At Their Own Game (2 page)

“So you decided to get into a fist fight outside a bar, just thirty miles from where we do business.”
 

Matt sighed and scratched the wispy growth on his cheek. “It wasn’t like I planned it or nothing.”
 

“Stupid,” I muttered.
 

Even with a credit card slip, though…it was only a misdemeanor. The responding officer would have to really want to follow up to find out who Matt was. So the guy Matt hit had to be somebody important, or the officer was a rookie or a Dudley-do-Right. And even with the slip and a positive identification, they still only had a misdemeanor charge, unless Matt hit him harder than he thought.
 

So most likely, Matt was sitting here on an out-of-state misdemeanor warrant? Maybe things had changed, but back in my day, the jail wouldn’t even let you book on those warrants. I couldn’t imagine this old jail somehow got less crowded in the last eight years.
 

Something more was going on.
 

“Tell me the rest,” I said.
 

“About the fight?”
 

“No. The arrest. What else do you remember?”
 

Matt screwed up his face in thought, looking as if he were in pain. “Nothing special. It was your standard deal. He took my license, then went back to his car and checked me out or whatever. It started taking too long, so I knew something was up. Then a second car got there with two other cops in it. They made me get out of the car, then handcuffed me and stuffed me in the backseat of the cop car.”
 

“Did they search your car?”
 

“Yeah.”
 

“And found nothing?”
 

“And found nothing. I did like you said, Boss.”
 

I thought about it some more. Then I asked, “How hard did they search?”
 

Matt shrugged. “Shit, I don’t know. Normal hard, I guess. They didn’t take nothing apart or nothing like that.”
 

“How long did it take?”
 

“Couple of minutes. Maybe five.”
 

“Then what?”
 

“Then we went to jail.”
 

“Nothing else? No conversations between him and the other cops?”
 

“They were bullshitting a little.”
 

“About what?”
 

“I dunno. Cop shit. I couldn’t hear ‘em the whole time.”
 

“Did a sergeant come?”
 

“How the hell would I know? I wasn’t in the Army, Boss.”
 

I slapped my sleeve with three fingers. “Three stripes on the sleeve. Maybe an older guy. He’d look like he was the head motherfucker in charge.”
 

Matt considered. “Nah, it was just the three of them.”
 

“Did you hear anything on the radio?”
 

“He turned off the radio, right in the middle of an Iron Maiden song.”
 

“No, I mean the police radio. Radio traffic. People talking.”
 

“Oh. No. I can’t really understand half of what they say, you know?”
 

“Nothing, then?”
 

“Well…” Matt thought some more. “Maybe one thing, but I didn’t understand it.”
 

“Tell me.”
 

“The cop asked them something about my name. That’s why I listened. And some woman on the radio told him I was…” Matt furrowed his brow, thinking. “Uh, something like code nine for William one fifty nine.”
 

Shit.
 

“You’re sure it wasn’t
status
nine?”
 

He snapped his fingers. “That’s it. Status nine.”
 

“And it was definitely nine? Not a different status code?”
 

“I’m sure,” Matt said.
 

Shit.
 

“That mean something?” Matt asked.
 

“Yeah,” I said. “It does. Status nine is an intelligence want. It means someone wants to know when you come across law enforcement somehow.”
 

“Like they’re tracking me?”
 

“Yeah, kinda. Or they want to talk to you, so they want notification if you’re booked into jail. Which explains why they booked you on a chicken shit, out-of-state warrant that I’ll bet isn’t even extraditable.”
 

Matt’s eyes brightened. “If it isn’t expeditable, then won’t the judge have to let me out at first appearance?”
 

“
Extra
ditable,” I corrected.
 

“Huh?”
 

“Not
expe
ditable.”
 

“Oh.” He shrugged. “Sorry.”
 

I looked at him for a moment. I’d brought him on board years ago for a little bit of muscle and lower end tasks after he tried to sell me a broken game console. He was a good worker, and usually did what he was told, but at times I worried about his wattage.
 

Times like now.
 

“Never mind,” I finally said. “It doesn’t matter. What does matter is that first appearance isn’t until one o’clock tomorrow afternoon. I guarantee you the William-159 starts his workday around seven. He’ll be over here talking to you before nine.”
 

“Who’s William-159? Do you know him?”
 

“No. Besides, specific designators change. But the William part means he’s a detective.”
 

“So some detective wants to talk to me. So what?”
 

I stared at him. “Really? I gotta explain that to you?”
 

He squirmed a little. “No, Boss. I get it. I mean, I know it’s a bad time, but I ain’t going to tell him shit. In fact, I’m not even gonna talk to him at all. I’ve got rights.”
 

“You
are
going to talk to him,” I said, deciding at that moment. “But you’re right about not telling him shit. I want to know what he’s asking about, though. So string him along. See what he wants to know about.”
 

Matt frowned. “I hate talking to cops.”
 

“So don’t get pinched,” I said. I stood up to go. “Call Brent when you get released. We’ll all talk then.”
 

“Okay,” Matt said glumly, looking like a little kid.
 

“And don’t fucking pout, either.” I pointed my finger at him. “You caused this.”
 

“I know,” Matt conceded. “It’s just lousy timing.”
 

He didn’t know the half of it.
 

TWO
 

Once I was back in my car, I drove without a destination. Maybe it was from my time as a cop on patrol or maybe I inherited some Gypsy blood from my dad, but wandering around aimlessly always felt good. I did some of my best thinking behind the wheel.
 

There was no reason to believe Matt was lying. I wouldn’t bet my life behind him being a stand-up guy, but overall, he was pretty solid. Until lately, he’d been making better money with me these past three years than he ever made on his own, and it was safer work. Plus this situation was a little embarrassing for the guy. He wouldn’t tell it if it wasn’t true and he had no choice but to share it.
 

He was right about the timing, too. If this deal with Randall and Ozzy went right, there was an even bigger one on the horizon. This first deal was like a first date and as luck would have it, things had gone to shit.
 

It was completely my fault. I’d broken my own rules. No drugs. I’ve been out here on the streets, scratching a living out of the criminal life for seven years. That’s a year longer than I spent as a cop. I had set rules for myself, smart rules, and had kept to them. As a result, I never had any trouble except for the bullshit that got me tossed off the job in the first place. No criminal arrests or convictions. My rules worked.
 

I followed them.
 

I made both of my guys follow them.
 

And rule number one was no drugs.
 

First time breaking the rules and my number two guy gets snatched up. Then a detective wants to follow up with him while he’s on the temp floor at the jail?
 

This was bad.
 

I steered smoothly through the S curves at the bottom of the Monroe Street hill, powering up the sloping street. The bright lights of an oncoming car shined in my eyes before flashing past. I slowed for the light at Garland. The old Garland Theater was showing a movie from twenty years ago that I had never seen on the big screen. I almost turned into the lot to go see it, just kill some time and let things simmer in my brain, when I noticed the time. The movie was already an hour into the showing.
 

I turned left instead.
 

I had to call Ozzy and set a new meet. And now this was going to be touchy, because he already had my money and I didn’t have the merchandise. Every minute that passed, I knew that devious bastard was starting to think of
my
money as
his
money, and
his
merchandise as
his
merchandise. And if he decided to cross me, I didn’t have much choice in how to respond. It was either I retire from the business, or I retire him.
 

Which went against rule number two. No murders.
 

I was breaking rules left and right, it seemed.
 

By the time I made it back to my small house, I needed a drink. I had barely poured two fingers over ice into a water glass when I heard a rapping at my slider door.
 

I put the drink down, pulled my .45 from the kitchen drawer and held it alongside my leg, out of sight. Then I pushed aside the blinds and peeked out.
 

It was Brent.
 

I stuffed the gun into my belt at the small of my back and unlocked the slider. “Anyone see you?” I asked.
 

“Naw,” he said, shaking his head. “I parked on the next block over and took the alley, just like you always say.”
 

“Good.”  I stepped aside and let him in, then shut the door and left the blinds closed.
 

“Man, Boss…it’s dark in here,” Brent said. “You’re not going to whack me or something, are you?”
 

“You watch too many Scorsese movies,” I told him.
 

He didn’t reply.
 

“Relax. I’m not a bad guy,” I said, and flipped on the kitchen light. “Better?”
 

He shrugged.
 

“You want a drink?” I pointed at my whiskey.
 

“Yeah,” he said gratefully. “I could use it.”
 

I got some ice and poured him a splash. We sat at the kitchen table and drank in silence for a few minutes.
 

Finally, Brent said quietly, “I did everything like you said.”
 

“I know.”
 

“I did,” he insisted.
 

“I believe you.”
 

“Just sayin’.”
 

I didn’t answer. I took another sip of the whiskey and thought.
 

Brent turned his glass slowly, staring into the alcohol. After a few moments, he said, “So Ozzy has our money.”
 

“Yes.”
 

“And he has our stuff.”
 

I nodded. “Yes, he does.”
 

“So what are we gonna do?”
 

“You’re going to pick up Matt when he calls,” I said. “Then we’ll meet. Talk about it and work it out.”
 

“Meet where?”
 

“I don’t know yet. I’ll figure it out and tell you when you call. After you pick him up at jail.”
 

Brent nodded. “Okay.”
 

We sat for a while longer. Brent spun his glass some more, the tendons in his hands and rangy forearms flexing beneath the skin. On a first look at the guy, he appeared skinny. But upon closer examination, he was all wiry muscle, tight as a whipcord. He always reminded me of an old cowhand or something.
 

Neither of us had much to say, and with Brent, I could sit in silence comfortably. Matt was a talker, he’d fill the silence with conversation. It didn’t matter about what. He’d find something to talk about, whether it was girls or sports or just some smart-ass remarks. I realized some time ago that it was the words that put him at ease, whereas it was the silence that put Brent there.
 

Which is why I kinda wished it was Brent who was going to be chatting with William-159 in the morning, and not Matt.
 

“Hey, Brent?”
 

“Yeah?”
 

“You figure we’re better off getting our money back, or the merch?”
 

Brent stared at me, blinking and not answering.
 

I brooded on my question for a little while. The truth was, it had been tickling the back of my mind since I left Matt.
 

Finally, I asked him, “You got an opinion on this?”
 

He shrugged. “I really hadn’t thought about it until you just now said something.”
 

“Well, think on it now,” I said. “Thing is, we’ve made a decent living at what we do. Fencing is safe, especially since we follow my rules. We don’t deal with druggers, just the pros. And the loans we make are never high profile, just to schmoes who are a little short in their paycheck. Hell, I think we barely charge more than those payday advance people. And how many times have you had to get physical with anyone?”
 

“Never,” Brent admitted. ”A few times making threats is all.”