Sugar got low, p.1
Sugar Got Low, page 1
part #1 of River City Series
Sugar Got Low
River City Short Stories
By
Frank Zafiro
Sugar Got Low (River City short stories)
By Frank Zafiro
©Copyright 2021 Frank Scalise
All contained stories © by Frank Scalise
“Party Dress” ©2006
“Prank Call” and “Walter’s Night” ©2010
“Adam Raised a Cain” and “Details in Black” ©2018
“A Gyro and a Glock,” “Run Its Course,” “The Concrete Smile,” and “Titus, My Brother” © 2019
“Long Burdens” and “Sugar Got Low” ©2020
“Lowest Point” and “Walking Through” ©2021
All rights reserved. No part of the book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.
Published by Code 4 Press, an imprint of Frank Zafiro, LLC
Cover Design by Zach McCain
For John Emery
CONTENTS
Foreword
Adam Raised a Cain
A Gyro and a Glock
Details in Black
Long Burdens
Lowest Point
Party Dress
Prank Call
Walking Through
Walter’s Night
Run Its Course
The Concrete Smile
Titus, My Brother
Sugar Got Low
Notes
About the Author
Other Books by Frank Zafiro
Foreword
Readers of this short story collection may notice that not every entry is explicitly River City. Some happen elsewhere in the country and contains characters never before mentioned in any of the novels or short stories.
Here's the thing—while some of these stories don’t necessarily happen inside the city limits of the fair burg that is the subject of this series, several of them do. Others… well, let’s just say that they can still exist in the River City universe even if they take place in Texas or Virginia or San Francisco.
Longtime readers, for example, will note the story “Long Burdens” takes place in La Sombra, Texas. During his adventures in Chisolm’s Debt, Thomas Chisolm makes a stop in La Sombra. Thus, the La Sombra stories are connected to River City.
So are the others, though some a little more tenuously. But a word of warning—don’t be surprised if one of the upcoming novels features one or more characters from these short stories in it… because that is most definitely how I roll.
Frank Zafiro
Summer 2022
Adam Raised a Cain
The first time is the toughest, they say. And they float that little nugget of bullshit about, don’t they? It’s always hardest the first time, and then it gets easier and easier. Hell, I don’t know. Maybe for some things, that’s true. But that hasn’t been my experience.
I came on the job with no illusions about cops or the city of Chicago. I grew up in this town, and I know how things work. Most people are struggling to get by and everyone is looking for an angle. A badge doesn’t change that nearly as much as it should. What I didn’t realize was that for some people, the badge is just another opportunity. Another tool to help you run another kind of game, with the same end in mind.
I should have known. My old man, Gar Sawyer, was a career heister. Usually, he was small time, and we lived mostly hand to mouth I was a kid. But sometimes he scored a good haul, and that made for one or two decent Christmases. Then he left my mother for his Polish mistress, and things went back to being hand to mouth.
Through it all, I saw how he interacted with the cops more than once. See, I didn’t have the frame of reference that he was the bad guy and they were the good guys. He was my old man, and until he bailed on me and Ma, he was the ultimate good guy. These cops that were always hassling him, and sometimes putting him into cuffs? They were the bad guys.
It didn’t help that Gar talked shit about the cops at any opportunity, including when they came around. And he fought with them almost every time he got arrested. There’s nothing pretty about seeing your old man get gang-piled by three cops. Worse than that, when he was done fighting, it never failed that they’d lay a few more shots on top of it all before they hauled him away.
In those days, though, he’d always come back. Sometimes a day later, sometimes a few days, but he always came back. He’d sit in the kitchen, sipping whiskey and smoking his cigarettes with his black eye or busted nose, and he’d tell me how those crooked fuckers took his last twenty dollars out of his pocket on the way to jail. Then he’d laugh and say they probably spent it on some hustler over on West Garfield.
You can see why he was my hero, and why the cops were the bad guys to me.
Later, though, my eyes slowly opened. First Gar took off to live with, and eventually marry, his Polish girlfriend. At least he had the decency to wait on the actual marriage until after my mother died. When she passed, I had to go live with him and his new family. Along with the Polish wife, who I refused to call my stepmother, I had to deal with Jerzy, Gar’s illegitimate son by her. He was close to my age, and it didn’t take a math genius to figure out how long Gar had been seeing this other woman on the side.
Slowly I began to see how dead-end his lifestyle really was. How money was never steady, and never enough. If he’d done honest work, we’d have come out ahead. Yeah, the flush times wouldn’t have been so flush, but the lean times wouldn’t have been so lean, either. Expecting Gar to work a straight job was crazy, though, even when the life grinded him down. I saw it all. How the lines in his face hardened and deepened, and how he started to seem less heroic and more desperate.
Jerzy idolized him. Jerzy wanted to be him. Not me. No, by the time I was old enough to move out of the house, I wanted to be the polar opposite of Gar Sawyer. So I joined the cops, and went from being the red-headed step-child of the family to being the black sheep.
Needless to say, no one came to my academy graduation.
Early on, I was lucky not to get assigned anywhere near my old neighborhood. Other guys on the job told me stories of having to arrest people they grew up with or had gone to high school with. The shit Gar and Jerzy were into, I thought my odds were better that I’d be arresting someone with the same last name as me.
I took to the work, though. Knowing the street helps. There’s an old adage that a cop is just a criminal who didn’t get arrested young and decided to change sides before he got caught, and maybe there’s some truth to that, at least in this city. Knowing the rules of the game on the street made it easier to figure out what was what and to make better decisions. It helped knowing who to talk to reasonably and who to just smack upside the head because you knew they weren’t ever going to listen.
Pete Harris was the training officer they put with me with for my last rotation. After I passed my final test and he signed off on me, one of the guys on their platoon retired, so they left Harris and me as partners. If I hadn’t been so gung ho about the job itself, I might have objected. Harris wasn’t flat out lazy, but he wasn’t looking to break a sweat, either. If there was an easier way to do something, he knew what it was and that’s how we did it.
What did I learn from Pete? His go-to was how to talk a citizen out of filing a report (“I could write this up, but you know nothing is going to happen with this, right?”). But he perfected the drive-by welfare check, too (“Lights are off, no one’s home, it’s all fine”). When he was my training officer, I kept my mouth shut and did what he said, because that’s what was expected and with my family background I was the last rookie who could afford to make waves. Once I was off probation and he trotted out those beauties, I still didn’t say anything. I just took out my pen and started the report, or shut off the patrol car and went to knock on the door. Pete would give me a pained expression and shake his head like I just gave twenty bucks to a scam artist or took in a stray kitten, but he’d go along. Not backing up your partner was the biggest sin there was, even if he was making more work for you.
My real education came from Al. He was our sergeant, and looked every bit the Italian Chicago cop. A little jowly, trending toward fat, with a permanent half-day’s growth of coarse beard on his face. Al was bigger than life. He not only took care of his men, he did it with the same zealotry of a Marine platoon sergeant at war in the trenches. There was a time I got in a good scrap with a Haitian who’d been selling illegal swag on the street. It wasn’t much of a beef but the guy had and he bolted while I was checking his name through dispatch. I chased him for three or four blocks before he turned down a blocked alley. Instead of giving up, he turned and charged at me, snarling.
I gave as good as I got, and by the time Pete caught up to us, we were at a stalemate. Pete tackled the guy from the side, and we got him hooked up. Sarge arrived a few minutes later while I was still dusting off my uniform and inspecting the damage.
“He do that to you?” Sarge asked, pointing to my cheek.
I hadn’t looked in a mirror yet, but I could feel a burning, throbbing sensation on my cheekbone, and figured it would bruise up shortly. “Yeah,” I said.
“Mother-fuck-er,” Sarge growled, and then he tuned up the Haitian before we left that alley.
I didn’t need him to do that, and some would say it was wrong, but I learned something that day. Sergeant Al Molinari had my back.
Later, on my first
Why am I telling you all of this? Simple. So you’ll know why I said yes to him the day he suggested what he did.
That first stretch of time on the job was maybe the best time in my life. I was out from under the shadow of Gar Sawyer, for one thing. By then, he’d taken a fall for robbing a convenience store just over the border in Wisconsin and was doing his time up there. I think Jerzy was also incarcerated around then, but maybe he was out. Either way, I wasn’t living in that dark, Polish house any more. I was part of something different, something bigger than myself. Something good. Maybe not perfect, maybe not pure… but good.
I lived with that belief for a while. Yeah, I did what needed to be done to take care of business, but even those things I wasn’t proud of doing felt like they had a noble purpose. They weren’t intended to line my own pockets.
One night, Pete and I went on a domestic dispute. A union plumber who worked long hours finally figured out that some guy down the hall was checking the pipes under his wife’s kitchen sink while he was out, so they got into it. By the time we arrived, she had a split lip and he was icing his hand. It wasn’t much of an investigation.
Sarge was in the area and swung by when we asked for someone to take pictures of her face. He snapped some photos. All the while she was chirping about how it was all over between them and she was moving before he got out of jail. At the word ‘jail’ he tipped over and suddenly the four of us were in a knock-down brawl in the tiny kitchen, WWF-style.
Unless you’re at the home of a gun nut, kitchens are almost always the most dangerous rooms in a house. Lots of knives and other weapons of opportunity come easily to hand. But that night it was dangerous because a two hundred forty pound plumber didn’t like the idea of going to jail for giving an unfaithful wife what she had coming. The way he saw it, after the beating he threw her, the two of them were even.
So we crashed around the small kitchen, grappling with him, bouncing off cupboards and banging against the counters. Eventually I got hold of one wrist and twisted it so hard I was afraid it would break. The plumber screeched in pain and collapsed to his knees. We piled on and got him prone. Pete managed to get the cuffs around his wrists while Sarge knelt across the back of the man’s neck, huffing and puffing, sweat streaming down his fat face. He looked at me and tipped me a wink.
“To protect and serve,” he muttered with a wry grin.
We got the plumber to his feet. The wife harangued him all the way through the living room and out the door, making sure he knew that she was going to leave his ass, and so forth.
Once we reached the street, I stood him next to the patrol car and searched him. He didn’t have much in his pockets but his wallet was full of money.
“How much is here?” I asked him, as Sarge walked up. Pete was still upstairs, probably lining up a return trip while the wife’s blood was still up. That was one of his things.
“Nine hundred something,” said the plumber.
“You always carry that much?” Sarge asked.
“I just cashed my paycheck.”
I counted the money out in front of him. “Nine hundred thirty-two. Sound right?”
“Close enough.”
“No, not close enough,” Sarge said. “Is that right?”
“Yeah. What is this, a fucking bank? Just take me to jail so I can post bond and get to work tomorrow.”
“Yeah, sure,” said Sarge, and we stuck him in the back seat. Then Sarge grabbed the rest of the plumber’s meager possessions, including the wallet. “I’ll get Pete. He can ride with me. Meet you at jail.”
I drove the poor bastard to jail, resisting the urge to rub my chin where he’d caught me with an elbow. I wasn’t even angry any more. After the way I cranked on his wrist, I figured it was a wash.
At jail, we went through the slow, meticulous booking process. I walked him through most of it, then Sarge showed up. “Take off, kid. I’ll finish this up.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. Get back in service. Pete’s waiting outside.”
No one had to tell me twice. Booking perps was boring work. If Sarge was willing to stand by while the corrections people did their thing, I was happy to let him.
I left the jail, picked up Pete, and we got back at it. Things got busy, and for most of the night we ran from call to call. Finally, around three in the morning, it slowed down and we managed to stop for a break at a diner. Our orders of coffee and eggs had barely arrived when he the hulking shadow of Sarge appeared.
A moment later, a pair of white envelopes dropped on the table. There were no markings on either one. Pete reached out and took one of them. He didn’t hesitate, scooping eggs onto his fork with one hand while the other hand tucked the envelope into his jacket pocket.
I stared at the remaining envelope. “What’s this?” I asked, though I knew, I fucking knew exactly what it was.
Sarge slid into the seat next to Pete, forcing him to push over. “It’s your taste.”
“Taste of what?”
Sarge cocked his head at me. “You kiddin’ me, rook? Don’t be a snot nose.”
The white envelope stared up at me, malevolent. I wondered if it was from the plumber or if there were other scams Sarge and Pete ran. Either way, I didn’t move to pick up the envelope. I just stared down at it. I had a momentary image of the envelope biting my hand as I reached for it.
“Go on, Mick,” Sarge said. “You earned it. Hell, you maybe earned yours more than either of us.” He pointed at my chin.
So the plumber, then.
“I don’t want it,” I said quietly.
Pete pretended not to hear me, continuing to shovel eggs into his mouth. My own plate of food sat in front of me, cooling.
Sarge’s eyes narrowed. “I didn’t ask what you wanted.”
“The guy works for a living,” I said, looking for a way out. “I don’t want to—”
“That guy assaulted a cop. Namely, you. So fuck that guy.”
I thought about it for a second. I glanced around the diner to see who was within earshot. A few people were close enough, but none seemed to be listening. “What about her, then? The wife. We should drop the money off—”
“She’s a cheating bitch who’s leaving him for some dope down the hall,” Sarge said easily. “Who she was banging while he was out working. So fuck her, too.”
“Sarge, I—”
Sarge leaned forward. “Listen, Mick. You’re a good kid. And you’re doing good work. Don’t mess that up.”
“I’m not trying to.”
“The hell you ain’t.” He motioned toward the envelope with his head. “This is the way things work. He screwed up. You got yourself hit, for God’s sake. This is your compensation.”
I shook my head slightly. “It can’t be like this,” I whispered.
I knew Chicago was a dirty town, and I knew the cops were no different. But not letting some crook give up when you’re on the backswing was one thing. Even keeping some of a drug dealer’s cash or writing in a report how he never ditched the gun while running away was something I could understand and overlook. In the end, it was all part of putting the bad guys away. But taking money from a working man? For no reason other than we could?
It wasn’t right.
Sarge’s expression dropped into one of dark rage. He opened his mouth but that was the moment Pete chose to finally speak up. “Jesus, Mick. This is the real world. Grow the fuck up.”
Sarge closed his mouth and watched me. So did Pete.
