It had been an uphill battle convincing his superiors that this was the real deal, but his sheer insistence and the opportunity to grab major drug dealers had proved irresistible to the brass. With all the scandals recently involving crooked cops, they needed some solid press. Joe had even called the Daily News, got a crime beat reporter named Ward to accompany the team. The SWAT guys were pissed, their commander going, “Fucking civilians, they screw up everything, and press, are you outa your fucking mind?”
The commander was a serious hardass, suited up like Armageddon was imminent, with enough hardware to take down a small army. His team was all much the same-macho fucks who gave him the hard-eye. They chewed gum, racked their weapons and muttered among themselves. Joe had a flask of coffee, not a great idea with the trots, but what the hell. Without caffeine, he’d be like a hooker without the fuck-me heels.
He’d offered the flask around and they gave him looks of sheer disdain, the commander going, “We don’t need stimulants to do our duty.”
The parking lot in Staten Island was open, exposed, and they’d arrived at the meet two hours early, quietly getting civilians out of the way. Cops were positioned on all perimeters-no way the dopers were going to break out of this ring of solid steel.
Joe, seeing the expressions of the SWAT guys, had said, “I want Fisher alive.”
The commander, rolling the gum along his inside jaw, said, “They give it up, no prob…otherwise…” He let the threat trail off.
Joe was going to have to watch this asshole real close, or else the guy would waste everybody, and with the Daily News there, Joe was getting a real bad feeling. He was trying not to look at his watch, but he couldn’t resist and the commander caught him and said, “They’re late.”
Ward, the journalist, had been talking quietly with his camera guy and now turned to Joe and said, “Be a major public relations fuck-fest if your guys don’t show.”
Joe felt his bowels burn and wondered if he should risk more Imodium. How many had he taken already?
The humidity was building and Joe felt a dribble of sweat roll down his forehead, sting his eyes. Then realized the press guy was staring at him, a smirk in place, and Joe snapped, “What?”
The guy shifted his position so he was right in Joe’s face, said, “How’s it work for you?”
The fuck was his problem? Joe asked, “The fuck’s your problem?”
This seemed to really ignite the guy and he said, “You being Mr. Nice Cop, isn’t that your rep? The one who gets results with, what, with decency and understanding.”
Joe said, “Yeah, well, we don’t all have to be hardasses. You do what works best.”
The guy was highly amused. He gestured at the very empty parking lot, the non-happening parking lot, and said, “Gee, and I can see it’s working out really well for you.”
Joe tried not to rise to the bait, especially with the growing panic he was feeling.
He said, “I’m sorry you might not get your story.”
The guy was smiling, delighted. “Oh, I’ll get my story. A no-show is a great story. All this NYPD/SWAT action, all the taxpayers’ money, in an election year, flushed right down the toilet. Hell, buddy, I couldn’t ask for a better story.”
Before Joe could respond, the earpiece the commander wore began squawking. The commander looked at Joe, then pulled the earpiece out and shouted to his team, “Stand down, abort! Stand down, abort!”
Joe, his guts in shreds, asked, “What?”
Like he didn’t know.
The commander was standing, tearing open the Velcro strips on his vest. His eyes like ice, he said, “A drug deal went down tonight, major gunfire, and Fisher may have been involved. But, guess what Detective, it’s not on Staten Island-it’s out in Queens.”
Joe, bewildered, said, “Maybe it’s another deal… I mean….”
The commander pushed past him, hissed, “Yeah, right. Face it, you just took it in the ass, pal, bent right over for it.”
The photographer was snapping off pics of Joe, the SWAT team, and the empty lot. Joe shouted, “Put that fucking thing down!”
Ward said, “No more Mr. Nice Guy, huh? Might lead with that. Whatcha think? Think it works?”
Five minutes tops and they were all out of there, except Joe. He was left standing in the middle of the lot, his hands shaking, his bowels in full revolt, his mind going, She couldn’t…could she?…Jesus, and I gave her, like, a hundred bucks…with another twenty to come…and paid for the meal, she could’ve, like, had anything on the menu…I didn’t say go for the cheap special…I was nice to her, wasn’t I?
A homeless guy approached him, went, “Yo buddy, got anything for a man down on his luck?”
“Fuck you,” Joe said, and then, part of his old good self fighting to re-emerge, he said, “Sorry, buddy,” and gave him the rest of the Imodium.
Seventeen
Death makes a person hungry.
Max was ravenous. He wanted junk food, Italian, Chinese, mountains of carbs, fizzy drinks, cold brews, a heap of coke. He wanted to go on shooting motherfuckers for hours, capping them good. He wanted, he wanted to kill the goddamn world, but first he was gonna have fucking Kyle’s ass.
In the car, leaving the bloodbath, Max tried to figure out if Kyle had sold him out. He even put the Glock to the kid’s head, threatened to play Russian Roulette, but the stupid hick still wouldn’t spill. He just kept quoting from his bible-Ezekiel, Job, Jonah, fucking Ecclesiastes. Yeah, like any of that shit was gonna help him now.
They pulled over and Max tossed the Glock out the window, into the East River. Even under pressure, with the cops on his tail, riding the high of his first-ever murder, Max knew how to cover the bases. They dumped the bullet-riddled SUV on Queens Boulevard and hailed a livery cab into the city. He knew the cops would find the car, trace it back to him, but he had a story all planned.
In the cab, Max told Kyle exactly what to say when the police questioned them, but he wasn’t sure if Kyle was listening to a damn word he was saying. Kyle was still praying, frantically turning pages of his bible, like he thought the faster he read it the deeper the shit would sink in. It occurred to Max, does Kyle even know how to read? Down where he was from didn’t they all live in trailers and start working on their momma and poppa’s farms when they were, like, thirteen?
When they got up to the apartment, Kyle locked himself in the bathroom, where he sat chanting more of that bible shit. Max, fueled on crack, was banging on the door, trying to get him to open up. Then he had an idea. Bible boy wouldn’t like to be the cause of another man’s suffering, now, would he? Max stormed into Katsu’s room and-oh Jesus, the skinny little sushi chef was jerking off to a Jap porn movie.
Max went, “Fuck, you’ve been making my salmon maki with those hands!”
Then Max thought about all the sticky rice he’d been eating lately and wanted to yack.
Katsu stood up quickly, his boxers at his knees, covering himself and bowing, going, “Sorry, sir. Sorry, sir.”
Max grabbed him by his hair and pulled him down the hallway to the kitchen. He grabbed the butcher knife, put it up to the terrified chef’s neck, then dragged him to the bathroom and screamed to Kyle, “Okay, bible boy, get your grits-and-collard-greens ass outa that toilet right now, boy, or sushi man’s made his last hand roll.”
Katsu screamed, “Max crazy! Kyle, you listen to Max and open door right now! He not fucking round!”