Police Fiction by M. E. Proctor
“Pull over,” Tom Keegan said. “Let’s stop the carnage.”
“Oh, come on! Haven’t you had enough for one day?”
Al “Matt” Matteotti was driving the unmarked. He always drove. He said it relaxed him. The way he handled the San Francisco streets, it sure didn’t relax Tom. Matt’s frustration was understandable. They’d been on the job since morning, working a messy crime scene near the old Sutro Baths. Three bodies, six guns. Fireworks. Somebody must have heard something but that somebody was not coming forward. Reconstructing the chain of events was a head scratcher. And now this, two guys going at it behind a warehouse. Grimy didn’t begin to describe it.
“It’s Bags,” Tom said. “He’s twice as big as the other guy. I’ve seen enough corpses for one day.”
Gus “Bags” Verrazano was a known goon. A debt collector for Stan Revell, loan shark extraordinaire.
Tom stepped out of the car, hand on his holster, just in case. He knew these men weren’t going to draw on him. Bags had both mitts occupied. One hand clutched his sparring partner’s shirt, the other punched him in the face. And the smaller guy was in no condition to do anything.
“Police. Hold it right there.”
Instead of holding it right there, Bags released his victim who crumbled to the pavement.
“He started it, Officer,” Bags said. He held his hands up and took a step back. He was wearing thick leather gloves. No way he’d bust his knuckles rendering punishment. Bags was a true professional.
“Hands against the wall,” Matt said. “Spread them.” He patted the big guy and grabbed his wrists, cuffed him in one smooth move, expert.
“Hey, he came at me,” Bags insisted. “He’s drunk.”
The man on the ground was spitting blood. Tom sat on his heels by his side. He could smell the alcohol. “What you got to say?” He was a kid, twenty-five max, and no match for Bags, not by a long shot.
The kid mumbled through smashed lips and broken teeth. “I lost it.”
Tom helped him up. Patted him and cuffed him. Checked his ID. Howard Rosinsky. The restraints were overkill. The kid was a ragdoll.
“I won’t press charges, Officer,” Bags said.
He deserved points for nailing the hoodlum cliché. Matt pushed him toward the car.
“It’s not even your beat,” Bags said, dragging his feet.
“What an unfortunate choice of words,” Matt said. “Writing up this one’s on you, Tom.”
“I’ll be out in an hour,” Bags said. “Why you putting the extra work on yourselves?”
“I enjoy disrupting your social life, Bags,” Tom said. “It puts a smile on a hard day.” He directed the kid to the front seat of the car and gave him a hankie to wipe his nose. “Try not to bleed on the seat.”
“I’m going to be sick,” the kid said.
He bent over and puked on the car. It made a splash.
“Jesus,” Tom moaned. He checked his new, crisp gray suit for splatter. “The cleaner’s bill’s on you, boy.”
“That’ll clear his hangover,” Matt said. “Smoke?” He lit a cigarette and stuck it in the kid’s ruined mouth. “You’re a bit young to be in bed with the likes of Bags and Revell. What’s your poison, cards or ponies?”
The boy puffed, and winced when he blew out the smoke. It must be an explosion in a china shop in there. “You got this all wrong,” he mumbled.
Bags was sniggering in the back seat. “You’re sitting next to me, Officer? I’m honored. How often do you join your catches in the back?”
Tom closed the front passenger door and sat next to Bags. “Shut up and stick to your side, or I’ll rearrange your profile to match the boy’s.”
Matt slid behind the wheel. “Ghosts of patrols past. Can’t say I miss those times.”
***
Matt went home. He was a married man with a toddler. He had better things to do than clocking nights at the office. Tom spent fifteen minutes typing a brief report on the incident. He put a fresh sheet in the Underwood and arranged his notes on the Sutro shootout. Two sentences in, he gave up. He couldn’t focus on the case. That stupid fist fight bugged him to no end. He grabbed his jacket and went up to Vice.
The office was quiet. Eleven at night was their busy time. The squad was out on the town. Pete Delgado was in. Tom had seen him around. He knew the man was solid, another Army vet. They’d never worked together.
“You have a minute?” Tom said.
“Just holding the fort while the troops are in the wild,” Delgado said. “You’re tired of cold ones, you want to join the fun and games brigade?”
“Bags Verrazano is downstairs. Caught beating the stuffing out of a kid. He won’t be there long. In case you want to have a word with him …”
“He’s not likely to peep a word, but thanks anyway.” Delgado pulled out a pack of cigarettes, took one, and offered the pack to Tom. “You didn’t come to this nest of sinners to tell me you bagged Bags. What do you need, Keegan?”
Tom lit up and dragged a chair close to Delgado’s desk. “I’m troubled. The kid Bags punched lives in Pacific Heights.”
“So, he’s slumming.” Delgado shrugged. “Maybe he doesn’t want to tell Mom and Dad that he racked up a gambling tab.”
Tom shook his head. “He smelled of booze but he wasn’t drunk. There was no bar nearby, no watering hole of any kind, no private residence. Just warehouses, factories, and port installations.”
“A meeting, then, or an accidental encounter. That’d make sense. Bags likes to do his stuff indoors, in a controlled environment.” Delgado was warming to the mystery. “He only looks like a muscle-bound moron.”
Tom puffed on his cigarette. “I have a hard time believing in anything accidental.”
“You were in the area because of the Sutro shootout?” Delgado said. “You think there’s a connection?”
It was late but the Vice detective was very much awake, and he didn’t believe in coincidence either. A character like Bags didn’t wander near a crime scene out of curiosity.
“There’s been police activity in the area since morning,” Tom said. “Chronicle reporters crawling all over, bystanders, total mayhem. The entire story is printed in the paper’s evening edition. It says that we have no fucking idea who these dead fuckers are. If Bags was there to gather information, he won’t have gotten much. And it sure doesn’t explain Rosinsky. That’s the kid’s name, Howard Rosinsky.”
Delgado leaned forward in his chair. He opened a desk drawer and extracted a bottle of whiskey. “There should be glasses over there.” He pointed at the filing cabinets. “On top.”
Tom selected two glasses that looked less gunky that the others. Delgado poured three generous fingers of booze. “Do we still have personnel at Sutro at this time of night?” he said.
“One trooper to keep an eye on the crime scene. Not that there’s much left to pick up. It’s easy access for anybody wanting to poke around. The perimeter is large.” Tom looked at Delgado over the rim of his glass. “What’s Revell into these days?”
“Same as always. Gambling and usury. He’s swimming in cash and interested in branching out. What do you know about Las Vegas?”
“Bugsy’s dry desert wet dream,” Tom said. “Mob land. It might suck customer traffic from Los Angeles if it catches on. We’re a little far to be impacted. Does Revell have plans to invest in the thing?”
“There’s more than rumors,” Delgado said.
“If the three guys in the morgue are Las Vegas envoys, it doesn’t bode well for trade agreements.”
Delgado drained his glass. “I’ll see what I can get out of Bags.” He made a face. “He’s a hard nut to crack.”
“Mr. Rosinsky might be more accommodating,” Tom said.
***
The kid had been patched up by a medic. He was black and blue in all the places not wrapped up. He was in a holding cell, alone, lying on a bench.
“I didn’t introduce myself. Tom Keegan, Homicide. How do you feel?”
“Homicide?” Howard Rosinsky mumbled. His surprise sounded genuine through the painkillers.
“There was a shooting close to where we picked you up. You didn’t know about it?”
“No.”
“How do you know Bags?”
“Who?”
“The bulldozer that ran you over.”
Rosinsky tried to turn on the narrow cot and almost fell off. Tom steadied him.
“Come on, Howie,” he said. “Talk to me. Nobody in their right mind would believe you assaulted Bags, unless you were suicidal. There are a few bridges that would serve you better, if that was the intent. Way less painful. You’ll be released in the morning. I’d like assurances that you won’t do anything stupid.”
The kid sighed. “Where is he?”
“In another cell, probably shooting the shit with the screws. What were you doing over there, Howie?”
“I want to call my lawyer.”
“That bad, uh?” Tom said. “Okay, I tried to make this easy, open the door and call you a cab, but yeah, let’s do it by the book. It’ll look good on my report and you’ll do a charitable deed for a starving attorney. Everybody happy.”
He was opening the cell door when Rosinsky called. “Keegan?”
Tom pretended not to hear. He lit a cigarette and stepped out.
“Can you really get me out of here?” Rosinsky said. He sounded way more alert.
“Not if you killed anybody.”
“I’d laugh if my jaw let me.”
Tom backtracked. He considered Rosinsky for a while, then pushed the kid’s legs to the side and sat on the bench. “Did you do anything that could get you in trouble?”
“You’re funny, Keegan. Anything can get a guy like me in trouble. Hiding stuff from the parents, falling in love with the wrong girl, drinking too much. Do I need to continue?”
Tom smiled. “I’m not your parish priest, but yeah, some of these things can have consequences. Most of the time, they don’t get you in the slammer. It takes special circumstances.”
“Do they have coffee in here?”
“I don’t recommend it.” He removed his hat and ran his hands through his hair. “I’ve had a dreadful day, Howie. I want to go home and sleep. I’d keep you company but you better grab my interest fast. Like right now.”
Howard Rosinsky’s story was at once sweet and appalling.
There was a boy who fancied himself a master poker player. And maybe he was. At the country club, not in the Tenderloin. And there was a girl, trapped, and desperate to escape.
“Sunny Nguyen,” Rosinsky said. “She works at the club, serving drinks and such. The way these guys look at her … I know Revell will sell her off. So, I said I would pay for her.”
“Buy her off?” Tom said. “They’ll suck you dry, kid.”
“I agreed to the price. Tonight was the last payment and I went to get her.”
“Let me guess. She wasn’t there.”
“They said she had a cold and didn’t come to work today. I’m not stupid, Keegan. I knew they were playing with me. Trying to jack up the bill. I waited outside. See if I could catch her when she left. That’s when I saw the big guy. He always takes the girls home. Those that don’t have clients lined up.”
“Bags is Sunny’s escort?” Tom said.
“Yeah. He came out alone. I followed him. I was hoping he would take me to her.”
“You don’t know where she lives?”
“A house with the other girls. I have no idea where it is. Sunny couldn’t tell me. She’s only been here a few months, and they lock her up when she’s not at the club.”
“Nguyen,” Tom said. “She’s from Indochina?”
Rosinsky nodded. “You’ve heard about the Haiphong Incident, four years ago?”
“Can’t say I did.” Four years ago, Tom was just getting reacquainted with civilian life. He wasn’t interested in international events. He’d seen enough mayhem overseas. San Francisco was complicated enough.
“It was a massacre. Her entire family was killed,” Rosinsky said. “She decided to get out. It took a while but she got on a cargo ship. It cost her everything she had.”
Tom suspected it cost Sunny Nguyen much more than her savings. She put her life in hock. In the country illegally, caught in a prostitution ring, held captive with no help in sight. Except from this boy.
“What was Bags doing at the warehouse, did he meet with somebody?” Tom said.
“I didn’t see a soul. I thought I was careful following him but he spotted me. He started punching right away. Then you arrived.”
Tom helped Rosinsky get up. “An officer will take you home. Do you live alone?”
“My parents’ house. I have an apartment on the top floor. What about my car? It’s at the warehouse.”
“What do you drive?”
“A white Packard.” He rattled the license plate number.
“We’ll get the car back to you. See a doctor tomorrow and stay away from the clubs.”
“What about Sunny?”
“We’ll look for her. Where’s the club?”
Rosinsky gave him the address, near Union Square. “I’m serious about getting her out of there, Keegan. I want to marry her. You have to find her.”
Tom sighed. The kid better find a good lawyer or his girlfriend would swap Stan Revell’s dungeon for a slow boat back to Haiphong before he could slip a ring on her finger.
“An entire vice squad will look for her, kid.”
***
Tom went back to Pete Delgado’s lair after springing Howard Rosinsky. The vice cop wasn’t back yet. Tom made a pot of coffee, figuring they would need it. He was on his second cup, heavily laced with sugar, when Delgado walked in.
“I released the kid,” Tom said.
“I figured you would. Bags isn’t going anywhere tonight.”
“Get anything?”
“Posturing. Wisecracking. The expected. I steered him toward Vegas and he blinked. I pushed and I could tell he was bothered. As much as a stone slab can be bothered. What about you?”
Tom told him about Sunny Nguyen and Howard Rosinsky’s romance. “I promised Howie we would look for her.” He smiled. “I said your guys would move heaven and earth.”
“Doesn’t cost you a penny, does it?”
“If Revell has a stable of maidens he sells to the highest bidder, the brass will be all over it. No to mention immigration. And he keeps the babes under lock and key.”
Delgado poured himself a steaming cup of coffee. “According to Rosinsky who heard it from the girl. Forgive me for doubting a little hooker who found herself a sugar baby boy.” He raised a placating hand. “Maybe it’s true. After my one-sided conversation with Bags, I think the Vegas gig is more promising. The stakes are bigger. Three bullet-ridden bodies weigh more than a prostitute.”
“Let’s assume they were in town to make a deal with Revell,” Tom said. “That deal is in the crapper by now. Who screwed Revell, who wants to dislodge him?”
“Revell’s got competition but I don’t know anybody with enough clout. Or cash. Nobody the Vegas heavyweights would consider making a deal with.”
“Then it’s a palace coup,” Tom said. “An ambitious upstart, close enough to know about the Vegas negotiations, meeting details, and such. Revell is smart. He’s counting heads as we speak, and testing loyalties.”
“The body count will rise,” Delgado said.
“It’ll happen within the week, Pete.”
Delgado acknowledged the familiarity with a nod. “Revell sent Bags to Sutro to check on something, confirm a suspicion maybe. Rosinsky interfered, then you. Revell must be going up the walls. Do you want to release Bags?”
“Depends,” Tom said. “Who are you rooting for? Revell or Mister X?”
“The devil you know …”
“Then we make a deal.” Tom drained his coffee cup and stood up. “We let Bags loose in exchange for the girl. What do you say?”
“It won’t solve your shootout,” Delgado said.
“Revell will clean house. If he wins. And if he loses, we’ll know who to slap the cuffs on.”
Delgado looked at him, head tilted. “We’re supposed to prevent violence, Tommy boy.”
“And protect the innocent. Let’s go talk to Bags and get the girl.”
***
Bags was released and immediately went to the Sutro Baths. The officers that tailed him were better at the job than Howard Rosinsky. They stayed out of sight. Observation only. Bags didn’t breach the crime scene perimeter. He went into the old baths building. He didn’t spend much time inside. Came out the way he went in, empty handed. He recovered his car and went to report back to Revell.
Tom, Delgado, and a couple of vice cops raided the girls’ house. They arrested a crusty madam and a skinny knife artist in bad need of a fix. Delgado did not want them in his car. He called a patrol cruiser.
Sunny Nguyen was lovely. Her three roommates were equally long-legged and silky-haired. Beauties all. Tom let Pete Delgado and his team handle them. They enjoyed the assignment. He took Sunny aside. She was equal parts scared and relieved.
“Do you know Howard Rosinsky?” he said.
“You friend of Howie?” she muttered. Her English was a little broken, and French accented.
“He was looking for you tonight,” Tom said. “You weren’t at the club.”
“They say to stay in the house.”
“Would you like to see Howie?”
Her eyes filled with water. “Oh, oui, s’il vous plaît.”
Tom led her to his car. He held the door for her. All she carried was a tiny purse. What else did she need? It was big enough to hold Howard Rosinsky’s heart and a mountain of legal trouble. He sat behind the wheel and lit a cigarette. His hand shook from caffeine and exhaustion.
“Lucky kids,” he muttered and put the car in gear.
Bio: M.E. Proctor was born in Brussels and lives in Texas. Her short story collection Family and Other Ailments (from Wordwooze Publishing) is available in all the usual places. She’s currently working on a contemporary PI series. Her short fiction has appeared in Vautrin, Bristol Noir, Pulp Modern, Mystery Tribune, Reckon Review, Shotgun Honey, and Thriller Magazine among others. She’s a Derringer nominee.
You can find Her at her website, HERE.
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