drums and smoke signals?" he says.
This means that what is about to follow comes from the office grapevine, rumors that have no confirmation this side of the grave.
"It's my life on the line," he tells me. "You gotta promise it goes no further." I give him three fingers in the air, poking out from my beer can, like some blood oath between brother inebriants. Leo cannot wait to tell me, which, knowing the man, is a good hint that what is to follow is bad news.
"There was a case, maybe six months ago, a cop named Wiley, shot in a raid out by the park, a crack house."
"Killed, as I recall," I tell him. "I remember reading about it. Some controversy."
"He was off duty at the time, which raised a few eyebrows," says Leo. "Part of a rat pack. Hotshots with battering rams in the trunk of their cars like other people carry fishing rods. Their idea of a good time was picking some pusher's nose with the barrel of a Beretta. You know the type," he says.
To Leo this is a mortal sin, a violation of the wages and hours rule that governs all life. Leo has never worked a minute of overtime for which he was not paid.
"They made some kid for the killing. Sixteen. They tried him as an adult," says Leo.
"Sounds like justice to me," I tell him.
"Except for one thing," he says. "The kid denied he did it. Said the gun wasn't his."
"Imagine that," I say. "Novel defense."
"Yeah, very novel," says Leo. "Novel-type story. That's why nobody gave it much credence. They checked the serial number. This is no Saturday-night special, mind you. Smith and Wesson thirty-eight. Well, lo and behold," says Leo, "the piece was stolen. Household burglary. So everybody figures the kid for it. Right?" I give him an expression, the picture of logic.
"Except there's more history to this particular piece. Seems one of the clerks down in Property is going through records doing a little inventory, trying to see how much they lost over the course of the year, cars, planes, hotels, that kinda shit, and what do you think he finds?"
I give him a shrug. One thirty-eight Smith and Wesson--missing." Let me guess. The same serial number."
"Bingo," says Leo. "Theory is somebody, one of the cops, dropped the piece on the kid at the scene."
"What? An accidental shooting? One of them panicked?"
"You're too trusting," says Leo. The only man more cynical than me. "Then why?"
"That's the other shoe," says Leo. "We been hearin' rumblings no complaints, mind you but tom-toms from the street for over a year that some cops have gone into business for themselves, shaking down dealers, taking cash, and when they can, drugs. Nothing too big," says Leo. "A little here, a little there, a grand here, a kilo there. It all adds up.
Now, mind you, these guys, the victims, are in no position to file a consumer complaint. So what we hear is just informal." Leo's getting animated, into the story.
"Like, Officer," he says. "See that son of a bitch over there? He took my bag of crack and this month's supply of horse. Yeah, that's right, the one over there, wearing the uniform just like yours."
"I can imagine how it might chill a complaint," I tell him. "You think that's chilling," says Leo. "Try this one. All of the officers on the raid with Wiley that night were part of Mendel's clique. Two of them were officers in the association. On the board," he says. Leo is zeroing in.
"What does that have to do with Tony Arguillo? You're not telling me ... " He starts to nod his head.
"Your man Tony," he says, "was the one who took the gun off the kid." HAPTEB
HAVE BEEN CALLING lenore's APARTMENT ALL evening with no success. Sarah is now asleep in her bedroom and I while away the time going over some files from the office. Ten minutes later I pick up the phone and have one of those extrasensory experiences that occur once in an eon. I go to dial and there is a voice on the other end.
It is Lenore.
"Mental telepathy," I tell her. I look at my watch. It's after ten. "You
This means that what is about to follow comes from the office grapevine, rumors that have no confirmation this side of the grave.
"It's my life on the line," he tells me. "You gotta promise it goes no further." I give him three fingers in the air, poking out from my beer can, like some blood oath between brother inebriants. Leo cannot wait to tell me, which, knowing the man, is a good hint that what is to follow is bad news.
"There was a case, maybe six months ago, a cop named Wiley, shot in a raid out by the park, a crack house."
"Killed, as I recall," I tell him. "I remember reading about it. Some controversy."
"He was off duty at the time, which raised a few eyebrows," says Leo. "Part of a rat pack. Hotshots with battering rams in the trunk of their cars like other people carry fishing rods. Their idea of a good time was picking some pusher's nose with the barrel of a Beretta. You know the type," he says.
To Leo this is a mortal sin, a violation of the wages and hours rule that governs all life. Leo has never worked a minute of overtime for which he was not paid.
"They made some kid for the killing. Sixteen. They tried him as an adult," says Leo.
"Sounds like justice to me," I tell him.
"Except for one thing," he says. "The kid denied he did it. Said the gun wasn't his."
"Imagine that," I say. "Novel defense."
"Yeah, very novel," says Leo. "Novel-type story. That's why nobody gave it much credence. They checked the serial number. This is no Saturday-night special, mind you. Smith and Wesson thirty-eight. Well, lo and behold," says Leo, "the piece was stolen. Household burglary. So everybody figures the kid for it. Right?" I give him an expression, the picture of logic.
"Except there's more history to this particular piece. Seems one of the clerks down in Property is going through records doing a little inventory, trying to see how much they lost over the course of the year, cars, planes, hotels, that kinda shit, and what do you think he finds?"
I give him a shrug. One thirty-eight Smith and Wesson--missing." Let me guess. The same serial number."
"Bingo," says Leo. "Theory is somebody, one of the cops, dropped the piece on the kid at the scene."
"What? An accidental shooting? One of them panicked?"
"You're too trusting," says Leo. The only man more cynical than me. "Then why?"
"That's the other shoe," says Leo. "We been hearin' rumblings no complaints, mind you but tom-toms from the street for over a year that some cops have gone into business for themselves, shaking down dealers, taking cash, and when they can, drugs. Nothing too big," says Leo. "A little here, a little there, a grand here, a kilo there. It all adds up.
Now, mind you, these guys, the victims, are in no position to file a consumer complaint. So what we hear is just informal." Leo's getting animated, into the story.
"Like, Officer," he says. "See that son of a bitch over there? He took my bag of crack and this month's supply of horse. Yeah, that's right, the one over there, wearing the uniform just like yours."
"I can imagine how it might chill a complaint," I tell him. "You think that's chilling," says Leo. "Try this one. All of the officers on the raid with Wiley that night were part of Mendel's clique. Two of them were officers in the association. On the board," he says. Leo is zeroing in.
"What does that have to do with Tony Arguillo? You're not telling me ... " He starts to nod his head.
"Your man Tony," he says, "was the one who took the gun off the kid." HAPTEB
HAVE BEEN CALLING lenore's APARTMENT ALL evening with no success. Sarah is now asleep in her bedroom and I while away the time going over some files from the office. Ten minutes later I pick up the phone and have one of those extrasensory experiences that occur once in an eon. I go to dial and there is a voice on the other end.
It is Lenore.
"Mental telepathy," I tell her. I look at my watch. It's after ten. "You
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