David Jackson - Marked

Freezeframe looks over his shoulder as though he’s just been told there’s a bug crawling there.

‘This? I don’t know.’

‘You don’t know what’s in your own backpack? The one you think is important enough to be carrying around in the rain like this?’

‘I found it, D. Planning to hand it in to the po-lice at the next opportunity.’

‘But you didn’t bother to look what was in it?’

‘Nah, D. None of my business, you know what I’m sayin’?’

Doyle sighs and looks up at the rain clouds. It seems to him that they don’t plan on dispersing anytime soon. Seems more like they’re waiting for reinforcements.

‘Step over here,’ says Doyle, moving under the awning of a hardware store. Reluctantly, Freezeframe joins him.

‘I tole you, D. I don’t know shit about no DVDs. This ain’t-’

‘Forget the DVDs. I want some information.’

Freezeframe pulls his neck back in surprise, his head disappearing turtle-like into the shadows of his hood before it slowly emerges again. Then he suddenly breaks into raucous high-pitched laughter as he slaps his thighs with those elongated arms of his.

‘You fucking with me, right?’

Doyle keeps his face straight. ‘No, I’m serious.’

Freezeframe stops laughing. ‘I ain’t no snitch, D. And if I was a snitch, which I ain’t, I would not be your snitch, because I heard ’bout what happens to your snitches. Motherfuckers be ending up dead.’

‘This ain’t an offer of permanent employment, Freeze. It’s a one-time deal.’

‘I still ain’t interested. I got a reputation, yo. Folks get to hear I been talking to the man, they be smokin’ my ass.’

Doyle pulls out his wallet, opens it up and strips out a few bills.

‘Tell you what. I can open up your backpack there and then I can run you in and we can talk about this down at the station house, or you can make yourself a little green for one small piece of information and then walk away. What’s it to be?’

Freezeframe looks out into the rain as if for guidance, then back at Doyle.

‘Shit, that ain’t no kinda choice . That’s you putting a nine to my head, is what that is.’

‘What’s it gonna be?’

Freezeframe looks around again, this time appearing a little more nervous. Which tells Doyle that he’s on the verge of accepting his offer.

‘Suppose I ain’t got this particular piece of information?’

‘Do your best, Freeze. Ain’t nobody else I know mixes with the criminal fraternity like you do.’

As Doyle suspected he would, Freezeframe takes this as a compliment, and his face brightens.

‘I do got a lot of contacts, that’s true. Aiight, what you wanna know?’

‘I’m looking for someone. Man called Anton Ruger.’

Wide eyes now. Astonished eyes.

‘Uh-uh, D. You don’t wanna be messing with that shit. That cat is nasty . Word is he offed one of the Bartok brothers. Anyone even insults the Bartok brothers got to be either insane or havin’ balls of steel.’

‘I wanna know where he is.’

‘I don’t know where he’s at. Nobody does.’

‘Somebody does. Somebody must have mentioned his name to you, at least.’

Freezeframe pauses. ‘You didn’t hear this from me.’

‘No problem.’

‘Aiight. There’s a white boy I know. Likes to talk big. Says he did some work for Ruger.’

‘What’s his name?’

‘Likes to go by Cubo. Thass all I know.’

‘Where can I find him?’

‘He cribs at his girl’s place. Skinny-ass ho called Tasha Wilmot. She live at 309 Stanton. Top floor. Apartment 5D.’

‘That’s pretty damned specific, Freeze. How’d you know all this?’

‘Boy likes to watch movies, when he’s not getting it on with his girl.’

Doyle nods. He scans the street himself, then palms off the wad of bills to Freezeframe.

‘You made the right decision.’

Freezeframe slips the money into his pocket. ‘Yeah, and you be making the wrong one. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.’

LeBlanc tries every which way he can to justify it to himself.

I’m young, he thinks. Relatively inexperienced. Still got a helluva lot to learn. Older, wiser cops are still capable of surprising me. Sometimes I need to hold back before I interfere. Give them a chance to-

Scratch that. It’s bullshit.

This is Wrong, with a capital W.

LeBlanc has seen many things that have made him feel uncomfortable. Cops who have accepted one too many ‘freebies’. Cops who have been a little bit too free and easy with their fists during their interrogation of suspects. Cops who have suggested that LeBlanc look the other way while they have a ‘private conversation’ with a perp. He has witnessed all these things. He is not naive. He knows how the world turns.

But this. .

He can’t let this go.

When he enters the squadroom he is ready for a fight. Not a physical fight — he knows that Doyle would put him on his ass in a second — but a squaring off while some serious truth-seeking takes place. He doesn’t care if anyone else is there to listen. He needs to hear what Doyle has to say for himself. Doyle owes him that much, and he will demand that Doyle gives it up.

Except that there is no sign of Doyle in the squadroom. His desk is unoccupied. His jacket isn’t on his chair or the rack. LeBlanc came in here with adrenalin pumping through his system, and now he has no way of putting it to use.

‘What’s the matter, kid?’

This from Schneider, who has watched LeBlanc thunder into the squadroom like he’s about to tear it apart.

LeBlanc rounds on him. ‘I’m looking for Doyle. You seen him?’

‘Me? No. But then he’s not a guy I make it my business to find very often. Ain’t he supposed to be your partner?’

LeBlanc knows what Schneider’s doing. He’s saying: Doyle is your partner. He should be keeping you up to speed. You shouldn’t have to ask where he’s gone. And he’s doing this to turn LeBlanc against Doyle, because every day that Schneider can create another enemy of Doyle’s is a successful day in Schneider’s book. LeBlanc knows this; he’s not stupid. But right at this moment he’s willing to overlook the obviousness of this ruse. Right now he’s pretty amenable to being asked to play for the opposing team.

‘That’s what I thought too,’ he snarls. ‘But hey, what do I know?’

Schneider raises his eyebrows in obvious surprise at the vehemence of LeBlanc’s reply.

‘I told you. Doyle doesn’t do partners. You get put with him, you still have to watch your own back. Remember that. Look after number one, kid, because you can be sure that’s what Doyle’s doing.’

LeBlanc doesn’t know what to do. This is unfamiliar territory. The last thing he wants is to jam up a fellow cop, especially his own partner. But Schneider is right. In his own blunt, opinionated way he is uttering wise words. LeBlanc needs to make sure he doesn’t end up getting accused of covering up for Doyle through his failure to speak out. He needs guidance. An older, wiser head to whom he can turn for help.

‘You wanna talk about it?’ says Schneider.

And there it is. The offer of assistance. Right here, right now.

‘You got a few minutes?’ LeBlanc asks.

The marks are already darkening into savage bruises. Purples, blues and greens stain almost his entire body, making it look as though it bears one huge abstract tattoo.

Proust is impressed by the workmanship.

One missing tooth, another broken in half, and a hairline fracture of one rib.

That’s pretty damned good. To be carrying all those marks and to have only those underlying injuries — well, that’s the sign of a true craftsman. Gowerson performed exactly as advertised. Proust has always admired those who not only have great skill, but who also go to great pains to make things just so.