Creekers (44 page)

“It’s me, Phil.”

“Who?”

“Phil. You know, your new driver.”

“Whadaya want?”

“Come on, man. Open up. This is important.”

With further grumbling, Sullivan undid several safety chains and opened the inside door. He stood there groggily, dressed only in boxer shorts. “What? Ya find that bastard Blackjack?” he asked.

“No, man,” Phil said. “Sorry to wake you up, but this really is important.”

“Yeah, bub, ya already told me that.”

“I need to ask you something.”

Sullivan’s muscled chest flexed when he thumbed the sleep out of his eyes. “Ask me somethin’? What?”

“Well, I need to know which side of your face do you want me to bust first, the right or the left?”

Sullivan’s beady, sleep-puffed eyes stared at him. “What the fuckin’ hell you talkin’ ab—”

Phil punched right through the flimsy storm screen; his fist slammed into Sullivan’s big, wedgy face with a sound like a baseball bat to a heavy bag. Sullivan reeled backward, arms pinwheeling, and stumbled over a tacky armchair. He landed flat on his back.

Phil invited himself in. “Wow, Paul, great place you’ve got here. I love the Dart Drug furniture, and those carpet tiles?” Phil whistled. “I’ll bet they cost you a buck a piece at least, huh?”

Sullivan dizzily tried to rise; Phil kicked him in the chest with his pointed boot. “Oh, by the way, Paul, your previous trepidations were quite on the mark. I’m a cop. And one more thing… You’re under arrest for possession of and intent to distribute PCP.”

Sullivan looked up from hands and knees. “A cop? You chump motherfucker. I knew there was somethin’ fucked up about you.”

“Congratulations on your perceptivity,” Phil said. “And, let me make it perfectly clear—” Phil rammed the heel of his palm into the top of Sullivan’s head —
whap!
— “that you have the right to remain silent” —
whap!
— “and anything you say will be used against you in a court of law.”
Whap!
“You also have the right to an attorney. If you can’t afford an attorney” —
whap!
— “the state will be happy to appoint one to you at no cost.” With that, Phil picked up a flimsy, fiberboard coffee table and promptly broke it over Sullivan’s head—

crack!

Sullivan collapsed.

Phil looked around. The place was a dump, but that’s pretty much what he expected. Porno magazines were spread over the kitchen table; empty beer cans filled a plastic trash can. When Sullivan came to, he rose again on hands and knees.

“I got my rights, bub,” he growled. “You can’t just walk in here and assault me.”

“Yes, I can,” Phil said, and swept his pointed boot right up into Sullivan’s belly. “Please pardon my lack of proper law enforcement protocol, but you know, it’s a two-way street? I get great pleasure out of kicking the shit out of a dope-dealing scumbag like you. And you can tell the D.A. that I violated your rights till you’re blue in the face, but who’s he gonna believe? As for the bruises and, hopefully, broken bones, well…you should be more cooperative with the local constables, Paul. It’s not nice to resist lawful arrest.”

Phil then punched Sullivan in the side of the head so hard his knuckles hurt. Then he straddled Sullivan, and cuffed his wrists behind his back.

“Listen to me, Paul. I don’t like PCP, and I don’t like guys who sell it. You’ve been to the joint already, and I guarantee you, this bust will send you up for five to ten. I think the cellblock boys will be happy to see you again, wouldn’t you say?”

Phil grabbed Sullivan’s mussed hair and gave it a good hard twist.

Sullivan shrieked. “You can’t do this, man! You’re torturing me!”

“No I’m not, Paul.” Phil gave Sullivan’s hair another twist. “I’m ‘interviewing’ you, for relevant information concerning a local police investigation.”

One more twist, and Sullivan was a ludicrous sight, squirming flat on his belly in his boxer shorts with his wrists handcuffed behind his back. “But there is one thing you should know, Paul,” Phil went on. “There are times when I am mysteriously given to acts of leniency. In other words, you start running that ugly mouth of yours and tell me the stuff I want to know, then maybe, just maybe, I’ll drop the distribution charge and see to it that you don’t get more than eighteen months in the can. They’ll drop it to nine if you show them some good behavior, Paul. So what’s it gonna be? Nine months or ten years?”

Sullivan continued to squirm on his belly. “Why should I trust you?”

“Because to a lowlife, scumbag, two-time loser like you, I’m the most trustworthy guy in town.” Phil laughed. “I want to know who your supplier is, and I want to know where he makes his product. But more than any of that, Paulie, I want to know about your competition, this other local supplier you and Eagle are trying to undersell.”

Sullivan slackened. “I ain’t tellin’ you shit, bub.”

“Aw, Paul, don’t call me bub. Let’s try to cooperate, huh? Who’s that local dust supplier? Where’s his lab?”

“Fuck you,” Sullivan replied,

“Okay, be like that.” Phil got back up, kneeling on Sullivan’s back in the process. Sullivan shrieked again, then shrieked even more when Phil hauled him up by the handcuffs.

“Guess I’ll just have to get what I want out of Eagle,” Phil remarked, hauling Sullivan toward the door. “I’m taking you to jail now, that’s right, in your boxer shorts. How do you like that…bub?”

««—»»

Phil booked Sullivan into the county lockup, with an isolation request pending investigation—no visitors, in other words. He didn’t want Paul telling Eagle or any other cronies that Phil was the law.
Let him sit in the lockup for a week or so, he’ll change his tune once he remembers what it’s like to be back on the cellblock.
And as for Phil’s overall conduct—well, he didn’t feel too badly about it. If he’d learned anything at all on Metro, it was this: When dealing with scumbags, you sometimes had to be a scumbag yourself. Nor was he worried about Sullivan filing any brutality charges. The judge would take one look at Sullivan’s rap sheet and laugh harder than Slappy White, and Sullivan knew this. Pretty soon that lesser-charge offer Phil had made would be looking better than a pile of ground round to a wolf that hadn’t eaten in a week.

He was dog-tired when he pushed through the rickety front door at Old Lady Crane’s boardinghouse.
What a night,
he thought. Then his heart skipped…

Just as he passed the stairwell, a figure stepped out.

“Phil?”

“Jesus, Susan!” he nearly yelled. “Don’t sneak up on me like that—I was about to go for my piece!”

“My, aren’t we jumpy today,” she said. “I heard your car pull up, so I came down.”

Phil let his heart return to its normal beat, then smiled. “Didn’t mean to yell,” he apologized. “But I’m getting so deep into the local dope circuit, it’s making me edgy.” Only then did he take full note of her. Her bright-blond hair was tousled, and she stood bare-legged and bare-foot, dressed solely in a long white nightshirt. Her blue eyes looked at him groggily; she’d obviously been sleeping, and this only reminded him of the ludicrous schedules night-workers kept. “It’s almost ten a.m.,” he joked. “Isn’t that past your bedtime?”

“I couldn’t sleep. I was too worried about you getting your ass shot off,” she came back. “What happened with Sullivan?”

Again, Phil was flattered that she actually worried about him. What did that mean? “I busted him,” he told her. “Come on, I’ll fix us some coffee and tell you all about it.”

She padded behind him to his room. “My room’s hotter than a steambath. How about ice water instead?”

“Coming right up.” He went to his cubby of a kitchen and plunked ice into two glasses. “Anyway, like I was saying, I went to Sullivan’s place and busted him on a distro charge. You should’ve seen how ridiculous the guy looked standing in front of the booking sergeant in his boxer shorts. It was great!”

“Did he give you any trouble?”

“Not after I broke the coffee table over his head.” He gave her the glass of water, then they both sat down on his busted couch. “They took me on to drive for them, and Eagle verified that they’re trying to undercut another dust distributor in the area—”

“Natter?”

“I’m sure,” Phil said. “And they also told me their point people have been disappearing right and left, so that just verifies our suspicions even more. We were supposed to meet some drop-man named Blackjack last night, and the guy never showed. I’m convinced now. Natter’s putting contracts out on anyone trying to move dust on his turf.”

Suddenly Susan looked distressed. “Phil, you’re getting too close too fast, aren’t you? This is really getting scary.”

Phil wasn’t sure what she meant. “How so?”

“How so? Natter’s hitting the outside competition, Phil, and with you driving for Eagle, that makes you as big a target as any of them. If they catch you with Eagle, they’ll kill you.”

“And if I flash my badge—”

“They’ll kill you anyway.”

Phil shrugged at the undeniable reality. “I’ve been doing stuff like this for years. And I’m
very
careful.”

“You better be,” she whispered more to herself than to him.

It seemed strange, the way she was acting, but by now it was occurring to Phil very clearly that something was up. As always, her plain, honest beauty was tuning him up. Here she was, in an old nightshirt, her hair mussed, and her eyes puffy with fatigue, but she still seemed more beautiful to him than a thousand centerfolds.
She’s gorgeous even when she’s a mess,
he thought. He could tell she was braless beneath the nightshirt, and probably pantiless too, judging by her obviously conscious effort to keep her legs closed. Any other guy, he knew, would be making a move now, but Phil also knew that Susan was not a woman men made “moves” on; she didn’t live by typical social games and sexual tactics. He’d like nothing more right now than to take her to his bed and make love to her. But…