Arsonist

CHAPTER 17

On the corner of Thirty Third Street in Logan Heights, several young girls sat in a car, holding cash out the window. The day was clear without a single cloud in the sky. Several cars were driving by and could see exactly what was occurring as the girls handed the cash over to a man in orange shorts and prison tattoos over his arms and shoulders. The man whistled behind him and a young boy of about twelve ran into an alleyway and came back out with a small plastic baggie. He handed it to the girls, blew them a kiss, and then ran back to the alley.

Detective Stephen Gunn watched this from his car as he finished his cigar and threw it out on the sidewalk. He got out of the car and dodged traffic until he was across the street. As he approached the girls, he could see the man with the tattoos leaning against their door, a smile on his face now. He could hear their conversation.

“You girls suck dick?” he said.

One of the girls giggled. “No.”

“That’s bullshit. I know y’all suck dick. Why don’t we hit my apartment and smoke some weed and you can show me how you suck that dick.”

Gunn stepped around the car so the man couldn’t see him and came up behind him. He grabbed him by his head and slammed him, nose first, into the car. The man swore and instinctively went for the Glock tucked into his waistband when Gunn pulled out the weapon, de-chambered it, and threw it over by a garbage can.

Gunn held up his badge to the girls. “Unless you want to be suckin’ his dick while you’re in jail, I suggest you get the hell outta here.” They started the car. “And girls, I’ll be takin’ that crystal you just bought…thank you. Now get the hell outta here.”

Gunn pushed the man away. Blood was pouring out of his nose. “You broke my fuckin’ nose.”

“How you been, Juan? You know, it’s funny, I’m sittin’ there today just hard at work and I realize, you know what? I haven’t heard from my good pal Juan in almost three weeks. Imagine that, man. I ain’t heard from you in three weeks.”

“Yo I been sick, man. I just got back out here on dees corners man.”

“Yeah? ‘Cause I drove by here couple days ago and saw you hangin’ out with your faggot friend over there.”

“Yeah, I been back for a few but I been outta the game for a minute.”

Gunn glanced around. “Where’s my fuckin’ money, Juan?”

“I told you man, I been outta the game. I ain’t got no money.”

“Really? You ain’t got no money, huh?” Gunn took a few steps toward him and Juan jumped back. “You old school, Juan? Right? You always talkin’ about how life was like back in the day. I mean you’re only like, what? Thirty-five? But since all you wet-back gangsters die out here at twenty that’s pretty old to still be in the game, right?”

Gunn jumped at him and grabbed him by the throat. He brought him near so that he could smell his breath and look into his eyes.

“Here’s a rule you can fuckin’ remember: this is my corner. This ain’t your corner; it ain’t the LHG’s corner. This is my corner and I call the fuckin’ shots. Now you pay me what you owe me or we got a big problem, you and me, and maybe that butt-buddy of yours over there gets a little promotion ‘cause his boss is missin’ in action.”

“I’ll get you the money, man. I ain’t playin’. I’ll get it to you. I need some time, though, man. I just got back in the game, man. I wasn’t lyin’.”

“You got three days to get me three weeks’ worth of payments.”

“Three days? Man, I can’t do that. I can’t sell fast enough, man.”

“Well then you better rob a fuckin’ truck or take out a loan or something ‘cause either my money or your balls are goin’ home with me in three days.”

“All right, man, all right. I’ll find it. I’ll find it.”

Gunn let him go. “See, I knew you were reasonable. That’s why I like you, Juan. Reasonable.”

As Gunn got back into his car, he saw Juan go and pick up his firearm from near the garbage. He stared at him with venom, but just quietly tucked the gun into his pants and went back to work.

It was nearly six in the evening when Lieutenant Daniel Childs walked into Jonathan Stanton’s office and leaned against the doorframe. He had found conversations with his detectives went a lot faster and saved him more time when he didn’t sit down or come in.

Stanton sat at his desk, busy at work on his computer. Childs watched him a long time. He was researching something about homosexual sadists; a study that, from what Childs could tell, was conducted almost fifty years ago.

“You’re the only detective I know that researches the way you research.”

“Most crimes are solved by snitching. The type I specialize in aren’t. Some of the time they don’t even know they’re doing it.” He turned and faced him, putting his feet up on the desk. “Gotta take every advantage I have.”

Childs took a few steps in the room so he could read the screen. “Schizo-Affective Disorders in Homosexual Psychopathy. I prefer Sports Illustrated myself.”

“This study was conducted in the sixties and it’s spooky how accurate they are. These people, like the one I think we’re looking for in Cisneros, are incapable of happiness. They want to impose their own misery on everybody else. This guy we’re after, he has a family. I bet to everyone in the community they seem like the perfect family but at home he’s probably a Vlad Dracula. I wouldn’t be surprised if he tortures his children as a form of discipline.”

“You one dark mutherfucker, Jon. You need to bowl or play tennis or whatever white people do to clear your head.”

“I’m all right.”

“How’s the dating situation goin’?”

“I’m okay, really, Danny, you don’t need to worry about me. I was actually just debating whether to call somebody I met for a date.”

“Oh yeah?” Childs said, sitting down. “Who is she?”

“She’s the arson investigator we hired.”

“Well call her.”

“Maybe later.”

“No, no, this is a direct order, man. Call her right now while I listen and ask her to dinner and a movie or whatever the hell Mormons do for fun. Ice cream, whatever.”

“I really don’t think-”

“I ain’t kiddin’. Direct order. Come on, call her.”

“All right, fine. Hang on.” He pulled out his phone and pulled her up in his contacts.

“Ew, she in your contacts already? This is serious.”

Stanton smiled as the phone rang. Emma answered on the third ring.

“This is Emma.”

“Hey, Emma, it’s Jon. Stanton. From the SDPD. We worked-”

“Of course I remember you, Jon. What’s up?”

“Hey, um, I was just wondering if-”

“You’re probably calling about the samples. They’re not done yet. The labs that I trust take about-”

“No I wasn’t calling about that. I was calling about something else. Um.” He looked to Childs, who made a motion of sticking his finger in a hole. Stanton had to suppress a laugh. “I was just wondering if, um, you’d like to grab dinner some time? With me. Grab dinner with me.”

“Oh, well…yeah, why not?”

“Okay, how about Friday.”

“Friday’s no good. I got a symposium on ion-selective electrodes.”

Childs whispered, “Oh, man, beaten out by an electrode.”

“Well,” Stanton said, “how about Saturday?”

“Let me check…yeah, that should be fine. Should I come pick you up? Or, well, I don’t know. Do you want to come pick me up?”

“Sure. Just text me your address and I’ll swing by around seven.”

“Sounds good. See you then.”

“See you then.”

Childs busted up laughing. “Oh, man. Nothing better than two nerds trying to flirt.”

“She’s not one of your strippers, that’s for sure.”

“My strippers are top-quality American beef, Brother Stanton. You should try one sometime. Might loosen you up a bit and get you to stop thinking about homosexual schizophrenic-whatevers torturing their kids.” He stood up. “Much respect, Jon. That took balls, I know.”

“Thanks.”

As Childs left, Stanton looked at his phone. He calendared his date using Siri, an iPhone personal assistant application, and smiled as he saw it appear on his calendar.