Chemical Burn (10 page)

Cards as Meditation

“I can’t tell you much up front,” I told O’Neil as we got in line, “but I’ll tell you anything that won’t risk a friend’s life.” I stepped up to the counter and waited for Marsha to finish taking payment from the customer in front of us.

“I don’t like being kept in the dark, Case, you know that,” he said, “especially not when someone like DiMarco is up to something in my city. He’s a tough son-of-a-bitch … and smart, too.”

“I know. Pains me to do it, but I don’t really have much choice right now.” Marsha turned to us.

Flashing a warm smile, I asked, “Hey, Marsha. How’s the leg?”

“Stitches come out tomorrow,” she replied with a faint southern drawl that slid over the ear like water over glass. She stood five-foot-seven, had a crew cut of Irish-red hair, and a light sprinkling of strawberry freckles to match. She smiled at us both with jade green eyes that sucked customers in, and she had a physique to make any top-notch Vegas stripper envious. The common rumor had it that pole dancing was how Marsha had been able to buy Grady’s, but I knew the truth. I’d been there when it all came down.

“I guess the guy didn’t get you too bad, eh?” I asked.

She beamed with pride. “Hell, no! Ten stitches in the calf is all, and it barely touched the muscle, just a centimeter or two deep into the flesh. It was my own fault really,” she said, berating herself. “I didn’t get my leg up high enough out the gate. It clipped his knife as it went by when I kicked him in the jaw. Broke his jaw, though, so it was worth it,” she added with a wicked grin.

“Nice work!” I cheered, laughing. I’d been teaching her martial arts for a few years, and she was a hell of a good fighter.

“We’ll have to practice higher kicks in our next session,” she said, “but it’ll be a week or so before I can work the leg. That bastard and his two friends are a whole lot worse off, though. None of them are even out of the hospital yet, and the ringleader’s still in critical. Internal injuries. Apparently, I ruptured his spleen when I kicked him in the belly. I almost feel bad about that …
almost
,” she added with another grin. “Thanks for the training, Justin.” A look of sincere gratitude drifted across her face.

“It’s my pleasure. I like Grady’s way too much to see its owner get clobbered or worse by weekend punks.”

“Stupid kids picked the wrong bitch.” She smiled sweetly at us. “Now what can I get you boys?”

“Two apple fritters and two sicklys, please.”

Marsha raised an eyebrow. “You got stuff to work out, right?”

“You know me well, honey. The place is jammed this morning, so we’re heading to the back for some privacy, if that’s okay with you.”

“Go right ahead. I’ll bring your order back when it’s ready.”

O’Neil and I walked to the back of Grady’s past two dozen patrons cramming Marsha’s fantastic food down their necks while they drank her flawless coffee.

We walked past the restrooms to a door with a sign that read
PRIVATE—DO NOT ENTER
. I looked behind me to make sure no one could see inside, and then I opened the door. We both stepped in quickly, and I hit the lights as I walked by. The door automatically swung closed behind us.

The fluorescents came on, exposing a nice but used-looking gambling parlor. Technically, the place was unlicensed, but O’Neil was the sort of cop more worried about protecting and serving than upholding the letter of the law. He’d never gambled there, but he turned a blind eye to the place.

Straight ahead were four large poker tables, two blackjack tables and, set aside from the rest, a roulette wheel for the suckers. To the left stood a fully stocked bar, and Marsha had put in a burgundy sectional conversation pit on each side of the door. Both pits faced multiple flat-screen TVs that hung on the walls. In addition to the gaming, she ran a little off-track and sports betting. I walked behind the bar and pressed the play button on the stereo. “Blues for Salvador” by Santana came on.

“God she has good taste,” I muttered as I closed my eyes to enjoy the first few riffs. Finally, I turned back to O’Neil who stood there and smiled at me, waiting patiently. He knew all about my love of music. “Have a seat,” I offered. We both sat down and leaned back comfortably in the worn leather seats.

“DiMarco never stopped running drugs,” I said bluntly.

“I often suspected, but nobody could pin anything on him. How do you know?”

I pulled uncomfortably at my ear. “That’s one of the things I can’t tell you yet.”

“Shit,” O’Neil muttered as he shook his head.

The door to the parlor opened, and Kenny Schmidt, not Marsha, came in with a tray laden with two gigantic, hot apple fritters as well as two cappuccinos in the biggest cups Marsha used. At seventeen, Kenny had the skinny, emaciated frame of a habitual drug-user but the glowing face of a clean kid. He wore a Grady’s t-shirt, overly long, torn blue jeans rolled up at the ankles, and ratty, black Converse sneakers.

“Hey, Kenny, how are you?” I asked.

“Great, Case. Things are finally going pretty well.”

“Staying out of trouble, Schmidt?” O’Neil asked in his gentle but stern cop voice.

Kenny had been busted by LAPD the year prior on a minor drug offense and done sixty days. The target of the bust was a fairly well known street dealer. Most of the kids caught up in it rolled the dealer over, but Kenny refused to, not out of loyalty to the dealer, but because he wouldn’t make someone else pay for his mistakes.

That was the reason I liked him so much. He’d told the arresting officer he was willing to do his time. That’s what had caught O’Neil’s attention. Kenny was a decent kid who got caught up with the wrong people.

“Yes sir, Captain. I am … thanks to Case here … and Marsha.”

“Good,” O’Neil and I said in unison as I reached into my jacket.

“Glad to hear it,” O’Neil added.

Kenny set a fritter and mug in front of both of us. O’Neil reached for his and took a sip, wincing slightly at how sweet it was, and gave me a dirty look. I’d been waiting all morning for that wince … and that look.

“Here, Kenny.” I pulled out a thick wad of hundreds and peeled one out. I handed the crisp bill to him. “Keep the change. Go get some clothes, okay? And art supplies. Spend it on anything else and I’ll kick your ass.”

“Thanks!” Kenny blurted, shocked at the size of the tip. “Thanks a lot! I really appreciate it.”

“Just stay clean, okay?” I said in as close to a fatherly tone as I’m capable. “That’s the deal.”

“You got it Case,” he said a bit sheepishly. He turned around and walked out, closing the door behind him.

It was going on two months since Marsha and I had walked out of my martial arts studio and seen Kenny run into a dead-end alley nearby with four gang-bangers hot on his tail. Being who I am, I naturally went after them, with Marsha trailing. It wasn’t a contest, and the two of us came out of the alley with sore knuckles wrapped around the arms of a badly injured Kenny.

The gang-bangers were carried out of the alley in plastic bags a few days later.

O’Neil sat there grinning at me.

“You old … err …
young
softie.” He sipped his sickly-sweet cappuccino, and I saw a hint of familiar jealousy as he once again looked at my young face. Not in a bad way, merely the mild, friendly resentment between friends when one of them wins the lotto. It irked him that my appearance hadn’t changed in twenty years. I’d told him years ago that I suffered from an ultra-rare disorder called Lazarus Syndrome that prevented my features from changing much over time.

I blushed with youthful cheeks and smiled a little while O’Neil ran fingers through a receding hairline, surely wondering how he could catch Lazarus Syndrome.

“Kenny needed a break,” I said quietly. “Marsha and I were there at the right place and time to lend a hand. He’s a good kid, and he’s got real talent. I didn’t want to see it get snuffed out by gutter-bound assholes before it had time to mature.” I pointed to a painting on the wall behind O’Neil.

He looked over his shoulder at a four by six painting of a blossoming L.A. sunset with the sun partially obscured by the Pacific. Full of deep yellows, reds, and purples, it brightened the wall to the left of the monitors.

“Kenny?” O’Neil asked.

“Kenny.”

“You’re right,” he said, impressed. “The kid’s got a gift.” He took another sip of cappuccino and added, “You’re okay. You know that?”

“Yep,” I replied in my cockiest tone.

He gave me a sullied look. It wasn’t dirty, per se, but it wasn’t clean either. “I still hate you,” he added.

“Anyway,” I continued, undaunted, “as I was saying, I can’t tell you everything I know, but I know he’s trafficking … no proof yet. What you do need to know is that it’s probably big,
really
big. More importantly,” and I paused for longer than necessary, looking apologetic, “you won’t get to arrest him.”

“
WHAT?
” O’Neil coughed, foam shooting up into his face and onto his pants. He continued coughing and wiping himself off as I suddenly got a deadly serious look, the old me peeking out from the back of my mind. It was the look my few friends had come to know meant there was no changing my mind and no alternative.

“I’m going to kill him, O’Neil. And I’m gonna make it
hurt
.”

Captain O’Neil stopped coughing and stared at me for long seconds. “Justin, sometimes I think you forget I’m a cop. You can’t tell me that shit, man.”

“I haven’t forgotten, but don’t pretend to be Gandhi. You’re a great cop, but you’re not squeaky clean. Besides, you know damn well you won’t be able to pin anything on me, and the fact is that it’ll be a public service. You guys have nabbed him, what, three times over the years? Four? And he
always
walks.” My voice sounded almost accusatory. “Am I wrong?”

“No,” O’Neil said quietly, not a little embarrassed.

“Then stay out of my way on this one and ship the body to the morgue when you find it. Splash the papers with it. I’m going to give you maybe the biggest bust this city has ever seen, shut down whatever DiMarco is doing, and finally end a career that never should have gotten started in the first place.” I stared hard into O’Neil’s eyes, “Can you think of one good reason why I shouldn’t take his head off?”

“Aside from that pesky little thing called
the Law
, no, I can’t.”

“Look, O’Neil, in a nutshell, whatever DiMarco is doing is huge, and it has to do with drugs …
lots
of them. Maybe it’s T-Rex. The more I think of it, the more it makes sense. He sure as hell didn’t go legit like he tells the papers. He found subtler ways to do more business. And apparently he did it completely under everyone’s nose, including yours … and
mine
.”

“You think VeniCorp is a front for all this?” O’Neil asked.

“Looks that way. You can run taps on anything you want wherever you want to get a feel for what’s going on. Just make damn sure you don’t let him know you’re watching, okay? What I have to do requires that they don’t see it coming for a while.”

“Could any of our surveillance mess you up? Possibly expose you?” he asked with a bit of concern. We’d done this particular dance many times in the past.

“Not a chance. Don’t worry about me,” I assured him. “Just don’t act on anything till I say go.
Please
.”

“Okay, Case. You always seem to know what you’re doing … at least so far. And I owe you … hell, the city owes you. I just hope you don’t screw up, or it’ll go bad for you one way or another. You get caught, and I won’t be able to protect you, understand me? I can’t help you if you fuck it up.”

“Hey,” I said, smiling and as cocky as ever, “it’s
me
.”

We both heard his phone vibrate. He pulled it out of his pocket and answered. “This is O’Neil.”

I always got a kick out of when O’Neil put on his official “captain” voice.
He really is a good cop
, I thought to myself. I couldn’t make out what the other person was saying, but he got a serious look on his face.

“Right.” He nodded. “Got it. I’ll be there in fifteen. Lock it down and don’t let anyone in or out till I’m there, understand?” He closed his phone. “I have to go,” he said, crisply. “Bank heist went south downtown … two cops and one asshole dead. Three more assholes are hiding in a What-A-Burger … with hostages, including a baby. You got a ride?” he asked as he got up. He took a few more gulps of his cappuccino, wincing again at the sweetness, wrapped the fritter in a napkin and headed for the door.

“Yeah, don’t worry about me. I’ll have Rachel pick me up when I’m done here. She and I are going to lunch later anyway. Go take care of business, and no prisoners, right? The only good asshole is a dead asshole … except for me, of course.”

“Well, hard to argue with you on either count, but I have to follow the rules, Case, at least in public. It’s my
job
, remember?” As O’Neil opened the door, I stopped him.

“Hey, O’Neil?”

“Yeah?”

I did my best imitation of Sergeant Phil Esterhaus from
Hill Street Blues
and said, “Let’s be careful out there.”

He sighed and shook his head. “I hate you, Case.”

“I know,” I said, laughing, “Be careful anyway, okay?”

“Right.”

We smiled at each other like old comrades, and O’Neil walked out. The door closed slowly behind him, leaving me alone with my thoughts. I picked up my sickly and fritter, walked over to one of the poker tables, and sat down as the song “Shape of My Heart” by Sting started. The words “He deals the cards as a meditation …” sifted through the speakers.

“Hmmm … good idea,” I said to the empty room. I reached into a pocket and pulled out a tarot deck wrapped in a scarf. I unwrapped the cards, shuffled quickly, and laid seven down from left to right. One by one, pausing at each card, I flipped them over and stared blankly at the picture before me. The door to the gambling parlor opened without me noticing, and Marsha watched me go through the exercise a few more times.

“I wouldn’t have thought you were into tarot, Case,” she said, but I was only peripherally aware of her. “They have tarot wherever it is you hail from?”