Archer Mayor - Gatekeeper

Spinney loosened his hold slightly, and Natty gasped for air like a man breaking free of deep water.

"I swear to god," he continued, "I wouldn't do that. Heroin kills people. It's not like weed. Ask anybody. They'll tell you. I wouldn't allow it in the house. It's weed only. Never anything else. I make sure my kids know that. That they spread the word. I don't even let 'em smoke cigarettes."

Lester Spinney stared at him for a moment and then released him. "Where're your kids now?"

Sherman blinked. "My kids? What?. . Hold it."

Lester grabbed him again. "Focus, Natty. Answer the question, for both our sakes."

Natty's eyes widened. "Andy's at home. Jeff's. . I don't know. He said he went camping."

Spinney let go again and pounded his fist against the cabinet just above Sherman's head, making the latter wince. "Shit," Lester yelled in frustration, and then took hold of Natty's face. "That's the line Dave gave me. Now, think about this: Is that likely? Is it likely the two of them would go camping together?"

Sherman tried shaking his head. "No. I was happy when he told me because it's not something he's ever done before. I was surprised. And he didn't mention Dave."

"Who did he mention?"

"Nobody. He just said 'with friends.'"

Lester pulled Natty up to a sitting position and propped him against the cabinet. The mechanic moved his neck around and felt the back of his head for any damage.

Spinney leaned in close to him once more, crowding him. "Natty, you better be flying straight here. You see where I'm going with this?"

"You think Jeff's been doing heroin."

"Maybe, maybe not. What I know is that a grade A source just told me someone named Sherman had been dealing the stuff lately. I'd like to think Andy's too young. You claim it's not you. That leaves Jeff. Look me straight in the eye and tell me that's impossible-that there's no way in hell he would do that."

Natty Sherman dropped Lester's gaze. His voice was a monotone. "He might."

Spinney backed off and sat on the dirty floor next to Sherman. They looked like exhausted runners after a marathon.

"So, if they didn't go camping, where are they?" Lester asked tiredly.

Natty rubbed his forehead, leaving a dirty smear. "Christ. I don't know."

"Think of Jeff's friends. If it's possible he's doing this, then you can probably think of the people he hangs out with you wish he didn't."

"There's Craig Steidle."

Lester closed his eyes briefly. "Right," he murmured.

Steidle was the young hood driving the car the night Dave was picked up at the Zoo-the one Dave had claimed he wasn't seeing anymore.

"That sounds right," Lester said. "You know where he lives?"

* * *

Westview is one of Springfield's poorer neighborhoods. Developed in the early forties to house the overflow of factory personnel needed for the war effort, it was once probably considered pretty upscale, or at least solidly middle class. It was that no longer. Its dominant feature-a large affordable housing development-had become a regular stop for police and probation officers alike, along with a steady flow of welfare, social, and drug rehab workers.

Typical of an impressively topsy-turvy town, Westview was placed on top of a steep hill, accessible only from a single road connecting it to Springfield's downtown artery, and as shielded from the rest of the world as a distant suburbia. The comparison was apt. In what was becoming a signature of modern affordable housing, the Westview development at first glance looked for all the world like a trendy Connecticut condominium village. Spread along a pleasant tangle of short, winding streets essentially leading nowhere, these plastic-sided, two-story, beige-colored apartment buildings looked as perfect as a planning committee's proposal-and as tidy on the outside as the lives within them were not.

"It's up this way, I think," Natty said, half to himself, craning forward to better see the buildings gliding by.

Spinney slowed to a crawl. "You know the address?"

"I know Steidle's car," he said, predictably enough. "I worked on it enough times."

"You know him well?"

Natty grunted equivocally. "He comes by a lot, but I can't say I know him. He's Jeff's friend."

"Is he why you thought Jeff might be dealing?"

The other man sighed. "I don't like him. Never have. But you can't tell your kids who to hang out with."

Spinney didn't argue the point.

"Steidle has a record, leads a wild life. Jeff looks up to him for that, I guess. I hoped I was setting an example for a better way."

Spinney couldn't stop himself. "By smoking weed with him and his pals? You're famous all over town for that. I told my kid to stay away from your place."

Natty didn't take it personally. "Yeah. I heard that. People get so bent out of shape. If they just legalized the stuff, everyone would see it's just like beer."

"And that's better? Drinking with underage kids?"

Sherman looked at him, appalled. "Oh, come on. Get real. You think they're not doing that already? I thought you guys knew what was going on. I should lay down the law at home so they'll go off and drink and get high Christ knows where? I'm as protective as any parent. I want them where I can see them. You play ball with your son, I bet-go fishing with him. What's blowing a little weed except more bonding?"

"We're looking for Jeff right now because he's suspected of dealing heroin, Natty. What does that tell you?"

Natty shook his head at Spinney's denseness and went back to looking out the window A minute later, he pointed to the right side of the street. "There it is." He was looking at a Firebird with more miles than flash left on it. "And that's the house, too. I'm sure of it. I been here once or twice. Didn't know if I'd remember it. They all look the same."

Lester didn't need convincing. His son's bicycle was leaning against the wall. He pulled over across the street. "You stay here."

"What're you gonna do?"

"I just want to get Dave."

"What about Jeff?"

"I don't care about him, Natty. He's your problem."

Spinney got out, checked for traffic, and took in a few people loitering up and down the block, several of whom were watching him closely, knowing his profession from experience. He crossed the street, climbed the porch steps, and knocked on the door.

The man who opened up was a familiar type, even if unknown to Spinney personally. It seemed that no matter their social status, humans veered toward uniformity. From skinheads to millionaires, we find comfort in cloning one another. This guy was dressed in boots, jeans, tight black Harley T-shirt, long hair, and the requisite tattoos.

"You Craig Steidle?"

"Who wants to know?"

"I'm looking for my son, David Spinney."

Steidle smiled lazily. "You're the cop. He's not here."

"His bike is."

"I wouldn't know about that. People leave their junk around all the time."

"Mind if I come in?"

"Sure I mind. You got a warrant?"

Spinney forced a smile. "Look, Mr. Steidle, I'm not shopping here, not looking to cause any trouble. I just want my son. I have absolutely no bone to pick with you or anyone else inside."

Steidle leaned against the doorjamb and crossed his arms. "Got that right, 'cause you're not comin' in."

"He's underage, Mr. Steidle."

"Tough. He's here of his own free will."

Spinney laughed. "God, you guys are stupid. You just admitted he was here. I'm his father. You don't give me access, that's custodial interference. Get out of the way."

"Fuck you," Steidle said, stepped backward, and started slamming the door.

Spinney threw his shoulder against it and barreled across the threshold, sending Steidle stumbling in the process.

"Dave?" Spinney shouted into the house. "Get down here. Now."