David Jackson - Pariah

If this is some kind of trap, Alvarez thinks, then Cavell will believe he can breathe easy for a while, his victim not expected for a good fifteen minutes yet. He’s not going to stand there with a cannon pointed at the door for that long. And if he’s got anybody else in there with him — say a whole bunch of his homies laden with artillery — then it’s likely that they will be equally at ease for now. There’ll be some conversation. A couple of jokes. Maybe even some detailed description of what fun things they are going to do to that spic cop when he walks in.

But Alvarez hears nothing. Not a murmur. He is not even certain that Cavell himself is in there.

He draws his gun and lowers it to his side, then knocks on the door. It is only seconds before the door opens and Cavell’s face appears in the gap. He is wearing a gray Hilfiger hooded zip-up over a blue T-shirt. He looks slightly surprised.

‘That was fast, man. You get the car-’

Alvarez snaps his gun hand up and aims the weapon at the center of Cavell’s forehead. With his other hand he pushes the door wide open to get a view into the apartment.

‘Turn around,’ he orders.

‘Yo, what the-’

‘Turn around. Now!’

Cavell does as he is told, raising his arms slightly in surrender as he has probably done a hundred times before. Alvarez puts the muzzle of the Glock to the back of Cavell’s head, then places his left hand on his shoulder. He pushes him forward into the apartment, kicking the door closed behind him.

He marches Cavell into the middle of the living room, his eyes darting as he moves. The room gives off to a small kitchen area and there are doors into two other rooms. Alvarez picks one and guides Cavell toward it.

‘Open it!’

Cavell pushes open the door and stumbles in, Alvarez tight behind him. A bedroom. All pink and lilac and teddy bears. A huge unmade bed filling the space. Some kind of black skimpy nightwear on the end of it.

‘The closet,’ Alvarez says, and Cavell twists his head slightly toward him.

‘The closet? You think you Inspector fucking Clouseau or something? You think I got fucking Cato hiding in there?’

Alvarez jabs the gun muzzle hard into Cavell’s skull. ‘Do it!’

Cavell sighs and steps over to the closet. Alvarez stays near the doorway, his gun on Cavell’s back but his eyes constantly flicking back to the living room and that other unopened door.

Cavell yanks open the closet. There is a sudden movement within. Alvarez tightens his trigger finger. A red shoe falls from the shelf and lands at Cavell’s feet, and Alvarez steps down the pressure on the trigger.

‘Back that way,’ he says. He keeps his gaze fixed on Cavell as he retraces his steps. As Cavell passes, he puts the gun back to his head.

‘You don’t gotta do that,’ Cavell complains.

‘Shut up! Open the other door.’

They cross the living area, and Cavell follows his instructions. Alvarez doesn’t need to enter the tiny bathroom to see that it’s unoccupied.

‘Happy now?’ Cavell asks.

‘No,’ Alvarez answers. ‘Against the wall.’

Knowing the drill, Cavell puts his hands high on the wall, alongside a window looking onto the street below. Alvarez kicks his feet apart, displacing his center of gravity so that any attempt to come away from the wall will have him falling flat on his face. Keeping his gun in place, he pats Cavell’s armpits, then down both flanks. He checks Cavell’s waist, then drags his gun down Cavell’s spine and runs his free hand over the man’s legs. Straightening up, he does a similar run along Cavell’s arms. Finally, he dips his hand into the hood of Cavell’s sweatshirt.

‘Stay there,’ Alvarez says. He walks back to the apartment door and sees that it has a locking bar. He fixes it into place, just in case some friends of Cavell’s should decide to pay a visit.

‘Now I’m happy,’ he says, putting the Glock away.

Cavell straightens up, drops his arms and turns to face Alvarez.

‘The fuck you gotta do all that shit for, man? I tole you I was trying to help you out.’

Alvarez is warm after the exertion and the stress of the last few minutes. He takes off his coat and slings it over the back of the sofa, then folds his arms and looks around the room. It’s clean and tidy. Vases of dried flowers on the coffee table and on the kitchen counter. On one wall, a poster of the good-looking black doctor from ER .

‘You like that guy, Tremaine?’

Cavell curls his lip at the insult. ‘Like I said, this my girl’s place.’

‘One of your hookers?’

‘One of my own private collection. I don’t like to mix business with pleasure.’

‘Uh-huh. So why bring me here, Tremaine? What’s all this about?’

‘I got a message for you.’

‘A message, huh? Who from?’

‘Can’t say.’

‘Can’t or won’t?’

Cavell just shrugs.

‘Okay, so why not tell me on the phone? Or send me a letter? Or a fucking carrier pigeon?’

‘Don’t know. I was just told this is the way it has to be.’

‘You always do what you’re told, Tremaine? Whose bitch are you being right now?’

Cavell flares his nostrils and bares his teeth. Alvarez knows that the slur got to him, but when Cavell bites on his bottom lip, he realizes it’s not enough. Somebody, somewhere, has a grip on Cavell’s testicles and is threatening to squeeze.

‘And why do I have to keep Detective Doyle out of this? What’s that all about?’

Again Cavell shrugs, and Alvarez accepts he’s wasting his time.

‘All right, Tremaine, give me the fucking message. And this better have something to do with the case we’re working, or I’ll run you down to the station house so fast your ass won’t be able to keep up. So spit it out.’

Cavell licks his lips, acting like he’s about to give a damn speech. He’s looking nervous too, Alvarez thinks. Almost ready to pee himself. What the fuck is going on here?

‘The message is. .’ Cavell begins.

Alvarez waits for the rest. He notices that beads of sweat have broken out on Cavell’s forehead. So much for the street-hard pimp.

‘Yeah?’ he prompts.

‘The message is. . you got too close.’

For a second, Alvarez feels he is in a surrealist painting. Or reading a foreign pamphlet in which the text has been badly mistranslated. Cavell’s words just don’t fit any mental template he knows how to process.

And now he feels he is being dicked around.

‘The fuck you talking about, Tremaine? Is that it? That’s your fucking message? That’s what you dragged my ass all the way across town to hear? Get your coat, Tremaine. We got a trip to make, and don’t plan on seeing your woman in her skimpy shit tonight. Second thoughts, bring the frillies with you. You can wear them for the nice big cellmate I’m gonna hook you up with.’

Cavell holds his palms up, his shoulders high. The body language of someone who is trying to plead his case.

‘Serious, man. That’s what I been told to say. You got too close. Dude said you’d understand what it means.’

There is a wavering pitch to Cavell’s voice now, Alvarez notices. Like he really needs to hear confirmation that his words have struck some big-ass bell in the mind of the detective.

‘Don’t mean shit, Tremaine. Let’s go.’

He beckons to the pimp, but Cavell doesn’t budge from his position near the wall. He waves his hand at Alvarez.

‘Hold up. I got more. Something else I got to deliver.’

Alvarez raises an eyebrow. ‘What?’

A note. Over there, on the counter.’

Alvarez looks to where Cavell is gesturing. Lying on the kitchen counter is a white envelope. Alvarez steps over to it and picks it up. It weighs little, and bears no writing on the front. He glances at Cavell, then pushes his thumb under the sealed flap and rips it open.