The Big Mitt (A Detective Harm Queen Novel Book 1) (18 page)

With the force of muscles born of a thousand fights, and a brief, shivering rush of pleasure, he stuck the handle of the hammer down into the back of its neck, slowly and carefully, until it came out the other side and met the dirt.

There was a small yard behind Hayward’s wretched house, and Queen passed out its back gate and through the little alley until he was under the bridge’s shadow. The supporting column was much wider than he was tall, and stood stoically like a concrete monument to the floodplain’s gods. He circled around the column and toward the river, searching for a glimpse of Pock. I should have tied some of that sandpaper on my shoes, he thought. He hadn’t slipped yet, though, even jogging at a brisk pace.

His fingers were beginning to feel slick with sweat, and he paused in the darkness behind the massive bridge support to shove the gun into his holster and wipe his hands dry. He patted his pockets for his gloves, but they were gone. He was breathing hard and the cold air turned his exhalations into tufts of icy mist. I’ve barely made it out the door and I’m already used up, he thought, but there was something about a chase that excited him, too. All the problems plaguing him seemed less important when he was defending himself and others against a gun-wielding villain. Let me catch my breath and try to convince myself how insignificant they are. He’d suffered the indignity of being denied a promotion by Doc Ames, and it gnawed on him. It wasn’t Doc, though, who made the decisions. The colonel was firmly in control and didn’t trust Queen, despite everything he’d done to prove his loyalty to the new mayor. This led to the mystery of Maisy’s murder, and Colonel Ames’s refusal to have it properly investigated. Doc had given a thousand and one campaign speeches about his firm stance on crime and the importance of swift justice. But the first violent crime on his watch was being swept under the rug, and it made Queen furious. Then there were his own financial issues, and the debt he needed to settle to get a mick crime lord from Saint Paul off his back. What else could go wrong in his life? He could die right here, for one. He could be dropped with a bullet in the head and left to die in a garbage dump. It would certainly solve all his worries. And wherever he ended up, be it a bright flowery field in heaven or the burning pits of a fiery hell, it would be a damned sight warmer than Minnesota in January.

Another crack reverberated under the bridge. He drew his weapon again and peered out of his hiding place, looking for the shot’s origin. He didn’t have a view of the house, as the concrete pillar stood firmly in his way, but he could see the river and much of the trash on its snowy bank. He knew Pock was hunkered down behind some pile of muck waiting for a clear shot into the shack. He wondered whether that last gunshot had come from Pock or from Norbeck, and where it had been aimed.

A layer of ice stretched nearly across the river, but he saw it thin out as it met the flux of black moving water in the center. The Mississippi’s current was deceptively strong underneath. He’d been called out on duty more than once for suicides off the Washington Avenue bridge, and it was always an exhausting job to find the bodies once they’d been sucked under and swept down river. Distraught students during finals time sometimes felt enough pressure to prefer an icy plunge into oblivion over facing their parents’ wrath. Then there were the children playing too close to the edge who slipped in, and the occasional boozed-up tramp camped on the bank, who by accident or malice found himself flailing for his life in the murky, treacherous depths.

Queen carefully stepped out from his cover, examining the bleak, frosted landscape for some sign of Pock. A lone bird circled some edible garbage on the river’s edge, and he heard voices and a streetcar’s clang above him on the bridge, seemingly close yet a world away. All signs of activity on the bank had ceased; the child garbage collectors and the old man must have vacated the dump quickly once the first gunshots ignited the air. One less thing to worry about, Queen thought. He watched the bird land between a broken crate and a pile of fat burlap sacks that were oozing their foul innards onto the ground, probably dated food from a downtown restaurant. The bird stabbed its beak at one of the bags, and then suddenly flapped its wings frantically to scoot a few feet away. The glint of a black rifle barrel poked out of the stack of sacks, and Queen was relieved that it was pointed at Adry’s shack and not him.

He crept forward, hunched down, heedful of where he put his feet as he kept his eye on Pock’s hiding place. There was no danger of him being in the rifle’s line of fire, he figured, because the burlap sacks were firmly packed around the little prick like a cocoon. It would simply take a stealthy prowl around and behind the gun barrel, and the capture would be quick.

His shoelace was untied again, both ends flapping on the wet ground. As he bent down to retie the knot, he noticed his fingers weren’t sweating anymore. Just knowing he had the upper hand was starting to slow his heartbeat to a more or less natural pace. For good measure, he took a couple of deep breaths to bring himself back to a semblance of composure.

To err on the side of caution, he chose a wider loop around, making absolutely sure he wasn’t spotted from the side. But as he picked his way through the rubbish, he realized he could be seen from the shack’s broken window. Christ, I hope Norbeck gets a good view of me and doesn’t think I’m Pock. I’m taller and fatter and don’t look like something from the sewer, so he should have the sense to not fire at me.

Another pop shattered the silence, and he whipped around to see where it came from, just in time to see splinters fly from the shack’s door. I need to get him before someone gets hurt, he thought. He tried to move faster but it was tricky, maneuvering around the intermittent pockets of refuse and odd obstacles. Every foot forward was another adventure. He passed a decapitated rocking horse lying sadly on its side. With the next few paces, he found himself stepping ungracefully over a smashed baby-blue crib with a ragged blanket crumpled up inside.

He finally reached the point where he had to head back towards his prize. Each step had brought him closer to the river’s edge, and he grew unsure whether he was standing on firm ground or thin ice. A cart stood directly between him and the heap of garbage hiding Pock, and he moved toward it, less cautiously now, confident in his situation. Fortunately the way was clear, and he sprinted to the cart without apprehension, gun drawn and spirits high. The cart was the perfect cover, piled up with a tangle of broken furniture, the morning work of the children he’d seen earlier. There were plenty of cracks to see through, and he viewed the object of his desire, the stinking stack of burlap sacks, wiggling and heaving from his foe’s little body squirming inside. He crouched down to think. Maybe he has to piss, and he’s having a hard time removing his trousers. The thought of this cheered him completely. I’ll walk right up behind, point my pistol at the back of his head, tell him to throw his weapon to the ground and order him out. He’ll be sharing a cell with Dander and Higgins before lunchtime.

Queen steadied himself with a hand on the cart’s wheel. He readied himself to move, said a quick prayer to his dead mother, and threw himself up and forward, using the wheel as leverage to give himself a little momentum. The cart creaked and rolled backwards under his grip, and dropped on his foot before he could pull it away.

He let out a groan as he fell backwards, landing hard on the packed snow and splaying himself out like a stranded fish. With a push of his elbows and a groan he sat up, and then managed to stand. His muscles strained as he shoved, pulled and rocked the wheel with every ounce of his strength, but it made no movement. Hoping for the tiniest give, he found himself even trying to swear it into submission through a vile, whispered stream of curse words, but the only effect that had was to frustrate him more. The stubby wooden wheel had found the very rut where his foot stood and trapped him securely under the cart’s weight. His ankle was slightly bent, and he went down to a kneel, tugging at his shoe and hoping to slip his foot out, but the ice burned at his fingers and he knew after a minute of digging that it was no use. He was in a bad box.

More sweat now, and it felt clammy against the chill of the wind off the river. He heaved himself up and stared again past the cart’s cargo and in Pock’s direction. Most of the sacks had been pushed aside, and he could see a couple of slushy footprints in the pool of slime forming on the ground. He looked around for his gun, and saw it lying a few feet away, just beyond a brown, broken liquor bottle.

Backwards he fell, stretching to reach his weapon. His fingers clawed above his head and into the ice, but he wasn’t even close to touching it. With his foot trapped he could only lie on his back, sprawled and flailing like an overturned turtle, but he bent his head onto the ice and stared at his gun, coveting its black barrel and brown handle grip.

He felt as helpless as a baby in a crib as Pock stepped around the corner of the cart and stood above him. It had been awhile since he’d seen him, but nothing had changed except the disgusting state of his clothes, now coated with swill and caked with bits of bluish meat. He still hunched slightly, and wore his thin little French-style mustache over an ever-present sneer. God, Queen thought, blinking his eyes against the sky’s brilliant white, he had really gotten himself in the soup. It was going to take some quick thinking to climb out. Pock was brandishing the rifle, and Queen thought back to his conversation with Norbeck about the weapon that killed Maisy. The bullet had come from the same kind of gun—probably the very same gun—that Pock now held in his claws.

Queen managed a smile. “Fancy meeting you here. You must feel right at home amongst the garbage.”

“Fancy meeting you here, without a soul to see.” Pock wiped his nose with his skinny forearm, and pointed the rifle at Queen’s head.

“Your boss is a jailbird,” Queen said. “He’s got bigger problems right now than a couple of scared wags and a skulker who jumps at his own shadow. What gives?”

“As long as I get paid, I follow orders. Nothin’ more to it. I’m supposed to keep meddlers away from old pointy prick and the whores.” He curled his mouth up into a ghoulish smile. “So far, so good.”

“And now you’re in trouble with the Minneapolis police department. You’ve got to be daft, shooting at cops. How far in life do you think you’ll get making damn-fool decisions like that?”

“If I kill you, and then your pal inside, who would know?”

“Every detective and sheriff in Minnesota will hunt you down if you kill me.”

Pock laughed. “I heard you ain’t supposed to be working on this case anymore. I’ll wager nobody even knows you’re down here.” Queen’s mouth dropped slightly in surprise, and Pock’s eyes brightened when he saw it. “Everyone underestimates ol’ Pock, but I’m a sneaky son of a bitch with my ears to the ground. And if you think your partner is any match for this here Remington Rolling Block, you’ve got more than a screw loose, copper. I’ve got the upper hand, and don’t you know it!”

So that was Dander’s plan after all. He had required a payoff, but Queen had assumed it was all about getting out of jail, not the thrill and satisfaction of murdering a police officer. Pock had orders to finish them off quietly, in a place empty of witnesses.

“So how do we proceed?” Queen spread his hands.

“I don’t know,” Pock shrugged. “I guess just kill you and be done with it.”

“Like you killed Maisy Anderson? You’re holding the rifle that did it, too, aren’t you?”

Pock glowered at Queen. “Somebody else did that. We were trying to scare her silly, yeah, but the bullet came from somewhere else. The hell if it was me.”

“Quit with your goddamn lies! You did it!” Queen snapped. His eyes flashed darkly at Pock. “You did it under Dander’s orders, and you pulled the trigger. I’ve got a witness that saw everything.”

“You ain’t got nothing except a couple of breaths left,” Pock sneered.

“I’ve got a partner who isn’t going to let you out of this levee alive if you use that thing on me.”

“Ha!” Pock’s greasy, matted hair clung to his forehead. He reached into his pointed nose, flicking something out with a blackened nail. “Everyone’s heard about how hopping mad you get. Must be a real pisser for you to be on your back looking up at me like this.”

More insults aren’t going to do me any favors, Queen thought, and he took a deep breath. Reel it in. He lifted his hands over his head, as if to surrender, and felt the cold hardness of the liquor bottle’s neck lightly brush his finger. He managed a smile. “No point in me getting mad, or you either. I’ll admit you’ve got me at a disadvantage, but I’ve got other things you might want. Cush, for instance.”

“Don’t move!” Pock yelled, tensing his arms as he held the rifle’s aim at Queen. The sound of his words seemed to travel through his nose and come out in a nasal sputter. “Not even a twitch, copper! God, I hate coppers!”

His finger trembled around the trigger, and Queen watched his hand intently for movement. If he shoots at me, he’ll hit where he’s aiming. I might try moving to the left or right, but my chances are nil to none. A half-dozen ideas flew through his head about how he might avoid being murdered in a garbage dump, but none seemed to have any promise of success. He looked again at Pock’s twitching trigger finger, and then at his bloodshot eyes. He scanned down to the rifle’s mechanism, and saw the hammer was pulled back, ready to fire. But something looked odd, and it didn’t register for a second or two. But when it did, he almost instinctively slapped his forehead.

Hellfire. Why didn’t I see that before?