John Katzenbach - Just Cause

'Get me out of here,' he whispered.

'What happened?' Brown asked.

'Get me the hell out of here!' Cowart shouted. He reached across and grabbed the ignition, grinding it. The engine fired up. 'Go, goddammit! Go!'

Tanny Brown, eyes wide in surprise, but face marked with a sense of understanding, shifted the car in gear. He pulled out into the street, stopping only at the north end, pulling across from where Wilcox and Shaeffer had parked. He rolled down his window.

'Bruce, you two stay here. Watch Ferguson's place.'

'How long?'

'Just watch it.'

'Where are you…'

'Just don't let Ferguson get out of your sight.'

Wilcox nodded.

Cowart pounded on the dashboard. 'Go! Goddammit! Get me out of here!'

Tanny Brown punched the gas, and they pulled away, leaving the two other detectives behind in some confusion.

The two detectives spent most of the day parked a half block from the doorway to Ferguson's apartment house. Their surveillance had no subtlety; within the first hour after Brown and Cowart's departure, everyone living within a two city-block radius, not merely those criminal in nature or inclination, was aware of their presence.

For the most part, they were ignored.

A minor-league crack dealer, accustomed to using an alleyway adjacent to their position, cursed them loudly as he bustled about, searching for a suitable replacement location; two members of a local street gang, wearing embossed jackets and headbands, sporting the preferred expensive hightop basketball shoes favored in the inner city, paused next to their rental car and mocked them with obscene gestures. When Wilcox rolled down the window and shouted at them to leave, they merely laughed in his face, imitating his southern accent with rancorous delight and only mildly concealed menace. Two prostitutes, wearing red high heels and sequined hot pants beneath slick black raincoats, flaunted their business at the detectives, as if sensing they would not budge for the likes of them. At least a half dozen homeless, decrepit folk, pushing the ubiquitous shopping carts filled with urban flotsam and jetsam, or merely staggering through the wet day, knocked on their windows, requesting money. A couple went away with whatever spare change the two detectives could muster. Others simply marched past, oblivious to anything save the demands of whatever unseen individual it was with whom they conversed so steadily.

The steady drizzle that kept the street-life parade down to a damp minimum kept most of the other residents of the block indoors, behind their barred windows and triple-locked doors. The rain and gray skies darkened the day, driving the gloom deeper.

More than once, each detective had asked, 'What the hell happened to Cowart?' But in the isolation of their car, they could not reach an answer. Wilcox had walked to a corner pay phone and tried reaching the two absent men at the motel, but without success. Lacking any information, knowing only what Brown had ordered as he drove off, they remained on the street, letting the hours pass in stultifying frustration.

They ate fast food purchased from a take-out joint, drank coffee that had grown cold from Styrofoam cups, wiped humid moisture from the windshield endlessly so they could see ahead. Twice, each had walked two blocks to an oil-stained gas station to use bathrooms that stank with a pungent mixture of disinfectant battling excrement. Their conversation had been limited, a few half hearted attempts at finding some commonality, lapsing into long silences. They had spoken a bit of technique, of the difference in crimes between the Panhandle and the Keys, knowing that differences were merely superficial. Shaeffer had asked questions about Brown and Cowart, but discovered that Wilcox merely idolized the first and despised the latter, though he was unable to say precisely why he felt either emotion. They had speculated about Ferguson, Wilcox filling the other detective in on his experiences with the onetime convicted man. She had asked him about the confession, and he'd replied that every time he'd hit Ferguson, he'd felt as if he was shaking loose another piece of the truth, the way someone would shake fruit from a tree. He said it without regret or guilt, but with an underlying anger that surprised her. Wilcox was a volatile man, she thought, far more explosive than the immense lieutenant he was partnered to. His rage would be sudden and dramatic. Tanny Brown's would be colder, more processed. No wonder he couldn't forgive himself for indulging in the luxury of having his partner beat a confession out of the man. It must have been an aberration, a window on a part of him that he must hate.

They saw no signs of Ferguson, though they expected he knew they were there.

'How long are we going to stay?' Shaeffer asked. Streetlights did little to slice the evening darkness. 'He hasn't shown all day, unless there's a backdoor exit. Which there probably is, and he's probably off somewhere laughing at us.'

'Little longer,' Wilcox replied. 'Long enough.'

'What are we doing?' Shaeffer continued. 'I mean, what's the point?'

'The point is to let him know someone's thinking about him. The point is, Tanny told us to watch Ferguson.'

'Right,' she replied. She wanted to add, But not forever. Time seemed to slip away from her. She knew that Michael Weiss at the state prison would be wondering where she was. Knew, as well, that she had to come up with a good reason for still being there. A good, solid, official-sounding reason.

Shaeffer stretched her arms wide and pushed her legs against the fire wall of the car, feeling the muscles ache with the stiffness of inactivity.

'I hate this,' she said.

'What? Watching?'

'Right. Just waiting. Not my style.'

'What is your style?'

She didn't reply. 'It'll be dark in another ten minutes. Too dark.'

'It's dark now.'

Wilcox motioned up at the apartment entrance, but did not connect a comment to the gesture.

Shaeffer glanced about the outside of the car. She thought the street had the same appearance as the raincoats that the two prostitutes who'd accosted them earlier had: a sort of slick, glistening, synthetic sense. It was almost like being caught on a Hollywood set, real and unreal all at the same moment. She felt a sudden shiver run down her spine.

'Something wrong?' Wilcox asked. He'd caught the movement out of the corner of his eye.

'No,' she replied hastily. 'Just a little bit of the creeps, you know. This place is awful enough in the daylight.'

He let his eyes sweep up and down the street.

'Sure ain't like anything at home, he said. 'Makes you feel like you're living in a cave.'

'Or a cell' she added.

Her pocketbook was on the floor, between her feet. It was a large, loose leather bag, almost a knapsack. She nudged it with her toe, just pulling open the top, revealing the contents and reassuring herself that all the essentials it contained were still in place: notebook, tape recorder, spare tapes, wallet, badge, a small makeup case, nine-millimeter semiautomatic pistol with two extra clips, loaded with soft-nosed wadcutters.

Wilcox caught the motion as well. 'Me, he smiled, 'I still like a three-fifty-seven short-nose. Fits up under the jacket nice. Put in a magnum load, bring down a bear.'

He glanced around at the darkness crawling over their car. 'Plenty of bear around here, too, he added. He patted his coat, on top of his left side.

In the distance a siren started up, like some cat in heat. It grew louder, closer, then just as swiftly faded away. They never saw the lights of whatever it was.

Wilcox put his hand up and rubbed his eyes for an instant. 'What do you think they've been doing?' he asked.

'I don't know,' she replied quickly. 'Why don't we get the hell out of here and find out? Place is starting to make me nervous.'