Authors: Tim Maleeny
“This is bad.”
Sam didn’t respond. He watched his former partner move along the mantle, careful not to touch the frames but standing close. Danny Rodriguez was in some of those pictures. The muscles in his jaw worked overtime as he scanned from right to left, taking in the ruined faces, the missing eyes.
“Really bad.”
Sam remained mute, his own jaw clenched.
“You want me to get the tech guys down here?”
Sam shook his head. “Don’t bother.”
“You sure, partner?”
“It’s not like we don’t know who did this.”
“Might get some prints off the frames,” said Danny half-heartedly.
“Yeah, you might,” said Sam. “But you get the techs involved, that makes it official.”
“Breaking and entering not official enough for you?”
“This isn’t official, Danny.” Sam stood up. “It’s personal.”
Danny took a deep breath, looked Sam in the eye. “You know how I felt about Marie, Sam, and you—”
Sam held up a hand. “I’m not asking you to do anything, Danny. Either as a cop or a friend.”
Danny shifted his weight, watching Sam carefully. “Then why did you ask me to come here?”
“I wanted you to know,” said Sam.
Danny felt his eyebrows jump involuntarily. “Wanted me to know? Like, just in case anything happens to you?”
Sam shrugged but didn’t answer.
“Don’t do anything stupid, Sam.”
Sam managed to twist his mouth into some semblance of a smile. “What would you do?”
Danny looked away, toward the picture frames. “That’s different,
hombre
. I’m a cop.”
Sam nodded. “You didn’t answer the question.”
“You mean, what would I do, as a man?” said Danny. “Someone did this to my home?”
Sam smiled, seeing the look in his friend’s eyes. “I thought so.”
“
Chocho
,” said Danny. “That’s what you are—you know that, don’t you?”
“I’ve been called a cunt before,” replied Sam. “But you make it sound so…romantic.”
“Fuck you,” said Danny. “Just don’t kill anybody, OK?”
Sam bowed his head. “Yes, officer.”
Danny made a face as he crossed to the kitchen. Opening cabinets, he located some instant coffee and a mug. “You want any?”
Sam took his seat on the couch. “Help yourself.”
Danny said, “You told me there were two things you wanted to talk about.”
Sam put his feet on the coffee table. “Remember the guy lives across the hall? Heavy set, in his fifties. You talk to him when you first canvassed the building?”
Danny nodded and took a sip of coffee, made another face. “This coffee is
nasty
.”
“He’s dead.”
Danny almost dropped his mug, recovered at the last minute. He put it down very deliberately before asking, “You got any beer?”
While Danny twisted the top off his beer, Sam told him about Walter. He sketched the scene, giving the layout of the apartment and condition of the body. He described Walter’s position on the couch in great detail. When he had finished, Danny said, “You could’ve mentioned this when you called.”
Sam’s eyes flicked to the mantle. “I had other things on my mind.”
Danny blew out his cheeks. “This guy was overweight. A train wreck.”
“So?”
“You think
gordo
had a heart attack?”
Sam knew that in a city the size of San Francisco, there were approximately two thousand heart attacks occurring over any given year, maybe a third of those fatal. Cops knew that sort of thing, so did firefighters. So did Danny. Sam watched his former partner’s eyes as he calculated the odds of Walter going into cardiac arrest in the same building that three men—one landlord and two gang-bangers—had already died. Not only in the same building, but within the same week.
“He had his keys in his pocket,” said Sam.
Danny worked his tongue around the inside of his right cheek. “You mentioned that.”
“Take a look when you go in there,” said Sam. “They make quite a bulge.”
“Uncomfortable.”
“What’s the first thing you do, Danny, when you walk through your front door?”
“Kick the dog, yell at my wife, and then…” He let his voice trail off.
“Throw your keys on the counter,” said Sam.
“Yeah,” said Danny, “but we got this little basket my wife bought—she loves baskets, got ‘em for everything—I throw my keys and wallet in there.”
Sam jutted his chin toward his own kitchen counter, to the left of Danny’s beer. “What do you see there?”
Danny spared a glance at the ring of keys and rapped his hands on the counter like a drummer. “You sit down to eat chips and watch movies—”
“—and you’re overweight—,” added Sam.
“—you probably don’t keep your keys jammed in your front pants pocket.”
“There goes the fucking camel’s back,” Danny sighed. “Looks like I gotta open an investigation.”
“Not yet,” replied Sam, standing. “You leave, I’ll call the ambulance. But when they bring the body to the morgue, make sure Oliver runs all the tests. Bloodwork, everything.”
Danny studied his friend before asking the obvious. “Why wait, Sam? I should’ve started a case file when Ed jumped, we both know that.”
“It
could
have been a heart attack,” replied Sam. “The guy was fat, maybe under a lot of stress.”
“Now you’re arguing the other side?” Danny scowled. “What is this, the fucking debating club?”
Sam held up his hands. “Oliver’s gonna tell us if it was a heart attack, Danny. You can open the case then.”
“Yeah, but why wait?”
“Because I want a headstart on the cops,” replied Sam, his gaze back on the mantle, searching for the loving gaze that had been taken from him, twice. He could feel the glacial retreat of the last forty-eight hours reverse itself, ice encroaching once more upon his heart.
“A headstart,” said Danny. “To do what, exactly?”
“Relax, Danny.” Sam smiled, all the warmth gone from his face. “I’m just going to visit an old friend.”
Jerome woke with a start to find himself flanked by two pairs of perfect breasts.
On his right was Tamara, arms crossed demurely beneath her perfect pair. She was propped against two enormous pink pillows, the sheet covering her legs. To Jerome’s left was Shalya, sitting on the desk next to the computer with her legs crossed, right foot tapping in mid-air to some unheard beat. She wore a pair of tights—electric blue—and ankle-length socks, but what struck Jerome most about her appearance was that she was topless.
Her mahogany skin looked like it had been carved lovingly by angels. Pleased with the metaphor, Jerome decided her areolas were halos poised above nipples that could only be described as
epic
. The thought sent a shudder down Jerome’s spine as he looked from the goddess on his left to the one lying next to him in bed. He had always wondered what Heaven looked like.
“Am I dead?” he asked.
Shayla seemed to notice him for the first time, her eyes swiveling his way like a gun turret, daring him to break eye contact.
“Not yet, crackhead.”
Tamara squeezed his right arm. “Don’t mind her, sweetie. She’s just jealous.”
Shayla lifted a corner of the sheet to reveal Jerome’s manhood and said, “
Puh—leeeze.”
“Hey!”
said Jerome, pulling the sheet back into place.
“Jerome’s kicked the habit,” said Tamara defensively.
Shayla snorted but leaned forward to peer into Jerome’s eyes. The move brought to mind an introductory physics course during his first year at college as her breasts performed a near perfect demonstration of Brownian motion, the highly random but excited motion of particles suspended in liquid. Even when he wasn’t stoned, Jerome marveled at the brain’s knack for free association.
“Clear,” Shayla announced, looking across Jerome toward Tamara. “But he snores like bear.”
“Allergies,” said Jerome.
Shayla brought her gaze back to Jerome, caught him looking south, and gave him a stern glance. “When did you quit?”
“After breakfast.” Jerome stopped, trying to remember what day it was. Shit, today was the day he and Larry were meeting Zorro.
“Breakfast when?” asked Shayla. “Your ass is still in bed.”
“Yesterday.” Jerome blinked himself back to the here and now. “After breakfast yesterday, I kinda…lost interest.”
Tamara gave him another squeeze. “The power of love.”
Shalya pointed her index finger toward her open mouth and made a gagging noise. “You two deserve each other.”
Tamara beamed and jiggled. “Exactly.”
Shayla shook her head but smiled. “So you want to stay with this thing?”
Jerome started to object. First she calls him
crackhead
and now
thing
, until he realized Shayla was gesturing toward the computer when she said it. The previous night’s acrobatics came to him in a torrent of freeze-frames, each orgasmic moment made all the more memorable because he had watched himself, live, on the computer screen.
He looked from Shayla to Tamara and back again, half-remembering they’d been in the middle of a conversation when he first woke.
“What’d I miss?” he asked.
Shayla shifted sideways on the desk, revealing the computer screen. At first Jerome saw the screen divided into four windows, each with a different view of the room, all revealing their exposed chests, his included. He suddenly felt self-conscious but more than a little titillated at the prospect the performance of a lifetime had been recorded. Before he could comment, Shalya starting typing commands and the screen changed, the four images replaced by a green and blue bar chart, the kind you’d see at an annual sales conference.
“The green bars are visits to our homepage,” explained Shalya. “Where we have random low-resolution images from these cameras.” She slid the nail of her index finger across the screen, left to right. “The blue bars represents registered members, people who have signed up and paid for unlimited access to the site. As you can see…” Her finger stopped midway across the screen at two bars that were five times the size of the bars preceding them. “…our membership skyrocketed last night during your, um,
festivities
.”
Jerome squinted at the screen. Maybe math was cool, after all. “How many people we talking about?”
“We’re gonna be rich,” said Tamara, leaning over to give him a kiss. Jerome felt himself stir beneath the sheet and started to get embarrassed, but Shayla was still looking at the screen. She mumbled something.
“What’s the problem?” asked Tamara.
“I supposed we’ll have to cut
him
in on the action,” Shayla sighed.
“The name’s Jerome.”
Shayla ignored him and jutted her chin toward Tamara. “Three ways?”
Jerome slid closer to Tamara to make room. “Hey, whatever you girls are into, I’ll do my best to accommodate—”
Tamara put a hand over his mouth. “She means splitting the money three ways, honey.”
As soon as she removed her hand, Jerome said, “Right, of course,” doing his best to not sound disappointed. He studiously avoided eye contact with Shayla as he asked, “So how much money will be coming in?”
Shayla frowned, scanning the numbers on the screen. “Depends on whether or not you two disappoint our new customers,” she said dryly. “But since they’re obligated to pay three months in advance, I’d say it’s safe to quit your day job if you want.”
The mention of his day job hit Jerome like a bucket of cold water. “What time is it?”
“Almost eleven,” replied Shayla. “Why?”
Jerome jumped out of bed, realizing he didn’t care if someone sitting behind a computer screen in some other state saw him naked. He had bigger things to worry about than his newfound lack of modesty.
“Gotta go,” he said, jumping back in bed long enough to kiss Tamara lightly on the lips. He stood and half-bowed to Shayla, not sure of the proper etiquette when your girlfriend’s roommate was topless and you were buck naked. Shayla didn’t move, just arched her eyebrows.
“Where’re you off to in such a hurry?” she asked.
Jerome got his pants on, grabbed his shirt in one hand and his shoes in the other. He called over his shoulder as he dashed through the door.
“Going to quit my day job.”
Jerome still had his pants on, which he took as a good sign.
He and Larry stood in Zorro’s office, waiting for the drug lord to arrive. Julio had left them alone five minutes ago, locking them inside the windowless room with the plain oak desk and folding chairs. They’d made the trip to the building blindfolded again, but this was clearly the same room as before, so Zorro had not moved his headquarters since their last meeting. And this time they got to keep their pants. Things were looking up, despite the stress of getting here on time.
Jerome had returned to their apartment to find Larry sprawled on the couch, a miasma of smoke spreading across the ceiling like the ash cloud from Mount St. Helens. One look at his brother told him all he needed to know. It was like looking in a mirror. Jerome grabbed the keys from the counter and told Larry he was driving today. Larry didn’t object.
Now Jerome was pacing Zorro’s office, wondering if it was bugged. He wrinkled his nose when his gaze fell upon the jar of pickled eyeballs. “Let me do the talking, Larry.”
“OK by me. I’ll just do color commentary.”
Jerome started to object but caught himself. It sounded like something he would have said to Larry the day before. Instead he thought of Tamara sitting in bed, her beatific smile blinding in his mind’s eye.
Don’t let him push your buttons.
Jerome rubbed his hands together and watched the door as he pulled his thoughts together. Zorro would be here any minute.
As if on cue, the door swung open. Julio came first, Zorro invisible behind his bulk until he took position next to the door. Behind Zorro was another man, short with a wispy mustache and wire-frame glasses. He nodded at the two brothers, then took a seat against the wall to the right side of the desk. He held a small notebook and pen in his lap. Jerome thought he looked like an accountant.
Zorro waited until he was seated behind the desk before he made eye contact with the two brothers. His gaze lingered on Larry for a minute before shifting back to Jerome. Whether by body language or expression, Zorro somehow sensed the role reversal that was going on between them.
“That took
cajones
,” he said slowly, “to reschedule our meeting. You are too busy to meet with Zorro?”
“I had a date,” said Jerome.
Zorro repeated dumbly, “A date?”
Jerome nodded. “With a girl.”
Zorro waited for more of an explanation but got nothing. Nonplussed, he went on the offensive.
“She must have beautiful eyes,” he said, reaching for his jar of sclerotic horror.
Jerome made a face but didn’t take the bait, instead jerking his chin toward the man with the glasses. “Who’s the new guy?”
Zorro gulped down an eyeball and answered with his mouth full. “This is Ramon,” he said, gesturing. “He handles my finances.”
“Central casting,” said Jerome.
“No shit,” said Larry.
Zorro’s mouth twitched but he kept his eyes on Jerome.
“You came to me for help,” he said. “Because you had a problem with your friend Walter.”
Jerome shook his head. “Wasn’t our friend Z, and he’s not a problem any more.” He smiled and added, “No thanks to you.”
Zorro’s right eye twitched. Jerome heard Julio’s feet shuffle on the hardwood floor behind them but stop when Zorro gave a quick shake of the head. He stared at Jerome for a full minute before speaking again.
“You are a new man, Jerome,” he said. “You have found your balls.” He moved his eyes to Larry. “And you, Larry, what happened to you? Are you now your brother’s bitch—eh,
puta
?”
Larry started to rise from his chair but sat down again as if he’d slipped. Jerome worried Larry was going to either jump across the desk or wet himself, depending on his current state of mind, but before Jerome could read the expression on his brother’s face, Larry started giggling uncontrollably.
Jerome and Zorro stared at Larry until his fit subsided. By way of explanation, Jerome said, “My brother’s totally baked, Z.”
“Hic!”
Larry had given himself the hiccups.
Zorro scowled and Jerome decided to jump in headfirst.
Time to quit my day job.
“Look, Z,” he said. “We had a deal. You get rid of Walter and we pay, right?”
“Hic!”
added Larry.
Zorro ignored him. “
Sí
, Jerome. You double my percentage.”
“I don’t think so.”
“You don’t think so?” Zorro blinked slowly, reminding Jerome of an iguana his best friend in high school had as a pet. Jerome wondered if Zorro was really as cold-blooded as he wanted to appear.
“Walter’s dead,” said Jerome. “Because me and Larry took him out.”
“
Hic-hic-hic.
”
“How?” said Zorro.
Jerome shook his head. “That’s on a need-to-know basis, Z. All you need to know is we did your job for you.”
Zorro sucked his teeth, half of them protruding beyond his lips. “I lost two men.”
Jerome frowned. “So we’re even.”
Zorro tapped his fingers on the desk. “I made an investment on your behalf.”
“How much of an investment?”
Zorro spread his hands. “Can you really put a price on human life?”
“Sure,” replied Jerome, confident that Zorro did it all the time. “How about five percent?”
“Twenty.”
“Ten.”
“Deal,” said Zorro.
Off to the side, Ramon made a notation.
Jerome held up his right hand, index finger extended. “
Here’s the deal
—we pay you another ten percent each month, but in return you do us a favor.”
Zorro’s eyebrows met in an angry black line across his forehead. “What favor?”
“You sent guys to kill Walter,” said Jerome. “But we killed him instead.”
Zorro looked impatient. “Did we not talk of this already? You want a medal? A hug, perhaps?”
Jerome raised his hand again. “You have guys on your payroll who do bad things to nice people.” He turned and made a theatrical gesture toward Julio.
“I’m a drug dealer,” said Zorro defensively. “What do you expect?”
“It wasn’t a criticism, Z—it was an observation. You have guys who can take the heat when cops knock on your door. Dudes who can disappear, run for the border.”
Zorro nodded his understanding. “Perhaps.”
“Or guys who can take a fall,” added Jerome.
Zorro’s eyes flicked to Julio before landing on Jerome again. “What are you asking, Jerome?”
“When the cops come looking for Walter’s killer, I don’t want them looking at me or Larry.”
Zorro steepled his hands and smiled, revealing his full array of ruined orthodontics.
“I think I am going to like working with you, Jerome.” He turned to Larry briefly. “No offense to your brother, of course.”
“Why?” asked Jerome.
“Because we think alike, you and I.”
Jerome frowned, worried he’d lost control of the conversation. “You understand what I’m saying?
I want the cops coming to you.
”
“Relax, Jerome.” Zorro’s impossible smile grew even wider. “There is a cop coming to me.”
“There is?”
“Oh, yes.” Zorro plucked another eyeball from the jar and took a bite. “I invited him yesterday—I think you know him.”
“We do?”
Zorro chewed slowly. “He is your neighbor.”