At Their Own Game (3 page)

“Right. Usually, showing up is good enough with these citizens. Throw in the credit card scams, where only the banks get hurt and they’ve got more money than Switzerland and probably stole most of it, so fuck them, right?”
 

Brent smiled, though it seemed a little forced. “Fuck the banks is my life motto.”
 

“It seems to me that it was enough.”
 

“While it lasted,” Brent said.
 

I nodded in agreement. It was funny how a huge economic downturn like the one the country was experiencing now affected the shadow economy we operated in, too. Recession and depression helped us on the supply side. More people on the borderline of getting by were willing to steal a little to survive, so merchandise was easier to come by, and at a cheaper rate. I had an entire storage unit full of electronics, lawn mowers and other shit to prove it.
 

The problem came in on the flip side. When I went to sell the stuff, it drew the same depressed sticker price. At the end of it all, even though I was buying stock for less, I was forced to sell it for too little. Our operation has been in the red for the last six months, and more so every month.
 

 Still, we were all getting by. All of us had some cash squirreled away that we were dipping into to keep afloat. Even Matt had barely grumbled about the downturn. And then we used that reserve to pony up for this deal with Ozzy. Except for some walking around money and some show money in my legit checking account, I was all in. I guessed Matt and Brent probably were, too.
 

“So now you’re getting cold feet?” he asked.
 

“Not cold feet,” I answered. “Just wondering if this ain’t God’s way of saying we should stick to what we know. Ride it out. We’re not bad guys, really. Not compared to most. But dope is a whole different world, bringing risks we don’t need. And everyone is a fucking liar where dope’s concerned.”
 

“All due respect,” Brent said, “but you didn’t have this much to say when we were deciding whether to throw in on this deal.”
 

“I know,” I said. “And I’m sorry about that. I saw the dollar signs just like everyone else. Triple our money back? At least? It’s hard to say no to that.”
 

“We didn’t.”
 

“I know,” I said, matter of factly. “And somehow I don’t think it’s going to be as easy as returning a shirt to JC Penney when it comes to getting our money from Ozzy.”
 

“Maybe we oughta get the merchandise instead,” Brent said, staring down into his drink.
 

I sighed and didn’t answer. We all three got starry-eyed over a quick profit equal to a year’s worth of working our normal angles. A
good
year, before the downturn. I should have known better. Staying away from the dopers all this time is what kept me safer than ninety percent of the crooks out there.
 

After another long silence, Brent tipped his glass back and drained his drink. I asked if he wanted another. He shook his head and stood to go. “I gotta put some time in with the girlfriend.”
 

I didn’t even know he had one, but we kept that part of our lives quiet from each other. “All right.”
 

He let himself out the slider door, and left.
 

I made myself another drink, but only finished half of it before I decided to go to sleep. I still didn’t know the answer to this predicament, but I figured being drunk
and tired didn’t exactly increase my odds of figuring it out.
 

THREE
 

My phone rang the next day at eleven o’clock. For a second, I couldn’t tell where the sound was coming from. Then I realized it was the kitchen. I swung myself out of bed and staggered down the hallway and onto the cool linoleum. My phone vibrated next to my unfinished drink from last night.
 

“’Lo?”
 

“Boss?”
 

Brent.
 

 “Yuh?” I muttered.
 

“I wake you?”
 

“No.” I sat down at the table, rubbing the sleep from my eyes.
 

“I tried to call you a little while ago, is all.”
 

“I’m up. What’s going on?”
 

“I’ve got Matt. Where do you want to meet?”
 

I looked over at my clock again. 11:17. He shouldn’t see a judge until one.
 

“He’s out?”
 

“Yeah.”
 

“How?”
 

“I don’t know. I just picked him up, like you said. Where do you want to meet?”
 

I stifled a yawn and scratched the stubble on my cheek. My radar pinged lightly. Something wasn’t right.
 

“Bowl and Pitcher,” I said. “Just up the trail from the parking area. There’s a picnic table there.”
 

“The one that looks out over the river?”
 

“That’s the one.”
 

Brent hung up without saying goodbye.
 

I glanced down at my phone. I had four missed calls and one message. The most recent missed call was Brent.
One from late last night was from Cleo. The other two were blocked.
 

I figured the message would be from Cleo. Our thing was tenuous but comfortable. When her schedule had her laying over in Spokane, she called. We had some fun. Outside of that, maybe an occasional phone call just because, or a postcard from wherever the friendly skies took her.
 

When I hit the button and the message played, I was surprised to hear a male voice.
 

“Whatever happened,” Ozzy said in a gruff tone, “is your fucking business. Let’s figure out ours. Soon.”
 

I deleted the message.
 

Don’t worry, asshole. We’ll figure it out.
 

I pulled on my jeans and a T-shirt. I rummaged around my closet for a few seconds and found a long sleeve button-down shirt and put it on, too, leaving it unbuttoned. It was too warm for a jacket, but I needed something to cover the .45.
 

I tugged on my work boots, checked to see that the gun had a round in the chamber and slid it into the small of my back.
 

Seven years in this life, and how many times have I actually needed a gun? Not many. It’s not necessary if you limit who you deal with, and stay square with everyone. Now that we were a goddamn drug operation, I just wasn’t sure anymore.
 

“Damn,” I muttered, locking the front door and heading to my car. Right now, I felt more regret than concern, and I knew I had to shake that. I had to deal with our problem for what it was and leave the philosophy for later.
 

The drive to the river took ten minutes, dropping straight down Driscoll to the TJ Meenach Bridge. I took the exit to the small road along the river and headed
west. Bowl and Pitcher was technically a state park, but it was inside the city. Sometimes it was busy, sometimes it was like no one else was alive in the world. Given the clouds in the sky and the threat of rain, I was hoping for the latter.
 

Brent’s Camaro was already there when I arrived.  Out of habit, I parked on the opposite side of the small lot of packed dirt. Then I headed up the trail to the picnic area. Off to my left, the rush of water over rocks created a wall of sound. The powerful, constant roar was comforting.
 

Both Matt and Brent were sitting on the table, their feet resting on the bench seats. From a distance, they gave me the same impression as a couple of teenage kids. Matt seemed like he was striking a pose, being a little defiant of the rules as he messed around on his phone. Brent looked at ease, smoking a cigarette. As I got closer, both appeared more relaxed than I felt.
 

“Hey, Boss,” Brent greeted me.
 

I nodded, then turned my attention to Matt as he slid the phone into his pocket. I looked for a sign that something was up, but he seemed his regular, affable self.
 

“You’re out early,” I said. “You get time off for good behavior or something?”
 

He chuckled. “Nah. Jail sergeant figured out that my warrant wasn’t
extra
ditable.” He winked at me.  “So they had to let me out. I didn’t even have to see the judge.”
 

“He didn’t figure that out last night?”
 

“That was the night shift guy. This was a different sergeant, the day shift one. A woman.”
 

Matt would notice that. “What time did they tell you this?”
 

“I dunno. About eight-thirty or nine?”
 

Shift change used to be at seven. If the sergeant was reviewing all of last night’s bookings, then catching Matt’s as being on a non-ex warrant, plus the time to confirm it and give orders to contact the prisoner….yeah, that could take an hour or two.
 

“When’d you get out, then?”
 

“A little before eleven.”
 

“That’s long for processing.”
 

“Nah, they processed me quick. That only took about twenty, maybe thirty minutes.”
 

“Then what took so long?”
 

“I did like you said. I talked to the detective.”
 

I nodded slowly and took a few steps to a stump nearby. I sat down, leaning slightly forward. I could feel the handle of my .45 poking out of the jeans at the small of my back.
 

“And what did he want?” I asked.
 

“He was one fishing motherfucker,” Matt said, smiling. “He asked me about everything under the sun, from dope to swag to running rum with Al Capone.”
 

“How the fuck do you know who Al Capone is?” Brent asked, his low voice quizzical.
 

Matt smirked at him. “HBO. Duh.”
 

Brent shook his head and took a drag on his cigarette.
 

“Never mind the History lesson,” I said to Matt. “This detective, did he ask about me?”
 

“Nope.”
 

“What about Brent?”
 

“Not a word.”
 

“Did he know anything about any of the things we’re into?”
 

Matt shook his head. “Nothing specific.  I mean, he
asked
about stolen property, and he
asked
about drugs, but he didn’t know any
body
or any
thing
specific.”
 

“And what did you tell him?”
 

“Not a thing,” Matt said proudly. “I just walked around the park with him, tried to draw him out, y’know?”
 

I thought about what he’d said. Then I asked, “What’s this detective’s name?”
 

“He gave me his card.” Matt reached into the back pocket of his jeans and handed me a cream-colored business card. I took it.
 

Next to the black and white representation of the SPD badge, I read “Detective Kyle Falkner.”
 

My stomach fell.
 

Shit.
 

“You know him, Boss?” Brent asked.
 

I nodded slowly. “Knew him.”
 

“He any good?”
 

“Depends on who you ask,” I said, staring at the stark print on the business card. “The brass doesn’t like him much. Neither do most of the other detectives.”
 

I ran my thumb across the business card, but it was flat, no fancy embossing to be had. That figured. Kyle wasn’t that kind of cop.
 

“Why not?” Matt asked. “He seemed like a halfway decent guy to me. For a cop, I mean. Maybe a little intense, but…”
 

“He’s pretty much a case-solving motherfucker,” I said.
 

“Oh. Well, it didn’t seem to me that he had any kind of case. Not by the questions he was asking me, anyway.”
 

“He’s got a case,” I said. “You can be sure of it.”
 

“You think maybe he’s onto Randall or Ozzy?” Brent asked. “And not us?”
 

I shook my head. “I don’t think so.”
 

“Maybe the score, then?”
 

“No. It’s me. I’m his case.”
 

“How do you know that?” Matt asked.
 

I almost laughed.
 

“Let me tell you a little story.”
 

FOUR
 

Growing up in the Hillyard neighborhood, arguably the roughest part of Spokane, they used to tell us kids that we’d end up either cops or criminals. Our teenage years served as internships, where we got to decide which way we’d go. Or maybe it was decided for us. I don’t know.
 

I do know that I avoided getting into any serious trouble. Yeah, I smoked a little weed and I stole some shit, but never got caught.
 

Eventually, I got to not liking the kind of person I was becoming. I hung out with people who were drinking and smoking dope constantly and ripping each other off. I decided that wasn’t me. I wasn’t like that. Wasn’t a bad guy. I even got a little self-righteous about it, and maybe that’s what eventually caused my downfall. Karma is a bitch, and she doesn’t forget.
 

So I became a cop. Maybe it was to prove I was different. And maybe for a while, I was. I didn’t know for sure. Truth be told, I still don’t.
 

When I first came on the job, I was as full of piss and vinegar as any other rookie. I bought into that bullshit about honor and service. Hell, maybe it wasn’t bullshit. Maybe it was real, and it just turned into bullshit later.