Richard Hawke - Speak of the Devil

I gave Jigs Dugan a call when I got to my place. I told him I could use his services if he could use a little cash. Light lifting, I said. Easy money. He was okay with that, so I gave him the details.

An hour after lights-out, I still wasn’t asleep. I got up and put a little milk and bourbon together and got back into bed. The face of An-hell floated near my ceiling. Slitted eyes, pencil-thin mustache, silver bandanna on his head. I summoned an image of the old man. My father. Get this punk out of here. I need some shut-eye .

I finally slept. I looked for Margo in my dreams. I had to skirt around that goddamn Jenny Gray and her pearl-white neckline, but at last I found Margo. Laugh me to sleep, sweetie. I’ll owe you. I’ll gladly owe you.

TOMMY CARROLL’S ASSISTANT HANDED ME MY FIRST CUP OF COFFEE of the day. She was dressed in a powder-blue suit and looked as stern as an unsexed schoolmarm.

“You don’t take sugar.” It was a statement, not a question, and it happened to be correct. I looked to see if I could find a hair out of place on her head. Not one. I considered asking if she had a boyfriend. I was thinking Jigs, just to muss her hair up a little.

“Commissioner Carroll will be right with you.”

“Thank you, Stacy.”

The door closed behind her. Thirty seconds later, it opened again. I stopped blowing on my coffee and greeted Tommy Carroll. “Morning, Commish.”

He grunted and moved directly to his desk. “Where are we? What’ve you got?”

I told him, “Angel something-or-other. An associate of Roberto Diaz’s. Likely ex-con. Diaz looked up to him. Extremely violent. The guy tried to rape Diaz’s wife several years ago with Diaz in the next room. Don’t ask me why, but I’m getting a ‘fearless’ vibe.”

“How’d you get the name?”

“Diaz’s ex-wife. She told me she’d spoken with the police. How come you didn’t get the name?”

“The officers who questioned Mrs. Montero weren’t looking for an accomplice.”

“Right. Of course. That’s still our little secret.”

Carroll gave me a hard look. “I don’t need your wisecracking. Not today. We’ve got a deputy mayor out there, either dead already or getting whittled down as we speak. And this asshole could pounce again any minute. The mayor wants this over.”

“Then maybe the mayor should unleash the full power of the best police force in the world,” I said. “How about we look for a soft-spoken six-foot Hispanic ex-con named Angel Something? Pale green eyes. Possible pencil-thin mustache. Drug chewer. Violent. Maybe drives a silver hatchback with music booming out of the rear. Muscles on muscles. Ice-cold blood. Aviator sunglasses. Jesus Christ, Tommy, I’m painting you a picture.”

“We’ll look for him,” Carroll said brusquely. “Meantime, you keep looking. Get a last name.”

I asked, “No more word on Byron?”

Carroll muttered, “Fucking Byron.” He shook his head. “No. Nothing. Two fingers tied up like a crucifix. Real cute.”

“I’m sure Byron didn’t think so. What’s the word you’re putting out? There’s been nothing on the news.”

“Illness in the family. Out in the heartland somewhere, a thousand miles from here. It’ll buy us some time.”

“It wasn’t Wisconsin, was it?”

Carroll ignored the crack. “The mayor wants this guy.”

“I heard that.”

“I’m going to give you Cox,” Carroll said.

I was about to take a sip of my coffee, but I stopped. “What do you mean, ‘give’ me?”

“To help find this Angel character. I’ve had Cox put on special duty.”

“I don’t want him,” I said. “Why don’t you give your hero cop a trip to Disney World? A cop who doesn’t pat down a violent suspect, then ends up shooting him in the face in cold blood? I’ll pass.”

“It wasn’t cold blood.”

“Whatever. I wasn’t there.”

“You need help on this.”

I took the sip. “Give me Noon.”

“Noon? What do you mean, noon?”

“Patrick Noon. The guy who stuck me in a bag for you. If you want to loosen up a cop for me, give me Patrick Noon. Or is he still tied up guarding Rebecca Gilpin’s hospital room? Is that how our tax dollars are spent?”

“We’re trying to keep this thing contained.”

“Meaning what? Cox knows too much and Patrick Noon doesn’t?”

Carroll worked a knuckle until it cracked. “Let me talk to Remy Sanchez.”

“Sanchez would love it if you’d talk to him. He’s not happy about being kept in the dark. You’re containing this thing right up the rear, Tommy. How about the mayor just comes clean and explains to the city that we’ve got a problem and we’re working on it? It’s amazing how the truth can simplify matters. He should be unbottling this thing.”

“We’re getting fingers in a fucking box,” Carroll said. “Marty Leavitt doesn’t think that’s going to make him look real good right now.”

“Well, Mr. Marty has to start backing away from the political mirror.”

“This isn’t going to make anyone look good,” Carroll said. “It’s getting out of hand. I want it shut down now .”

I opened my mouth to respond, but Carroll’s intercom buzzed. The commissioner practically destroyed the machine crashing his hand down on it. “What!”

It was Stacy. “Mayor Leavitt’s on line one, sir.”

Go figure.

Carroll snarled into the intercom, “Tell him to sit on it for a minute. I’ll be with him.”

“Sir?”

“Tell him to hold on.”

The intercom clicked off. Carroll looked across the desk at me. “It’s Monday. Byron got grabbed on Saturday. It’s not going to surprise me if we hear from Nightmare again today, one way or another. Go find him. You’re a pain in the ass, but you’re a good bloodhound. Just go find this Angel character. Sniff him out and give him to me. And forget the Patrick Noon business. You might be Harlan’s kid, but you don’t run my police force. I’m putting Cox on this. He’s a good cop. Plus he’s motivated.”

“McNally?”

“Exactly.”

“That kind of motivation isn’t always so good,” I said. “I mean it, Tommy. Don’t saddle me with a man I don’t trust. I’m not working with Cox. I’ll go kick down some doors and let you know what I find behind them. What you do with it is your business. Consider this a gift from me to the city I love. But I can take the gift back anytime and go home. It wouldn’t be the first time I walked away from a client.”

“Your old man was a fucking mule, too.”

I stood up. “Now, Tommy, don’t start with the compliments.”

I SLIPPED INTO THE COURTROOM AND TOOK A SEAT IN THE REAR PEW. There were twenty long pews in all, room for at least a hundred onlookers. Besides me, three people were present.

A woman had misstepped coming out the door of a sporting-goods store, where she had just purchased enough gear to tackle Everest on her own. Juggling all the bags had allegedly contributed to the misstep. She hadn’t seen the yellow tape on the edge of the step, nor the sign that read, BEWARE OF STEP, and she’d twisted her ankle. From what I could piece together, she felt she should have been given a verbal warning by the shopclerk or been encouraged to take the bags outside in two trips. Or maybe chaperoned out of the damn store in a miniature hot-air balloon. The ankle had somehow led to a neck brace (Exhibit A) as well as severe interference with the woman’s livelihood, which had something to do with the music-video industry. She was sitting at the plaintiff’s table, legs crossed, wagging a foot incessantly. The foot was adorned with no less than a four-inch heel.