There Fell a Shadow (20 page)

T
hen I got arrested.

I had stumbled out to the sidewalk's edge. I raised my hand to hail a cab. The headlights of another car started to pull over. It did not have a toplight. He's back, I thought. I edged away from the curb.

When the car was about fifteen yards away from me, its flashers popped on. Its siren blooped once and died. I squinted into the spinning red and white lights as the cruiser pulled up beside me. The cab I'd been trying to hail passed by and into the night.

A young patrolman jumped out through the driver's door into the street. An old patrolman grunted his way out on the passenger side. The old one rose up in front of me like a whale from the deep. I knew him. His name was Rankin. He was gutter dirt. Not smart enough for promotion, but shrewd enough for the take. Not tough enough for the big collar, but mean enough to shut off a perp's windpipe with the web of his hand. He was big, paunchy. He had an enormous head with tiny black eyes in it. Those eyes held me like a snake's eyes hold its prey. He towered over me.

The kid was a stranger. He was long and thick and muscular. He had a mustache to hide his big, soft Irish features. He had the dull, dangerous, openmouthed expression they teach at the academy.

I responded with a friendly—not to say shit-eating—grin.

“Who says there's never a cop around when you need one?” I said.

“Shut the fuck up, asshole,” said Rankin. He was not, on the whole, my biggest fan. Every time I wrote about him, he seemed to get suspended. “Watts is looking for you. Get in the car.”

My lungs were already collapsing. Now my heart sank. “Watts? What the hell does he want?”

Rankin licked his thin, white lips. They twisted into a smile. “Get in the car,” he said almost dreamily. I didn't like the sound of it.

“There's a guy in the park with a gun,” I said.

“That's funny,” said Rankin. “Usually there's a lot more than one. I don't want to have to cuff you, Wells.”

“He shot at me.”

“No accounting for people's tastes. Get in the fucking car.”

The young cop's eyes shifted between us nervously. The lovers walked by behind me. Then the guy with the dog. They walked around me carefully, as if I were a puddle. They rubbernecked to get a glance at me. Then they were gone on their own business.

“Aren't you going to do anything about it?” I said.

“I sympathize, Wells. I really do,” said Rankin.

“How about reading me my rights?”

“You have the right to a Christian burial.” He reached out and laid a big hammy hand on my shoulder. He squeezed. It hurt. The young cop's eyes shifted faster and faster. He leaned forward, as if he were about to interrupt.

“Open the door for Mr. Wells,” said Rankin without looking at him.

The young cop jumped to it. He wanted this over, fast. He opened the cruiser's back door. Rankin gripped my arm, shoved me toward it.

“I want a lawyer,” I said.

“Write to Santa Claus,” said Rankin.

He tossed me inside. I had to duck fast not to hit my head. I went sprawling over the backseat. I dragged my feet in just as the door slammed. Good thing I was press or they might have mistreated me.

Rankin and the young cop got in front. Their doors slammed in unison. Rankin flicked on the siren. The young cop took the cruiser away from the curb. They hurtled down Fifth at high speed, flashers spinning, sirens screaming. Just like real policemen.

The back of the car seemed very small, very cramped. It seemed far away from the rest of the city. It seemed like no one would hear me if I called for help. I thought about Holloway being taken to Imperial House. I thought about Tom Watts.

Tom Watts was not a good-news kind of guy. He was a lieutenant. He used to be a captain. He'd been a captain, in fact, right up to the very moment I did a series of stories on the precinct he commanded. It was a precinct in the Bronx with a heavy traffic in drugs. The traffic so heavy, rival dealers had to fight for the selling territory. At least, they did until Watts got there. Watts organized a permit system, sort of like the pretzel vendors use. The permits kept things organized, kept the hardworking dealers safe from unfair competition. They also kept them safe from the police. In fact, the police were selling the permits. And a goodly portion of the permit fees were channeled to former Captain now Lieutenant Thomas W. Watts.

Six patrolmen took the fall for that little scam, and two detectives. One cop even did some time. But as for Watts, the DA never got a thing on him, and the courts never tried him. This seemed to me a grievous oversight. So I tried him. I tried him in the
Star
. He was convicted in the city's corner taverns. When the people's verdict came in, the department finally had to bust him to lieutenant. It wasn't much; still, it seemed very small and cramped in the back of the car.

Rankin and his pal took me to midtown south. It's a square brick building set amid the towering warehouses of the garment district. Rankin kept his paw on my arm as he led me through the front door.

There was a woman crying in the broad lobby. She was crying to the desk sergeant. The desk sergeant was shaking his head. There was a man lying facedown on the floor. He was groaning or snoring, I'm not sure which. None of these people looked up at us. We weren't even an interruption. The desk sergeant simply reached out and pressed a button. A buzzer went off, and the young cop pushed open a door with heavy wire mesh on it. He went through. Rankin followed, dragging me with him.

I was escorted down a hall. Into an elevator. Down another hall. It was dismal there. One of the ceiling fluorescents had burned out. Another was giving off no more than a dull purple flicker. The shadowy figures of cops passed by us. They turned to the side to let me and Rankin go by. The young cop followed behind us.

At the end of the hall, Rankin reached out with his right hand and opened a door. He used his left hand to shove me through the door into a room.

“Have a seat,” he said.

He left me there alone.

The room was small. A rectangle. Small and stark. The walls were lined with green tiles. The floor tiles were green, too. There was a spiral of fluorescent light on the ceiling. Parts of the curling tube gave off light, parts didn't. There was a window onto the alley next door, but the blinds were drawn. The room was only a little brighter than the hall.

There was a clock on the wall. It read 11:05. There was a table in the center of the room. There were plastic chairs around the table. I took off my overcoat, draped it over the back of a chair. I leaned against the edge of the table and crossed my arms. I tried to look like the prospect of being alone in here with Tom Watts didn't bother me a bit. I tried to look like it was my idea of a vacation. I couldn't quite get it. I tried lighting up a cigarette. I let it dangle from my mouth. I let the smoke curl up around my squinting eyes. I sneered. That was much better. I faced the door. I waited.

I kept waiting. Watts took his time. I sneaked a look at the clock. It was eleven-fifteen, then eleven-thirty. I went through two more cigarettes. My sneer got tired. My eyes started to tear.

Tom Watts came in. He had a cigarette pasted in his face, too. He also had a sneer, a pretty good one. He waved a hand at me.

“Knock it off, Wells,” he said. “I know you're terrified.”

“Okay,” I told him, “but that doesn't mean you can push me around.”

“Sit down and shut up,” he said.

I pulled out a chair and sat down. I unplugged the cigarette. I wiped my eyes with my hand. I massaged my lips. I sneered. I stuck the cigarette back in. I was ready for him.

Watts hovered over me. He jutted his chin at me. He had a good chin for jutting. It was one of those long, rounded, Kirk Douglas jobs with the hole in the middle. He had round cheeks, too, and a pug nose. A full head of auburn hair, perfectly coiffed. He was in his forties, medium height, well built in a well-tailored suit, a black two-piece. He was a good-looking character all in all, except for the green eyes where his soul showed through.

He pulled out a chair and propped his foot on it like a cop in the movies. I could see the pistol under his jacket. He plucked his cigarette from his lips. He carefully tapped an ash on the floor.

“Where were you tonight, Johnny?” he said.

“Oh, come on, Watts,” I told him. “You're dirty but you're not stupid. There's a shield law in this state.”

He studied the end of his cigarette intently. His rosy cheeks darkened. “Where were you, Wells?”

“I want a lawyer, pal.”

Watts flicked his cigarette to one side with one hand. He grabbed the front of my shirt with the other. He dragged me out of my chair. He swiped at my face, knocking my cig out of my mouth.

My eyes were less than an inch from his clenched teeth. “Where were you, fuckhead?” he said.

Normally I don't hit cops, but this had been a bad night. I brought my right arm across my chest, knocking his hand off me. Then I snapped the fist back. It sledgehammered him in the chest.

The former captain fell two steps away from me. He stood there a moment. He wasn't hurt, but he was shocked I'd gone for him. Shocked and pissed. His eyes burned, his face was livid. His hand slid inside his coat.

I thought he was going to pull out his piece and blow me away. Instead he brought out his tin. He flashed it at me.

“You know what this is, you scumbag?” he screamed. Spittle flew from between his lips. “You know what this is? It's a shield. A
real
shield! You just hit an officer of the law, you asshole!”

I took out my wallet. I flashed it right back at him. “This is a press card, Tommy boy,” I said. “My job's protected by the goddamned Constitution. Yours isn't even mentioned.”

We confronted each other like that for another second. Then Watts's hand fell to his side. He shook his head at me in wonder. He smiled a little. “You're meat, Wells,” he said. “I'm standing here, I'm talking to you, and all the time, you're dead meat, you're Gaines Burger.”

I put my wallet away. “Tell me about it. I'll have your badge for this.”

Watts kept shaking his head. He approached me. I glared at him. He put his finger against my chest. “You'll have my badge?”

“That's right.”

“You hit a cop, I'll have your fucking head.”

“Keep talking. It's good copy.”

His finger poked me. “You met with Lester Paul tonight. One of my boys saw you get in the car. He lost you in the park before he ran down the plates, but he saw enough to nail you for it.”

“I met a source …”

“From the minute this case started, I knew you were in on something dirty, Wells. I knew it. I've been keeping an eye on you. I've been waiting just for this. Now nothing your little Yiddish friend can do is gonna protect you.”

“I met a source …”

Watts's handsome pug face contorted and turned red. He started screaming. “He's a murderer!”

I screamed back. Our noses were almost touching. “I met a source!”

“A murderer at large! I had plenty of cause …”

“He was a source on a story!”

“You were in that room …”

“It's not even your case, Watts!”

“What do you know?”

“It's not even your case!”

“You tell me my case? You tell me my case? I'll tell you the case …”

“It's Gottlieb's …”

“I'll tell you.… You were in that room when Colt died, you're in on something, protecting …!”

“I got the shield and you better …”

“Gottlieb's protecting you and you're protecting …”

“Oh, horseshit, man! Even you can do better.”

“You hit a cop tonight, boyo. I'm gonna put you away!”

“Subpoena me! I got a source … a shield, I mean. Subpoena me!”

“You hit a cop …” He grabbed the front of my shirt again. He twisted the knot of my tie, choking me. “That was real dumb,” he sneered.

I knocked his hand off. “Fuck you.”

His voice dropped suddenly. He spoke softly now, with that sense of wonder again. It was as if he couldn't completely believe his good luck. “I mean, you hit a cop, he's gotta defend himself,” he said.

We stood toe-to-toe. Our eyes locked. “Why don't you put your badge down?” I said.

“Because it's more fun this way,” said the former captain. And he sucker-punched me.

He came up low. A hard jolting shot below the belt. I grunted. I doubled over. My legs wobbled. I fell to my knees. He backhanded me. Hard. Blood squirted out of my nose. I keeled over sideways onto the floor. I lay like that, my cheek pressed to the linoleum. I clutched my belly. I groaned.

Watts stood over me. “You're meat,” he said.

I forced out the words. “Your badge is mine, Tommy. Your fucking badge is mine.”

The cop's lip curled. His eyes lifted—they nearly rolled—in his rage. He pointed the tip of his shoe at my face. He pulled his leg back. I waited for the kick.

The door snapped open. Watts lowered his foot to the floor.

From somewhere above me, I heard a familiar voice.

“Eesh,” it said.