The Jake Helman Files Personal Demons (6 page)

Then he froze.

Kearny had turned to the cash register, his back to Jake and two men standing between them: one tall and lanky, with dirty orange dreadlocks spilling midway down the back of his bleached denim jacket; the other short and stocky, with a head as smooth and shiny as a cue ball. Jake felt a prickling sensation as the hair on the back of his neck stood on end: Perp Fever.

The register drawer sprang open, coins rattling inside it. Jake saw Kearny’s reflection in the long mirror behind the register and recognized fear in his eyes. Reaching inside his coat with his right hand, he curled his fingers around the grip of his Glock Nine in its shoulder holster. The sound of his sleeve rubbing against his coat flap caused his heart to skip a beat.

The man with the dreadlocks spun around, his face fringed with orange fuzz and his eyes flaring with alarm. He swung the .32 revolver clutched in his left hand in Jake’s direction, its short barrel narrowly missing his partner’s bald head. Baldy stepped to one side, revealing the shotgun in his hands as he turned his body. Both men had pallid skin and wore predatory scowls.

Shit!
Jake’s heart launched into overdrive. Pulling the Glock free, he gripped it in both hands as he assumed the stance drilled into his head back at the Academy. No fool, Kearny dove for cover behind the bar.

Dread’s .32 made a
pop
and Jake heard a bullet whiz past his ear and chew into the wall behind him. Baldy raised the shotgun to his shoulder, leveling it at Jake. Seeing Baldy as the greater threat, Jake aimed his Glock at the center of the Harley-Davidson T-shirt the man wore beneath his long, dark coat and squeezed the trigger. The weapon kicked in his hands, the ear-splitting gunshot reverberating against liquor bottles behind the bar and bouncing back at him like a radar signal. Blood erupted above Baldy’s left collarbone and his body jerked sideways, his face twisting into a scarlet grimace. He triggered the shotgun, blasting a pool table to Jake’s left.

Dread fired the .32 again, his dreadlocks trailing the motion of his head like the tail of a cat doused in gasoline and set on fire. Hearing plaster explode to his right, Jake dropped to one knee and returned fire. His bullet missed its mark, shattering the mirror behind the bar. He fired twice more, blasting Dread against the bar stools. Blood spurted from the robber’s face and chest and he crumpled to the floor.

Unleashing a primal scream, Baldy pumped his shotgun. Jake leapt to his feet, aimed the Glock, and squeezed its trigger. This time he kept the trigger depressed, the sharp reports of semiautomatic gunfire ringing in his ears. He lost count of how many rounds he fired, and how many hit their target, as the Glock spat out empty shell casings and bottles exploded.

Blood blossomed across Baldy’s chest and he staggered back, firing the shotgun at the ceiling. Debris rained down on him and he hit the floor with a protracted scream. Dark blood gushing over his fingers, he clutched at his chest and kicked out, the heels of his motorcycle boots smearing crimson over the green- and pink-tiled floor. Then he quivered and stilled.

The Glock stopped kicking in Jake’s hands, and he felt, rather than heard, the empty clicking. He released the trigger, his heart slamming against his chest as he gasped for breath. On the floor, Dread moved his mouth, the gaping hole in his left cheek revealing bloody gums and missing teeth. Then his eyes glazed over and he stopped moving.

Liquor rained down from shattered bottles behind the bar and pooled on the floor. Kearny raised his head and peered at Jake with unblinking eyes, then crept around the bar and gaped at the bodies lying side by side on the floor. Jake had never shot anyone before, let alone killed someone. Dread’s bloodied outfit included camouflaged cargo pants and combat boots.

Jake estimated that a maximum of thirty seconds had passed since he had exited the bathroom. Spilled blood rippled on the floor and he stepped back to prevent the spreading puddles from staining his shoes. The air reeked of gunpowder and the Glock felt hot in his hand. His knees wobbled and his gun hand shook as he holstered his weapon. He saw Kearny speaking to him but heard only a ringing sound. Kearny pointed at Jake’s feet and Jake looked down. Droplets of blood spattered the floor between his shoes. Panic surged through him and he patted his torso with both hands, searching for bullet wounds. A drop of blood landed on his left thumb, and he realized where it had come from. He brushed a finger beneath his nose and it came away red and sticky.

Goddamn it!

The distant siren of an approaching RMP car rose above the ringing in his ear. Jake shot one hand into his pants pocket, fumbling for the crumpled tissue he had put there earlier. Heart rate accelerating, his knees shook and he felt the blood rushing from his head. The bar spun around him, its multicolored bottles blurring into streaks. The tissue fell from his hand before he could use it, and he reached out for something with which to steady himself, his hand clawing at empty air.

Jesus Christ, no! Not an overdose! Not now!

His mind tried to outrace his pounding heart, and he toppled to the floor and felt blood soaking through his pants as darkness overtook him. Like most drug addicts and atheists facing death, he prayed to God for help.

K
napsack Johnny snaked between the hipsters crowding Saint Mark’s Place. Leather motorcycle jackets crinkled around him, and clouds of cigarette smoke lingered in the air. A girl with pink hair relaxed in the doorway of a vintage clothing store; a boy carried a skateboard into a comic book store; two college students exiting a video store debated the aesthetic subtleties of a foreign film playing at the New Angelika. At the corner ahead, a middle-aged black man with horn-rimmed glasses and a black suit shouted at disinterested Villagers:

“Sinners! You’ll all burn in hell!”

Knapsack Johnny crossed the street and descended a half flight of steps leading to a bloodred door. He used an old-fashioned knocker to announce his arrival. Moments later, a security window in the door slid open and paranoid eyes peered out from between black bars.

“Who is it?” the man on the other side of the door said in a hoarse voice.

“It’s just me, Professor. Knapsack Johnny.”

The man squinted and closed the window. Heavy locks turned and the door swung open. Professor Severn stood in the doorway, staring past Johnny at the pedestrians clogging the sidewalk, his craggy face slick with sweat. Wild, iron-gray hair mixed with long, unkempt whiskers. Wrinkles crisscrossed his black garments like varicose veins and a cloud of pipe smoke swirled in the air behind him. He would have looked equally at home hoisting beers in a biker bar or reading poetry aloud in a café.

“Hurry up,” he said, pulling Knapsack Johnny inside. “You’ll let the noise in.” He slammed the door shut and secured its bolts. “I didn’t know you were coming tonight.”

“You don’t have a phone, Professor. Or a computer to receive e-mail.” Nor did Severn own a television or radio.

“You’re damn right, I don’t. And I never will, either. Too many damn spies. The government is cataloguing everything we do. I should let strangers in here? Their eyes, their thoughts, their voices?”

“You’re right to be cautious.”

As Severn turned, Knapsack Johnny caught a whiff of pungent body odor mixed with tobacco. He followed the Professor into the living room and swooned from the overpowering paint smell. The barred windows had been covered with wax paper, which allowed sunlight entry while maintaining privacy. Plastic tarps smeared with oil paint covered the floor, and canvases hung on the peeling walls. Looking at the unfinished paintings, Johnny saw one recurring image: distorted human eyeballs stared out from the swirling splotches of color on each canvas.

“A new series?”

“I started it two days ago,” Severn said, gazing at his artwork.

“I bet you haven’t slept yet, either.”

“Of course not. Who has time to sleep?”

Knapsack Johnny waded through the bunched-up tarps, Severn leading him into a smaller room. A dentist chair, no doubt scavenged from a Dumpster, sat next to a table with a boxlike tattoo machine atop it. Johnny slid the knapsack from his shoulders and pulled off his sweatshirt, leaving the knit cap on his head.

“What did you bring me?” Severn said.

Johnny reached into his knapsack and took out a photo, which he handed to the Professor.

“Ahhh,” Severn said as he examined the photo. He had stubby fingers for an artist. Professor Aldous Severn, the Needle Man, had achieved legendary status among the denizens of lower Manhattan and tattoo artists worldwide. Specialty magazines featured photos of his elaborate body art, but Severn never granted interviews or allowed himself to be photographed. Johnny had first heard of the mad artist in a bar on Avenue B during his first week in Manhattan. Severn’s nearly mythic reputation intrigued him, and he made locating the eccentric tattooist a priority. When he succeeded, he had to press the Professor to accept his commission. Reclining in the dentist chair now, he gazed at the designs and patterns pinned to the walls.

Severn studied the photo as he arranged his pigments on a tray. “I don’t like working from photos, but yours are different. You’ve got a good eye. Your work shows passion and immediacy.”

Johnny smiled. “Thanks, Professor.”

“I never allow my photograph to be taken.” He loaded the pigments into the tattoo machine. “Crazy Horse and his Sioux warriors believed that cameras robbed their subjects of their souls.”

Johnny’s smile faded. “Do you believe that?”

“No. If my photo were taken, my soul would live on in my work.” Severn unwrapped the plastic from a fresh pack of tattoo needles, then pulled on a pair of latex gloves.

Don’t be so certain
, Johnny thought. The sight of Severn’s gloves reminded him of his own work and his heart beat faster.

The Professor inserted the needles into the tattoo machine. “You keep your chest shaved,” he said, looking over Johnny’s torso. “Good.” Using a spray gun, he applied a coat of rubbing alcohol on Johnny’s torso and Johnny shivered. “Shall we begin?”

Johnny nodded. “Please.”

Holding the photo in one hand, Severn lowered the tattoo machine.

Johnny held his breath, anticipating pain and blood.

G
rateful that Kearny had gotten him back on his feet before the emergency response teams had arrived, Jake sat on a stool, gnashing his teeth as police personnel swarmed through the bar. His heart continued to slam against his ribs and he still tasted coke in the back of his throat. He raised a glass of water to his lips, ice cubes rattling as his hand shook. The cold water made his throat feel swollen. His sweaty shirt clung to his flesh, his own body odor repelling him. Hand radios crackled around him, and shadows moved across the masonry he had exposed by shooting out the mirror. He could only wonder if he looked as bad as he felt. For some reason, the image of Shannon’s rosary beads filled his mind. His thoughts turned to Sheryl. How would she react upon learning that he had almost been killed, and that he killed two men? Someone triggered a camera, and the flash ricocheted off scattered shards of glass, causing him to flinch. After ten years on the Job, he had become the star attraction at a crime scene.

Two uniformed officers—the First Officer on the scene and the Recorder—stood at the door, outlined in red and blue glare from the revolving strobes of emergency vehicles parked at the curb. Otherwise, darkness coated the interior like industrial soot. Gesticulating, Kearny spoke to a wiry-looking man from the Detective Area Task Force for Midtown North while the detective’s partner counted shell casings on the floor. The two paramedics who had proclaimed Dread and Baldy dead now approached Jake. Shaking his head, he waved them off. Exchanging suspicious glances, they shrugged and turned to leave. Exiting the bar, they separated as two men in matching black coats entered between them.

The Rat Patrol
, Jake thought.

Internal Affairs Bureau superseded all other investigative branches of the department in police-related shootings. Jake recognized the taller IAB Inspector, Gary Hammerman, who had busted some of his former colleagues in the SNAP, the Street Narcotics Apprehension Program, for dealing on the side. He had never seen Hammerman’s partner, a squat man whose black hair and five o’clock shadow made him resemble Fred Flinstone. As the Inspectors consulted with the Recorder, Jake narrowed his bulging eyes, which threatened to explode from their sockets. His heart skipped a beat as Hammerman looked up at him from the Recorder’s log. Snorting mucus high into his nose, he straightened his posture.

With their hands shoved deep in their coat pockets, the Inspectors circled the corpses, their expressions grim as they sidestepped the pools of blood. Hammerman spoke to the DATF detectives in a tone too low for Jake to hear. Nodding and pointing around the bar, they answered his questions in the same manner. Hammerman stepped closer to Jake. “Detective Helman.”

“Hammerman.” Jake’s voice sounded hoarse, and he swallowed as Fred Flinstone joined Hammerman. Cognizant that he still had shakedown cash and cocaine in his pocket, he wondered if they heard his heart pounding in his chest.

“This is Inspector Klein,” Hammerman said, gesturing to his partner.

Jake nodded at Klein, who stared at him with his game face on.

Thump-thump-thump
…

“Do you need to see a doctor?” Hammerman said.

Jake felt sweat trickling down his temples. “No, I’m good.”

“Then how about walking us through this?”

“Sure.” Jake slid off the bar stool, the walls tilting around him. He teetered to one side and regained his balance, his chest tightening. The smell of copper rose from the bodies on the floor and he fought the urge to vomit. As he told his story, he pointed at the spots on the floor from which he and the robbers had exchanged gunfire. The Inspectors listened without taking notes or interrupting. When Jake had finished, Hammerman took a plastic bag from his coat pocket and held it out to him.