| "Shadow Stirrer" | ||
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June 13, 2008 Midtown Manhattan, New York City 2 AM forward I sip my coffee and wonder if this is even worth it. I've been working this case for a month now and it leads me here. To this fucking bar in mid Manhattan. I would normally go inside but considering the clientele I'd stick out worse than a white guy at a Nelly concert. Not that there aren't white people inside as I'm sure there is. I know because I've seen them go in, but still, me? I'm a cracker through and through. I drink wine and wear a suit, I listen to Billy Joel and have barbecues with my neighbors, and I have no business being in there unless my business is that of the bad kind. Fine with me. I've got my coffee. And my cell phone. I grab it and work my way to one of those stupid games that only kids can master. What am I doing? I place the cell phone back down on the seat and briefly play with the notion of calling my wife. Excuse me - EX-wife. I'd almost forgotten how much of a bitch she is. She's got the house, a nice little cape out in Patchogue, Long Island, she's got my pension, she's got alimony. She even got my soul. But that's something I can live without...the pension though, that pisses me off. 'Bitch,' I mutter taking another sip of my coffee. It sucks, this coffee. I got it from the little bodega on the corner and I believe, I truly believe, it may be older than me. Nonetheless, it's getting on 2:15 and I know the laws, I'm a detective after all, and they should be closing up. So where the hell is he? The bouncers are milling about the front of the bar saying their good byes to women who are dressed in way too little clothing. Or maybe not, if you're into that shit. I'm not. I like the wholesome women. The librarian types. I don't know why but I've always been attracted to that type of woman. I mean, I'm not some sick sort of dominating guy that has to exert his authority from the work place to the bedroom. I just like that type because I feel I can trust them a little more. I certainly get to exert my authority enough at work, I don't need to do it at home, too. Home. There's a funny thought. My home is currently a half furnished, yet posh, apartment on the Upper West. If I weren't a detective my sorry ass would not be affording that kind of flat. But whatever, I worked my ass off, and if my bitch ex-wife didn't take my money, I'd have a nicer joint. At least we don't have any kids. Divorce must suck for kids. I notice the bouncers closing up and now I'm pissed because I have to get out of my nice run of the mill undercover car and into the field. I put down my coffee and get out. The streets aren't so busy this time of night so I cross it with ease. The bouncers don't even notice me. Luckily, there are all types in the city, so I'm just another cracker to them. I almost smirk at the thought. I move down into the alley that runs along the club, dodging puddles of bubonic plague...water actually, but it's so dirty bubonic plague seems like a compliment. I can hear voices at the back of the bar so I just mosey my way into the shadows and hang out for awhile. My guy is there, laughing and chatting it up with a pretty female. Not the one he usually hangs out with and I wonder if he's looking to get a piece. Good for him. Getting a piece is hard nowadays. He hands her, what I assume to be his cell phone number. That's how it's done nowadays, you give out your cell phone number. Hell, most young people don't even have landlines in their house. It must piss the phone companies off. I almost smirk again. Fuck the phone companies. She leaves, the girl not dressed in too many clothing and two guys are now talking with my guy. I don't even know his name. I've been tailing himfor almost two weeks and you think I would know his name by now. But I don't. Not a fingerprint, a hair, a fiber, an address, registration, nothing. It's like he doesn't even exist. But he does. I know this because I'm looking right at him. And I wonder again why I'm still on this case. It's the closure I think. I was handed this case a month ago, a cut and dry murder. The body in question deserved to die as he was a bad ass. The problem was he had so many enemies it was almost impossible to figure out who had the balls to finally take him out of play. And most of the time these sort of hits go unsolved, just get written off and filed away under 'not closed'. When in actuality they were closed. Filing away cases and having no one working on them constituted a closed case. Just because some were filed under 'not closed' didn't actually mean they weren't. I guess Internal Affairs people like it that way. And it's always easy enough if some new evidence or forensics pops up out of the blue to 're-open' them. But then they're not really being re-opened are they? Anyway, enough rambling of the inner labyrinth of police paperwork, as it comes down to this: when in doubt - bury it. This case should have been buried. But it's not. Or else I wouldn't be standing in the shadows in this godforsaken alley tailing a guy that I have no idea who he is. But I can't let it go. Mostly because I have nothing better to do. Yeah, I'm decorated, I've closed some pretty high profile cases out in Farmington. But that was Farmington and this was the city. Big difference apparently. I still needed to prove myself here in the 'big city'. It was like being a rookie all over again. Didn't matter what I did, didn't matter I single handedly closed the Springheel case. Nope, didn't mean shit. Why? Because it didn't happen in the city. Here is where the best of the best come to boast and grunt their way to the highest payrolls and political platforms. And the newbies get these cases. Lucky me. So, as I'm watching, my guy says something wrong. I can't hear him but he's tense and pulling his hands through his funny hair and doing things with his hands. The two guys he's talking to are also showing signs of being agitated. I pull my gun out for some reason. It's instinctive really, knowing that something is about to happen. And it is. Happening, I mean. The two guys are flailing their hands and my guy is just standing there now looking at them. Then he starts to plead his case. To no avail because one of the guys reaches for his piece. That's what they call a weapon out on the street...a piece. Not to be mistaken with 'getting a piece' which is getting laid. In turn, my guy reaches for his. I can feel the adrenaline pump into my blood and I'm reminded once again why I love my job. The adrenaline rush. Hi, my name is Nick, and I'm an adrenaline junkie. I do smirk this time. My guy is taking a couple steps back and the two guys he's yelling at now are backing up as well. 'I told you I don't know who he is!' my guy shouts at them. One of the guys says something. 'No, I don't, what the fuck, dawg!' he shouts again. My guy's getting desperate. Dawg. Another thing people call each other. I guess everything goes in spurts - dude, homey, homes, slice, boo, shortie, juicy, dawg. It's all the same. Then the first shot rings out. I'm not sure who gets off the first shot but it's one of the two guys mine is shouting at. Then everyone ducks and more shots are heard. The two guys duck almost into the club, probably behind some door I can't see. My guy is hiding now and I can't see him anymore. Maybe I should call for back up? I don't have time because one of the guys go down and is being dragged by the other. Time to make myself known. 'Police!' I scream at them stepping out of the shadows. The guy who had been shot, was apparently not shot that bad as he manages himself up, and with the help of his buddy, his dawg, they duck down into the club. But I've still got my guy to worry about. And now I've got something better - a reason to haul his ass downtown and find out who he is. I love interrogations. Did I ever tell you that? I do. I love them. You wanna know why? Because I'm so fucking good at them. Took a lot of psychology classes in my undergrad so I'm pretty good at fucking with people's minds. I almost grin with the knowledge I'm gonna be getting him soon. But the guys who ducked into the club apparently have other plans and the next thing I know I got bullets flying around me. I throw myself back into the shadows and send a couple rounds their way. Have they no respect for the police? Didn't their mothers teach them that shooting at a police officer, at a detective no less, was not a nice thing? Apparently not as they return fire. Ok, so now I'm thinking I'd really better call in for back up. As luck would have it, that's bad luck by the way, my guy decides to take some pot shots in my direction as well. I get it now. Now they're friends, the old 'an enemy of my enemy' routine. Well, fuck you, too. I send a couple rounds his way. The two guys who started this whole thing have now reassessed their situation and decide it's time to go bye-bye. They duck around a dumpster and are gone down the other way of the alley. I really, really, want to go after them, but what I really, really want to do more than that is get the little prick I've been tailing for two weeks. 'Throw down your weapon,' I shout at him. Which he quickly answers with some more shots. They aren't very good and I wonder if he even knows how to shoot. Little shit probably doesn't even have a license to carry it. Good, just another thing I can use to haul him in. I send out a couple rounds again moving closer to his position. And as I do he breaks his cover and tries to run the other way. 'FREEZE!' I scream out. And he turns. Almost stops himself in mid stride defying the laws of physics as he does. And he raises his weapon. 'Don't do that' I think. I want to say that, I want to tell him not to do that. But there isn't any time. You think you always have enough time, enough time to get things done, time to make that phone call you've been putting off, or time to finally clean out your closet, or unpack, or say I love you. But you don't. Not really. Not when it counts. And I don't have time to say anything because his gun is about four inches from being lined up with my head. So, I fire. BANG! BANG! BANG! Three shots. Each one with it's own significant place in history, it's own sliver of the time-space continuum, it's own area of flesh to embed into. And that's what each of them do as I stand and watch. Each bullet places itself neatly, or not so neatly if you're into graphic shit like that, into his chest. His eyes widen just the slightest bit as he's knocked backwards from the force of the bullets. 'Shit,' I mutter as I lower my weapon. 'Shit, shit, shit,' I say as I move forward. He's not moving. Damn right he's not moving, some little voice mocks me in my head. But someone else is moving and I bring my weapon up instinctively again. I don't have any bullets left. I count them unconsciously as I think every cop does. I think it comes naturally to people like me, this uncanny ability to count your expended bullets in the heat of battle. But I bring it up anyway because the person approaching me doesn't know it. But she's not into the ying and the yang or the karma and all that shit because she just runs right at me with her weapon raised on me. And I'm a little taken by the size of it. It's bigger than mine. And I'm pretty fucking sure it's loaded. We just stand there then. At some point now I'm lowering my weapon thinking she's not a threat. I don't know who she is either, his girlfriend most likely as I've seen her palling around with him once in awhile these last two weeks. Then she raises her weapon to my head... Return |
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