Brad Parks - The Good Cop

The driver, an older black guy with a bull-like build, a shaved head, and “B. Jones” on his nameplate, looked at me like he was thoroughly uninterested as to when or how I could have used or not used him. This set the tone for what followed, when I explained to Baldy-that’s what the “B” stood for, right? — who I was, what had happened, and how I was truly the victim in this whole scenario.

I went through my story at least three times, and he remained circumspect throughout. Finally, I took them over to the gun, which he picked up bare-handed and walked over to his patrol car, dumping it in the front seat.

“Isn’t that … evidence or something?” I asked. “Aren’t you going to check it for prints?”

Baldy glowered at me and said, “This isn’t television, sir. We never get usable prints off of guns like this.”

“Oh,” I said. “But did you see the red dot on the bottom of it?”

“Huh?”

“There’s a red dot on it, and … I didn’t know if it was something you guys were tracking. I’m told guns with red dots on them are all the rage. I was going to be writing a story about it, and…”

He was fixing me with this I-don’t-give-a-crap stare, so I shut up. He seemed mostly concerned about getting me and my car-and him and his car-out of this area just as soon as was possible, so he could return to … whatever it was he did with his time. Presumably not conditioning his hair.

He asked where I wanted my car to be towed, which seemed like a real leap of faith, inasmuch as I’m not sure the thing was worth fixing. But I gave him a name and number for Mickey the mechanic, the guy who owned the garage across the street from the Eagle-Examiner offices, whom I entrusted with keeping the Malibu in its pristine condition.

Next, I called Tommy, swore him to the usual secrecy, then told him briefly about how my automobile had been incapacitated and that I therefore needed his services as a chauffeur. He responded with a crack about how it would have been better if a bullet had caught me in the ass, thus ridding the world of one more pair of my pleated pants. But he also promised to come pick me up.

The cop eventually gave me a card, which identified him as Bryson M. Jones-personally, I liked “Baldy” better-of the Newark Police Department’s Fourth Precinct. There was a report number on the back that he said I could use when making a claim with my insurance company. I had already given him all my contact information, and he halfheartedly assured me someone would be in touch if they needed anything more from me.

“Are there going to be any criminal charges against the guys who, you know, tried to shoot me?” I asked.

“Yeah, just as soon as we find ’em,” Baldy replied, heavy on the sarcasm. “You know where they are?”

“No, I suppose not.”

“Yeah,” he snorted in reply. “Me neither.”

* * *

As I waited for Tommy to arrive, I began focusing on the matter of my immediate survival. Somehow, outwardly, I was maintaining a placid facade. Inwardly, I was more like one of those big-eyed purse dogs that gets scared by its own chew toys. I needed to figure out who was shooting at me and hopefully figure out why-and how to avoid any future encounters.

Somehow, I didn’t think Baldy Jones was going to be much help, so I decided to tap a different part of the Newark Police Department and call my buddy Pritch. He was in the gang unit, after all. Chances were good-if my assailants were, in fact, affiliated in some manner-he might be familiar with them.

“Hey, Woodward N. Bernstein!” he crowed. “I might have to pretend I don’t know you, with all the stuff you been stirring up lately. You a bad man.”

“You’ve been hanging out with Hakeem Rogers again, haven’t you?”

“That ass hat? Naw. I’m just talking about what I’m reading in the paper. You been lighting fires, my friend.”

“It’s what I do,” I said. “You got a second to help me put out a fire by any chance?”

“Yeah, I’m just walking to get some lunch downtown. You want to join? I’ll let you pay.”

The Eagle-Examiner had paid for a number of Pritch’s lunches, and he was worth every one of them. “Love to,” I said. “But my transportation has just been shot up by some guys I’m thinking might be acquaintances of yours.”

“No kidding. Who?”

“Well, I’m not exactly sure. That’s why I’m placing this call to the pride of the Newark Police Gang Unit. You know of a crew that rolls around the city in a silver Mercedes E-class with tinted windows?”

I absentmindedly toed the pedestrian crossing sign that was still sticking out from underneath my car like it was the Wicked Witch of the West’s legs.

“Yeah, that sounds like BMF,” Pritch said.

“And BMF is…?”

“Black Mafia Family. I actually should say it’s a group of knuckleheads pretending to be Black Mafia Family. The original BMF was out of Michigan, Detroit or Flint, I think. They got hooked up with some Mexicans that were supplying them with product, established themselves nationally. You ever hear of Big Meech?”

“Sounds like a burger sold at McDonald’s.”

“Not quite. Big Meech is a legend in the hip-hop community. He was the guy who started BMF. He and his brother lived large for a while. They were pretty stupid about it, you ask me. Too flashy. The best hos. The VIP table service. The best cars.

“You can’t just rub it in our face like that, you know?” Pritch continued. “They were also sloppy and dumb. It ended up being one of those big RICO statute things. They got them blabbing all over the place on wires and arrested all of them, eventually. And I think they’re all still in jail. The original BMF doesn’t really exist anymore. As far as I know, it’s been dismantled.”

“So who are these guys who don’t seem to like me much?”

“They’re just playing around, acting like they all bad, like they’re the real BMF. Everyone knows the name Black Mafia Family. Now these guys are just using the name. It’s like if the real McDonald’s went bankrupt and you decided to open up a fast-food joint with golden arches on it that sold hamburgers. It’d probably fool some people, but it’s not the real thing.”

“I have to say, it sort of felt like the real thing when they were chasing me through Newark shooting at me.”

“Well, let me ask you something: You dead yet?”

“No.”

“Then, trust me, it wasn’t the real thing. These guys are small-timers. They’re just driving that Mercedes around, doing their best BMF imitation. The only reason we haven’t shut them down is that they really haven’t done anything worth shutting down. We’ve had bigger fish to fry.”

“So why would they try to shoot the friendly local Eagle-Examiner reporter?”

“Aw, hell, I don’t know. Maybe they didn’t get their paper on time this morning. Who knows with some of these punks?”

“Does shooting at a reporter mean they’ve escalated into something worth frying?” I asked hopefully.

“Not when it’s you,” he cracked.

“Ouch?”

“Come on, I’m kidding. I’m kidding. Could you ID the driver or the shooter?”

“Nope, just the car.”

“Well, that ain’t gonna do much for us. But I’ll put the word out with some of the guys in the unit, maybe have them put a little heat on these turkeys, get them to cool it with whatever beef they got.”

“Thanks. Hey, mind answering another question? It’s about Mike Fusco. I assume you heard about that.”

“Yeah. I don’t know anything about it, though. And I don’t really know him. He got to the Fourth after I left.”

“It’s not about him. It’s about his gun.”