Three worlds collide, p.10
Three Worlds Collide, page 10
“Gawd, you stink, man,” Dewey said as John rolled his window down. “And don’t slam my door.”
John cut him an annoyed glance. “Whatever. It’s lunchtime. I’m hungry.”
“ABCs wants to see you at the warehouse right away,” Dewey replied.
“He can wait 10 more minutes, can’t he? I ain’t eaten all day and I’m nursing one hell of a hangover.”
“Alright, alright. Wanna Burger?”
They both chuckled.
“Yeah, I wanna burger,” John said as they pulled into traffic and headed to their favorite drive-through.
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Streets left the bond hearing furious. Pausing on the steps outside, he let his head fall back and looked up at the sky, pleading from within to whatever power might be residing up there. How can the system just keep turning guys like that back out on the street?
Unfortunately, Streets had grown accustomed to it. But it still pissed him off. His master’s degree in criminology had not prepared him for the stifling frustrations hidden within the day-to-day minutiae of actually working as an officer. He headed back to the precinct, which was a short walk from the courthouse. The few minutes outside would help him clear his mind and he could pick up a sandwich and coffee on the way.
When Streets got back to his desk, he sipped his coffee, set his sandwich out on the desk, and started doing internet searches on the two references the psychic had given him. The first didn’t have much in the way of a website but did have social media accounts—not unusual. There were no reviews on his business, which did have a listing. The second reference had one heck of a website but no social media. Her business listing had several five-star reviews with phrases like “...helped us clear the negative energy from our home...” and, “...I can sleep better knowing my Jacob is in a better place...”
Then Streets moved over to the department database and ran searches on each individual. The first, James Stretcher, had several misdemeanor fraud charges but no convictions. Maybe he had a good lawyer. The second, Martha Klar, had a clean record. She seemed like the more credible option. He went back to her website to look for a number and get her location.
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Detective Mark Slade sat brooding in his office. The meeting with Officer Street had been the typical, ‘Hey, kid, can ya help me with this tech stuff?’ And then, ‘Okay, thanks for the help, keep this hush-hush, and no, we don’t need help with the investigation.’
He sat back in his chair and looked at the framed photo of his pregnant wife. In a digital age where people just kept photos on their devices, he thought this would help connect him with the habits of the older generation. But no one besides himself had taken notice.
Below the picture hung his diplomas. A bachelor’s in criminal justice from Texas State and a master’s in law enforcement intelligence and analysis from Michigan State. He started college at 18 and graduated with his master’s at 24, straight through, no break, magna cum laude. He had more education than most active detectives, but just a few years out of college, Slade had little investigative experience.
In high school and college, the tech stuff had been more of a hobby, a way to stay in touch and hang out, sometimes help others get past programming hurdles and other tech problems they found unsolvable. Eventually, favors became his currency. But some people took advantage of his generosity, and he would often get dragged into larger projects. After endless hours helping his best friend modify the Linux open-source code so it could be used for virtual reality, Slade swore to himself that he would stop lending his talents out to anyone who asked. But, in an effort to make himself useful, maybe gain some traction, he started offering to help out with tech issues around the precinct. Much to Slade’s frustration, that plan had backfired. Now they just thought of him as ‘the tech guy’ with a badge.
If he was going to shift gears into working cases, he would have to find a way on his own. He spun in his chair to view the security camera grid on the large TV mounted on the wall behind him. A 16-camera system covered every angle on the first floor of the precinct and recorded video to a DVR in Slade’s office. The DVR had a dedicated mouse and he used it to click on the video feed showing Officer Street at his desk. Slade zoomed in and saw him eating his lunch while he searched the internet.
Slade sat back in his chair, then shrugged, spun around to his desk, and with a few clicks of his mouse, Officer Street’s computer activity came up on his screen. After observing his activity, Slade scoffed, “Psychics?” He watched as Officer Street unlocked his phone and dialed a number, obviously not in his contacts.
“Maybe he found something.” Slade turned back to the video feed and turned up the audio on the camera. He had little trouble getting past any misgivings about observing Officer Street.
𓂓
In Dewey’s mind, the drive-through at Wanna Burger took forever. His A/C had never worked. Sitting there, unmoving in the midday heat, with John going on about his bravery, quickly became unbearable. He finally shut up long enough to cram burgers into his face, chased with copious straw-assisted slurps of soda. Wanna Burger somehow managed to infuse liquid smoke flavoring into a drink they called smoka-cola, and John found it addicting. By the time he had womped down his third burger, he’d also sucked down two bubba-sized smoka-colas.
Still wearing in the same stained white t-shirt, he proudly rubbed his bulging belly. “Hot damn, now that’s what I call a decent meal.” Then he cleared the fries out of the bottom of the bag, several spilled down over his belly as he tilted the bag up to his wide-open mouth.
Practically hanging his head out of the window to avoid the stench, Dewey glanced sideways at him, disgusted. Further empowered by his current sugar/protein high from Wanna Burger, John became more and more indignant with each passing minute.
“Got any smoke?”
“No.”
John let out a long burp. “Let’s stop and get a 12-pack for the ride.”
Dewey lit a cigarette. “Hell no. ABCs is already pissed. He’d be furious if we showed up drinking beer.”
“Don’t call him that, he hates it,” John scolded.
Dewey snorted but didn’t reply.
John sighed through pursed lips and rolled his eyes. “Whatever, man, you worry too much. No wonder you ain’t moved up yet.”
Dewey looked over in disbelief. “You realize you’re in deep shit, right?”
John did his best to look incredulous. “You got that backwards, hoss. I protected him. People get busted all the time. But because I didn’t talk, I earned his respect. He should be grateful.”
“Grateful?” Dewey replied as he glanced sideways at John. “This isn’t some gangster movie.” He couldn’t help but doubt his decision to recommend him. How did I fail to realize what an idiot this guy is? He regretted ever hooking him up with side work.
Referencing that mobster movie, John went on and on about how he would be promoted, make more money, and finally be able to leave the People Now labor hall.
Dewey, on the other hand, relished the thought that this asshat was going to get what he deserved. John would surely be in debt to ABCs for the lost drugs. He’d probably get a good beating before getting fired, or better yet, be forced to work off the debt. Dewey didn’t say another word as they turned onto the small dirt road that led to ABCs’ warehouse.
Heavily overgrown shrubs and small trees crowded the sides of the road, giving the warehouse a modicum of privacy. They pulled around to an open double gate manned by a guy in boots and camo sitting under a small shade canopy. Dewey didn’t notice the sidearm he had clipped to his belt and concealed under his untucked shirt. The guard looked through his mirrored aviator glasses and into the shot-out S10.
“Dewey and John, here to see the boss,” Dewey said to him. The guard looked in the window to see John digging down between his legs, searching for lost fries. Dewey just shook his head.
Without responding, the guard spoke hushed tones into a small walkie-talkie, then looked up and waved them through. Dewey pulled up and parked to the side of one of the open bay doors. The warehouse was not busy. A few men lounged on cheap plastic chairs scattered around a small table set up in a dusty corner. They all wore the same camo and mirrored aviator sunglasses as the gate guard.
“Weird,” Dewey mumbled.
John let out another burp, which echoed in the building.
“Up here,” growled a deep booming voice from above. John dusted food debris from his shirt and pants as they paused at a set of stairs. Dewey looked up and then back over at the men in the corner once more. They gave him a blank stare from behind their shades.
“Hurry up,” ABCs demanded.
Once ABCs made eye contact, the pair made for the stairs at once. An angry smile curled on ABCs’ lips as he headed back into his office with Dewey and John scampering up the steps behind him.
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The Alphabet King sat in his director’s chair behind the expansive military desk. Barely able to conceal his aggravation, he put out a hand inviting Dewey and John the driver to sit across from him in the cheap monobloc chairs. Dewey—a small framed skinny man—settled into one easily. John, on the other hand, had to push his bulging figure down in between the plastic arms. He continued to squirm uncomfortably as The Alphabet King regarded him.
ABCs silently glared at them both with a wide stare, Dewey on his left and John the driver on his right. Somehow, Dewey felt he wasn’t looking at them directly but nonetheless had his full attention on both of them at the same time. John looked down at this shirt again to make sure he’d cleaned all the crumbs off. Much of the bravado he demonstrated in the truck had melted away.
“Did you enjoy your lunch?” ABCs asked nonchalantly.
John’s head shot up as if he’d been pinpricked. Dewey sat fidgeting with his pockets as if searching for something. Out of habit, the pack appeared in his hand. He took out a cigarette.
“No smoking in here.”
Apparently devastated, Dewey nodded meekly, then put them away.
John looked over with a grin, seizing the moment. “Lunch was great, we had—” ABCs turned his glare to fully focus on John, which caused him to stumble on his words. Half a thought behind, he tried to continue, “How did you know we—”
“Shut up!” ABCs barked. The pair flinched at the rebuke. “I can smell your rancid burger breath all the way over here.” ABCs pulled out a drawer to extract a pack of mint gum. He threw it at John, striking him dead center in his chest. John flinched backward so forcefully, one of the chair legs bent under his weight, sending him crashing to the floor. He floundered on his back for a moment before he managed to roll over onto his hands and knees. After several grunts and much effort, he finally stood up.
“These chairs suck,” he blurted out as he picked it up and set it right.
ABCs shot up out of his director’s chair, which slid smoothly behind him. “Shut up and sit down.”
“Alright, alright,” John said as he reinserted himself into the plastic chair. Emboldened by the endorphin rush from his physical exertions, he shot back, “What are you so mad about anyway? I saved your ass.”
Dewey glanced over and shrunk in his chair, a horrified look on his face.
“You think so?” ABCs growled with an edge of condescension, not missing a beat.
John started to speak, but ABCs put a hand up to stop him. “You’re going to tell me everything that happened, from the beginning.”
The Alphabet King turned to pull his seat toward him, sat back in his director’s chair, and listened intently as John recounted the morning’s events leading up to his arrest. ABCs stopped him there. “You mean to tell me that two landscapers suddenly decided to carjack your piece of shit truck?”
“I think so,” John replied, not daring to defend his truck’s honor.
“That doesn’t make sense. From what the lawyer tells me, they were talking about bringing up attempted vehicular manslaughter charges against you,” ABCs replied.
John shrank back in his monobloc chair, careful not to fall again.
“Are you telling me everything?” ABCs asked with an intensity that made John squirm.
The pressure finally got to John and he spilled his beans. “Look, Hines told me they tried to say I almost hit a little girl and that this landscaper ran out and saved her. They’re saying I hit him and then tried to leave the scene.”
“Did you?”
“Well, yeah, I tried, but the other landscaper, some black guy, and the meddling mother, got in my face. They kept me from leaving. I knew I needed to get out of there because I had the merch in the truck. It’s their fault, not mine,” John blurted out. He seemed somewhat relieved after getting that off his chest.
“Then why didn’t you tell me that? Why did you give me a bullshit story about carjacking?”
“Because the lawyer said that’s the story we’re sticking with,” John replied.
“You can lie to the cops all you want.” The volume in ABCs’ voice went up with every word. “But you don’t lie to me!” Smacking the desk on the last word.
Dewey and John jumped a few inches. John’s seat went up with him and he nearly fell over again as the back legs landed on the floor and buckled. Reaching down for his last shred of confidence, John spoke up, “Look, like I said, I took the arrest like a man. I didn’t talk. You owe me!”
Dewey looked over again, aghast, shuffling his feet as if he were trying to push his chair farther away from John. ABCs stood up and scowled down at this imbecile before him, practically breathing fire as he yelled, “I owe you!?!”
John looked up at him, raised his eyebrows and shifted his eyes side to side. “Yeah?” He squeaked the word out like a question.
“Hardly. You owe me,” ABCs replied. “You got my shipment confiscated and exposed me to the police. Then you lied to me about what happened.”
John’s chin fell in defeat.
“You talked, didn’t you.” ABCs stated in his now familiar growling tone.
“What?” John nearly broke out in tears. “No!”
“I talked to the lawyer. He told me Detective Mullens said you agreed to be interviewed. What did you say!”
“Nothin’. Literally, I said nothin’!” John cried.
“You cut a deal, didn’t you!”
Mustering every ounce of energy he could, John stood bolt-upright pushing the stuck chair off his hips and sending it clattering to the floor. “What deal? I kept my mouth shut just like I was told!” He twisted around and set the chair back on all fours, then straightened himself, standing to face ABCs once again.
“That’s your second lie in as many minutes! LIAR!” The Alphabet King roared as he walked around from behind the desk. As he did so, ABCs delivered a backhand slap with his left hand that landed in nearly the same spot Jackie’s smack had earlier that day. John stepped back and stumbled into the chair. Amazingly, the legs held.
“You lied about this morning and you’re lying now!” ABCs roared.
John sat holding his face. Damn, slapped twice in one day.
Out of the side of his vision, Dewey noticed that the men in camo had worked their way up the stairs and stood at the door. ABCs looked up at them, motioning the mirror sun-glassed men inside. “We’re going to find out what you said, gordo. We are going to take a trip to Little Guantanamo.”
A mask of dismay descended over John’s face. “But why? I did what I was told. I... I—”
The men in camo waiting behind John gagged him, pushed him out of the monobloc chair, and bound his wrists behind his back with a zip tie. They walked him away from ABCs and stood him in a corner.
John the driver started sobbing. His spindly legs resembled the monobloc chair legs—weak and inadequate, shaking nervously under his weight.
ABCs motioned to Dewey. “Him too.”
The guards grabbed Dewey. His horror turned to panic as he squirmed in their grip. “Why me, boss? Why me? I did what I was told.”
ABCs walked over to him and got in his face. “You brought this filthy mongrel to me. I told you that I would hold you responsible for him.”
“That’s not fair!” Dewey cried.
ABCs shrugged. Eyes sad, he turned a frown. “Welcome to my world,” he said with mock sympathy.
Dewey’s head fell forward in defeat.
“Now get them down through the passage and into the Excursion,” ABCs said as he picked up the phone and called the lawyer. “Find out everything about these meddling landscapers, the mother, and that little girl.” He ended the call without waiting for a reply.
“Someone has to pay,” ABCs muttered to himself as his guards dragged the wide-eyed captives down the hidden hatch and out to the dark-tinted Excursion SUV waiting just outside, their pleas muffled by the gags.
𓂓
A couple of years had passed since Pico and the chicken. Armando had seen the dog wandering the streets with the collar he’d made for him and a length of rope that still held a portion of chicken neck bone. He tried to approach him, but the animal had lost all trust in humans. He found him weeks later, dead in a ditch just outside of their little village. With his bare hands, Armando dug him a shallow grave and said his goodbyes. Hardened by the experience, Armando vowed to himself that he would escape his father’s tyranny.
That day, covered in dirt from his morbid task, Armando returned to the tiendita. He paused in the shadows across the street and watched as the same man conducted his business. He waited until the man finished and leaned on the fender of his shiny-white-car-with-the-soft-roof folded back, then stepped out into the open. The man saw him and waved him over.
Armando walked up and stood before him, looking the man directly in the eye. “No flour today, little man?”
Armando shook his head. “When you gave me meat, you told me nothing is free.”
The man nodded in agreement. “That’s right, little man.”
“Then I owe you?” Armando asked.
The man hardened his expression and simply nodded again.
“Then I am here to pay my debt,” Armando said.
