Curt Colbert - Seattle Noir

“Was that you, Daddy?” asks Jacob.

Danny turns his wheelchair at the sound of his son’s voice. He continues to stare at the blank television, as though the ghostly blue-white images are still on the screen.

“No,” he says, “that was somebody else who looks a lot like me, talks a lot like me, but gets shot by the police. That’s not me.”

“But you were shot. Who shot you?”

Aimee says nothing.

“Somebody,” says Danny. “Somebody who thought I was a threat.”

Eight months later, Danny is back in Iraq. For better or worse, the cop in Seattle had missed all his vital organs and he healed up as only a young guy can. Danny had gladly rejoined his company.

“Soldier,” says his lieutenant, “you need to report to the CO’s office.”

Oh shit, thinks Danny. Now what?

The commanding officer has a desk, a couple of chairs, and an air conditioner. Danny removes his helmet and feels the sweat evaporate off his head and neck.

“Have a seat,” the CO says. “We just got a call from Seattle.”

Danny sits.

“There was a shooting incident there last night.”

Danny swallows.

“Same place, same block where you were shot. The police think the officer in question was deliberately targeted.”

“What do you mean?”

“It was the cop who attacked you.”

A pain shoots up Danny’s side from his leg to his shoulder. Amboy had been cleared of all wrongdoing and put back on the street. Danny tries to keep his face impassive. “Nothing to do with me.”

“We know that. And that’s what we told them.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“I just wanted you to know.”

“Thank you. May I go now, sir?”

“Yes. Dismissed.”

Danny stands to leave.

“Oh, by the way…”

Danny turns.

“Just like cops, MPs take care of their own.”

The CO holds his eye for a moment, then waves him out.

Downtown

The bar fight was over. Matt staggered to his feet. The loudmouth was down and he wasn’t getting back up without assistance. None of the barflies volunteered to help him, though they closed in to examine Matt’s handiwork. Matt ran the back of his hand across his mouth, leaving it streaked with blood.

Police sirens wailed in the distance. Matt’s heart rate quickened just as it had finally started to slow down. He couldn’t afford to be busted again. The spectators swarmed for the exit. This wasn’t one of those trendy downtown bars where management called 911 at the sound of a raised voice. Everyone was a little cop-shy at The Dive. The Dive lived up to its name-literally and figuratively. It was a basement place, part of Seattle’s subterranean past. An underground bar for underground people.

Matt went to follow the crush out the door, but someone held him back. He shook off the hand gripping his shoulder and whirled around with a readied fist to face his new challenger. The middle-aged guy held up his hands in surrender. He had six inches and fifty pounds of muscle on Matt.

“Easy, pal,” the guy said. “I’m not trying to stop you. Backdoor, before the cops get here. You kinda stick out in your current condition.”

Matt glanced at himself in the mirror behind the bar. Ripped clothes. The red blooms of burgeoning bruises.

The sirens intensified. Matt didn’t argue and followed the man out the fire exit. It opened up into an unlit stairwell. The guy burst through the door, casting streetlight onto Matt’s escape. He clambered up the stairs and into the service alley.

“C’mon, this way,” the man urged.

The alley ran from Cherry to Columbia. He jogged down the alley away from The Dive’s entrance on Cherry, sidestepping busted trash bags and puddles containing more than just water. Matt followed the man uphill on Columbia a couple of blocks, then into another alley lit by a thumbnail moon.

“We’ll hang here until things are cool.”

Matt didn’t reply. His guardian angel didn’t sit well in his stomach. He didn’t trust him. He didn’t trust anyone.

Late for the party, two cop cars roared down 2nd toward The Dive, spraying red and blue light. Matt’s stomach clenched. They’d start combing the surrounding streets for someone matching his description soon. He needed to get moving.

“Get into a lot of fights, don’t you?”

The sudden question jolted Matt from his thoughts.

“What makes you say that?”

“The way you handled yourself in there. You didn’t learn those moves in a boxing ring or a dojo. You’ve had a street education. Besides, I recognize a bottle scar when I see one.”

Instinctively, Matt touched the thin mark beneath his left eye with his thumb. Although it was faint after so many years, he remembered the fight like it was yesterday. He’d been eighteen and it had been over a girl. Frank Tremaine hadn’t liked the idea of losing his Susie. Matt thought it would be easily settled, but he hadn’t expected Frank to go for him with a bottle of Bud. He nearly lost his eye that night. There’d been a lot of Frank Tremaines over the years and a lot of fights over lesser reasons than Susie. Tonight was no exception.

“Have you done time?” the man asked.

“Once.”

“Carry on like you’re doing and it’s easily going to be twice.”

“Who the hell are you?”

“Harry Sharpe.” He thrust out a hand.

Matt looked at the hand warily. This attempt at an introduction could be a stunt to take him down. He ignored the handshake and said, “Matt Crozier.”

Harry let his hand drop without showing any signs of being insulted. “Good to meet you, Matt.”

“What do you want? Why are you helping me?” Matt backed up a step. He’d rather take a chance with the cops than this guy if something went down. At least he knew what to expect with the cops.

“I represent a group that helps young and wayward men like yourself. We try to turn their skills toward more positive outlets and keep them out of trouble.”

Matt was already shaking his head. He knew where this was going. A dark alley, a sensitive older man, and a misguided youth; a cry for attention and a sympathetic ear, leading to a tender moment. It was pathetic really.

“Sorry, dude, you’ve dialed the wrong number. I don’t answer those sorts of calls.”

“I’m not trying to pick you up,” Harry snapped. “I’m trying to keep you out of trouble.”

Matt backed up toward the street. “Okay, whatever you say, reverend.”

Harry lunged and snared Matt’s arm. Matt took a swing. Harry blocked it and slammed him up against a dumpster.

“I’m not a priest. I’m trying to teach you something. If you want to end up dead or serving a life sentence, then carry on doing what you’re doing, because believe me, you will overstep the boundary of a bar brawl to manslaughter one of these days. But if you want to change that, learn something, make yourself a better man, call me.”

Harry released Matt and jammed a business card in his palm. Matt watched him leave and turn the corner. Once he felt Harry wasn’t coming back and the police weren’t waiting for him, he stepped out into the street. He examined Harry’s card under the streetlight. It had no information other than TASKMASTERS , followed by a local telephone number.

Matt spent the following day mulling over what Harry Sharpe had said. He didn’t need some do-gooder telling him where his life was heading. He knew already. He couldn’t keep from getting into fights. He wasn’t a kid anymore. He was fast approaching thirty with nothing to show for it except calluses and scar tissue. He’d eventually cross the line and it would end his life one way or another. Harry had handed him a much-needed reality check. This was certainly the time to wise up.