Read On The Beat (Goosey Larsen Book 3) Online
Authors: James Vachowski
On The Beat (Goosey Larsen Book 3)
ON THE BEAT
by James Vachowski
The night was quiet. The lack
of street noise was an oddity in the downtown peninsula
, even for a Wednesday evening. The middle of the work
week usually saw all the young professionals coming out in
force, shedding their mundane, white-collar office jobs in exchange
for the much more alluring nightlife of the Holy City
. Just a few blocks to the north, deep, bumping bass
music echoed from behind the brick facades of late-night
bars which lined both sides of Market Street. Here, though
, in the gas-lit cobblestone streets that marked the boundaries
of the more upscale and reserved French Quarter, the shouts
of faraway revelers were mere echoes carried along on the
still night air.
The businessman paused beneath a streetlight, stopping
just long enough to look down at his watch. After
confirming that the Rolex showed midnight exactly, he took a
quick glance at the nearest street sign to confirm his
location. He’d been to this same meeting place at
least a dozen times before, and the man moved with
a purpose as he set off down Unity Alley. Conscious
of the immaculate shine on his wingtip shoes, the man
’s careful steps made irregular tapping sounds as he picked
his way down the narrow path of uneven cobblestones. The
awkward noises mushroomed within the tight space, creating an eerie
soundtrack that would have made any other man look back
over his shoulder. This man, however, was oddly at ease
, and the only discomfort he felt came from the heavy
briefcase he carried in a manicured hand.
Just ahead, a
screen door opened as a young black man stepped out
into the alley. The kid wore a pressed set of
chef’s whites which seemed even brighter in contrast to
his dark skin. Behind him, the reckless clatter of pots
and pans told that a full kitchen cleanup was in
progress. Now that the late diners had yielded their tables
to the bar crowd, most of the kitchen staff were
rushing to end their shifts and salvage one last hour
at the bars themselves before closing time.
The chef’s
hands were sweaty, so he politely gave them a quick
wipe on his pants before offering one as a greeting
. “Right on time, as always.”
The man in the business
suit shook it without hesitation. His handshake was a strong
one, a practiced gesture that was finely tuned from the
countless years spent in fraternity halls and corporate boardrooms. “Punctuality
is the backbone of any successful endeavor.” After releasing his
grip, he held the briefcase out with both hands.
The
chef took possession of the battered leather case with a
single, fluid motion. He set it down gently atop the
lid of a plastic garbage can, then slid the clasps
sideways using his thumbs. His hands were smooth and youthful
, and although the kid moved with all the grace of
a natural athlete his job had caused his palms to
become covered with layers of telltale calluses. “You said it
’s just three tonight, right?”
A nod. “Just three, but
I should have another set available by Friday. I can
drop back by then if you’re on the schedule
.”
The young man nodded as he examined his purchase. Inside
the briefcase was a series of thick, heavy rectangles, each
identically wrapped in layers of clear packing tape. He gave
one of the packages a quick squeeze, judging the finely
packed powder within. “If you can, could you call me
when you’re on the way? We’re always a
little busier on the weekends so the kitchen will be
full, and believe it or not there’s still a
few people here who ain’t on the program. It
might even be better to meet somewhere close by, if
that’s not too much trouble for you.”
His partner
gave a quick shrug of his shoulders, a slight movement
that was accented by the contours of his tailored suit
jacket. “Whatever works for you, Antoine. Just let me know
.” He stretched up on his toes and craned his neck
in order to peer inside the bustling kitchen. “Wow, the
dining room must have been packed, and on a Wednesday
! What do you need a side business for, anyway? A
hard-working young man like you is probably making a
killing on tips alone!”
Antoine, just as relaxed, allowed himself
a laugh. “Have you seen the price of tuition lately
? Culinary school ain’t gone’ be cheap, even at Trident
Tech, and I sure as shit cain’t open my
own restaurant if I’m buried beneath a big pile
o’ student loans. Miss a single payment on one of
those and you’re fucked for life. This little hustle
we got? I’m just gettin’ me some seed money
together. Just a small part of my long-term strategy
.”
The businessman smiled at the initiative on display before him
. “Good for you, Antoine. Good for you. Who says kids
today don’t have any ambition? Keep this up and
who knows? In a couple more years, you’ll probably
be running your own kitchen down on Broad Street.”
Antoine
smiled again. “Sho’ nuff, Mr. Regan. But I tell you
what, you keep bringing me this kind of quality powder
and the sky’s the limit. In a few more
years I just might own the whole of Broad Street
!” With a quick glance back over his shoulder, he snapped
the briefcase shut and kneeled down to slide the contraband
underneath an open dumpster.
Mr. Regan, or Duke to his
friends, cocked an eyebrow at the apparent lack of concern
for security, but he quickly pushed the thought from his
mind. In all likelihood, most of the kitchen staff was
also moonlighting as Antoine’s distribution network. Any concern Duke
had for the safety of the cocaine disappeared an instant
, just as soon as Antoine pulled a thick white bank
envelope from his waistband and handed it over. Duke measured
the thickness of the package with two fingers and estimated
it to be fifty thousand dollars, give or take. That
would have been full payment for the three kilos that
he’d just delivered, plus a standard advance on their
agreement for three more. There was no need to make
a show of counting the money since Antoine was a
good kid, one who possessed a personality that was both
hardworking and trustworthy. Duke finally allowed himself a smile, enjoying
the flush of success that came with any successful joint
venture. No matter if it was selling real estate, exchange
-traded funds or narcotics, good business was good business.
Antoine
grinned back at him. His lower jaw held a pair
of gold fillings that flashed in the streetlight, betraying his
less-cultured upbringing. “There’s a down payment on the
next load in there, and I’ll have the rest
when I see you.” Antoine sucked at his teeth for
a quick moment as if a thought had suddenly occurred
to him. “Say, you know when you gone’ be bringing
the wife by again? We’ got to put together the
wine order tomorrow, so lemme know if you want something
special!”
Duke smiled again. The tension had passed, and now
they were just two old friends outside a restaurant, having
an innocent discussion about the merits of fine wines. “Nothing
off the top of my head, but be sure to
save me at least one or two bottles of whatever
you recommend. The anniversary’s next month, and you know
we’ll be here for that.” He reached out to
shake hands once again. “Antoine, you’re a lifesaver, you
know that? I just don’t know where I’d
ever be without you, son. Oh, and say! Don’t
forget about that little side project of ours. Tomorrow night
, after closing time?”
Antoine grasped Duke’s hand again and
grinned, flashing his gold teeth one last time. “You know
I got that covered, sir! Shit, some of my guys
would’ve been happy to do that work for free
, but I gave ‘em each a hunnert bucks anyway. I
guarantee you, that job’s going to get done and
done right!”
THURSDAY
1.
Well, it’s official. It took me a few years to catch on, which is probably a whole lot longer than it should have, but I’ve finally come to the conclusion that I just don’t like getting out of bed. And when I say that I don’t like it, I mean I absolutely hate it. No matter what time of day it is, even on those rare occasions when I get to sleep in, waking up just seems to be a completely unenjoyable activity for me. Throughout my life, even going as far back as kindergarten, I’ve always had trouble dragging my big white ass up and out of the rack. Things got even worse once I graduated high school and had to get a real job working construction, since all the foremen would want a guy on site before the sun even came up! It was always so tough to get moving for work when there were just so many more, not to mention better, reasons for staying in bed. During the hot summer months, my sheets always feel so nice and cool after a night with that ceiling fan running on high. In the wintertime, my warm flannel comforter is definitely more preferable to putting on long pants and a jacket. But on that particular Thursday morning, I was filled with a particular sense of dread since my head was still pounding from all the booze I’d put down the night before. I knew from painful experience that the entire room was sure to start spinning the very second my feet hit the floor.
In the end, I decided to just lie there in a holding pattern for hours, staring up at the fan as it wobbled along in a weak rotation above my head. I did my best not to look over at the alarm clock, but I could still discern the time from the angle of sunlight coming in through the blinds. It must have been well past noon, and probably closer to three o’ clock. But finally, once the clouds in my head had begun to part and I just couldn’t think of a reason to stay down any longer, I flung my legs up and over the side of the bed. The rest of my body followed suit, shocking me into an upright position just as my toes hit the carpet. It was a risky, acrobatic maneuver, but my plan was to attack the day before my brain could kick in and order my body back into the sack.
I braced myself for the pain that normally comes hand in hand with getting out of bed, but was caught off guard as a blinding flash of color warped my vision. Waves of pain shot up my leg, stinging as if a firecracker had gone off next to my big toe! I lost my balance and careened hard into the wall, grabbing at my foot and falling to the carpet before coming to rest in a curled-up fetal position. The aching took a few long moments to subside, and I passed the time by trying to hold back my tears. Finally, once the hazy red cloud had cleared just enough for me to see straight, I looked out across the shag carpet to see what had bitten me. The culprit was lying right there in front of my face, a thick slab of varnished maple that was sticking out ever so slightly from beneath my bed. Even lying horizontally, I could clearly make out the big block letters that had been engraved into a shiny bronze plate atop the plaque: “Private First Class Michael Larsen: Police Officer of the Year, 2005.” I let out a grunt of disgust and gave the plaque a hard kick with my heel, sending it back amongst the dust bunnies and potato chip crumbs where it belonged. That damned award had been causing me nothing but trouble for over four months but honestly, I guess it was my own fault for not being smart enough to keep a low profile.
I found it only slightly easier to pick myself up off of the hard floor than it had been to rise from my comfortable mattress. After one last, long pause to catch my breath, I made a quick beeline for the bathroom. It turned out to be even later than I’d thought, nearly five o’ clock already, so I settled for a quick rinse beneath the showerhead instead of my usual leisurely bubble bath. It was all business, in and out in thirty seconds, no time for soap. It looked as if I was going to be cutting it close for work once again, so I scarfed down a stack of Ritz crackers for dinner while I went about getting dressed. There were no clean police uniforms in the closet, so I settled for recycling a set from the previous week. The mismatched combination of an older, faded dress shirt and a newish pair of size forty trousers gave me a salty look, almost two-toned. I was much too proud to re-use my dirty drawers, though, so I did the decent thing and went without. After a couple more minutes of frantic searching, I finally spotted my duty belt lying on the kitchen floor where I must have dropped it the night before. The loaded gun was concealed underneath a pile of beer cans alongside the refrigerator, right where I’d left it. Holding my breath, I somehow managed to get all my gear cinched tight about my waist. As I exhaled a sigh of relief and caught my reflection in the kitchen window, I just couldn’t hold back a smile. The old midsection wasn’t anywhere near as sexy as I would have liked to see it, but it was definitely at least a half-inch thinner than it’d been in my detective days. No doubt about it, this new exercise routine was clearly starting to pay dividends.
After one last glance at the clock, I snapped back to reality and rushed out of my apartment. My loyal old Tercel was occupying its usual spot in the closest handicapped parking space, and my heart fell just a little. That car was nearly fifteen years old, and over the past few months I’d taken to leaving the doors unlocked and the keys in the ignition. My master financial plan called for some crackhead to do me a favor and swipe it, all so I could file an insurance claim and trade up to a newer model. Something roomier would be nice, so I could recline the driver’s seat all the way back and sneak an occasional catnap during my shift. Just my luck, though, so far it seemed as if all the car thieves running around James Island had higher standards for automobiles.
It looked as if my broken-down ride would have to last through at least one more day, so I cranked up the engine and held on tight as the car shuddered to life. Thick puffs of black smoke kicked out from the rusty tailpipe, and I crossed my fingers while praying that the engine wouldn’t seize up before I got out on the road. After a few long, smoky minutes, the engine finally settled down and the smog cleared just enough for me to see out the rearview window. Very reluctantly, I popped the car into gear, backed out of my spot and pointed my ride in the general direction of work. The traffic on Folly Road was light, but I still slumped down in my seat so none of the other drivers could see me. Tooling around in a piece of crap car was humiliation enough, but it was even worse to be seen driving a piece of crap car while in full police uniform.
Once I’d made it safely up over the Connector, I coasted downhill into the city’s peninsula and did my best to dodge all the potholes on Broad Street. I actually enjoy taking a spin through the ritzy section of town every so often, but that night it seemed like my mere presence was enough to trash up the neighborhood. I passed by a couple of rich old men in their matching uniforms of khaki pants, light-blue oxford shirts and Sperry boat shoes. Uppity lawyers or real estate brokers most likely, if their high-dollar clothes were any indication. The two of them made a point of raising their eyebrows at me in unison as a clear signal of disapproval. I shrugged them off like I wasn’t bothered by their snobby ways, but I gave the engine an extra little rev in the hopes that the exhaust fumes might drift their way. After a few more turns I was safely out of sight and pulling up the entrance ramp of the municipal parking garage on Cumberland Street. Somehow my feisty little car managed to keep from stalling out on the inclines, and as I banked around the final turn onto the roof the rays of fading sunshine lit up the skyline of the Holy City.
Curly Wilds was holding down his usual spot along the wall, with his makeshift campground occupying most of an entire parking space. He was still in uniform, which was unusual for six o’clock in the evening. Still, it was pretty obvious that he’d knocked off patrolling at least a couple hours earlier. Curly was kicked back in a reclining lawn chair, his stocking feet propped up on top of a huge Coleman cooler. It was a position of relaxation that still afforded him a panoramic, yet commanding view of the Market. His boots, which were neatly lined up in formation next to his chair, bore a spitshine so fresh that it shimmered in the light. Judging by their pristine appearance, my guess was that Curly couldn’t have walked more than fifty steps all day. That dude’s feet were proudly out of uniform, as they were wrapped up in sensible white tube socks instead of the itchy black knee-length kind we’re supposed to wear.
I pulled my beater car in next to his money-green Ford F-150, then cut off the engine. Without the rhythmic clanking of misfiring cylinders to mask the noise, the rusty creak from my driver’s side door gave me a start when I hopped out to shoot the breeze. “What’s shaking, Curly?”
He politely lifted his stocking feet off the cooler, then used a big toe to nudge it my way. “Same ol’ same, Loosey Goosey. Just working hard, tryin’ to keep up wit’ you. Go on son, sit down now. You take a load off.”
I laughed as I took him up on the offer, but not before I cracked open the cooler and helped myself to a cold drink. “What is this?” I shouted, savoring the chill of icy water dripping down my bare arm as I examined the bright red can with its stylish white lettering. “Real Coca-Cola? Look at you, moneybags! What happened to the generic brand you usually get? What was it, Diet Chex or some shit? Did the Harris Teeter bump up your pay rate or something?”
Curly grinned, his pearly white teeth offering a sharp contrast to the slick black mustache perched above them. “Ain’t nothin’ changed, it’s still twenty bills an hour. Jus’ let me know whenever you need some extra cash, I’ll send a couple shifts your way. But check this out, last month I caught one of the cashiers slipping a few extra bucks out of the till, right? I guess his aim was off and he missed the register drawer, so the bills somehow ended up in his apron pocket instead, you dig? Well ever since I cleared up that little misunderstanding with him, I’ve just been parking my ride around back by the loading docks when I start my shift. By the time I knock off ever’ night, that damned truck bed is always full up with groceries! I tell you what, it’s almost like magic or something, the way that shit just seems to appear all by itself!”
I took a swig of Coke. Somehow, knowing that the soda was contraband made it taste even more refreshing. “Nice move, bro. Way to cut your old lady’s grocery bill in half.”
Curly snapped his swollen brown fingers. “Shoot, thanks for reminding me, Larsen! I really need to call that little woman sometime.” As he reached up to scratch his head, waves of processed hair parted with the movement. The greasy strands were remarkably resilient, snapping back into tight curls just as soon as he broke contact. “Now that you mention it, I don’t think I’ve talked to that girl in about two weeks now.”
I tilted my soda can a mock salute. “So that’s the secret to a happy marriage, huh? Never go home?” Curly Wilds was just one of a handful of CPD old-timers who essentially had no life outside of the department. Those crusty skeletons just cycled back and forth between their regular shifts and off-duty security jobs, working every waking hour to make ends meet. After wrapping up his dayshift beat, Curly would usually head straight to the Harris Teeter supermarket where he took cash under the table in exchange for running off all the underage college kids who were looking to swipe cases of Pabst beer. Then, after putting in his second eight-hour shift of the day, Curly could almost always be found holding down the front desk at one of the ritzy downtown hotels. Those graveyard shift jobs were some pretty sweet gigs, since a cop could generally just kick up his feet and catch a nap on a lobby sofa after all the late night arrivals had stopped trickling in. Some of the nicer places might even sweeten the deal by throwing in a free breakfast, so the twenty-four hour men like Curly would still have another hour or so left over to shave and shower before heading into roll call to do it all over again. On the weekends, Curly’s days were filled by directing all the cruise ship traffic down at the port, and by that I mean he sat in his truck and waved out the window in order to guide all those passengers toward the customs terminal.
Curly chuckled at my observation. “You know me too well, Larsen. Man, you got me dead to rights! All I gotta do is keep all them checks rolling in nice and steady, and that old lady is sworn to stick by me. Been that way for twenny-five years, and I don’t see no damned reason to try and go changin’ the arrangement now.” He looked me square in the eye. “I tell you what, back in the day when they told me I was comin’ to foot patrol, I nearly shit a brick! Man! I must’ve sent off applications to damn near every po-lice department in the state, at least until I realized what a gold mine I done stumbled across. But now? Shee-it. They’d have to drag me offa this gravy train. Man, I can’t even afford to retire, I’d lose so much money!”
Every cop who’d worked at CPD for over a month had heard the story of how Curly Wilds had gotten himself transferred down to our elite foot patrol team. The whole situation had become something of a teaching example; a way of showing rookie cops what not to do when they were working special assignments. Maybe fifteen years back, Curly had been one of a dozen or so cops assigned to stake out bank branches during a rash of robberies. The fact that a single dude was able to keep hitting all these banks was really giving the department a black eye, so the command staff was under pressure to do something fast. Their best idea was to have all these undercover cops show up to the West Ashley banks every morning at nine o’clock wearing business suits and pretending to be employees, so that if and when a robbery happened a cop would be right there to catch the crook in the act. It was actually a pretty neat plan if you could overlook the thousands of dollars in overtime pay which was being burnt through each day. Our idiot commanders had to cancel regular days off for patrol officers in order to cover all those banks for three weeks straight.
Just like with any other plan, though, it only takes one dumbass to ruin the whole show. In this case, the dumbass was none other than Curly Wilds. His post was the National Bank of South Carolina’s branch on Sam Rittenburg Boulevard, the one right there next to the Bojangle’s fried chicken stand. Even though the branch manager had set Curly up in a spare office with a clear view of all the customers waiting in line, that jerk started to get lazy after just his first couple minutes on duty. Once he’d worked his way through all the copies of Sports Illustrated in the lobby, and after he’d realized that wandering across the strip mall to pick up a bucket of chicken for lunch was only good for wasting two or three hours of his shift, Curly started using the assignment as an opportunity to catch up on some much needed shut-eye. See, back then Curly was just starting to discover the lucrative world of off-duty assignments, so his body hadn’t quite adjusted to getting by on three hours of sleep each night. As a result, he spent most of his undercover shift with his face down on the desk.