Joel Goldman: Shakedown

“That’s right. I need your people for backup. And I’d like to borrow one of your uniforms.”

Grisnik pecked away at his computer, sending an e-mail, double-checking my warrant to make certain he got the address right. He smiled, waiting for a response, his silence code for telling me I was full of shit and he was about to prove it.

“The Bureau appreciates your cooperation. If we get him, you get the credit. If we don’t, nobody will know or care.”

I didn’t tell Grisnik about the surveillance camera because I suspected that Marcellus had some KCK cops in his pocket. That would go a long way in explaining how he had stayed in business for so long. If I were right, Marcellus would get word of our raid and clean house so that we wouldn’t have any reason to arrest him. That was fine with me. All I wanted was to get him out of the house long enough to install the camera. I wasn’t ready to lock him up.

Grisnik’s computer binged, signaling that he’d received a reply to his e-mail. I couldn’t see his monitor to read it, though that wasn’t necessary.

“This would play a little better if you worked homeland security into it somewhere along the way,” Grisnik said.

“Do I need to?”

“Wouldn’t smell any sweeter if you did. This address belongs to Marcellus Pearson. Says here Marcellus is a suspected drug dealer. Bet you didn’t know that. And no one named Darrell Johnson shows up on the list of his known associates. You want me to run a quick check on your fugitive?”

“I’d rather you didn’t.”

“We got our own fugitive squad and we got our own drug squad. You ought to be talking to them, not me. Since you aren’t, makes me think you’ve got a reason I’m not going to like.”

“I do.”

“This isn’t my idea of cooperation, Jack. You coming to me for help and not telling me what I need to know, especially if it involves this department.”

“Operational constraints. It’s better for everyone.”

“Better for you, maybe,” Grisnik said. “Puts my ass in a sling if this blows up.”

“It won’t blow up.”

“You can’t keep something like this a secret.”

“I don’t intend for it to be a secret.”

Grisnik nodded, his eyes softening as he understood what I needed. He held the warrant to the halogen lamp on his desk as if he was checking a fifty-dollar bill to see if it was counterfeit. He slid it back toward me with a reluctant grunt.

“You’ll need a name tag for your uniform. You want one that says Jack Davis or you want me to pick on somebody else?”

“Any name will do as long as it isn’t mine.”

In my world, only liars, drunks, and the guilty shake uncontrollably. If Ben Yates, the Special Agent in charge of the Kansas City office, caught me doing “Shake it up, baby,” I’d be on the shelf before I got to “Twist and Shout.” So I worked late and kept my door closed.

I’d been an agent since I gave the army the tour of duty I’d promised in return for my college education. I’d worked in FBI offices all over the country, picked Kansas City for my last stop since it was where Joy and I wanted to live when the Bureau retired me in five years when I turned fifty-five.

It wasn’t just a job. It was who I was-the right guy, doing the right job for the right reasons. I could never give it up, especially after our son Kevin was killed almost twenty years ago when I didn’t do my job. They’d have to take the badge from me. I owed that much to Kevin.

I wasn’t ready to deal with the possible causes of the shaking-brain tumor, Parkinson’s, MS, ALS, or some other equally grim alphabetical practical joke. I played with images of Muhammad Ali shuf?ing like an old man, not?oating like a butter?y, his face a mask, or of Lou Gehrig telling a packed Yankee Stadium that he was the luckiest man alive. Whatever it was, I didn’t feel lucky. Every time I shook, I offered whatever it was a deal. Just go away, no questions asked. So far, there were no takers.

The late shift was a good place to hide, and I was in no hurry to go home. When Joy moved out, she left me a note saying she had tried to tell me what was wrong with our marriage ever since Kevin died but I never heard her. I called her cell, told her I was ready to listen. “Too late,” she said. “Now you can be with Kate Scranton.” I told her again that there was nothing between Kate and me; she’s a jury consultant, helps me with some cases. That’s it. It was Joy’s turn not to listen.

Our other child, Wendy, inherited the enthusiasm, wit, and determination that I’d found in Joy when I first fell in love with her. After Kevin died, Wendy hid it away, replacing it with fear of the dark, of being left alone, and, most of all, of being taken from us.

She had a stuffed animal, a monkey that she slept with every night after we lost Kevin. I made up a song that made her laugh, a rare occurrence in those days.

I had a little monkey girl.

She climbed a tree just like a squirrel.

And when she got up to the top,

She held her breath until she popped.

And when she got back on the ground,

She wore a smile and not a frown.

She’s always glad, she’s never sad

Because she has a goofy dad!

Wendy loved the song, changed her stuffed animal’s name from Pickles to Monkey Girl, and insisted we create a secret code in case someone kidnapped her. She’d use the code to tell us that she was okay and that I should come find her.

“That’s a great idea,” I told her. “Very smart for a little girl.”

“You know Monkey Girl?”

“Sure. We’re great pals.”

“When the kidnappers put me on the phone so you know that I’m still alive, I’ll tell you to say happy birthday to Monkey Girl. That way you’ll know I’m okay.”

“How do you know that’s what kidnappers do?”

“I heard you talking to your friends from work. One of them said that’s what always happens except the man that took Kevin didn’t do it the right way.”

I wanted to tell her that there was no such thing as a right way to kidnap someone, but she was holding onto that certainty like a lifeline, convinced she would be kidnapped and hoping her abductor would do a better job of it than had Kevin’s. I pulled her onto my lap, hugged her fiercely against my chest.

“Then you better hang onto Monkey Girl. I’d hate for her to miss out on her birthday party.”

Wendy had her own survival scars, growing up in a house where her brother’s ghost and her parents’ wars made certain that she never felt safe and secure. It was a breeding ground for her mother’s alcoholism, a disease Wendy?irted with through drugs.

She lived in a state of perpetual rebound between bad choices and second chances. I was her spotter, ready to catch her when she fell and pat her on the back when she pulled herself up again, saved by an eternal?ame inside her that gave her strength and gave me hope.

Her first stab at college lasted six weeks.

“It’s not for me,” she told me over the phone. “All the sorority debs, the jocks. That’s not me. And this college town is dead.”

“It’s not the people or the place,” I told her. “It’s you. You’ve got to deal with that no matter where you are or what you do.”

“I know,” she sighed. “Just not here and now.”

“Stay in school and mom and I will support you. Drop out and you’re on your own.”

“Fair enough. Front me the first few months and I’ll pay you back?”

“Deal.”

And she did, working, taking occasional classes until she discovered she liked the action in the commodities market. She landed a job at the Kansas City Board of Trade working for a broker, studying for her trading license. Along the way to getting her head on straight, she did two stints in rehab and I helped her get two possession busts expunged.