of working undercover. A score or more of junkies who I’d dealt meth to in order to keep up appearances, and a couple of Police Informers who had been associates of the O’Rourkes, but had ratted on them for reduced sentences.
I knew some of them would be back in the business. Probably ready to snitch and run at the first sign of trouble.
Snakes. At least most gangsters have a code of honour, a system of respect. These guys are worse than gangsters, will turn sides as soon as they can get something out of it.
I hated them, but I needed them just as much as I hated them.
Finalizing my plan of action, I rose to my full height, a shade over 6’2”, rolling my shoulders. I felt my biceps struggle against the leather of my thigh length black leather trench coat as I downed the last of my morning coffee.
I ran my hand over my short, blonde hair as I headed for the exit.
One of the old detectives looked up at me, snarling.
“Where you off to, boy scout? Going to see if there’s any old ladies need helping across the road?” he asked, sarcastically. His colleague on the desk next to him snorted.
I coolly continue my strides forward, not giving him the satisfaction of a heated reaction.
A little while later I was cruising around the streets in my nondescript, large black sedan, eyes scanning the sidewalk for any signs of activity. It didn’t take me long to find what I was looking for.
It was only 9:45 am, and a group of young men were standing on a street corner, looking around nervously. There were five of them and they all looked twitchy as fuck and were either high or on a serious comedown. They were all skinny with slightly sunken eyes and scratched at their red skin intermittently.
I pulled up a safe distance away, seemingly unnoticed. There was only one car they were looking for; their dealer’s.
It only took another five minutes for a mean looking muscle car to pull up on the street next to the group. One of the meth heads approached the car and leaned into the window.
Bingo.
Now if these were serious gangsters they wouldn’t carry product around in their car. No, they would take the money, and one of their small-time associates would bring the drugs to the customer a little while later, after a gestured signal from the guys in the car.
I waited, and the young men walked off towards a street corner as the muscle car pulled away noisily. All the gangsters had in their car was a load of cash, and I knew that they would likely stash their earnings a few times throughout the day, in case they got pulled over.
Almost risk free. Almost.
I made a mental note of the license plate, trusting my photographic memory to recall the number later. If I needed it.
My eyes followed the group of men as they approached the corner. Two mean looking young guys approached from where the muscle car had turned, at the corner of the block. There was a quick handshake between one of the young gangsters and the lead junkie.
The exchange.
Now I had two options. I could bust the dealers, who likely had a sizeable amount of meth. But they were young, they wouldn’t talk, and it would announce to the gang that I was on to them. No, busting small dealers was a job for the street cop. I needed bigger prey. The top of the food chain.
Option two was to persuade the junkies to give me a sample of the meth they’d just acquired. Much easier, almost risk free and there would be no trace back to the gang.
I mean, the junkies couldn’t go to the police. And their dealers wouldn’t have much time for some whining junkie who’d just had some of his gear stolen.
No, if I left them enough meth to still get well tweaked, they would forget it ever happened.
I followed the junkies as they took a winding route back to wherever it was they got high.
Probably a disgusting meth den. Won’t be in there long, anyway.
I’d seen some godawful sights in my time undercover. Did some terrible things to people who deserved it. Strangely though, it didn’t seem to bother me at all. I mean, I felt fear and revulsion, but it simply didn’t affect me. I was able to carry on, cool and cold as anything.
The police shrink I’d seen after Kale had been shot and I’d killed two gangsters said I scored quite high on the psychopathy scale. Not enough to be inhuman, I still knew right from wrong and I knew what fear was like, sort of. I could just ignore it. Things that would break other men just washed over me. I was cold when I needed to be, highly intelligent and calculating. Fearless.
The perfect detective, the shrink had said. Suits me. Just means I’m damn good at my job.
The group of junkies had arrived at a detached bungalow on the seedier side of town. One in three or four of those houses was a meth den, and most were run down and looked uninhabited. Boarded up or blacked out windows. Overgrown yards. Busted gates.
They entered quickly and shut the door behind them. I pulled up at the end of the block and waited for a minute, counting the seconds slowly.
Give them time to get comfortable. Then I’ll scare the shit out of them.
After the minute had passed I unclipped the fully loaded service glock in my holster. I had another, smaller glock hidden in my trench coat, just in case.
I quickly left the car and jogged to the house. I wanted what I’d come for and then I’d be out of here in no time.
The junkies had shut the front door, probably locking it. The front gate was off its hinges, tangled with overgrowth on what was once a lawn.
I approached the front door carefully. It was rotten and looked flimsy. Half the windows in the house were smashed, and had been lazily boarded with cardboard. Curtains were drawn at the remaining windows.
I smashed the door in with a powerful right foot and marched through the corridor, turning right into the living room. I walked over what seemed like years of detritus and garbage. The place stank.
I heard swearing and scrambling from the room as I entered. The guys were sitting around, two were trying to gather up the drug paraphernalia that was scattered around the room. One was lying down. One was taking a bit hit on a glass pipe, eyes wide as he studied me.
The last was rummaging around in a draw next to an old, stained couch.
“Don’t even think about it. If you’re going for anything that even resembles a weapon, a gun shaped lighter, I will put a bullet between your eyes.”
I had drawn my glock and was holding it in my right hand, supporting the grip with my left.
I waved the gun at the guy, who had turned around to face me.
“Oh fuck, man. We’re all screwed. No way, I can’t get busted. I’m not even high yet, man!” The junkie lying on the floor had rolled to face me, and was squinting at me through bloodshot eyes as he whined pathetically.
“Shut up. No one is getting busted as long as you do exactly what I say. Now, no one move unless I say so. You’ll have to trust me when I say I’m a mean shot with this. Unless you want to find out the hard way.” I surveyed the room. No one moved. Most were twitching, but none made an effort to get up or run.
“You, on the couch. Hands on your head. Good, now lie down. Head and hands on the opposite side of the chest of drawers.” He obliged, his hands trembling and movements shaky.
“Now, which one of you is the least fucked up?” I asked, inspecting the three men sitting in the living room, garbage scattered around them.
“I, uh. I guess I am. I’ve only had one hit so far,” one said as he raised his hand sheepishly, as if he was in class.
“Good. All I need is a sample of meth. And some info. Then I’ll leave you all to get as high as you like.” He nodded at me enthusiastically.
“Anything, man. We don’t want no trouble, y’know.” He passed me a small plastic baggie of meth, leaning across the room to stretch a skinny arm at me cautiously.
“Don’t give him our stuff!” One of the other guys was on his feet suddenly, frowning. “That’s ours! We earnt it!”
I stepped forward and pistol whipped him savagely on the side of his head as he tried to grab the baggie from his junkie friend. He crumpled to the floor, holding his temple.
“He told you not to move, idiot! Do you want to die, man?” the helpful junkie said, frowning at his friend.
“Listen to your buddy,” I said menacingly, as I took the baggie of meth. I glanced at it briefly. It had the same hue as Lucas’s biker meth he’d brought me. And was plenty enough to get a quality sample or two.
“Now, I need some info. I’m looking for some old associates of mine. Guys who can help me out. It’s very important you tell me the truth now.” I lowered my voice to a gruff monotone, lowering my gun slightly as I pocketed the meth.
“Any of you heard of Freddie Biggs? John “Goldie” O’Hanlan? Or “Shaky” Joe Nelson?” I studied them in turn as I listed the names of my previous police informers. Ones I knew had at least a small chance of being alive, and in town.
The helpful guy was nodding, smiling feverishly. His hand went into the air again.
“Yeah, man. I used to get high with Shaky, a while back now. Last I heard he was shot by some gang who wanted his corner.” He frowned, thoughtfully.
“Ain’t heard of Freddie Biggs for years, since the O’Rourkes got taken down. But John, yeah John with the gold teeth, right? He’s still about. Rolling with the new gang in town, so I hear. Selling dope for them over on the east side. It’s good shit, man. Used to get it from him couple weeks ago. But you can get it on most corners now.” He was looking at me, his glazed eyes gaining focus as the meth wore off gradually.
“Good. Now, listen. I was never here. I hear so much of a peep one of you has been jawing about my visit, I’ll be back. With backup, and five sets of handcuffs. Got it?” They were all nodding.
I pointed the gun at them in turn as I backed out of the room. “Now, get high. And forget I was ever here. Do that, and stay out of trouble, and I’ll never have to bother coming ‘round here again.”
I turned quickly as I left the living room, taking the corridor in two long strides as I jogged back to the car.
I’d already memorised three of the guy’s faces, their features etched into my mind. I took a mental note of where they lived as I headed back to the car.
I wasn’t fucking around when I said I would be back if I heard even a whisper about my visit. I had already learned that idle threats were soon ignored if you didn’t deliver on your promises.
Now, time to pay my old friend Goldie a visit.