Bullets Are My Business (9781101616413) (13 page)

Nine
P.M.

As soon as I set foot out my front door, the rain starts again. Thankfully, it's only a block to Blues. I know that Jacks will be there when I arrive. He always is. He's probably been there since we parted ways this morning. That's the one thing about cops that I've always admired. Their insatiable appetites for booze.

When it comes to matters like the one at hand, Blues is like a cattle roundup for lowlives. The two-bit hoods that come in here are the average, run-of-the-mill working-class criminals. Nothing big time. Mostly users and abusers, but they all feel comfortable here. You can get a lot of answers from your basic asshole. In all, Blues is like a scumbag library.

Some bars are places that you go to remember, but Blues is the type of place where you go to forget. When business picks up, sometime after dark, it seems that people come into Blues to do anything but think. The music is always way too loud, the smoke is always way too thick, and the conversations are always endless drivel that drones on for hours while saying absolutely nothing.

When I walk in, I get some glances from the regulars. They look back at their drinks almost immediately. A lot of these guys know me from my days when I was on Campbell's payroll. Obviously, my reputation has preceded me. Not that it matters. I don't have to find the informants tonight. I glance around the bar, looking for Jacks. The owners of this joint are hippies or former hippies. The walls of the bar are covered with pictures of dead rock-'n'-rollers, Christmas lights and disco balls are draped around the ceiling, and the pool table is always being used by people who think that they're Paul Newman in
The Hustler.
There's enough tie-dye in this place to give you a seizure.

Through the cloud of smoke, I see Jacks across the bar, sitting at a table near the guys playing pool. I can tell that he's already pretty well lit, just like I expected him to be. He's talking to a dame. I push through the crowd and slide into the chair beside him. He nods in my direction.

“Becca, this is the guy I was telling you about, Mr. Harold Montgomery,” Jacks says. “Harold, this is Becca.” He doesn't slur his words as much as one would expect. I suppose that's because he's perfected the art at this point. The dame looks at me with wide-eyed admiration. She extends a hand and I shake it.

“I wish I could do what you do, Mr. Montgomery,” she breathes. I wonder what kind of lines he's been feeding her. I decide to forget about it for the time being.

“Harold, please, and thank you.”

“I mean, seriously, who's going to help the animals if we don't?”

Apparently, he's been giving her a real line of shit. Jacks doesn't like people to know he's a cop, so he makes up aliases when we go out. This is a new one. I smile and nod. “They certainly can't help themselves, can they?” Becca giggles. I'm immediately not interested in her anymore. My broads need to have a chop of some sort. They can't giggle. I mean, if they're not mean, surly, or fucked up in some way, shape, or form, then I leave them. That's always been my MO, as far back as I can remember. I don't even do it on purpose. That type just manages to sniff me out.

“Becca, I don't mean to rain on your parade, but my colleague and I have some very important business to discuss,” I tell her. She nods her approval, leaning over to kiss Jacks on the cheek.

“I won't stand in your way.” She shakes my hand again. “If you ever need any help, be sure to let me know. Jacks has my number.”

“I'll keep you in mind.” She shows off her pearly whites, so straight and so perfect that I know Daddy's wallet is weighing quite a few pounds lighter. She disappears into the sea of barflies. Jacks and I watch her ass as she walks away.

“You know,” Jacks says, sipping his beer, “if I wasn't here on business, I would've been making waves with that tonight.”

I nod. “Well, consider this meeting as a surefire way to give you an extra ten minutes of sleep tomorrow morning.”

“How so?”

“I just saved you from having to kick that girl to the bricks with one of your patented good-byes.”

Jacks mulls this over for a moment. “Fair enough. So, give me some more details on what happened last night.”

I run through the previous evening's events, filling Jacks in on the details. The mick, the behemoth, the Asian, and the shitty apartment. I offer up a synopsis of the Asian's story. When I finish, I make my way to the bar without another word. Jacks needs time to let the information stew before he can comment. I flag down the bartender.

“Rum and Coke,” I tell him. I set my flask on the bar. “And fill her up.”

The bartender nods. It's a good thing I still have some pull from my days with Campbell. The bartender fills the flask and gives me my drink. I set the money on the bar. I walk back to the table just as Jacks is lighting up a smoke. I follow suit.

“Maise,” he says on the exhale. I cock an eyebrow. “The hooker's name was Maise.”

Maise. I find my mind wandering, wondering what she's doing right now. In a perfect world, the attempt on her life scared her straight and she's cleaned up her act. Set the hooking by the curb with the rest of the trash, joined rehab and got off the shit, got a real job as a waitress or a pencil-pusher, met some nice guy, settled down, and started a family. In a perfect world, she would've already put her kids to bed and she would be sitting down on the couch right now, snuggling up with her husband, sharing a bowl of ice cream and watching a movie on cable. In a perfect world. Right. Too bad this isn't a perfect world. She's probably dead somewhere. If not, she's probably so coked out and used up, she's wishing she was. I've been around enough to know that people don't change, unless you're in a Hallmark movie of the week.

“So this Asian wants you to find the perp in seven days or he's taking your blood as recourse,” Jacks sums up.

“Which is why I needed you to get a roundup for questioning,” I tell him, sipping on my drink. “Criminals know criminals.”

“Like flies know shit.”

“Nicely put.” I look at my watch. Nine-seventeen. “Where are your guys?”

Jacks upends his beer. “I could only find two guys on such short notice,” he replies, “and they're walking through the door as we speak.”

“Two is better than none.” I turn to see what dregs of society Jacks has pulled up from the scum of the earth and I wonder if my previous statement wasn't said too hastily. The one in front has a Mohawk. He's dressed in a wifebeater T-shirt and a pair of torn blue jeans. I can tell in a one-second glance that this guy thinks he's eight feet tall and bulletproof. I've met guys like him before. They're never pleasant to deal with. Especially when you're looking for answers. Not to say that they don't eventually give up whatever information you're looking for, it just takes time and patience. I am lacking both at present. All I want to do is knock his scowling face into the pavement. In a way, I'm hoping he doesn't answer the questions right away. I think I could spare a few seconds. The guy behind him is a big, fat white guy with an afro. He doesn't seem to know, much less give a shit, what's going on, but he does look like he's willing to be difficult just for the sake of being a tough guy. Six five, minimum three hundred pounds. His tie-dyed T-shirt doesn't fully cover his belly. This guy is a standard in the racket. Dumb as shit but ready for a fight. Jacks picked a couple of winners.

Mohawk guy steps up to the table and crosses his arms. “Well, pig, I'm here. What the fuck do you want with me?” Jacks doesn't even bother giving the guy a response. We're in for a long night.

Jacks jerks a finger toward Mohawk. “This is Patrick. That guy over there is Kyle.”

“Pleased,” I reply. Patrick makes the universal jerk-off gesture.

“Get bent, asshole,” he says to me. Then he turns back toward Jacks. “You trying to set me up on a date, ya fag? Cut the shit. What the fuck is this all about?”

“Let's find someplace quiet to talk. We're attracting some rubberneckers.” Jacks isn't joking. The barflies are peering over their bottles, watching intently. They're expecting to see a fight. The bar has gone relatively quiet as far as Blues goes. Everyone in the place is staring at us now, waiting for the standoff to end and someone to lash out. Jacks motions Patrick and Kyle to exit. Patrick grumbles and Kyle rolls his eyes, but they both move to the door.

“He's gonna be a hard case,” I say to Jacks as soon as the two are out of earshot.

Jacks shakes his head. “They always seem that way, don't they?” He walks out into the street after them. I follow. He's got a point. These assholes are like anything else. Beat them enough and you can get anything you want out of them. Once we're all outside, Jacks leads the way around to the back of the building. I bring up the rear in case either of them gets cold feet. Jacks stops at a rusted fire escape stairway and cocks a finger. “Up there.”

Patrick shakes his head defiantly and flips Jacks the bird. Jacks's expression doesn't even change as he reaches out and bends Patrick's middle finder sideways. I can hear the sharp snap like a twig breaking. Patrick yelps in pain and clutches at his hand.

“You broke my finger, you fuck!”

“You're lucky that's all I did,” Jacks growls back as he grabs hold of Patrick's hair. “Now get your ass up those stairs before I snap something else off, chief.” Patrick sneers in anger, pulling out of Jacks grasp, and starts up the stairs. Jacks turns to Kyle.

“You gonna try something, hippie?”

Kyle steps up to Jacks and looks down at him. “What if I do, man?”

Jacks narrows his eyes at the giant bag of shit before him. “Then I'll break you, just like I did his finger.”

Jacks stares at him. Kyle scoffs but begins climbing the stairs. Jacks and I get in line behind him.

The stairway hasn't been used in years. It's obvious once I see that it's far more rusted and rickety than I thought it was when I was standing on the ground. With every step I take, the bolts holding it to the wall shriek like a sackful of kittens being drowned. I feel like the bolts could pull loose at any second, especially with the grizzly bear ahead of us. We're three stories up when we come to a brick ledge at the top of the building. The bolts hold. Somebody up there doesn't hate us. Not completely. Jacks steps over the ledge onto the roof. Kyle and Patrick follow his lead. I'm just stepping over the ledge myself when I see Jacks pulling his piece from his waistband. I immediately put my hand on mine. I don't take it out. Not yet. All in due time.

“Put your hands on your heads, dirt balls.” Both of the scumbags do as they're told.

“What the fuck is this shit?” Patrick spits.

“Levi, you got your piece?” Jacks asks me from the corner of his mouth, not taking his eyes off the two before him.

“Never leave home without it.”

“Train it on these assholes while I cuff 'em,” Jacks tells me. “Either one of them so much as blinks, pull the trigger until it clicks.”

I take my .45 from my shoulder holster and train it on the two men. Jacks moves quickly, cuffing them behind their backs. When he's finished, he steps beside me. I lower my gun.

“Okay, you pathetic pieces of shit, I'm done fucking around. I've had enough of your bullshit. I'm gonna ask you some questions and you goddamned better know the answers.” Jacks has his game face on now. He's mean sober and he's a ruthless drunk. Besides, he's probably been stewing all day long, which didn't help any. In cases like this, however, it works out okay. Jacks points at Kyle. “Fat fuck, what do you know about Vinnie Bagliato?”

“I don't know shit about him. Fuck yourself,” Kyle snaps. Jacks moves in, setting his jaw, and lands a solid punch to the side of Kyle's head. Kyle shakes it off.

“I'm going to ask you again, tons of fun: What do you know about Vinnie Bagliato?”

“Read my lips, cop, fuck yourself.”

Jacks shakes his head. “I'm starting to get angry. What do you know—”

“Are you deaf? Fuck yourself.”

Jacks places a hand on Kyle's meaty chest. “Wrong answer.” He pushes hard and Kyle stumbles backward. His feet catch the ledge at the edge of the roof. He's top heavy and he doesn't have his arms to steady himself. His mass carries him backward, over the side. He barely has time to register what's happening. Not even enough time to cry out in surprise. He disappears from view. There's silence for a moment, followed by a sickening wet slap as his body slams into the pavement. Jacks walks calmly to the side of the building and looks down at his work. He turns around and lights up a cigarette.

“Remind me to get my cuffs off that guy before we leave,” he says to me before turning his attention to the wide-eyed Patrick. I don't bother asking any questions. I'm sure Jacks had his reasons.

“Okay, punk rock show, you're up to the plate. What do you know about Vinnie Bagliato?”

For a second, Patrick is too stunned to say anything. He begins sinking to his knees, moving his lips rapidly with no volume. I'm fairly sure he's about to piss himself, if he hasn't already. Jacks slaps him in the face. Patrick yelps. “He's dead. Vinnie got shot.”

“You did some business with him while he was alive?”

“I started working for him about five years ago. I ran drugs.” Patrick is shaking so hard now, I think he's on the verge of having a seizure. A dark spot starts to grow around his crotch. Now he has pissed himself. Jacks doesn't seem to notice. He takes a drag off his cigarette.

“Did you know him well?”

“No, my buddy hooked me up.”

“Who's your buddy?”

“Shane.”

“Shane who?”

“Shane . . . Shane Draven.”

“How did Shane know Bagliato?”

“They went to high school together. Shane was something of a right-hand man, they were partners. Big time. Shane was the brains behind the whole operation.”