Play it down, p.5
Play It Down, page 5
The cop, who had introduced himself as Officer Dwight Feeley, stood facing Joe and Dickie, the Village Lounge behind him. The three turned at the same time to look as the coroner and his assistant wheeled the gurney around the corner, carrying Wendy’s body in the bag, pushing it over toward the back of the van.
Officer Feeley said, “Mr. Sheldon, will you tell me one more time: Did you say you didn’t hear the gunshot?” He glanced at Dickie. “But Mr. Caldwell, you did hear the shots fired?”
Dickie nodded. “I heard just the one. But, like I already told you, I got out of the car. Joey stayed put.”
Joe pointed with his thumb over his shoulder. “I don’t know if you’ve ever been in a Lexus like this one, but it’s pretty much airtight in there. You can’t hear a thing outside.”
The officer stared at Joe, his eyes somewhat squinted, nodding. He wrote something on his pad, turned and glanced back toward the bar, shaking his head. “Makes no sense, if I’m being honest. Nobody else in this place heard a thing. Not one person.” He looked from Joe to Dickie, like he was waiting for a response.
Dickie said, “The music in there was pretty loud. But so was the gunshot. I mean, I think I told you, when I first heard it, I swore someone took a shot at me.” He ran his hands flat down his shirt, like he was feeling around to make sure he hadn’t been shot.
Feeley had a look, like he had real doubts about what they were telling him.
Joe said. “Why would I call nine-one-one if one of us had anything to do with this?”
Feeley narrowed his eyes. “Why don’t you tell me this: Who gets arrested for burglary, comes back to the same place not even twelve hours later?”
Joe looked across the parking lot through the chain-link fence, toward the building next door. He could see his Mercedes. “Didn’t you write down any of what I already told you? I came here to get my car.”
The officer licked his finger and flipped the paper on his pad. “You said you came back for your car? But neither of you had much of an answer when I asked you why you came here, to this bar. You come to pick up your car, someone with half a brain gets in it and gets the hell out of here.” He looked from Joe to Dickie.
Joe rubbed his face with both hands, taking a deep breath. “I’m sorry. It’s just… I’ve done nothing wrong here. I had nothing to do with this woman being shot. And whatever she tried to say I did earlier today wasn’t true, either. I never broke in the place.”
Feeley said, “Sounds to me you were looking for trouble to begin with.”
Joe shook his head, looking away. He knew it wasn’t worth trying to defend himself or explain much more to an officer who seemed to have potatoes stuffed in his ears. Joe couldn’t figure out if the man was dense or simply refused to believe there was an ounce of truth behind the words coming out of Joe’s mouth.
Dickie said, “Joe’s a straight-up guy, you know. To be honest, I was the one, told him let’s get out of here, let someone else call you. I mean, the lady was already dead. It wasn’t like there was any urgency. And here we are, getting our balls kicked for doing the right thing.”
The cop gave Dickie a look, like he couldn’t believe what he’d just said. “Are you telling me you were going to leave the scene of a crime? Without—”
“No, no, no,” Joe said. “Don’t listen to him. He just likes to say things.” He grabbed Dickie by the arm and tried to pull him away.
Dickie pulled his arm from Joe. “No, listen,” he said, looking the cop in the eye. “We didn’t do anything to that woman. That’s the truth. Now either you’re going to press charges and arrest us, or I believe we should be free to go at this time.” He held his gaze on Officer Feeley, waiting. “So what’s it going to be?”
The officer shifted his stance and stepped forward, standing tall over Dickie. He had at least six inches on him, looking down over his nose as he tucked his pad in the breast pocket of his shirt. “How about you watch your mouth, or we’ll go for a little ride. I’ll show you what it’s going to be.”
Joe pulled Dickie away. “Listen, Officer Feeley, sir,” I said, trying to butter the guy up. “I think my friend here’s a little tired. He gets like this when he hasn’t had his beauty rest. He means nothing by it.”
Dickie opened his mouth, about to say something else but Joe put his hand over it.
“So if there aren’t any more questions…” Joe had Dickie’s arm, pulling him toward the driver’s side door.
The officer glared at Joe and Dickie until they both got in the Lexus, then walked away, over toward a group of four or five officers standing before the front entrance, the door wide open with bright lights pouring out into the darkness.
The officers all turned and looked toward Dickie and Joe, one of them nodding as he said something to Officer Feeley.
Joe couldn’t make out what they were saying.
Feeley walked back to Joe and Dickie and knocked on the passenger side window. Joe put it down and Feeley said, “Don’t plan on going too far. This isn’t over. For either of you.”
“What does that mean?” Joe said. “Are we suspects?”
The officer looked at Joe but didn’t answer, walking away and back over toward the other officers. But he went right past them and into the bar.
“What a prick,” Dickie said, turning the key in the ignition.
Joe looked straight ahead through the entrance with the door wide open, seeing the other officers talking to some of the bar patrons and employees that remained behind. One of the women being spoken to looked like a stripper, but Joe didn’t know if she was or not. He turned to Dickie. “Maybe I should’ve just told him about Craig Peters.”
Dickie shook his head. “Uh-uh. No way. We can’t give the police any more than we have to, to save our own asses. That’s just part of the gig. We tell them something like that—we’re after this guy Craig Peters—all it does is crack the door open to where they start sticking their dicks in my business. And I promise you, Joey… it’s the last thing I need right now.” He put the car in park. “I’ll talk to Stanley in the morning. He’ll take care of it.”
Joe said, “Don’t forget I still have this BS burglary charge hanging over my head. You sure Stanley’s going to—”
“You gotta stop worrying so much,” Dickie said, looking at his watch. “I gotta get some sleep.” He nodded to Joe. “You ready?”
“I gotta get my car.”
“Yeah, no shit. I’m driving you over.”
Joe wished Dickie had just given him a ride over there in the first place, not even pulled in the parking lot of the Village Lounge. He looked toward the other building and could see the front end of his car sticking out. But it was hard to see through the chain-link fence and the darkness surrounding the other building. He pushed open the passenger door and stepped outside. “You know what? I think I’ll just walk over there.”
Dickie shrugged. “Yeah? Suit yourself.” He leaned over the passenger seat before Joe closed the door. “Hey, Joey, before you go, uh, listen: I know this’s all been kind of a shit show so far, but I promise it’ll get easier. Let’s just get this son of a bitch so we can get my money, all right? We got other fish to fry.”
Joe didn’t respond. The truth was, he wasn’t sure he wanted to do anything with Dickie anymore. He knew all along it wasn’t his bag, but the money was tough to pass up, even though he always swore he’d never do something just for the money.
But on the other hand, Joe wondered why he couldn’t just tell Dickie he was done and walk away. Maybe it wasn’t just about the money. Maybe there was more to it. He did like the action, and sometimes even enjoyed acting like a tough guy. It made him feel like a kid again, the way he rarely ever passed up a good fight back then.
He put his hand on the top of Dickie’s roof and leaned in to look at Dickie. “We’ll talk in the morning.” He slammed the door closed and started walking toward the street and over to the building next door. He watched Dickie drive past him, blow his horn, and continue down Northwest Second until he turned right at the light and disappeared.
Joe walked across the empty parking lot to where his car was still parked. He was somewhat surprised it was still there; a 1986 Mercedes convertible would bring someone a few bucks. He looked back toward the Village Lounge through the chain-link fence, watched as some of the Miami Gardens police vehicles left the parking lot. A couple remained.
The coroner drove away, followed by the two rescue vehicles.
Joe got to his car and unlocked the door without paying much attention until he looked to his right, at the passenger seat, and saw it was covered in broken glass.
The passenger window had been smashed. “Shit,” he said, hoping it was nothing more than a couple of kids causing trouble.
The stereo was still there, although he couldn’t imagine who would go through the trouble of stealing an AM/FM cassette stereo from a thirty-something-year-old car. He unlocked the glove box, checked inside, and saw his cassette tapes. All still there.
He didn’t have anything in the car to clean up the glass but pulled out his phone and searched for a twenty-four-hour car wash with coin-operated vacuums. He thought he remembered passing one in the car with Dickie on the ride there but didn’t remember where it was.
It crossed his mind for a split second to go over and tell whatever officers were still at the bar what had happened. But what good would that do? It wasn’t like they’d drop what they were doing to go find whoever might’ve tossed a rock through his window.
He slid the key in the ignition and sat for a moment, thinking. He started the engine and took off toward the street. When he took a hard right turn onto Northwest Second, the glass slid on the leather seat and fell between the seat and the console. “Goddamnit,” he said, the glass glistening in the streetlights. The fragments were all over the floor.
He hadn’t thought to look in the back seat, but when he raised his eyes to the rearview, he saw a man sitting behind him.
A gun came up, and Joe felt the muzzle press up against the back of his head.
The man said, “Keep your eyes ahead and keep driving.”
Joe knew, as soon as he got a better look of the man’s face, it was Craig Peters.
He did as he was told and kept quiet. But after about a minute, he turned and looked at Craig over his shoulder. “So why’d you kill her? Were you afraid she was going to tell me where you were?”
“Wendy? Who said I killed her?”
“I guess I just assumed you did. But, if you didn’t, then who did?” Joe took a quick left onto Northwest 193rd and headed south on 441.
“I might know,” Peters said. “But I can’t say for sure. I’m just glad it wasn’t me.”
“You don’t seem too broken up about her being killed,” Joe said, looking at Craig in the rearview.
Craig shook his head, turned and looked out the rear window. “So you work for Dickie Caldwell?” he said. “Are you one of his goons?”
“Nah, I’m not a goon,” Joe said, and left it at that. He was calm, even with the cold steel pressed against his neck. “You really think it makes a difference if you push that muzzle into my skin or hold it a couple inches from my neck? You pull that trigger, it’ll make quite a mess of both of us.”
Craig Peters didn’t seem to want to listen, pushing the muzzle with even more pressure now.
Joe glanced in the rearview mirror and saw Craig turn, looking toward the rear window again. “Are you looking for someone?” he said.
Craig locked eyes with Joe through the mirror. “Just shut your mouth and drive.”
“I’m driving,” Joe said. “But you gotta tell me where I’m going. You want me to just drive in circles all night?” He looked at his gas gauge, down to a quarter of a tank. “I’m going to need gas if that’s the plan.”
“Just keep driving.”
Joe saw the car wash he was looking for, driving right past it without a word. “If you’re planning on killing me,” he said, “Dickie will know it was you. And he’s got a lot of men working for him now. A whole army of guys, a lot tougher than me.” Other than the muzzle pressed into his neck, he actually felt all right. Maybe it was just adrenaline, getting him all jacked up so he didn’t notice whether or not he was freaking out.
“I want you to listen to me,” Craig said, turning again to look behind him. “This money you’re after… I can’t give it to you. I mean, I don’t have time to get into it now. But the money I owe Dickie… he’s not on the top of the list, okay? So what I’m going to ask you to do is back off. Stop looking for me. Because, I got someone else after me. And if they find out you’re after the same thing they’re after, I promise you they won’t hesitate to kill you and everyone you know. They’ll kill your family, your friends, or whoever else you give two shits about.”
Joe said, “Just so I get this straight, you’re telling me you don’t have Dickie’s money because you owe it to somebody else?” He looked at Craig in the rearview.
“Yeah, that’s it. Not much more to it than that.”
Joe thought about it, not exactly sure what to say.
Craig said, “Stop the car.”
“Stop the car?” Joe looked at the speedometer, doing about fifty-five in a thirty. He gave it a little more gas, got it up to sixty-five.
“What the hell are you doing? I told you to stop the car.”
Joe nodded. “Okay, where, here?” He slammed his foot on the brakes. The tires squealed, the rear end fishtailing, Craig Peters flying to the front, smashing his head on the stereo as the car came to a sudden and complete stop.
Joe grabbed him by the back of his head and slammed his face down on the center console. He pushed open the driver’s side door and dragged Peters out and onto the pavement, the man’s hair clumped up in Joe’s hand.
But Craig hadn’t dropped the gun and pointed it at Joe, firing off a shot.
Joe ducked and put his hand up in front of his face as if to block the bullet. He felt the sting, his arm whipping back, as the bullet got him. He fell back against his car, grasping his hand. He checked to make sure he still had all five fingers. He did, but there was still plenty of blood dripping down his wrist.
Luckily, Peters didn’t fire a second shot. He instead ran away to the other side of the street toward a small brick strip mall. He disappeared between two buildings: a tire shop and a dry cleaner.
Joe held his hand, trying to stop the bleeding, and started to run toward the direction Peters was heading. But it was no use.
Craig Peters had disappeared.
Chapter 7
Joe sat forward on the couch in his apartment with a vodka cranberry next to a box of gauze pads and white surgical tape on the coffee table in front of him. The bullet had only grazed the side of his hand, the fat part under his pinkie. Although it took quite a while for the bleeding to stop, he didn’t think he needed to go to the ER and waste half the night.
He admired the tape job he did to his hand. Maybe he could’ve used a stitch or two, but the bleeding seemed to stop, at least for the most part. He got up with his drink and walked to his record collection that took up a full wall, from the left side of the room by the balcony to the other, almost to the kitchen. Twelve feet of wooden shelves he built himself when he’d first moved in the place ten years earlier.
He wasn’t sure what kind of music he was in the mood for but decided on Stan Getz and Bill Evans, one of his favorite jazz albums from ’73.
It was already past midnight when he dropped the needle on the first song, “Night and Day,” keeping the volume somewhat low.
Although the garage beneath the apartment building was generally safe, he worried about his car being left open the way it was, with the window missing on the passenger side. Joe was more upset about his Mercedes than the chunk of flesh missing from his hand, courtesy of the bullet.
He didn’t need to deal with having to get the damn glass replaced.
His phone buzzed, but he wasn’t even sure where he’d left it. He looked around the couch, walked into the adjacent kitchen, and looked all over the counters. It wasn’t on the table, either. The phone buzzed again, but it was faint. He walked down the hall toward his bedroom and stopped to look in the bathroom. Before he flipped the light, he saw the glow from the phone’s screen.
He picked it up, saw he had a couple of texts from Lauren. The last one said Are you awake?
He wasn’t sure why she’d ask. Joe rarely went to bed before one or sometimes two in the morning. But he still woke up before sunrise on most days.
He didn’t reply to her by text but instead dialed her number as he walked down the hall to the living room. He picked up his drink off the coffee table and took a sip, lowering the music, holding the phone up to his ear.
“Hey,” Lauren said, her voice quiet.
“Is everything all right?” Joe said. He looked at his watch, even though he knew what time it was. “Isn’t this a little late for you?”
“I fell asleep on the couch after work and woke up hungry. Now I’m wide awake.”
“You don’t sound like you’re wide awake,” Joe said.
Lauren didn’t respond. She paused on the other end. “I had a dream while I was asleep,” she said. “Something happened to you.”
Joe walked to the sliding glass doors and looked out over downtown. “Was I shot?”
“Shot?” She laughed. “No. You were in an accident.”
“Car accident?”
“Yeah. I mean, I think so. It seemed so real… but it was like I showed up and you were already being taken away in the rescue. I… I’m not sure what happened. You were driving your old Mercedes.”
“Which one?”
“The yellow one.”
Joe thought for a moment. “That’s a little creepy. Was I dead?”
“I don’t know. I woke up. I hate dreams like that, wake up… your heart’s racing. You don’t even know where you are.”
