enough.”
“That is not what I am saying at all.”
“Tell your boy, Puwolsky, I’m in.”
“He’s not my boy.”
“Tell him I’m in.”
Stanzer reached out and grabbed M.D. by the arm. “McCutcheon, listen to me.”
M.D. scowled at the colonel, his eyes clearly sending the message,
Take your hands off of me.
Stanzer released his grip.
“Listen, son,” the colonel said in a softer voice. “This thing they are asking you to do, I can’t find out squat about it. All I know is, this shit’s the belly of
the beast.”
“You don’t think I can handle it?”
“What I think is that once you go into that penitentiary, the same person is not going to come back out.”
“Can the cops protect her?” M.D. asked.
“In Detroit? Versus the Priests?” Stanzer shrugged. “Right now they’re on her round the clock. But next week? Two weeks? A month from now?”
“Exactly,” M.D. said, a disgusted look on his face.
“That’s why I am saying you gotta let this girl go. Take yourself off the hook. You’re not responsible for the fuckedupness of the entire city of Detroit; and this relationship
you think you still have with her, it’s gone. Over. Dead.”
McCutcheon threw his hoodie over his head. “Downtown Detroit bus station at oh-nine-hundred the day after tomorrow. Have your boy meet me there,” McCutcheon said.
Stanzer knew he couldn’t control M.D. No one could. But still, he tried.
“Son, wait…”
“I have waited. Now I’m clear. And I need a hundred bucks.”
M.D. extended his hand, palm side up. Stanzer scrunched his face.
“What?”
“One hundred dollars,” M.D. said. “Do you have any cash?”
The colonel tilted his head sideways, not understanding the request, but McCutcheon’s arm remained outstretched. M.D. was entirely serious.
After a moment of strained silence, the colonel reached into his back pocket, fished out his wallet, and counted off some bills.
“I imagine twenties will do?” Stanzer said sarcastically.
“Actually,” M.D. replied. “I’d prefer a single note.”
Stanzer nodded his head. “Of course you would.”
The colonel squinted his eyes, fiddled around inside his wallet, and passed McCutcheon a hundred-dollar bill.
“Do I get to know what it’s for?”
“The Tooth Fairy.”
Stanzer folded over his wallet and put it back inside his rear pocket. “Prices have skyrocketed, I see.”
“It’s not the tooth I’m paying for,” McCutcheon answered. “It’s the heartbreak.”
M.D. turned.
“Oh-nine-hundred,” he repeated and then he walked away.
Next stop: prison.
F at plops of rain pelted the sidewalk and bounced upward off the cement from under a gray and dreary sky. McCutcheon didn’t bring a bag to
the bus station because he knew he wouldn’t need one. Prisoners enter jail like a baby enters the world: naked, traumatized, and completely dependent on another entity. Newborns get the warm
and tender breast of a mother. Inmates get the cold and bitter tit of the Department of Corrections.
“Did he try to stop you?” Puwolsky asked.
“No.”
“Did he tell you you’d have any support?”
“No.”
“Did he go over any aspects of how to execute this mission, any strategies, plans or directives?”
“No.”
Puwolsky rubbed his chin. “And you don’t find this odd?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because Stanzer either shows one-hundred-percent support or none at all,” M.D. said. “He’s an all-in or not-in type of guy. This is my thing.”
Dickey Larson sniffed. “A man of principles, huh? I eat fuckers like that for breakfast.”
“Kid, meet Larson, my partner in the narcotics division,” Puwolsky said. “Larson, be nice and try not to foam on our friend. He’s on our side, remember.”
Dickey Larson stood six foot three inches, two hundred thirty pounds, and sported trapezius muscles the size of meteorites. With his hulking upper body so exceptionally disproportional to the
size of his calves and
“That is not what I am saying at all.”
“Tell your boy, Puwolsky, I’m in.”
“He’s not my boy.”
“Tell him I’m in.”
Stanzer reached out and grabbed M.D. by the arm. “McCutcheon, listen to me.”
M.D. scowled at the colonel, his eyes clearly sending the message,
Take your hands off of me.
Stanzer released his grip.
“Listen, son,” the colonel said in a softer voice. “This thing they are asking you to do, I can’t find out squat about it. All I know is, this shit’s the belly of
the beast.”
“You don’t think I can handle it?”
“What I think is that once you go into that penitentiary, the same person is not going to come back out.”
“Can the cops protect her?” M.D. asked.
“In Detroit? Versus the Priests?” Stanzer shrugged. “Right now they’re on her round the clock. But next week? Two weeks? A month from now?”
“Exactly,” M.D. said, a disgusted look on his face.
“That’s why I am saying you gotta let this girl go. Take yourself off the hook. You’re not responsible for the fuckedupness of the entire city of Detroit; and this relationship
you think you still have with her, it’s gone. Over. Dead.”
McCutcheon threw his hoodie over his head. “Downtown Detroit bus station at oh-nine-hundred the day after tomorrow. Have your boy meet me there,” McCutcheon said.
Stanzer knew he couldn’t control M.D. No one could. But still, he tried.
“Son, wait…”
“I have waited. Now I’m clear. And I need a hundred bucks.”
M.D. extended his hand, palm side up. Stanzer scrunched his face.
“What?”
“One hundred dollars,” M.D. said. “Do you have any cash?”
The colonel tilted his head sideways, not understanding the request, but McCutcheon’s arm remained outstretched. M.D. was entirely serious.
After a moment of strained silence, the colonel reached into his back pocket, fished out his wallet, and counted off some bills.
“I imagine twenties will do?” Stanzer said sarcastically.
“Actually,” M.D. replied. “I’d prefer a single note.”
Stanzer nodded his head. “Of course you would.”
The colonel squinted his eyes, fiddled around inside his wallet, and passed McCutcheon a hundred-dollar bill.
“Do I get to know what it’s for?”
“The Tooth Fairy.”
Stanzer folded over his wallet and put it back inside his rear pocket. “Prices have skyrocketed, I see.”
“It’s not the tooth I’m paying for,” McCutcheon answered. “It’s the heartbreak.”
M.D. turned.
“Oh-nine-hundred,” he repeated and then he walked away.
Next stop: prison.
F at plops of rain pelted the sidewalk and bounced upward off the cement from under a gray and dreary sky. McCutcheon didn’t bring a bag to
the bus station because he knew he wouldn’t need one. Prisoners enter jail like a baby enters the world: naked, traumatized, and completely dependent on another entity. Newborns get the warm
and tender breast of a mother. Inmates get the cold and bitter tit of the Department of Corrections.
“Did he try to stop you?” Puwolsky asked.
“No.”
“Did he tell you you’d have any support?”
“No.”
“Did he go over any aspects of how to execute this mission, any strategies, plans or directives?”
“No.”
Puwolsky rubbed his chin. “And you don’t find this odd?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because Stanzer either shows one-hundred-percent support or none at all,” M.D. said. “He’s an all-in or not-in type of guy. This is my thing.”
Dickey Larson sniffed. “A man of principles, huh? I eat fuckers like that for breakfast.”
“Kid, meet Larson, my partner in the narcotics division,” Puwolsky said. “Larson, be nice and try not to foam on our friend. He’s on our side, remember.”
Dickey Larson stood six foot three inches, two hundred thirty pounds, and sported trapezius muscles the size of meteorites. With his hulking upper body so exceptionally disproportional to the
size of his calves and
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