Frank Zafiro - And Every Man Has to Die

“And they get away,” Chisolm added, smiling. He pulled his pen from the dirt and wiped it clean. The two men stood, both ignoring the crackling sounds of the other’s knees. “See, Ray? You’re as smart as I figured you were.”

Browning snorted. “We’ll see.”

“Detective Browning?”

Both men turned to see a man of about thirty years old in a suit. Chisolm recognized him immediately.

“Payne?” he asked, surprised.

Payne gave him a contemptuous look. “It’s Agent Payne,” he corrected, flashing his credentials. “FBI.”

Chisolm raised his thumb and forefinger to his face and rubbed his tired eyes. Memories of a younger Maurice Payne riding in his training car danced in his head. He recalled the weak, mush-mouthed commands, all the fumbling, the constant mistakes.

“FBI,” he muttered. “Great. I don’t need this headache.”

“The agency is working in conjunction with your chief of police to address the issue of Russian organized crime in River City,” Payne announced. “I expect full cooperation from you on this matter, Detective.”

Browning waited a beat before offering a clipped “Of course.”

Chisolm opened his eyes and sighed.

Payne turned his gaze to Chisolm. “That goes for you as well, Officer Chisolm.”

Chisolm chuckled. “How long have you been waiting to say that?” he asked.

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” Payne answered, but Chisolm could see the spiteful delight dancing in his eyes.

“Sure you don’t,” Chisolm said. He nodded at Browning. “If you need anything, let me know.” Then he turned to leave.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Payne asked.

Chisolm kept walking.

“I’m talking to you, Officer,” Payne yelled after him. “Come back here!”

“My shift’s over,” Chisolm said, not bothering to turn around. “And I don’t answer to you.”

When he reached the yellow crime scene tape, Ridgeway lifted it for him. He gave Chisolm a rare smile. “Have a good sleep, Tom,” he said.

Chisolm returned the grin and jerked his thumb in Payne’s direction. “Oh, with him in charge, I imagine I’ll sleep like a baby.”

0843 hours

Anthony Battaglia slid his house key into the lock and paused to gather himself. He’d stopped for beers again after work. With B.J. He’d promised himself he’d only have one, but before he realized it they’d each had three. Both had done a good job of keeping up pretenses that the sexual tension wasn’t there, while at the same time doing nothing to dispel it. Battaglia wasn’t sure how he felt about that.

Well, you’re not gonna figure it out standing on the porch.

He closed the front door behind him as quietly as possible. He figured Rebecca would be awake, but it was summertime and they let the kids sleep in. He tossed his keys onto the table next to the door and wandered into the kitchen.

Rebecca sat at the breakfast bar, reading the newspaper and sipping a cup of coffee. She looked up when he walked in. “Busy night?”

Battaglia shrugged. “There was a shooting near the end of shift.”

“Was it bad?”

“It was a gang drive-by,” Battaglia answered. “They unloaded on those guys with assault rifles.” He reached out and took a bite of Rebecca’s toast. “Killed four.”

Rebecca lowered the newspaper. “Four?”

“Yep.”

“That’s horrible.”

“It wasn’t horrible when it was one?”

“It was,” Rebecca said, “but… four? I don’t think I’ve ever heard of something like that happening here before.”

Battaglia yawned. “I don’t know if it has or not.” He leaned in and kissed her on the cheek. He hoped she didn’t notice the beer on his breath. “I’m heading to bed.”

“Okay,” she said behind him. As he neared the doorway, she asked, “It was bad enough you needed beers after, huh?”

Battaglia looked over his shoulder and shrugged. “Yeah, a couple of us from the platoon had choir practice after shift. Why?”

Rebecca gave him a warm smile. “It’s not a problem, babe. But I’m here if you want to talk to me, too, okay?”

Guilt washed over him. He clenched his jaw and swallowed. “Yeah. Okay. Thanks.”

“Anytime.”

Battaglia nodded. “Well, good night, then.” He turned to go.

“Babe?”

“Yeah?”

“I finished a new poem last night. I left it on the nightstand for you.”

“Great,” Battaglia said with an enthusiasm he didn’t feel.

“This one’s a little darker, but I think you’ll like it.”

“I’m sure I will.”

“So let me know what you think?”

“Sure.” He cleared his throat. “Can I read it when I wake up, though? I’m bushed.”

“Of course. Get some sleep.”

“All right. Thanks.” He turned to go again.

“Babe?”

“What?” he asked, a bit sharply.

Rebecca’s expression turned slightly hurt, but she didn’t acknowledge his tone. “I love you,” she said. “That’s all.” After a moment she added, “Good night.”

Battaglia nodded and turned away.

He climbed the stairs to the bedroom. Frustration and guilt burned in his chest as he took every step. Once in the bedroom, he kicked off his boots and peeled his clothing off. He ignored the sheet of paper on the nightstand, written in Rebecca’s flowing script. Instead he flopped into the king-sized bed and hoped that the beer and the long night would lower the curtain of sleep on him right away, but the wheels of his mind started turning.

He shouldn’t be thinking about B.J. Rebecca was a good woman. She was his wife. The mother of his children.

Battaglia sighed into his pillow. All of that didn’t matter. It wasn’t the same anymore. Rebecca just didn’t… excite him. And she made him feel stupid. She’d taken to reading a lot of different books. Some were poetry or stories, other times it was history or philosophy. He asked her why and she said it was for entertainment. To expand her mind.

For entertainment, Battaglia would just as soon watch a shoot-’em-up movie or catch a ball game. As far as mind expansion went, the only thing he equated that with was drug use. And there wasn’t a cop alive who thought that was okay.

The quiet hum of the air conditioner filled the dark room. He could almost hear the rustle of the paper on the nightstand. He thought about B.J. to drive away the sound. Her laugh. Her eyes. The smell of her hair when she’d brushed up against him. The feel of her lips when they’d grazed his cheek.

“Jesus,” Battaglia murmured.

He was going to have a hard time getting to sleep this morning.

1020 hours

“You did well, my brothers,” Val told the assembled group in the deserted auto shop. “The TV stations are reporting four kills. I am pleased.”

Val noticed the way each man stood ramrod straight in his presence. He noticed the subtle reaction of pride when he praised them. He allowed himself a flutter of satisfaction-these were now truly his men. No longer Sergey’s, but his. That would matter later on. It would be critical. Plans within plans within plans.

“The van?” he asked Yuri.

Yuri smiled, showing the rot of his blackened teeth. “At the other shop on Market Street. By noon, it will be in pieces. Then I will transport those pieces to the salvage yard.”

“Good. Any piece with a VIN on it must be destroyed.”

Yuri nodded. “I understand.”

Val turned to Black Ivan. “You are ready for the next move?”

“ Da. ” The large man stood even straighter. “We’ll give the burros the same thing we gave the chernozhopyi this morning.”

“This one must be quieter,” Val said. He motioned toward Mikhail, the smallest man in the group. “He is good with the knife, no?”