Superbia 3 (12 page)

Sapphire spun in her stool and got up, reaching down to squeeze the inside of his thigh, "But if things don't work out between the two of you, you better give me a call.  Shit, I need a good man."

Alone at the bar, he tried to calculate when the last nightmare he'd had about the Polonius job had been.  A month?  Two months? 

You know exactly when it was,
he thought. 
It was right around the same time you asked Ophelia to meet you, except that time it wasn't to talk about a job, it was to talk about the two of you.
  He watched Sapphire stop at the bottom of the stage and toss a handful of singles at Ophelia's feet, then press herself against the stage to ask for a kiss.  Her tattooed wrist bearing a memorial for the man Frank had hated so much he'd wanted to kill him.  It was like Ralph Polonius was laughing at him from the depths of hell, telling him they were expecting him. 

The crowd went nuts as the two strippers kissed. 

Frank turned around and headed for the rear exit, keeping his face down as he went through the door. 

Frank tapped the steering wheel impatiently, waiting in the station's parking lot.  He looked at the clock on his dashboard.  8:15 AM.  Finally, he saw Reynaldo's car turn down the long driveway and rolled down his window.  He stared at the younger officer through his dark sunglasses and said, "You're late."

"I'm sorry, boss," Reynaldo said as he jumped out of his car and threw the door shut to hustle toward Frank.  He waved a blue binder in the air and said, "I had to finish this before I came."

Frank watched him get in and said, "What were you doing, your homework?"

"Exactly.  I was up all night creating my undercover identity."

Frank tried keep a straight face, "You're not serious."

"I decided that I would be Guatemalan.  We had plenty of them in my neighborhood and I know all the little details.  I picked out what town I'm from, what my parents do for a living, everything.  I'm ready, Frank.  That son of a bitch can ask me anything."

Frank held out his hand and said, "Can I see that?"

"Of course.  You want to quiz me?"

Frank took the binder from him and tossed it over his shoulder into the back seat, sending a flurry of pages scattered across the seats.  "Forget all that.  Your name is Reynaldo, you live in the area and are looking for a job."

"But what about the identity?"

"What identity?" Frank said.  "Listen to me, this isn't some goddamn movie.  You start spouting off all sorts of details about shit that's made up, you're going to forget them."

"No I won't."

"You say that now, but just wait until your mind is spinning a thousand miles an hour.  Listen to me, criminals are not dumb.  They are like creatures in the jungle.  They prey on people, and their instincts at reading them are just as good as yours and mine.  When you are on their home turf, they're reading you.  You can't afford to give them any advantage."

Reynaldo sulked in his seat and said, "Fine."

Frank took a deep breath as he shifted into drive.  "So what city did you pick?  The one you wanted to be from?"

"Villa Nueva," Reynaldo said. 

"Sounds nice.  You ever been there?"

"No."

"Is that the place they have sex with donkeys?"

"What?"

"I watched a news report about some towns in South America where the locals have sex with donkeys.  Some kind of belief that it makes their penises big enough to have sex with women.  It was pretty disturbing."

Reynaldo turned to look at him, "That's disgusting.  No, they do not have sex with donkeys in South America.  That's bullshit."

Frank turned the steering wheel, "I'm not saying all of South America.  I'm just saying that in the countryside, in this particular town, it's a local tradition to fuck donkeys."

"Typical American.  You think that just because people don't have as much money as you or live more simply or traditionally, they are dirt."

"I never said that," Frank said.  He squinted to see the sign for Burgorff's on the building at the end of the block.  "I said it was something I saw on the news."

"What about this country, huh?  Every day some little child is raped or stolen or murdered.  Just like those
pendejos
in Florida who shot that baby.  Sometimes I think this entire country is in the grip of
Satanas
."

Frank pulled the car up to the curb a block away from the store and said, "Do you watch Fox News?"

"What about it?"

Frank lowered his seat back, "They must do some kind of subliminal messaging
to make all you people into lunatics."

"
Hey, at least they are fair and balanced."

"If you say so.  Anyway,
listen up.  Do you understand what your goal is today?"

"Yes.  To make contact with the manager, Fred Phelps, and to see if they have cameras in the kid's changing room as described by the CI."

"No," Frank said. "Your goal is to determine whether or not he still works there.  Contact is not necessary.  After that, you can worry about the cameras."

Reynaldo nodded, starting to get nervous again.  He touched his chest and felt the badge dangling from a chain tucked beneath his
baggy sweatshirt and then the gun on his hip and took a deep breath, "I'm ready."

Frank pointed at Reynaldo's chest,
"You always wear that stuff?"

"
Sure," Reynaldo said.  "Just in case."

"Let me guess, that's what they told you in the academy?"

"It's better to have it and not need it than need it and not have it."

Frank
nodded, "That's good.  Perfect for a streetcop.  My dad was a streetcop his entire career.  Every report he ever wrote probably said, 'Saw bad guy, arrested same.'  Streetcops go out every night and bust heads, collar drunks, all that.  A streetcop would walk into that store, see somebody doing something wrong, and arrest them right there.  Boom."

"
Is there something wrong with that?" Reynaldo said.

"Nothing," Frank said, "if all you want is the satisfaction of putting handcuffs on someone and watching them get sent to jail for a month.  Detective work is slower.  More methodical.  But if you do it right, and really build a case against someone who deserves it, you can put them in jail for twenty years."
  He watched the young man squint at the front of the store and take a long, hesitant breath.  "Undercover work isn't for everybody, Rey-Rey.  It's about blending in.  Hiding that police part of yourself that makes people pick you out of a crowd and say, 'That guys a cop.'  A lot of guys can't do it.  Being the cop in the crowd is too much of their identity."

Reynaldo
reached into his shirt and tugged the chain up until he was able to slide it off his head.  He unsnapped his gun and holster from his side and handed them over to Frank without a word before he popped the car door open and was headed down the street.   

Reynaldo dabbed his forehead with his shirt cuff as he entered the store and saw moisture on the sleeve.  He forced himself to steady as he walked through the front doors and looked around at the dozens of clothing racks and bargain bins of shoes and assorted sale items.  Dark-skinned women wearing full Muslim coverings moved through the aisles, their brightly colored Nike sneakers swishing under their long, dark robes.  Reynaldo headed for the customer service counter. 

A bored twenty-year-old girl looked up from her US Magazine and popped her gum at him.  "Welcome to Burgorff's.  Can I help you?"

"Is Mister
Phelps working?"

"What can I help you with, sir?"

Reynaldo paused, "I was told to speak with him about a job."

She reached under the counter and came up with a clipboard and a pen, "Fill this application out.  Make sure you put your address and three references."

Reynaldo took the clipboard as the girl went back to her magazine, studying the glossy two-page layout of the Kardashian sisters.  "Excuse me, is Mr. Phelps here, though?"

She huffed and
looked back up at him, voice thick with impatience, "No.  He isn't here."

He picked up the pen and was about to write something, stalling to gather his resolve.  "Do you know when he will be back?"

"He's off today.  He'll be back tomorrow. 
Okay?
"

"Okay," he said.  "I'm going to take this application with me and fill it out at home.  I'll bring it back in if that's okay with you."

She was already back into her magazine, looking down as she said, "Whatever you want."

He folded up the application and slid it into his jeans pocket, stepping back from the counter as he congratulated himself on his first successful completion of an undercover assignment.  He turned around to look for where the dressing rooms
and suddenly froze in place at the sight of Marissa from the ambulance crew, staring directly at him.  She threw her hand in the air and called out, "Officer Rey!"

Reynaldo glanced back at the Customer Service counter and saw the girl look up at him curiously.  He turned back to Marissa and hurried forward, reaching out to catch her by the elbow as he hissed at her to "Be quiet."

She pulled her arm away in surprise, "What's the matter with you?"

"I'm working," he mumbled. 

She looked at his sweatshirt and jeans and said, "You quit being a police officer?"

"No," he said.  "I am
working.
  Doing something.  Keep your voice down."

She instantly looked at the people around them and lowered her voice, "You mean you're undercover?"

Her eyes lit up like dark galaxies of glittering stars as she looked at him and Reynaldo smiled slightly, "Yeah."

"In here?"

He nodded.  "You want to help me?"

She grinned at him, "Hell yeah.  What do I have to do?"

He took her by the hand and said, "Come in the dressing room with me."

Marissa
yanked her hand back, "You ass.  Goodbye."

"I was being serious," he called out to her.

"I know you were, but I'm not that kind of girl,
jugador.
"

Reynaldo waved his hand at her as she walked away but stopped to scope out the way her round backside looked in the tight, low slung jeans she was wearing.  He caught the briefest glimpse of her purple thong peeking just above the waistline. 
"Madre de dios,"
he muttered to himself as he headed for the sign marked:
Dressing rooms, three clothing items at a time.

He snatched a few shirts off the nearest rack without looking at the sizes and turned into the hallways, seeing a series of dressing rooms lining the walls.  Beige paint peeled off their metal surfaces and on the one closest to him, Reynaldo could see the shredded white backing paper
where a dozen stickers once covered the door.  He opened it and walked in, throwing the shirts down on the bare bench.  There was a mirror and a few hooks but nothing else in the room, save for a tall string of thumbtack holes that lined the corners of the walls from the floor to the ceiling.  Reynaldo ran his thumb over the holes, imagining where they'd once fastened the stuffed animals Paul Moses had described.

He looked up at the ceiling, searching the tiles for missing pieces where a camera could peek down, but there was nothing.  He stepped back to inspect the mirror, wondering
if Phelps' camera was recording him from the opposite side of it at that very moment.  Reynaldo quickly pulled off his sweatshirt and picked up one of the shirts from the bench and went through the motions of trying it on.  He was glad he'd ditched the gun and badge after all. 

"Well?"

Reynaldo slid into the passenger seat and shut the door as Frank shifted gears and pulled out into traffic.  "He still works there.  The girl at customer service was a bitch, but she said he'd be in tomorrow.  I grabbed an application.  I figure I can drop it off to him tomorrow and talk to him if you want."

"Smart," Frank said approvingly.  "How about the dressing room?"

"It wasn't set up anymore, but it definitely used to be.  Maybe Phelps got spooked after the incident Moses was talking about.  I looked around for other cameras, but I didn't see anything."