At Their Own Game Read online

  He was right about the timing, too. If this deal with Randall and Ozzy went right, there was an even bigger one on the horizon. This first deal was like a first date and as luck would have it, things had gone to shit.

  It was completely my fault. I’d broken my own rules. No drugs. I’ve been out here on the streets, scratching a living out of the criminal life for seven years. That’s a year longer than I spent as a cop. I had set rules for myself, smart rules, and had kept to them. As a result, I never had any trouble except for the bullshit that got me tossed off the job in the first place. No criminal arrests or convictions. My rules worked.

  I followed them.

  I made both of my guys follow them.

  And rule number one was no drugs.

  First time breaking the rules and my number two guy gets snatched up. Then a detective wants to follow up with him while he’s on the temp floor at the jail?

  This was bad.

  I steered smoothly through the S curves at the bottom of the Monroe Street hill, powering up the sloping street. The bright lights of an oncoming car shined in my eyes before flashing past. I slowed for the light at Garland. The old Garland Theater was showing a movie from twenty years ago that I had never seen on the big screen. I almost turned into the lot to go see it, just kill some time and let things simmer in my brain, when I noticed the time. The movie was already an hour into the showing.

  I turned left instead.

  I had to call Ozzy and set a new meet. And now this was going to be touchy, because he already had my money and I didn’t have the merchandise. Every minute that passed, I knew that devious bastard was starting to think of my money as his money, and his merchandise as his merchandise. And if he decided to cross me, I didn’t have much choice in how to respond. It was either I retire from the business, or I retire him.

  Which went against rule number two. No murders.

  I was breaking rules left and right, it seemed.

  By the time I made it back to my small house, I needed a drink. I had barely poured two fingers over ice into a water glass when I heard a rapping at my slider door.

  I put the drink down, pulled my .45 from the kitchen drawer and held it alongside my leg, out of sight. Then I pushed aside the blinds and peeked out.

  It was Brent.

  I stuffed the gun into my belt at the small of my back and unlocked the slider. “Anyone see you?” I asked.

  “Naw,” he said, shaking his head. “I parked on the next block over and took the alley, just like you always say.”

  “Good.” I stepped aside and let him in, then shut the door and left the blinds closed.

  “Man, Boss…it’s dark in here,” Brent said. “You’re not going to whack me or something, are you?”

  “You watch too many Scorsese movies,” I told him.

  He didn’t reply.

  “Relax. I’m not a bad guy,” I said, and flipped on the kitchen light. “Better?”

  He shrugged.

  “You want a drink?” I pointed at my whiskey.

  “Yeah,” he said gratefully. “I could use it.”

  I got some ice and poured him a splash. We sat at the kitchen table and drank in silence for a few minutes.

  Finally, Brent said quietly, “I did everything like you said.”

  “I know.”

  “I did,” he insisted.

  “I believe you.”

  “Just sayin’.”

  I didn’t answer. I took another sip of the whiskey and thought.

  Brent turned his glass slowly, staring into the alcohol. After a few moments, he said, “So Ozzy has our money.”

  “Yes.”

  “And he has our stuff.”

  I nodded. “Yes, he does.”

  “So what are we gonna do?”

  “You’re going to pick up Matt when he calls,” I said. “Then we’ll meet. Talk about it and work it out.”

  “Meet where?”

  “I don’t know yet. I’ll figure it out and tell you when you call. After you pick him up at jail.”

  Brent nodded. “Okay.”

  We sat for a while longer. Brent spun his glass some more, the tendons in his hands and rangy forearms flexing beneath the skin. On a first look at the guy, he appeared skinny. But upon closer examination, he was all wiry muscle, tight as a whipcord. He always reminded me of an old cowhand or something.

  Neither of us had much to say, and with Brent, I could sit in silence comfortably. Matt was a talker, he’d fill the silence with conversation. It didn’t matter about what. He’d find something to talk about, whether it was girls or sports or just some smart-ass remarks. I realized some time ago that it was the words that put him at ease, whereas it was the silence that put Brent there.

  Which is why I kinda wished it was Brent who was going to be chatting with William-159 in the morning, and not Matt.

  “Hey, Brent?”

  “Yeah?”

  “You figure we’re better off getting our money back, or the merch?”

  Brent stared at me, blinking and not answering.

  I brooded on my question for a little while. The truth was, it had been tickling the back of my mind since I left Matt.

  Finally, I asked him, “You got an opinion on this?”

  He shrugged. “I really hadn’t thought about it until you just now said something.”

  “Well, think on it now,” I said. “Thing is, we’ve made a decent living at what we do. Fencing is safe, especially since we follow my rules. We don’t deal with druggers, just the pros. And the loans we make are never high profile, just to schmoes who are a little short in their paycheck. Hell, I think we barely charge more than those payday advance people. And how many times have you had to get physical with anyone?”

  “Never,” Brent admitted. ”A few times making threats is all.”

  “Right. Usually, showing up is good enough with these citizens. Throw in the credit card scams, where only the banks get hurt and they’ve got more money than Switzerland and probably stole most of it, so fuck them, right?”

  Brent smiled, though it seemed a little forced. “Fuck the banks is my life motto.”

  “It seems to me that it was enough.”

  “While it lasted,” Brent said.

  I nodded in agreement. It was funny how a huge economic downturn like the one the country was experiencing now affected the shadow economy we operated in, too. Recession and depression helped us on the supply side. More people on the borderline of getting by were willing to steal a little to survive, so merchandise was easier to come by, and at a cheaper rate. I had an entire storage unit full of electronics, lawn mowers and other shit to prove it.

  The problem came in on the flip side. When I went to sell the stuff, it drew the same depressed sticker price. At the end of it all, even though I was buying stock for less, I was forced to sell it for too little. Our operation has been in the red for the last six months, and more so every month.

  Still, we were all getting by. All of us had some cash squirreled away that we were dipping into to keep afloat. Even Matt had barely grumbled about the downturn. And then we used that reserve to pony up for this deal with Ozzy. Except for some walking around money and some show money in my legit checking account, I was all in. I guessed Matt and Brent probably were, too.

  “So now you’re getting cold feet?” he asked.

  “Not cold feet,” I answered. “Just wondering if this ain’t God’s way of saying we should stick to what we know. Ride it out. We’re not bad guys, really. Not compared to most. But dope is a whole different world, bringing risks we don’t need. And everyone is a fucking liar where dope’s concer
ned.”

  “All due respect,” Brent said, “but you didn’t have this much to say when we were deciding whether to throw in on this deal.”

  “I know,” I said. “And I’m sorry about that. I saw the dollar signs just like everyone else. Triple our money back? At least? It’s hard to say no to that.”

  “We didn’t.”

  “I know,” I said, matter of factly. “And somehow I don’t think it’s going to be as easy as returning a shirt to JC Penney when it comes to getting our money from Ozzy.”

  “Maybe we oughta get the merchandise instead,” Brent said, staring down into his drink.

  I sighed and didn’t answer. We all three got starry-eyed over a quick profit equal to a year’s worth of working our normal angles. A good year, before the downturn. I should have known better. Staying away from the dopers all this time is what kept me safer than ninety percent of the crooks out there.

  After another long silence, Brent tipped his glass back and drained his drink. I asked if he wanted another. He shook his head and stood to go. “I gotta put some time in with the girlfriend.”

  I didn’t even know he had one, but we kept that part of our lives quiet from each other. “All right.”

  He let himself out the slider door, and left.

  I made myself another drink, but only finished half of it before I decided to go to sleep. I still didn’t know the answer to this predicament, but I figured being drunk and tired didn’t exactly increase my odds of figuring it out.

  THREE

  My phone rang the next day at eleven o’clock. For a second, I couldn’t tell where the sound was coming from. Then I realized it was the kitchen. I swung myself out of bed and staggered down the hallway and onto the cool linoleum. My phone vibrated next to my unfinished drink from last night.

  “’Lo?”

  “Boss?”

  Brent.

  “Yuh?” I muttered.

  “I wake you?”

  “No.” I sat down at the table, rubbing the sleep from my eyes.

  “I tried to call you a little while ago, is all.”

  “I’m up. What’s going on?”

  “I’ve got Matt. Where do you want to meet?”

  I looked over at my clock again. 11:17. He shouldn’t see a judge until one.

  “He’s out?”

  “Yeah.”

  “How?”

  “I don’t know. I just picked him up, like you said. Where do you want to meet?”

  I stifled a yawn and scratched the stubble on my cheek. My radar pinged lightly. Something wasn’t right.

  “Bowl and Pitcher,” I said. “Just up the trail from the parking area. There’s a picnic table there.”

  “The one that looks out over the river?”

  “That’s the one.”

  Brent hung up without saying goodbye.

  I glanced down at my phone. I had four missed calls and one message. The most recent missed call was Brent. One from late last night was from Cleo. The other two were blocked.

  I figured the message would be from Cleo. Our thing was tenuous but comfortable. When her schedule had her laying over in Spokane, she called. We had some fun. Outside of that, maybe an occasional phone call just because, or a postcard from wherever the friendly skies took her.

  When I hit the button and the message played, I was surprised to hear a male voice.

  “Whatever happened,” Ozzy said in a gruff tone, “is your fucking business. Let’s figure out ours. Soon.”

  I deleted the message.

  Don’t worry, asshole. We’ll figure it out.

  I pulled on my jeans and a T-shirt. I rummaged around my closet for a few seconds and found a long sleeve button-down shirt and put it on, too, leaving it unbuttoned. It was too warm for a jacket, but I needed something to cover the .45.

  I tugged on my work boots, checked to see that the gun had a round in the chamber and slid it into the small of my back.

  Seven years in this life, and how many times have I actually needed a gun? Not many. It’s not necessary if you limit who you deal with, and stay square with everyone. Now that we were a goddamn drug operation, I just wasn’t sure anymore.

  “Damn,” I muttered, locking the front door and heading to my car. Right now, I felt more regret than concern, and I knew I had to shake that. I had to deal with our problem for what it was and leave the philosophy for later.

  The drive to the river took ten minutes, dropping straight down Driscoll to the TJ Meenach Bridge. I took the exit to the small road along the river and headed west. Bowl and Pitcher was technically a state park, but it was inside the city. Sometimes it was busy, sometimes it was like no one else was alive in the world. Given the clouds in the sky and the threat of rain, I was hoping for the latter.

  Brent’s Camaro was already there when I arrived. Out of habit, I parked on the opposite side of the small lot of packed dirt. Then I headed up the trail to the picnic area. Off to my left, the rush of water over rocks created a wall of sound. The powerful, constant roar was comforting.

  Both Matt and Brent were sitting on the table, their feet resting on the bench seats. From a distance, they gave me the same impression as a couple of teenage kids. Matt seemed like he was striking a pose, being a little defiant of the rules as he messed around on his phone. Brent looked at ease, smoking a cigarette. As I got closer, both appeared more relaxed than I felt.

  “Hey, Boss,” Brent greeted me.

  I nodded, then turned my attention to Matt as he slid the phone into his pocket. I looked for a sign that something was up, but he seemed his regular, affable self.

  “You’re out early,” I said. “You get time off for good behavior or something?”

  He chuckled. “Nah. Jail sergeant figured out that my warrant wasn’t extra ditable.” He winked at me. “So they had to let me out. I didn’t even have to see the judge.”

  “He didn’t figure that out last night?”

  “That was the night shift guy. This was a different sergeant, the day shift one. A woman.”

  Matt would notice that. “What time did they tell you this?”

  “I dunno. About eight-thirty or nine?”

  Shift change used to be at seven. If the sergeant was reviewing all of last night’s bookings, then catching Matt’s as being on a non-ex warrant, plus the time to confirm it and give orders to contact the prisoner….yeah, that could take an hour or two.

  “When’d you get out, then?”

  “A little before eleven.”

  “That’s long for processing.”

  “Nah, they processed me quick. That only took about twenty, maybe thirty minutes.”

  “Then what took so long?”

  “I did like you said. I talked to the detective.”

  I nodded slowly and took a few steps to a stump nearby. I sat down, leaning slightly forward. I could feel the handle of my .45 poking out of the jeans at the small of my back.

  “And what did he want?” I asked.

  “He was one fishing motherfucker,” Matt said, smiling. “He asked me about everything under the sun, from dope to swag to running rum with Al Capone.”

  “How the fuck do you know who Al Capone is?” Brent asked, his low voice quizzical.

  Matt smirked at him. “HBO. Duh.”

  Brent shook his head and took a drag on his cigarette.

  “Never mind the History lesson,” I said to Matt. “This detective, did he ask about me?”

  “Nope.”

  “What about Brent?”

  “Not a word.”

  “Did he know anything about any of the things we�
�re into?”

  Matt shook his head. “Nothing specific. I mean, he asked about stolen property, and he asked about drugs, but he didn’t know any body or any thing specific.”

  “And what did you tell him?”

  “Not a thing,” Matt said proudly. “I just walked around the park with him, tried to draw him out, y’know?”

  I thought about what he’d said. Then I asked, “What’s this detective’s name?”

  “He gave me his card.” Matt reached into the back pocket of his jeans and handed me a cream-colored business card. I took it.

  Next to the black and white representation of the SPD badge, I read “Detective Kyle Falkner.”

  My stomach fell.

  Shit.

  “You know him, Boss?” Brent asked.

  I nodded slowly. “Knew him.”

  “He any good?”

  “Depends on who you ask,” I said, staring at the stark print on the business card. “The brass doesn’t like him much. Neither do most of the other detectives.”

  I ran my thumb across the business card, but it was flat, no fancy embossing to be had. That figured. Kyle wasn’t that kind of cop.

  “Why not?” Matt asked. “He seemed like a halfway decent guy to me. For a cop, I mean. Maybe a little intense, but…”

  “He’s pretty much a case-solving motherfucker,” I said.

  “Oh. Well, it didn’t seem to me that he had any kind of case. Not by the questions he was asking me, anyway.”

  “He’s got a case,” I said. “You can be sure of it.”

  “You think maybe he’s onto Randall or Ozzy?” Brent asked. “And not us?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t think so.”

  “Maybe the score, then?”

  “No. It’s me. I’m his case.”

  “How do you know that?” Matt asked.

  I almost laughed.

  “Let me tell you a little story.”

  FOUR