Brad Parks - The Good Cop

“All right. Then can you drop me somewhere? It’s just on Irvine Turner Boulevard.”

Tommy heaved a melodramatic sigh, the kind only gay guys seem to be able to pull off with the needed gusto. “And then, what, you’re going to be on the street, thumbing a ride back to the office when BMF comes back?”

“No, I’ll call Ruthie, have him pick me up.”

Tommy let out a groaning noise. “I don’t like that kid. He’s such a brownnoser.”

“I know, I know. But he’s actually not too bad once you get to know him. And I think he might be a pretty good reporter. We’re going to work on a story together as soon as I can get my plate a little cleaner.”

“Yeah, assuming you live that long,” Tommy said, but he had already started making his way toward Irvine Turner. I gave him the cross streets, then called Ginsburg to arrange for my ride home. He didn’t answer, so I sent him a text with the details of where to find me. He seemed like the kind of guy who wouldn’t ignore a texted plea for help from someone he thought might help his career.

After a quick stop at an ATM machine-this story was growing expensive, but at least I would be getting good bargains-Tommy pulled up to the curb outside the anonymous cream-colored building with its one-way glassed bodega and its insides stocked with the finest warranteed merchandise. I just hoped Uncle Bernie would again be chatty.

As I departed, Tommy called out, “Be safe, all right?”

“I’ll be fine,” I said.

“Okay,” Tommy said. He seemed to want to linger or maybe say something else, but talked himself out of it. Though as he drove away, I thought I saw him shaking his head.

* * *

The alley was just as strangely clean as it was the previous time I visited it, although at least I understood why this time. Gene seemed like the type who would want things tidy. I rang the bell and was immediately greeted by the sound of Uncle Bernie’s voice pouring through the speaker. “You changed your mind about the briefcase! I knew you’d change your mind.”

“Yeah, that’s right,” I said. Why not? My current briefcase was beginning to look like it had been sat on by a few too many elephants.

“I told you he’d change his mind,” Bernie said at slightly lower volume, like he was talking to someone else in the room, probably Gene. Then he returned to me: “Hang on. I’ll be right there.”

I stuffed my hands in my pockets and idly glanced up at the building. It turned out the camera above the door wasn’t the only one. There were also cameras high on each corner. They looked like the kind that could be controlled remotely. I guess Uncle Bernie didn’t want anyone sneaking up on him. He had thousands of dollars of product that had warranties against material or manufacturing defect but not, I suspected, against theft.

The same large, taciturn black man greeted me at the door. He led me down the hallway, punched in a numeric code on the inner door, and ushered me into the merchandise warehouse, where Bernie was already waiting for me.

He was dressed in a half-buttoned Hawaiian shirt that had too many colors to possibly catalogue. His pants were pink, perhaps the only color not represented in the shirt. The small wisps of his barely there, chemically enhanced blond hair were slicked back into their usual position. He was wearing the same yellow-tinted glasses as last time, though I thought perhaps he had changed pinkie rings.

“How are ya, kid?” He greeted me with a handshake.

“I’m good, Uncle Bernie. How you been?”

“I’m good, I’m good,” he said, then began patting my cheek, which I pretended wasn’t awkward. “Look at this kisser, heh? So young. You look good, you look good. You get a little sun since the last time I saw you? You go down south? Miami? I love Miami. We go to Florida at least once a winter. I could never live down there. I’d just be another one of those schmucks playing shuffleboard all day long. But it’s nice to visit, it’s nice to visit.”

“Yeah, Miami is great,” I confirmed. “Where’s Gene?”

Bernie made a dismissive gesture. “Eh, he’s upstairs, forging a receipt for the Cuisinart people. They’re very picky, those Cuisinart guys. You gotta get it just right with them. After he does Cuisinart, he has to do Best Buy. Another tough one. He’ll be here all night.”

“Sure.”

“So, briefcase, briefcase,” he said, walking quickly toward what I recognized as the luggage section. “You like Coach? I got Coach. Black or brown. The brown is nice, the leather is softer. Like butter. But you young guys, I know how you are, you like the black shoes, the black belts. Maybe you like the black better, huh?”

“Actually, Uncle Bernie, I was hoping you could help me with a story I’m working on.”

That stopped his white nurses’ shoes in their tracks. “What, you don’t want the briefcase? I got Kenneth Cole, too, if you don’t like Coach.”

“No, no, I’ll take the briefcase. The black one is fine. I was just wondering … my pal Tee thought you might have heard of a gang called Black Mafia Family.”

Bernie looked at me like he was mystified as to why I would care but said, “You mean those balegoolas who drive around in that Mercedes? Yeah, I know them. BMW makes a better car, you ask me. But, yeah, they’re all right. They’re a bunch of pishers , but they’re sweet boys.”

“Sweet boys? They’ve tried to kill me twice today.”

“Eh,” he said, waving it away like it never happened. “They’re not so tough. You want tough? Try Fat Lou Larasso. Back in the day, he’d have someone cut out your eyeballs if you looked at him the wrong way. Those boys? Puppies. Kittens. They try their best. But I think their source dried up-sad, very sad. You need to have a good supplier in that line of work or else you’re tot . For me? They mostly do electronics. Televisions. Vizio. Vizio was the last thing they got for me. Vizio is good. Sony is better, but Vizio is good. You want to see it? It just came in. I could give you a deal.”

“Actually, I was hoping you could, I don’t know, arrange for me to talk to them somehow?”

He recoiled. “What do you think I am, a shadken ? They’re business associates. This is a business I’m running here, not a dating service.”

“I know, I know. I was just … look, they keep shooting at me, and I’d sort of like to figure out why before I catch a bullet in the ear.”

“All right, all right. Hang on. You’re a customer, I don’t need my customers getting killed. Bad for business,” he said and produced an iPhone from his pocket. Cutting-edge guy, Uncle Bernie. He held it as far out as his arm could go, muttering to himself all the while, tapped at it a few times, then brought it to his ear.

“Yeah, yeah. Don’t give me that ‘yo’ stuff. It’s Uncle Bernie.”

He listened for a moment. “Yeah, the Vizio worked out nicely. You get any more, you bring ’em to me, you hear?”

Another reply. “Okay, okay. Listen, I know a goy, says you keep shooting at him.”

Pause. “Yeah, tall skinny white guy. That’s him.”

Uncle Bernie nodded, then pulled the phone away from his ear and put his hand over the mouthpiece. “Yep, they’re shooting at you. It sounds like they’re a little pissed they keep missing.”

“Can you ask them why they’re shooting at me? What did I do?”

Bernie returned to the phone and said, “He wants to talk.” He furrowed his brow as he heard the reply, which went on for a minute or so. Finally, Bernie cut it off with “Okay, okay, I got you.” He then addressed me: “It doesn’t sound like they want to talk to you. Someone hired them to kill you, so they have to kill you.”