Chapter 9: A Bad Finger

Joe

We left Cambridge on the next morning after a good breakfast and we were back in Bethesda a little after noon. It took us the rest of the day to move Lori's belongings into my apartment. She explained things to the Carlsons and promised to come by on Saturdays to mow the lawn. It turned out that this was not necessary. One of their grandsons had been bugging them for months to give him the basement and they had only resisted because they did not want to kick Lori out. She could even get out of the lease within the week.

That evening we rearranged the living room and the bedroom to fit the tastes and the needs of my new partner. I sacrificed my mustache before dinner and spent some time in front of the bathroom mirror to look at the new me. We ordered a pizza and had some red wine with it. We slept cuddled together in my twin size bed, and when we woke on Monday morning, we were ready to take on the world.

First thing, Lori met with Marcie Hoffman. I left them alone and went to my office. There were reports to write and statistics sheets to fill out. Lori stuck her head in when she was done with Marcie.

"Are we set for lunch?"

"Twelve forty five," I answered, blowing her a kiss.

She waved me good bye and was off to work. At ten, a new parolee, Tyrone Marlin, showed up for his first appointment. The outlook for him was bleak. Two convictions for possession with intent. For the second, he had spent four years of the six year sentence, and I wondered what the Parole Commission was thinking when they dumped him on me. To be sure, he entered my office like he owned it. He sat on the visitor chair with his meaty legs spread wide, a tall, fat tub of a man, and he looked at me with all the disdain of a man who had made two hundred grand a year tax-free by distributing little Ziplock bags.

We went over his parole conditions, but I could tell he wasn't paying any attention. Whatever I told him, he shrugged and looked at the ceiling, tilting the chair back and making it clear that he wasn't interested at all. From time to time he snipped a fleck of dust off his expensive black leather jacket. I shrugged. No use in getting riled up. This bird would be back in the cage inside a month.

I gave him a couple of printed pages with his contacts, his new job at a car wash and a schedule for his appointments. He crumpled the papers and shoved them contemptuously into his pocket before he left. I shrugged again. I made a mental note to check him out at his work in the next days.

The next appointment was waiting already, Samir Haboub, a talented scam artist. His specialty had been to pose as a fugitive from the Iranian mullahs and to ask for 'help' from the exile Iranian community. He had collected over seventy thousand dollars before they wised up on him. Now, two years later, he was out of stir again. The problem I faced was that the good Samir had not worked for a living in his entire life. I don't think he was really bad or evil, he'd just never learned the concept of earning his living. He had been fired from two jobs already, both times for borrowing money from co-workers and not paying them back, and he could not understand the 'fuss'.

I spent another hour, trying to drill the truths of life into his head. Then I got him another job at a dry cleaner. The people who worked there spoke only Spanish and he would have a harder time talking them into a loan or so I hoped.

The first two clients this morning had been hopeless, each in his own way, but the third was simply depressing. Daniel Sczerwinski was a father of two and had been a hard worker all his life. As far as anybody knew he had not done a single unlawful deed in is entire life until a fateful Sunday three years ago. Daniel had been a trucker. He had taken a weekend off to celebrate his cousin's wedding. Knowing he had the Sunday off he had indulged in the Vodka that was offered into the wee hours and when his boss called Sunday at noon and told him he had to take over a trip for a sick co-worker, Daniel was still in no shape to drive and according to his testimony he also told his boss so.

The boss' answer was simple, 'Get your ass here pronto, or you won't have a job on Monday.'

Poor Daniel, with his head still pickled, was cowed enough to go to work. Twenty miles along Route 50, he plowed into the rear end of a traffic jam killing a retired schoolteacher in her compact car.

During the trial, the boss swore on his mother's grave that he had no idea that his long time driver was drunk, and Daniel had nothing to corroborate his version. Three to five years for DUI and vehicular homicide were the result. His wife stayed loyal and supported him all through the prison time. His family rallied around him, ashamed of allowing him to drink so much. It was of no use. Daniel was a wreck. I had found work for him on a loading dock. He showed up on time, did his work and went home, but he never spoke a word. Even now, he just sat in my visitor's chair staring at his hands.

I had no reasons to get on his case but I had a bad feeling. After he left I called his wife at work and told her of my worries. The poor woman started to cry but she was afraid, too. I then got the phone number of their church from her and called the priest. I told him that I thought that Daniel might be suicidal and the priest promised to visit the family and talk to Daniel. That was all I could do. We have no funds to sent parolees to a therapist.

I was relieved to leave the office shortly after twelve. When I arrived at Ruth's store I saw two men who were cornering Ruth and Lori, a White guy of around forty and a Black man whose age was hard to guess. I could see through the glass of the shop door that they were arguing. Thank God I was carrying my duty weapon, the ubiquitous 9mm Glock. I checked the seat of the holster and made sure that my badge showed. Breathing in and out first, I stepped in.

The bell above the door clanged, and the two men turned.

"Shop's closed," the Black dude spoke into my direction.

"I don't think so," I answered. "I'm a State law enforcement officer. What's going on here?"

That made both dudes start. The White guy wiped his mouth briefly. "Nuthin', Officer, we're just haggling 'bout some junk."

"Ruth?" I asked.

"They're after Lori. They want her to come with them. They say for shooting videos."

"Did you ask them to leave?"

Ruth nodded. "Three times already."

"Why don't we step outside, Gentlemen?" I asked, staying polite and hoping to defuse the situation.

"Why don't you mind your own business?" the Black dude sneered.

In this second I saw the shape of a handgun under his shirt. Reflexes took over and a split second later I had the Glock out and trained on the two men.

"Hands above your head! Now!" I commanded projecting more confidence than I felt.

For a second I thought the Black man would go for his gun but the White guy stuck them up immediately and then his partner followed suite.

"Call the cops, Ruth! Tell them armed robbery in progress," I told my sister. "Lori, get behind me!"

"Armed robbery? Are you nuts?" the White dude howled.

"You are trespassing, coercing the staff of this store, and your partner carries a concealed weapon. You got a Maryland concealed-carry permit?"

The Black dude swore softly. "Fuck, Leroy! What'd you get us into now?"

"You asshole, why are you even packing?" Leroy shot back. He turned to me. "Listen, Officer! This is a misunderstanding. Dolly and I go back a long way. I practically discovered her. I thought she'd want to work in the business again."

"I told you I wouldn't; I said it three times," Lori interjected angrily. "That's when you called in your goon."

"Okay, a mistake on my part, but do we need all the aggravation?" He was whining now. "Listen, what if we leave? Couldn't we just forget about this?"

I shook my head. "Sorry, no chance. Your partner is carrying, and I need to ascertain he's got a license. Besides, I want your names and addresses in case Miss Jorgensen suddenly goes missing."

The Black guy showed perspiration now. He licked his lips and I felt sweat trickling down my own spine. This wasn't over. Something in his posture told me that the shit was about to hit the fan.

"Mister, what if I drop the piece and leave it?" he offered.

I shook my head and braced myself for what was coming. My hunch was right. In a desperate move he jumped towards Ruth's counter, his right hand going for his waistband. The noise of my Glock was deafening. I had aimed for center body mass, but somehow both shots went high and to the right. I saw the impacts on his shoulder and his left upper arm. He stumbled backwards, but then his hand with the gun came up. I almost shut my eyes when I pulled the trigger twice more. Again, one shot went to the right, missing him entirely, but the second one hit him in the face.

Bile rose in my throat as I swung my gun towards Leroy, but he stood frozen staring unbelievingly at his dead partner while a wet spot spread from his groin downward. I felt like pissing along with him. Dimly I heard screams through the rush in my ears and the sounds of a siren. I held up my badge as two troopers burst through the door, their guns trained on me.

"Parole Agent," I croaked holding my badge high.

To my relief, the cop in the lead looked at the badge and lowered his gun. His partner followed suit. He then looked at the dead man who still held a gun in his hand and then at me.

"What the fuck?"

°°°

I do not recommend shooting a person.

In the movies or in the cop shows, the good guy shoots a bad guy, utters some cool one-liner, and then goes to eat donuts with his friends. In real life you almost wish you were the one being shot. I spent the next seven hours giving depositions to various detectives of increasing rank while I was sure that Ruth and Lori did not fare any better. Time and again I had to retell the story while a Union rep sat by my side shuffling papers and looking important. It was after eight when the last Detective felt that he had filled out enough forms and we were allowed to join the Lieutenant in another room. Lori rushed into my arms.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," she whispered.

"Okay, it's getting really late. So let's make this short," the Loot announced yawning openly. "The various statements compute; even Leroy Pointer's testimony fits. I guess you are cleared, Dresdner. I'll recommend to have you reinstated as of immediately."

I knew the man. He had been in charge of the investigation into my shooting, and he had chewed my ass for not being armed when I ran into Fred Winston.

"Thanks, Loot," I answered nicely, still stroking Lori's hair.

"The guy you shot, Benjamin Booker, he's quite a bad finger. NYPD will send down a detective tomorrow. He's got a sheet longer than his ... arm. Two counts of assault, one sexual assault, three counts of furthering prostitution, and even the worst, tax evasion." The Loot grinned. "The NYPD detective wants a look at that gun. They suspect him of shooting another pimp earlier this year.

"Miss Jorgensen already stated that she only knows Pointer, back from her adult movie career. Pointer corroborates that. He claims that Booker forced himself into Pointer's business as a partner. It seems that Booker used Pointer's talent stable for 'promotion events', if you catch my drift."

"Do those guys have more partners?"

"Not according to Pointer. Booker was a pimp, but he wasn't syndicate as far as the New York vice squad knows. Pointer seems rather relieved about being in sole charge of his business again. New York says Pointer is small fry and non-violent and Miss Jorgensen told us the same. Should we let him go?"

Ruth spoke up. "Only if he pays for the remodeling and cleaning. There's blood all over my merchandise and there's a huge hole in the dry wall where Little Joe here missed."