Seattle Noir

BLUE SUNDAYBY KATHLEEN ALCALÁ

Central District

It was a blue night, a blue car, and Danny was full of shots of blue tequila.

“Slow down, man. Aren’t you going too fast?”

“Can’t catch me, I’m the gingerbread man.”

“Shit, man, I thought I was the crazy one. Just get me back to my old lady in one piece.”

“No problem, bro. How’s she doing, anyway?”

“Good. She’s happy to see me alive.”

Chucho gunned it to make a light. That’s when a cop car came out of the parking lot and the sirens started.

When Danny came to, he was lying on the ground.

“Get up… I said get up!”

A foot prodded him.

“Okay, okay,” said Danny.

Danny was on his back. He slowly rolled over and got to his hands and knees. Chucho’s car was nearby, the passenger door open next to Danny. He vaguely recalled Chucho’s nervous laughter as they had careened past the fancy new condos on 23rd, past Garfield and the fire station to Jackson. The Seven Star Mini Mart was still open. Chucho made a bat turn left onto MLK in front of half a dozen cars and flew past the playground to Cherry.

“Híjole, man, that cop is mad!” he had said gleefully.

Danny wondered where his cell phone had gone. The last he remembered was Catfish Corner.

“Get up!” the policeman shouted again.

“Okay, I’m getting up now,” said Danny as he began to rise. “I’m going to get up.”

The policeman fired three shots into him.

“Shut the fuck up!” the cop shouted. “Shut the fuck up!”

Dying had seemed easy in Iraq-people did it every day. And when people were not dying in front of you, your buddies, the cooks, the officers, or the civilians who brought in supplies, they were telling you stories about people dying. About how they died, how long it took them, and what it looked like afterwards. Who killed them, or who might have killed them.

There was no death with dignity, only death. Danny spent most of his free time pretending he was someplace else. He plugged his iPod into his head, turned on some tunes, and tried to think about Aimee and the kid they were expecting early next year. Would it be a boy or a girl? It was too soon to tell, but when he went home on leave, they would visit the doctor, and maybe have an ultrasound done. Danny was ready to think about a little life-a little life after Iraq, if that was possible.

The next thing that woke Danny was sirens. A lot of them.

I ain’t dead yet, he thought. A collar was clamped around his neck, and he was rolled onto a stretcher. “Hustle! Hustle! Hustle!” yelled a woman. “I need an IV here, as soon as he’s in!”

Some more jostling, then a sharp pain in his arm.

“Go!” screamed another voice.

The ambulance, because he must be in an ambulance, started up, the siren more muted from inside, and they flew. It reminded him of the cab to the airport in Iraq, but with fewer potholes. He wondered if Chucho was okay.

Danny wakes in a bright, noisy room. People keep leaning over him and yelling in his face.

“I’m not deaf, you know,” he finally says.

“Oh good, he’s conscious. We thought we were losing you there,” a male voice barks at Danny. “Just keep talking to us.”

Danny is in a curtained-off area, and he can hear people near him yelling. Triage.

“Uh, what do you want me to say?”

A bright light is shined in one eye, then the other. “No concussion. Let’s give him some fluids… Are you in pain?” the man asks in that voice you use for the deaf, elderly, and foreign born. Danny recognizes it as the way he spoke to the Iraqis, as though it would somehow bridge the gap between his English and their understanding.

Danny has to think about this. “Actually, I’m kind of numb on one side.”

“Not good,” says the man.

Danny decides to pretend this man is a doctor.

“Can you feel this?… This?” The doctor pricks him with a pencil tip from his shoulder down his right side.

“It’s my arm. I can’t feel my arm,” says Danny. Damn, he thinks. Back from Iraq just in time to die in Harborview. The room grows dark again.

Danny could say “stop” and “open” in Arabic. And, of course, “Insha Allah”-If God wills it. Sometimes, when he listened to the Iraqi men talking and smoking, he could hear them say to each other simply, “Insha… insha…” a sort of running refrain, an affirmation of hope, with a strong note of fatalism.

Danny had gotten used to stepping in front of speeding vehicles. Iraqi drivers seemed to have two speeds-stop and go flat out-so he, taking their fatalistic attitude, assumed the drivers of speeding trucks would stomp on their brakes before hitting him at the base checkpoint where he was usually stationed. If not, his fellow MPs would open fire. It was that simple.

This habit of driving as fast as possible was soon picked up by the Americans. It started when you got out of air transport and on the road. Since the highway between the airport and the capital was mined, and also without cover, you felt as vulnerable as an ant as soon as you hit the ground. The drivers stepped on it and went at a suicidal speed, swerving away from suspicious objects and people, even if it meant driving directly into the path of oncoming traffic. But the trucks and cars coming the other way were doing the same thing.

Danny becomes aware of a shooting pain down his left side. It jolts him from sleep, or wherever he has been. He remembers the doctor poking him along that side, and feeling nothing. The pain jolts him again. Is this good? Pain is probably better than nothing at all-it means he’s still alive.

“Danny? Danny?” It’s his sister Sirena’s voice.

He feels a cool hand on his right arm, then against his cheek. He opens his eyes, then shuts them again quickly against the glare.

“Can you hear me?” she asks. Then a note of her old, mischievous self, his little sister: “Are you in there, Danny?”

He opens his eyes again, sees her silhouette against the window before shutting them again. It is raining outside. Good. This means he’s not in Iraq. Where is he, then? He remembers the car chase. The police.

“Chucho… happened to Chucho?”

“My cousin Chucho? He’s fine. Don’t worry about him. Only you were hurt.” Sirena leans over him.

He can feel her breath on his face, and tries again to open his eyes, fluttering his lids briefly. “What?” he says.

“Do you remember what happened?”

“Yeah. Somebody shot me.”

“A cop shot you. For nothing. Someone taped it, and it’s been all over the news.”

Danny grunts.

Sirena pats his hand. “Are you thirsty?” Without waiting for a reply, she reaches for a glass and places a straw to his lips.

Danny realizes he’s in a neck brace. He opens his lips and sucks.

“Is my neck broken?”

“No. I don’t know why you’re in that thing. Maybe we can get them to take it off soon.”

Danny can see a nurses’ station, more bright lights.

Sirena looks up at the clock. “Aimee will be here pretty soon, as soon as she drops off the kids.”

Soon. Soon. Soon. Her words echo in his head.

“Soon,” he says, then closes his eyes.

At Sarge’s urging, Danny tried driving the truck. After grinding the gears around the compound for a while, he got the hang of it. It was loud and hot inside. It was a hundred degrees outside. He had never learned how to drive a stick shift back home. His cousins in L.A., when he e-mailed them, teased him, told him he was finally a real man.

Danny met Aimee when he was stationed at Barksdale Air Force Base in Louisiana. Her friend was dating another reservist and the four of them went out one night. The other couple broke up after about two months, but Danny kept seeing Aimee, simply knowing that he felt better when he was around her. This must be love, he thought.

At twenty-five, Danny was one of the last in his family-of the cousins-to marry, except for his little sister. The relatives blamed it on their college educations.

“Gotta get ’em while you’re young,” said Freddy, a sleeping baby balanced on his thick forearm. “Gotta get ’em while you still have hair!”

At twenty-nine, working fifty hours a week in a detailing shop, Freddy already looked old to Danny. Danny had gotten his degree in industrial design and was starting to pay back his debt to Uncle Sam. Aimee was a Cajun girl, not the sort anyone thought Danny would fall for, with wild red hair and a husky voice. She ordered up a plate of garlic shrimp and a mug of beer for each of them, and taught Danny the fine art of peeling shrimp. Then she taught him how to two-step to a zydeco band. It might have been the way she placed her boots on the sawdust and shrimp shell-covered floor of the nameless crab shack where they danced. It might have been the way she placed her hands on his chest during a slow number and took the wings of his collar between her fingertips before looking up into his eyes. But probably it was the way she double-clutched her pickup truck without ever glancing at the gear shift that won Danny’s heart.

Winning over Aimee’s family was another matter. Where Danny grew up, the place they lived would have been called “the tulees.” In Louisiana, it was called the bayou. Aimee drove the two of them south from Shreveport to the end of a paved road, then onto a sandy track that ended in water. Swinging her vehicle off to one side, she parked next to a stake truck that could have been there five minutes or five years.

“Daddy’s home,” she said. Wading into the shallows, Aimee retrieved a flat-bottomed boat from the reeds and they climbed in. They set a bag of groceries and Rikenjaks beer at one end and tucked their coats around it to keep it upright. Then Aimee grabbed the oars and steered them out onto the dark waters. Danny felt like he was in a movie, or at Disneyland, and waited for the giant, audio-animatronic gator to rear up out of the water and snap its plastic jaws at them.

“Don’t you think they ain’t real gators out here,” said Aimee, as though reading his mind. “Cause they is.”

Danny kept his hands well within the boat as the sun slipped lower on the horizon.

Danny wakes to Aimee’s kiss.

“Hey, stranger,” she whispers.

“I feel like Sleeping Beauty,” he says, “except woken by a princess.”

“Were you dreaming?” she asks, pulling her fingers through his short hair.

“Yeah. About you.”

“You seem better,” she says, dragging her chair closer. Danny notices that he’s in a regular hospital room with a door, not the ICU.

“What about Chucho? Is he hurt?”

“No.”

“Oh, that’s right.”

“They arrested him, but he’s out on bail. Your uncle put up the money.”

“What’s he charged with?”

“Drunk driving. Speeding. Resisting arrest. The works. You were too, you know.”

“I was what?”

“Under arrest. You were chained to the bed. Don’t you remember?”

“No. How long have I been here?”

“Five days.”

“Am I still chained to the bed?”

“My God, no. Someone taped the whole thing. A police officer shot you without provocation. Now he’s on leave and under investigation. Don’t you remember anything?”

Danny tries.

“I can get flashes of things, like little snapshots. He told me to get up. I put my hands up, exactly like he said. But he shot me anyway.” Danny feels himself heating up just thinking about it.

“Well, a couple of lawyers have called. They want us to sue the bastard. They say we have a good case.”

“I’m supposed to rejoin my unit in a week.”

Aimee throws back her head and laughs. “Soldier, you ain’t going nowhere.” Then she leans over and hugs him, and bursts into tears.

Danny itched even after he’d had the good fortune to shower, which happened maybe once a week; the constant dust and grit irritated his skin. It worked its way under his watchband, under his waistband, under the sweatband of his hat. When he took his boots and socks off, there was a fine mud between his toes that he tried to remove with baby wipes.

Danny wanted to wear a bandana over his face when he worked the checkpoint, but his sergeant said no, it would spook the Iraqi civilians if they couldn’t see his face. When he coughed and spat, his phlem was brown.

A man Danny doesn’t recognize reaches up and pops a videotape into the slot in the television bolted to the wall. Gray screen suddenly goes to black with white walls, an upswing motion as the camera seems to be thrust upward, then pointed down.

Danny recognizes Chucho’s metallic blue Corvette, the front bumper crumpled, white streaks from side-swiping something.

“Get out. Get out!”

A figure on the right is holding a gun with both hands. The door opens and Danny puts his feet on the ground. He doesn’t see Chucho, although he can hear him yelling.

“It’s okay,” says Danny. He has his hands up.

“Get out of the vehicle and down on the ground.”

Danny hesitates.

“I said get down on the ground!” The voice is agitated, angry.

Danny kneels down slowly, then rolls onto the ground.

He remembers how he had been asleep, or so drunk as to be virtually asleep. That’s why he had left his car and ridden with Chucho.

The camera is jostled as the operator tries to focus on the policeman, on Danny lying on the ground. He is a light-colored, prone figure on a black background. The quality is poor, bluish for lack of light. It reminds him of night vision goggles.

“Get up!” the voice barks. It cracks with tension, near hysteria.

“Okay, I’m getting up now,” says Danny. “I’m going to get up.”

He rises to his knees, starts to put his hands up again.

That’s when the shots ring out, three of them. The camera wobbles wildly, but Danny does not see this part, because he’s shut his eyes and turned away.

“It’s okay, darlin’,” says Aimee, clutching his right arm, the good one without all the tubes in it.

Danny can hear Chucho yelling again. He must still be in the car. Danny opens his eyes and sees himself slumped sideways, close to the open door of the car.

“I told you to lie down!” screams the policeman.

Another police car pulls up, and Chucho is pulled roughly from the driver’s seat.

“He killed my friend!” Chucho screams. “He shot him in cold blood!”

“Shut up,” says a voice.

Chucho is spread against the far side of the car, searched.

“We are not armed, officer!”

“Just shut up. I’m arresting you on suspicion of drunk driving and eluding an officer.” He is led out of camera range as the officer tells him his rights.

There is the crackling sound of radios. An ambulance pulls up. The camera seems to sag with fatigue, again showing Danny prone on the ground.

The ambulance crew hustles out a stretcher, sets it on the ground next to Danny.

“What happened?”

“He has a gunshot wound. He tried to attack me.”

Someone clamps a collar around Danny’s neck, and two men turn him onto his back.

“Jesus!”

He is placed on the stretcher and taken away. There is a lot of shouting, doors slamming, and the sound of the ambulance siren starting up and fading away.

More radio noise, and a figure slams the door on the car. The video ends.

The man who played the video has been standing in the corner, watching it silently, observing Danny. “The officer’s name is Troy Amboy,” the man announces, “and we are going to sue him into the Stone Age.”

“Who are you?” asks Danny.

“I’m your attorney, Jason Ritchie.”

Danny glances at Aimee.

“He called,” she explains. “He says we don’t pay him. He only gets paid if we win the case.”

“Why did he shoot me?” asks Danny.

“That’s the million-dollar question,” replies Ritchie. “He claims you lunged at him, that he thought you were armed, but it’s pretty clear he was entirely unprovoked. Look here.” He points a remote at the TV and rewinds the tape back to where Danny is about to exit the car. “Right there,” Ritchie says, waving the remote and stopping the video where Danny has gotten up from the ground to a kneeling position. “He says you reached into your shirt, but you didn’t even touch your chest.”

Danny tries to look down at his body. In addition to the tubes, a complex web of bandages cover his chest, and he feels the pull of adhesive tape across the back of his left shoulder. “When can I get this damn neck brace off?” he asks.

There was the incident outside of Kirkuk. Two soldiers had died earlier that day, and everyone was jumpy. A rumor was spreading that a new shipment of weapons had just arrived from Afghanistan, including IEDs.

Danny had spent the previous day escorting a group of Iraqi detainees from one prison to another, always a dangerous business. One man in particular haunted Danny. As he was led out of the foul-smelling holding area along with fifteen others, the man had fixed an eye on him and said in broken English, “I know you. You promised to get me out of here! Where we are going, they will kill me.”

Danny did not recognize the man, had never been to that prison before. Did the man have him mixed up with someone else? Was it a ruse?

Danny didn’t answer, had merely gestured with his rifle for the man to move along onto the truck that would take them to another foul-smelling prison. Danny knew there was torture. He knew there was death. On their way to reinforce the battalion that had lost two soldiers, they had stumbled across a trash heap with five more Iraqi bodies, hands fastened with plastic ties behind them, no IDs.

Danny did not want to be recognized by anyone in Iraq. He just wanted to do his job and get home.

The following day, he was back on the AFB checkpoint. Forbes, Yamada, Meyer, and he had been checking IDs and searching cars for five hours. Their shifts had ended an hour before, but their relief had not shown up. They couldn’t leave their posts. All they knew was that there had been an “unexpected delay.”

Later, it turned out that Vice President Cheney had made an unannounced visit to the Green Zone to meet with top officials. All members of Danny’s squadron who had not been on duty at the time were called in to provide extra security.

“Dang!” said Sergeant Klein when they got back. “They’ve got hot water twenty-four hours a day in there. And a swimming pool! It’s like paradise, while we’re roasting out here like hot dogs on a stick!”

The incident started when a new black Humvee pulled into line for the checkpoint. The driver got out and walked up to Danny.

“We go around,” he said, indicating that they wanted to skip the line.

“All Iraqi citizens must go through the line and show ID,” replied Danny. Every day, a couple of people tried this stunt.

“He is late for meeting,” said the driver, pointing back at the vehicle. Danny could not see in through the tinted windows.

“Sorry,” Danny answered, “those are my orders. No exceptions.”

The driver returned to the vehicle, and Danny went back to asking for IDs, demanding that car trunks be opened, peering into sweat-smelling interiors at frightened men.

About ten minutes later, the Humvee roared up to him and the rear window rolled down silently. Danny found himself staring at a man in sunglasses pointing a rifle at him. Danny cocked his own rifle, and swallowed hard.

“I mean you no harm,” said Danny. He heard the hoarseness in his voice. He and the man stared at each other.

“I’ll take it from here, soldier,” announced a voice behind him. Major Samuelson and a translator approached the Hum-vee. The translator said something, and the man in sunglasses pulled the muzzle of the gun back into the car without taking his eyes off Danny.

Danny stood down, sweat pouring from his body. Samuelson and the translator got into the Humvee with the armed passenger and drove off.

Just then, Danny’s relief showed up. “What the hell was that all about?”

“Oh, man,” said Danny. “Not my problem. Not anymore.”

“Okay, we’re going to try sitting up today.”

Danny opens his eyes to see Pilar, the day nurse, rearranging the tubes attached to his body. Almost everybody who works at Harborview seems to be Filipino. When they speak to each other, their soft, clipped language has a lot of Spanish in it, but even so, Danny can’t understand it.

He thinks of an old punch line: “What do you mean ‘we,’ Kemo Sabe?”

“Very funny,” says Pilar. “Okay, ready?”

“Yeah.”

She puts one hand behind his back and pushes gently, while Danny uses his arms to press up. There is some pain and pulling. He catches his breath and grimaces.

“You okay?”

“Not too bad,” he says. “Nothing I can’t handle.”

“Good. The sooner you start moving around, the sooner you can go home. Want to try standing?”

“Sure.”

Pilar fits some slippers on his dangling feet. His legs look like somebody else’s coming out from under the gown.

“You going to give me something to cover my butt?”

“As soon as you stand up, I can put a robe on you,” she says.

Danny stands. Muscles pull. Bones creak as she holds him by the waist.

“How’s that?” she asks.

“Good.”

“Can you stand by yourself? Here, hold onto the railing.” Pilar works a robe onto Danny’s shoulders.

“Well, well! Look who’s standing.” It’s Danny’s father Sam in the doorway.

“Hey,” says Danny, pleased in spite of himself.

“He’s doing great!” says the nurse. “How about if I get a wheelchair and you can visit in the lounge?”

“What do you think, Danny boy?”

“Good deal.” Danny is so pleased that he doesn’t even object to the eternal nickname.

“Here. Stand right here,” Pilar positions Danny’s father next to him, “while I get a wheelchair.”

“Have you seen Aimee today?” asks Sam.

“I think so.” Time has been elastic for Danny in the hospital. “I think she and Sirena took the kids swimming. Is today Sunday?”

“Yes.”

Pilar returns with the wheelchair and Danny’s mother. “Look who I found.”

“Aye, mi’jo,” says Letty. She moves to hug Danny, already tearing up.

“Let him sit down first,” cautions Pilar.

Even after two minutes, Danny is grateful for the rest. The nurse attaches his bags to a rolling stand and wheels him down the hall.

“Don’t cry, Mom.”

“I can’t help it.” She dabs at her eyes. “I’m just so happy to see you can stand, gracias a Dios. It means you’re getting better.”

Danny’s father goes straight for the television. “Let’s see if the game is on.”

“Is that all you can think about?” says his mother. “You come to visit your son, and you want to watch the game?”

“Of course not! It’s up to Danny. It’s the Final Four.”

“The game is fine, Dad.”

Danny’s father watches Florida vs. UCLA while his mother recounts what Aimee and the kids did that day. They are staying with his parents on South Plum in what had been meant as a short visit upon his return from Iraq. It isn’t a big house, and Danny figures they must all be getting on each other’s nerves by now.

“They got up and had cereal, then went out. So I’ve just been cleaning all day.”

The sound of the game on the television suddenly rises, the announcers rabid with excitement.

“Turn that thing down!” snaps Danny’s mother.

“I just want to hear the scores. I’ll turn it back down in a sec,” her husband replies.

When Danny spots Aimee and the kids coming down the hall, he breaks into a big grin. Sirena is with them.

“Daddy!” chirp the kids, running up and trying to climb in his lap.

“Careful, careful,” says his mother.

Aimee holds them back, an arm around each waist. “You can’t climb up on Daddy yet. Remember, he was hurt. Just give him a kiss.”

Just then Danny’s father turns up the volume on the TV again. “Here you are,” he says.

The TV shows a clip from the grainy video taken the night Danny was shot. Danny sees the car window slowly roll down, the stone face of the policeman. The officer has his gun out. He yells at Danny, who stumbles out of the car, struggling to comply with the policeman’s orders as he barks out commands and expletives, his voice rising higher and higher. Then he hears himself say it: “I mean you no harm.”

The officer orders him down, then up, and Danny shuts his eyes, anticipating the sound of the gun.

“Not in front of the children,” Letty hisses.

“Sorry.” His father switches the channel to a commercial. Danny’s parents continue to argue in low voices in Spanish, until his father switches off the TV and stomps out.

“Was that you, Daddy?” asks Jacob.

Danny turns his wheelchair at the sound of his son’s voice. He continues to stare at the blank television, as though the ghostly blue-white images are still on the screen.

“No,” he says, “that was somebody else who looks a lot like me, talks a lot like me, but gets shot by the police. That’s not me.”

“But you were shot. Who shot you?”

Aimee says nothing.

“Somebody,” says Danny. “Somebody who thought I was a threat.”

Eight months later, Danny is back in Iraq. For better or worse, the cop in Seattle had missed all his vital organs and he healed up as only a young guy can. Danny had gladly rejoined his company.

“Soldier,” says his lieutenant, “you need to report to the CO’s office.”

Oh shit, thinks Danny. Now what?

The commanding officer has a desk, a couple of chairs, and an air conditioner. Danny removes his helmet and feels the sweat evaporate off his head and neck.

“Have a seat,” the CO says. “We just got a call from Seattle.”

Danny sits.

“There was a shooting incident there last night.”

Danny swallows.

“Same place, same block where you were shot. The police think the officer in question was deliberately targeted.”

“What do you mean?”

“It was the cop who attacked you.”

A pain shoots up Danny’s side from his leg to his shoulder. Amboy had been cleared of all wrongdoing and put back on the street. Danny tries to keep his face impassive. “Nothing to do with me.”

“We know that. And that’s what we told them.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“I just wanted you to know.”

“Thank you. May I go now, sir?”

“Yes. Dismissed.”

Danny stands to leave.

“Oh, by the way…”

Danny turns.

“Just like cops, MPs take care of their own.”

The CO holds his eye for a moment, then waves him out.

THE TASKMASTERSBY SIMON WOOD

Downtown

The bar fight was over. Matt staggered to his feet. The loudmouth was down and he wasn’t getting back up without assistance. None of the barflies volunteered to help him, though they closed in to examine Matt’s handiwork. Matt ran the back of his hand across his mouth, leaving it streaked with blood.

Police sirens wailed in the distance. Matt’s heart rate quickened just as it had finally started to slow down. He couldn’t afford to be busted again. The spectators swarmed for the exit. This wasn’t one of those trendy downtown bars where management called 911 at the sound of a raised voice. Everyone was a little cop-shy at The Dive. The Dive lived up to its name-literally and figuratively. It was a basement place, part of Seattle’s subterranean past. An underground bar for underground people.

Matt went to follow the crush out the door, but someone held him back. He shook off the hand gripping his shoulder and whirled around with a readied fist to face his new challenger. The middle-aged guy held up his hands in surrender. He had six inches and fifty pounds of muscle on Matt.

“Easy, pal,” the guy said. “I’m not trying to stop you. Backdoor, before the cops get here. You kinda stick out in your current condition.”

Matt glanced at himself in the mirror behind the bar. Ripped clothes. The red blooms of burgeoning bruises.

The sirens intensified. Matt didn’t argue and followed the man out the fire exit. It opened up into an unlit stairwell. The guy burst through the door, casting streetlight onto Matt’s escape. He clambered up the stairs and into the service alley.

“C’mon, this way,” the man urged.

The alley ran from Cherry to Columbia. He jogged down the alley away from The Dive’s entrance on Cherry, sidestepping busted trash bags and puddles containing more than just water. Matt followed the man uphill on Columbia a couple of blocks, then into another alley lit by a thumbnail moon.

“We’ll hang here until things are cool.”

Matt didn’t reply. His guardian angel didn’t sit well in his stomach. He didn’t trust him. He didn’t trust anyone.

Late for the party, two cop cars roared down 2nd toward The Dive, spraying red and blue light. Matt’s stomach clenched. They’d start combing the surrounding streets for someone matching his description soon. He needed to get moving.

“Get into a lot of fights, don’t you?”

The sudden question jolted Matt from his thoughts.

“What makes you say that?”

“The way you handled yourself in there. You didn’t learn those moves in a boxing ring or a dojo. You’ve had a street education. Besides, I recognize a bottle scar when I see one.”

Instinctively, Matt touched the thin mark beneath his left eye with his thumb. Although it was faint after so many years, he remembered the fight like it was yesterday. He’d been eighteen and it had been over a girl. Frank Tremaine hadn’t liked the idea of losing his Susie. Matt thought it would be easily settled, but he hadn’t expected Frank to go for him with a bottle of Bud. He nearly lost his eye that night. There’d been a lot of Frank Tremaines over the years and a lot of fights over lesser reasons than Susie. Tonight was no exception.

“Have you done time?” the man asked.

“Once.”

“Carry on like you’re doing and it’s easily going to be twice.”

“Who the hell are you?”

“Harry Sharpe.” He thrust out a hand.

Matt looked at the hand warily. This attempt at an introduction could be a stunt to take him down. He ignored the handshake and said, “Matt Crozier.”

Harry let his hand drop without showing any signs of being insulted. “Good to meet you, Matt.”

“What do you want? Why are you helping me?” Matt backed up a step. He’d rather take a chance with the cops than this guy if something went down. At least he knew what to expect with the cops.

“I represent a group that helps young and wayward men like yourself. We try to turn their skills toward more positive outlets and keep them out of trouble.”

Matt was already shaking his head. He knew where this was going. A dark alley, a sensitive older man, and a misguided youth; a cry for attention and a sympathetic ear, leading to a tender moment. It was pathetic really.

“Sorry, dude, you’ve dialed the wrong number. I don’t answer those sorts of calls.”

“I’m not trying to pick you up,” Harry snapped. “I’m trying to keep you out of trouble.”

Matt backed up toward the street. “Okay, whatever you say, reverend.”

Harry lunged and snared Matt’s arm. Matt took a swing. Harry blocked it and slammed him up against a dumpster.

“I’m not a priest. I’m trying to teach you something. If you want to end up dead or serving a life sentence, then carry on doing what you’re doing, because believe me, you will overstep the boundary of a bar brawl to manslaughter one of these days. But if you want to change that, learn something, make yourself a better man, call me.”

Harry released Matt and jammed a business card in his palm. Matt watched him leave and turn the corner. Once he felt Harry wasn’t coming back and the police weren’t waiting for him, he stepped out into the street. He examined Harry’s card under the streetlight. It had no information other than TASKMASTERS, followed by a local telephone number.

Matt spent the following day mulling over what Harry Sharpe had said. He didn’t need some do-gooder telling him where his life was heading. He knew already. He couldn’t keep from getting into fights. He wasn’t a kid anymore. He was fast approaching thirty with nothing to show for it except calluses and scar tissue. He’d eventually cross the line and it would end his life one way or another. Harry had handed him a much-needed reality check. This was certainly the time to wise up.

He hadn’t heard of the Taskmasters and neither had anybody else he asked at the oil changers where he worked. The consensus was they were something like the Toastmasters or the Rotary Club. He took some shit from the guys about not being Rotarian material. More concerned about who exactly the Taskmasters were, the jibes bounced off him. He wasn’t sure what he was expecting, but a public speaking group wasn’t it. Harry didn’t seem the type to sit around over a pleasant meal, challenging others to speak on a subject suggested by one of the other Taskmasters. How this would make him a better person he couldn’t imagine, but he’d heard they were connected with the business community and helped members find jobs. He could do with a boost in that direction. He’d go-just this once.

He dialed the number. Harry picked up on the first ring.

“Yes.”

“It’s Matt, from the bar last night.”

“I remember you. I wasn’t sure you’d call, but I’m glad you did. You want to join, then?”

“I thought I’d check it out.”

“Good. We’ll pick you up at 9. What’s your address?”

Matt waited outside his apartment block so that Harry couldn’t see the hole he called a home. Not that standing outside helped. It wouldn’t be hard for him to work it out from the address. The five-story converted residential hotel on the wrong side of I-5 looked almost as bad from the outside as it did on the inside.

A horn tooted and a blue-black SUV pulled up in front of him. Harry was driving, but he wasn’t alone; three other men sat in the vehicle with him. Matt wandered over and the guy in the back flung open a passenger door. Matt got in.

“Guys, this is Matt,” Harry said. “Okay, quick introductions. Riding shotgun with me is Brett Chalmers. Sitting next to you is Frank Tripplehorn. And taking up too much room in back there is John Stein.”

The Taskmasters smiled and nodded. Matt tried to do the same, but they were nothing like he’d imagined. Matt had taken the trouble to dress up, nothing too fancy, but then again he didn’t have anything too fancy. Surprisingly, however, he was the overdressed one. Everyone else was in jeans, polo shirts, and windbreakers. They all had Harry’s muscular build, except John Stein, who was another X-size up. His head scraped the underside of the SUV’s roof.

Introductions over, Harry turned the car around and took Madison over the freeway and into downtown. The Taskmasters bantered with one another, talking about nothing much. Matt interrupted them.

“Where are we going?” He hadn’t intended the level of fear in his voice. It didn’t go unnoticed by the others.

“We have a clubhouse where we meet,” Tripplehorn said.

“Is there anything else you’d like to know?” Chalmers asked. The jagged edge the man placed on his question didn’t invite further questioning. Matt shook his head and the Taskmasters returned to their conversation.

The clubhouse was an exaggeration of mammoth proportions. Before Matt had called Harry’s number, rich Corinthian leather and dark mahogany had sprung to mind. All that went out the window when Harry drew up in front of a largely ignored stretch of Yesler Way. By day, this area was home to the court and city workers. By night, it was nothing. Matt was checking out the restaurants dotted along the streets when Harry pointed across the road at a decayed building. Graffiti-strewn boards covered old busted-out windows.

“Home sweet home,” Stein said, sliding out of the SUV.

Harry popped open on a giant padlock on a security shutter protecting the entrance from bums and thieves and slid it back. He unlocked and opened the dark wood doors with amber-colored, leaded glass insets.

Stepping inside, Matt remembered this place. It was going to be some fancy five-star restaurant headed by some TV chef and financed by a dotcom millionaire. When the dot-com bubble burst, it took the millionaire and his restaurant dreams with it. The place had been festering ever since. It was a shame. The turn-of-the-century brick structure gave the place class, but only when it was in tiptop condition. In its current shape, the heavy brick construction turned the place into a dungeon. The place was rainproof, but the brick held the damp and didn’t let go. Someone had gotten into the building at some point. Graffiti covered the walls and either the contractor or opportunists had made off with anything that had salvage value. Someone at sometime had urinated in the building. A startled rat scuttled across the floor to hide in a darkened corner.

Harry closed the doors and locked them. The dead bolt sounded like a gunshot and echoed off the walls.

If the Taskmasters owned this place, they had a lot of work to do. But Matt knew these guys probably didn’t own it. Something was very wrong and Matt started planning how he was going to get out of this. He knew when he was out of his league. Harry and Co. weren’t the kind of guys he could punch his way past. He wondered if the Taskmasters were connected to someone he’d hurt, but couldn’t think of anyone with that kind of muscle on tap. Harry dropped a heavy hand on Matt’s shoulder and guided him toward a circle of raggedy looking La-Z-Boys.

“Don’t be put off by the surroundings. Take a load off and have a beer.”

Tripplehorn carried over the cooler he’d retrieved from the SUV’s trunk and deposited it at the center of the circle. He flipped it open and tossed Matt an MGD. “You’re in good company.”

Matt did as he was told and sat down.

Harry took a beer from Tripplehorn and flopped into a chair next to Matt. “I declare this meeting of the Taskmasters is now in session.” He raised his bottle and so did the other Taskmasters. Matt shifted in his seat. “Only two items of new business tonight,” Harry continued. “The first being our new member, Matt.”

“Good to have you, Matt,” Stein said, and raised his bottle to him.

“I think Matt can be an asset,” Harry said. “I believe he has a good heart, but he’s a little misdirected. I hope becoming a Taskmaster will straighten him out and put him on the right track.”

Harry’s character assessment embarrassed Matt. It made him feel like a kid at parent-teacher night forced to listen to a report being given about him. He hid his embarrassment behind his beer, drinking it too fast.

“I don’t know if Harry has explained what we do here at the Taskmasters,” Tripplehorn said.

“Not really,” Matt replied.

“Well, once a month we challenge each other.”

“One person from the group is given a specific task chosen by the others,” Chalmers chimed in.

“Which must be completed by the next month,” Stein added.

“Which brings us nicely to our second piece of new business,” Harry said. “This month’s challenge.”

Tripplehorn fished out a pack of playing cards from his pocket, but Harry stopped him.

“No low-card winner this time.” He looked at Matt.

“Taskmaster rules state that the new Taskmaster member is automatically assigned the challenge.”

Stein and Chalmers grinned at each other. An invisible noose tightened around Matt’s throat and he shrank into the damp-smelling La-Z-Boy.

“Harry, you’re right. I forgot the rules.” Tripplehorn did nothing to hide his smirk. “Matt, you’re this month’s automatic low-card winner.”

“Don’t let these goofballs scare you, Matt,” Harry said. “There’s nothing to worry about. As fellow Taskmasters, we’ll make sure that everything goes smoothly.”

“What do I do?” Matt’s fear began bubbling to the surface.

“Didn’t I tell you Matt is a born Taskmaster?” Harry said.

“You guys give speeches, right?” Matt asked. “Like Toastmasters do, right?”

He knew his assumption was wrong. This was no conventional organization. They were something else and their burst of raucous laughter confirmed the fact.

“I think you need another beer,” Chalmers said, and tossed another bottle at Matt.

“No,” Harry said. “We do things a little differently. Stein, why don’t you tell Matt here what you did for the Taskmasters last month.”

“Surely.” Stein wiggled in his seat, making himself comfy. “I killed a no-good pimp. Put a bullet,” Stein put a finger to his own forehead and made a popping sound, “right between his eyes.”

Stein handed around half a dozen Polaroids of a stick-thin Latino man lying dead in a gutter with a small hole in his face. He went on to describe how he’d stalked the pimp, some guy named Hernandez, and finally lured him to his death with the promise of a big score. The Taskmasters laughed and joked with each other as Stein walked them through the story. Matt didn’t laugh. He was too busy trying to hold it together. His worst fears struck him with freight-train intensity. He’d guessed the Taskmasters weren’t on the up and up when they’d picked him up in the SUV. Philanthropic tendencies were the last thing he felt from them now. He remembered Harry’s words in the alley. When he’d said that he could help Matt turn his life around, Matt had thought he would help him straighten up his act, not teach him how to hone his violent tendencies.

Chalmers fished out a letter-sized manila envelope from inside his jacket and tossed it over to Matt. Matt opened it, failing to hide his trembling hands. The Taskmasters glanced at each other, exchanging naughty schoolboy smiles. Matt scanned the details on the plain typed sheet and the handful of photographs.

“That’s Terrance Robinson,” Chalmers said, confirming the details Matt held in his hands. “He’s a hit-and-run driver. Killed a little girl six months ago.”

Matt examined a surveillance picture of Robinson crossing 1st with Pike Place Market behind him. He was twenty or thirty pounds overweight. According to the CliffsNotes, he was the same age as Matt, but his extra bulk aged him a good ten years.

“Why haven’t the police arrested him?” He hated how his fear brought the formal out in him.

Stein snorted. “A friend is giving him a bogus alibi.”

“So what do you want me to do? Get him to confess?”

Harry laughed at Matt’s suggestion. “We don’t give anyone a shot at redemption.”

“We don’t solve problems,” Chalmers said. “We eradicate them.”

“You’re going to kill this guy,” Tripplehorn explained.

It wasn’t a shock. When this went south, he knew it was going all the way to China, but it still left him cold. He was glad the poor lighting hid his expression.

“Don’t worry about the cops. We’ve got them covered,” Harry said.

Stein handed Matt a small semiautomatic. “It’s untraceable. Just use it and lose it.”

Harry went into fine detail about how Matt should stalk and kill his prey. Matt nodded, taking in the words, but he was too numb to comprehend the ABCs of killing a complete stranger. When Harry finished his speech, the Taskmasters drank and joked amongst themselves for a while. Matt drank but didn’t join in the hilarity. He waited for them to have their fun and take him home.

They dropped Matt off first. Harry followed him to his apartment block’s entrance, under the watchful gaze of the other Taskmasters. He stuck out a hand for Matt to shake.

“Now, you’re cool with this, right?” Harry asked.

“Yeah, of course.”

“You went a little quiet on us.”

“Well, you know.”

“Yeah,” Harry said, nodding. “It’s a big step up from bar brawls every other night, but this will be good for you. This will put some meaning in your life. Look, don’t worry, son. It’ll go great. You’ll see.”

Matt attempted a confirming laugh. “Yeah.”

“Remember, this guy isn’t innocent. He’s guilty as hell. You’re just doing what the law can’t. You just have to keep telling yourself that.”

“That helps. Thanks.”

“So the Taskmasters can trust you? There’s no going back after tonight.”

“You can trust me.”

“Good man.”

Matt sat at his kitchen table with a mug of coffee in his hands, watching the dawn creep up on the city. Daylight spilled over the skyline, casting fingers of light between the gaps between the buildings. Sleep hadn’t come easy, not while a loaded gun and a picture of the person he was meant to kill sat out on the kitchen table. This was way beyond bar brawls. He had to kill a man. If he failed to follow through, his imagination didn’t have to wander too far to know what the Taskmasters would do to him.

He’d made such a hash of his life. The really embarrassing thing about it was he didn’t know how he’d achieved the feat. There were no excuses for his predicament. He wasn’t a total idiot. He was reasonably smart. His parents had been good people who’d only wanted the best for him. So how come he couldn’t hold down a job or go for a drink without bruising his knuckles on someone’s face? Questions without answers, he thought-or not ones he could answer, at least. He picked up the gun and examined it.

Time to answer some of those questions.

Terrance Robinson left his bank job twenty minutes after 5, having had a pretty easy day of trying to arrange loans at a branch of Bank of America. Matt knew this because he’d spent the day in Westlake Plaza watching Robinson through the glass-fronted building. He’d even gone into the bank to ask about opening an account, just so that he could get a close-up look at the man he was supposed to kill. Matt didn’t get the impression that Robinson’s child-killing escapade weighed heavily upon him. He was easygoing around his colleagues and the people at the sandwich place where he went for lunch, and he negotiated rush hour traffic with infinite patience.

Robinson pulled up in front of his home on Queen Anne Hill, a respectable slice of suburbia where nasty crimes could be hidden from the world. He parked on the street to let his two sons, around seven and nine, continue playing a little one-on-one in the driveway. Pulling his tie off, he jumped into the fray, snatching the ball away to attempt over-ambitious layups, which his offspring managed with equal accomplishment.

Matt slid past the Robinson home and parked a couple of blocks away. His aged Ford Escort stuck out in the neighborhood, but he wouldn’t be staying long.

He wandered back up the street for a closer look. Excited giggles and shrieks carried on the air. Robinson exhibited no signs of remorse about his deadly action and the lives he’d wrecked. A man like that deserved to die, didn’t he?

“Hate is the key,” Chalmers had said during their meeting. He tapped Robinson’s file. “To kill him you have to hate him. Read what this man has done and hate it. Stare at his picture and hate him. Do that and this will be easy.”

Matt watched the man at play with his children. Did he hate Robinson? He’d let that girl die instead of doing the right thing. He despised Robinson for that, but did he hate him in the way Chalmers and the Taskmasters wanted him to hate him?

Matt found himself staring at the kids and not their father. Killing Robinson meant destroying those boys’ lives too. Devastating another family didn’t make up for what had already happened. Matt couldn’t kill Robinson. He returned to his car and drove to the one place that would end this game.

Matt stopped his car in front of the Seattle Police Department’s West Precinct and stared at the industrial-looking building. In there was salvation. Harry told him he could make him a better man and he had. He was going to do the right thing. He didn’t know what he was going to say, but he was planning to spill it all-the Taskmasters, their clubhouse, the unregistered gun, Terrance Robinson, the lot. He guessed he’d be dropping himself in the crapper along with everyone else, just by association with these madmen, but he couldn’t help that. The Taskmasters had to be stopped and he had to take some responsibility for once in his life. He left the car parked on the street and went in.

The clean and modern but drab reception area was awash with people. Victims wandered around waiting to be helped, while those in custody needed a different kind of assistance. Cops floated between both sides of the law, in front of and behind the bulletproof barriers. Matt stopped a passing policewoman reading a report.

“Hi, I wonder if you could help me?” Matt said. “I need to talk to a police officer about a crime.”

“You’ll have to check in first,” she replied, and pointed at the occupied people behind bulletproof shields. The policewoman went to leave, but Matt sidestepped her to counter her escape. Her features tightened.

“I’m not here to report a stolen VCR or anything. This is important,” he said, scanning the room for eavesdroppers.

The policewoman read his face to determine whether he was genuine or a whack job. She made her decision after a long moment. “Wait here.”

She retreated into the depths of the building after punching a code into a door marked Authorized Personnel Only. A couple of minutes later, the policewoman opened the security door with a uniformed sergeant in tow and pointed at Matt. The sergeant approached him.

“Officer Hansen says you want to speak to someone?”

Matt didn’t answer.

“Sir?”

Matt still didn’t answer.

“I don’t have all day.” An edge of irritation crept into the cop’s voice.

Matt wasn’t answering because he recognized two familiar faces in the crowd-Harry and Tripplehorn-and both of them were wearing police uniforms. His urge to do the right thing for once turned to lead in his throat and he struggled to swallow it down.

“I’ve made a mistake,” Matt said, backing away.

The sergeant placed his hands on his hips. “What?”

“I’m sorry.”

“Is this a joke?”

Seeing the Taskmasters there, it did seem like a joke-a bad one. Matt continued to back away, tuning out the angry cop. The Taskmasters, engrossed in their conversation, hadn’t spotted him and he wanted it to stay that way.

Matt’s back struck the double doors and he thrust them open and bolted. He left his car. He’d come back for it later. He didn’t want them knowing what he drove. He tore down Virginia until he hit 8th. He glanced back and saw the sergeant was surveying his escape from the doorway, but the Taskmasters were nowhere to be seen. Matt kept on running.

The apartment building manager was gone for the night. Tuesday was singles’ night at the VA social. Matt hoped the old coot got lucky tonight, and even if he didn’t, it wouldn’t take long for Matt to skip out. He crammed all his belongings into an army surplus duffel and a box for an RCA TV. It was depressing to see that his worldly possessions accounted for so little, but he’d change that. The Taskmasters had given him a new perspective on life. He hooked the duffel over his neck and carried the box down to his Escort.

With no lot at the apartment building, he’d been forced to find street parking. He’d left his car four blocks from his place. He half-walked, half-jogged to his parking spot.

Reaching the spot, he slowed to a crawl and cursed. Another car rested in the space that had been filled by his car only hours earlier. He could be on the wrong street, but he knew better. His car was gone. He couldn’t believe someone had stolen the heap of junk on the one night he needed it.

Well, there was no way Matt was going to report the theft, and it wasn’t going to stop him from leaving town. The loss of the car meant he would be traveling even lighter. He carried the box of possessions over to a nearby dumpster. He’d hefted it to head height when someone kidney-punched him. Matt crumpled and the box crashed down on his head.

“Leaving town, son?” Harry brushed the box aside and hoisted Matt to his feet. “I thought you had a job to do.”

Resignation washed over Matt. There was no point lying or being scared. They’d tagged him at the police department. They’d probably been watching him all day.

“Where’s my car?”

“On the way to impound. Would you believe it was parked illegally in front of a fire hydrant? But I wouldn’t worry about that. You have other things to worry about.”

Harry signaled and the familiar SUV pulled a U-turn in the street and stopped in front of them. Stein was behind the wheel; Chalmers and Tripplehorn weren’t around. Harry jammed Matt into the rear of the vehicle and Stein reversed back into traffic. Stein kept to downtown, driving for a bit with no particular destination in mind.

“You betrayed us, Matt,” Harry said eventually.

Stein shook his head and said nothing.

“You wanted me to kill a man.”

“He killed a child.”

“But I can’t kill him. That would make me no different.”

Harry snorted. “If you don’t kill him, you’re no different than him. He’s a coward and so are you.”

This logic made Matt’s head swim. He wasn’t an executioner and the Taskmasters had no right thinking they could be either.

“Hang a left here,” Harry instructed.

Stein turned down an alley and stopped the SUV in front of a tow-away zone. Harry flipped Matt over and zip-tied his hands together. Both men dragged him from the vehicle and shoved him through a doorway. Matt didn’t know where he was. Panic blinded him.

The cops dragged him up flight after flight of stairs. Matt knew he should be pleading for his life, but he didn’t have the words. What argument was there worth making for saving his life?

Stein kicked open a door and the three of them ended up on a rooftop amongst vents and air-conditioning units. The sun had long escaped over the horizon. The streets below were alive with activity-everyone looking forward, but not up.

Harry shoved Matt down onto his knees and put a revolver against his forehead. Matt closed his eyes and waited for the trigger to be pulled.

“Open your eyes,” Harry growled.

Before Matt had a chance to respond, Stein kicked him in the back, sending him sprawling onto his face. With his hands tied behind him, he couldn’t lift himself up. Harry lifted him back to his knees, then bent forward and put his face in Matt’s.

“Play time is over, son. You’ve got to make your mind up. Are you going to kill this guy? Because if you aren’t,” Harry cocked the revolver, “you know we can’t have you knowing what you know.” Harry straightened and pointed the gun at Matt’s forehead again. “What’s it to be, son?”

Matt stared at the muzzle. Kill or be killed. What a choice. He would have liked to tell Harry to go to hell, but the man was probably right about him. He was a coward.

“I’ll kill him,” Matt said.

“Are you sure about that? I don’t want you repeating this disappearing act tomorrow night.”

“Don’t worry, you’ll get your head for your trophy room,” Matt snarled.

Harry smiled and lowered the gun. “Good.” He nodded to Stein, who cut Matt’s wrists free.

“I think you can find your own way back,” Stein said.

The Taskmasters headed for the stairs.

Reaching the doorway, Harry said, “And I wouldn’t think about running. Your picture is in the hand of every cop down at the bus station and train station. You could always thumb a ride or even steal one out of town, but know this: We’re watching you. You’re on a very tight leash from now on. Oh, and Matt…”

Matt looked up.

“You’ve got two nights. If Terrance Robinson isn’t wearing a toe tag by then, you will be.”

Terrance Robinson smiled and shook hands with the young couple. Their loan application must have been successful judging from their broad smiles. When the couple walked away, Robinson beckoned to Matt. Robinson walked him through the loan application procedure. He was very thorough and Matt nodded at all the right times. Robinson printed out an application, then excused himself while Matt completed the form.

Matt scanned the paperwork, then wrote across the top of the form: You’re a hit-and-run killer.

Robinson returned to his desk and Matt handed him the application. The color drained from the loan manager’s face as the sheet of paper slipped from between his fingers. A response failed to make it past his lips.

“I know you killed that little girl and I’ve been sent to kill you.”

“I… I… didn’t.”

Matt held up a hand to silence Robinson’s gibbering. “Doesn’t matter. It’s been decided that you have to die.”

Robinson’s eyes flitted from person to person in the bank.

“They can’t help you.” Matt let him see the gun tucked into the front of his pants. “It’s closing time in a few minutes. Just excuse yourself early. You’re having a business meeting with me. Make a fuss and you’ll still have to explain the girl you killed. It’s a no-win for you. Are we cool?”

Robinson nodded.

“Good. Let’s go.”

Matt followed Robinson to the tellers. He told them he was leaving, then Matt guided him out the doors and onto the street. This was the tricky part. Robinson kept his car parked in a garage two blocks away. It wasn’t an inconsiderable distance in itself, but it was when there were hundreds of people filling the street and you had a frightened hostage in tow. But holding the barrel of the gun where Robinson could feel it kept him docile.

Matt made Robinson drive. When he pulled onto the street, Matt scanned for the Taskmasters. He didn’t spot them but he sensed them shadowing his every move. He couldn’t imagine them not being there at the kill. They’d still be worrying about him. Oh yeah, they would be close.

“Don’t shoot me,” Robinson squeezed out between sobs.

“You brought this on yourself. You shouldn’t have killed that girl.”

“I didn’t.”

“The least you could do is man up here.”

Robinson shook his head. “They sent you, didn’t they?”

Matt went cold. Robinson knew the Taskmasters. That couldn’t be right. “Who’s they? ”

“Jesus, I told them I wouldn’t say anything. I even paid them. Ten grand. All the money I have. I should’ve known they’d send someone to get me. Lying bastards.”

Robinson’s ramble came out too fast for Matt to take in. “Whoa. Slow down. What are you talking about?”

“The cops. I saw them kill that guy. Shot him in the face. I’d never seen anyone die before. It was horrible. I can’t get it out of my head. It’s so stupid. I shouldn’t have been there. Wouldn’t have been there if I hadn’t needed to take a short cut through the alley to Spring Street. I didn’t want to pay for parking and I have a space I use sometimes. Christ, I tried to save a buck and it’s cost me everything.”

The revelations slammed into Matt one after another. But instead of leaving him punch drunk, they gave him clarity. Pieces fell into place of a much larger picture.

Robinson had broken down into nonsensical sobs. If he didn’t get his shit together, he was going to crash the car.

“Hey, snap out of it. I need you straight. This guy you saw killed, what’d he look like?”

“I don’t know. Skinny. Hispanic. All I saw was the hole in his forehead and four pissed-off cops.” Robinson stared at Matt. He’d picked up on Matt’s change of heart.

Some things had changed. Some things hadn’t.

“Keep driving.”

“Do I get a last request?” Robinson asked.

“What?”

“All condemned men are granted a last request.”

“What is it?”

With a shaking hand, Robinson reached inside his jacket. Matt’s grip tightened on his gun and he fixed his aim on Robinson’s stomach just in case the bank worker carried a weapon. Instead, Robinson brought out a phone.

“Can I call my family?” Tears ran down his face. “Just this last time?”

Matt was softhearted but not soft in the head. He snatched the phone away. “No way. Do I look retarded? I’m not giving you the green light to call 911.”

Robinson broke down. Matt examined the phone. He wasn’t too up on these things but it looked to be the latest in cell phone technology.

“Does this thing have video capability on it?”

Robinson palmed away his tears. “Yes.”

Matt punched in a number and waited for an answer. “It’s me. I’m going through with it. I’ll be at the clubhouse as arranged.” He hung up.

Robinson looked at him with questioning fear. “There’ll be others?”

“Don’t look so worried. This’ll all be over soon.”

Matt directed Robinson to the derelict restaurant on Yesler that served as the Taskmasters’ clubhouse. He pulled Robinson out of the car and shoved him toward the rear of the building, ignoring the slowing sedan across the street.

The backdoor wasn’t as fortified as the front. Matt kicked it in without too much trouble. The dead bolt remained intact, but the rotted frame gave way. He pushed Robinson inside the building and into a large dining area. He wished he had the keys to the main doors; he only had one means of escape. He stopped Robinson by a table with a missing leg.

“Show me how to record a message.”

Robinson helped Matt record two video messages of him, one for his family and the other about the hit he witnessed.

“I’ll send these when it’s all over.”

“Thank you.”

Up until this point, there’d been a pleading element to Robinson. Everything from his posture to his expression had revealed a thin hope that Matt wouldn’t go through with the execution-but not anymore. He knew these were his last moments on earth.

“Facedown, please.” Matt pointed to a nook which must have served as some sort of station for the waitstaff. Robinson did as he was told and lay in the dirt and rubble without complaint. “I’m sorry to put you through this, but it should be all over soon.”

Matt waited for a response, but Robinson said nothing.

Matt took a breath, aimed, and fired the gun twice.

With the reports still bouncing off the walls, the Taskmasters, in uniform, poured in through the rear entrance with guns drawn and spread out until they each had Matt in their sights.

“Drop the gun!” Harry shouted.

Matt dropped the gun and raised his hands. “I figured this would come next. There’s no Taskmasters. No vigilante hit squad. Just a group of dirty cops who got seen killing a pimp. Who was Hernandez?”

“A scumbag who didn’t want to pay a toll for working our streets,” Stein answered.

“You should have taken him up to the roof to do your business,” Matt said. “Fewer witnesses up there.”

Stein ground his jaw in quiet fury. Chalmers and Tripplehorn didn’t like having their noses rubbed in their own mess. Harry was the only one unaffected by Matt’s jibes.

“So I’m the patsy you need to take the fall for Robinson. What happens now? You shoot me, pin it all on me, and you guys walk off into the sunset?”

“I’m afraid so, son,” Harry said. “You’re just a punk kid, a loser who’s going to pay for our mistakes. I hate to do it to you, but it’s for the greater good.”

“You left it a little too late to get smart,” Tripplehorn added.

“Maybe not.” Matt nodded at the cell phone. “That’s one of those phones with the video camera built in. It’s recording right now.”

Chalmers cursed and shot the phone off the table.

“There’s still the problem of the murder you just committed,” Harry said. “You’re still a killer.”

“No, I’m an innocent man with a witness.”

Robinson rose awkwardly to his feet, looking dazed and confused. He stared at the two bullet holes in the ground to the right of his head.

“We’ll just have to do it the old-fashioned way,” Stein snarled, and made for Matt’s gun on the ground.

“Hold it right there!” a voice barked.

The Taskmasters froze as the men wearing King County Sheriffs’ windbreakers from the courthouse just a street away stormed the room through the upper level and kitchen area. The Taskmasters quickly surrendered and the sheriffs relieved them of their weapons. The Taskmasters cursed Matt-except for Harry, who just smiled.

Matt walked up to Harry. “You kept a tail on me to keep me from leaving, but you couldn’t stop me from using the phone. I’ve been talking to some friends.”

“I underestimated you,” Harry said, as a deputy cuffed him.

Matt grinned. He’d underestimated himself. “You said you’d make me a better man.”

“Enjoy this moment.” Harry leaned forward and whispered in Matt’s ear: “Smile while you can. Do you honestly think we’re the only Taskmasters inside the SPD?” He winked at Matt as the deputy hauled him away. “You’ve still got a lot of work ahead of you, son.”

WHAT PRICE RETRIBUTION?BY PATRICIA HARRINGTON

Capitol Hill

Gus Maloney struggled awake, fighting the pain that shot electrical currents through his head. “Who the hell’s out there?” His words rasped, hurting his raw throat. The sound of his own voice thudded in his ears. His mouth tasted foul, like he’d been guzzling Lake Union’s polluted waters.

How long have I been out?

He pulled off his tangled blankets, belched, and tasted bile. He rubbed his gut.

When was the last time I ate?

The tin door to his shack rattled again.

I’ll kill Sweet Sue for making that racket!

“Mister Mayor, ya gotta get up.”

Gus swung his feet to the dirt floor and sat on his cot, elbows on thighs, and cradled his head in his hands. Then he ran a hand over the stubble of whiskers on his face. Slowly, it sunk through the fog in his brain. The voice yelling wasn’t Sweet Sue’s.

Gus staggered to the door and moved the heavy metal trunk he’d placed there. It was his insurance that no one could push the door open without him knowing. Dead drunk or not, his old cop instincts kicked in when trouble was about to kick him in his face.

When he pulled the makeshift door open, Muffler Man stepped back on his good leg. His face puckered up and his faded blue eyes stared over Gus’s right shoulder at nothing. He had his signature plaid wool scarf around his neck.

At the sight of Gus’s murderous scowl, Muffler Man hitched back a step. “We got bad news,” he said. He half turned around and nodded at the small woman standing behind him. “Me and Bets here, we been hollerin’ a long time.”

Gus looked around Muffler Man at Bets, who seemed scared as a kid about to be whipped. She didn’t return his look but bent her head and hunkered down inside the worn pea coat dwarfing her skinny body.

Gus had slept in his clothes and couldn’t remember the last time he’d changed them. His stink hung close. He felt like hell and looked worse. “Where’s Sweet Sue? Why the hell are you bothering me?”

Even with his alcohol-hazed brain, Gus knew something had gone very wrong in the camp. Like it or not, he’d been elected the “go to” man by its inhabitants. That’s because he was an ex-cop. Once the word had gotten out in the homeless camp set up below St. Mark’s Cathedral, Sweet Sue had started calling him “Mr. Mayor.” The label stuck. So did the responsibilities. He’d questioned himself. Why stay? But then he’d shrug. Why not!

Maybe it was Sweet Sue, the thin old relic who’d attached himself to Gus. The man had been drifting since he was a boy. He’d been called a tramp and a vagrant then, and not the niced-up label of homeless. Sweet Sue liked to say that he was Mr. Mayor’s “aide-de-homeless-camp.” Then he’d laugh his high-pitched cackle.

Just about everybody in the camp went by a street name. Sweet Sue’s came about because he liked to suck on hard candy and told over and over about hearing Johnny Cash sing “A Boy Named Sue” in San Quentin.

Mudflat Manor was a loose collection of pitched tents, tarps, and a few lean-tos set on the wooded hillside below the Episcopal cathedral. When the rains came, the place was a muddy, slippery slope. But Gus kept the camp clean, so to speak, so that the Seattle PD and the do-gooders, including the big church’s minister, left them alone. Gus didn’t allow dope dealers or druggies-he could be persuasive. And he made damn sure there weren’t any syringes or used condoms littering 10th Street in front of the cathedral. That way, the police and uptight citizens in the Capitol Hill neighborhood could pretend the homeless squatters didn’t exist. If they did, then they’d have to do something about them.

Gus let alkies like himself stay-if they didn’t make trouble. A core group of drifters and homeless came and went with the seasons. Before he’d gotten the news about his daughter and went on his bender, some had already left and headed south. It was closing in on November. The rains had started and the temperature dropped the last few nights.

Muffler Man’s fingers twitched at his pants legs. He looked away from Gus and mumbled, “I gotta say this: Sweet Sue’s hurt bad.”

Gus grabbed Muffler Man’s arm. “What happened? Where is he?”

Muffler Man stammered. “Huh-huh-Harborview. A dope dealer beat him up. He was a b-b-big black man. Wore his hair in them funny kind of braids. Sweet Sue tried to stop him peddling his dope. Had all kinds on him-kinda like a one-stop drugstore.”

“Why the hell didn’t you get me?”

Muffler Man stumbled back into Bets. “We tried. Honest. But you was worse’n dead-out cold.”

“Did the cops come? How’d Sue get to the hospital?”

Bets wrung her hands behind Muffler Man, her face crumpling like a child’s about to cry.

Muffler Man shook his head. “He dragged off old Sue, said he’d teach him a lesson. Billy found him in the alley up by the brick apartments. He had kicked in Sue’s face. We called 911 from a pay phone and said we’d seen this body and where and hung up, quick.”

Bets raised her hand to catch Gus’s attention. “Mr. Mayor, I went to the emergency room at the hospital and asked if someone found on Capitol Hill had been brought in. They said yes, he was being operated on. I got scared and didn’t stay. I was afraid they’d ask questions or call the cops on me.”

Gus groaned and rubbed his shaved head. “When did this happen?”

“Last night. Late-like.” Muffler Man wrung his hands together.

Gus glanced at his watch, forcing his eyes to focus. It was almost noon. He shivered. It was getting colder.

He nodded at Bets. “You did good.” She dimpled and smiled. Then Gus added, “Can you give me any other description of the man?”

“He had a long kind of a blouse on.” Bets peered down at her clothes and then shyly back to Gus. “It had a picture of that singer on it…” She paused, her face distressed. Then she started humming and her face brightened. “Bob Marley. That’s who it was. No, not the bad man who hurt Sweet Sue. I mean the face on the shirt. Bob Marley.” Then Bets backed up, as if she’d done something wrong.

Gus smiled to reassure her. His teeth hurt; everything on him ached. “Way to go, Bets. Now, heat me up some water. I need to clean up and take care of business.”

Gus made it to the hospital an hour later, his face raw from shaving because he used an old blade. He’d put on decent clothes, a pair of clean Levi’s and a T-shirt under a Mariners jacket. He kept them stashed in a plastic garment bag for emergencies. He didn’t want a nurse calling security when she saw him, hollering to get the bum out of the hospital. Gus knew he could pass, at first glance, as a middle-aged, common Joe; someone with a house, a wife, and a kid he was putting through college. He’d had them once-he could play the part. The hospital security wouldn’t shuffle him off.

Gus also had a stash of cash in a bus station locker and a drop mailbox in his name at a place on Capitol Hill. That’s where he received his disability check. It was a kiss-off from the San Jacinto Police Department: leave the force, get out of the state, and don’t come back. Gus had been working a child molester case where a six-year-old kid died after being repeatedly raped. Following a four-month trial, the monster got off on a technicality. Gus couldn’t let him do it to another kid. The boy’s bruised body, his face like an angel’s in one of the cathedral windows, haunted him. He saw him in his sleep and would wake up crying. Hitting the bottle didn’t make the images go away. So Gus tracked the guy down, tailing him day and night and stoking himself on good old Jose Cuervo. When the guy took off on Highway 101 to get out of town, Gus followed him. On a lonely stretch, Gus did some fancy tailgating that he had learned in police academy training, fished the asshole in his Toyota off the road and over an embankment. The car rolled and then caught fire when it hit bottom. The perp toasted inside. Better than going to hell, the way Gus figured it.

Of course, the San Jacinto PD had their suspicions but didn’t work the case hard. Gus’s captain didn’t do much talking, but some suggesting. So Gus left the department after eighteen years, with a couple of commendations, a hearty handshake, and the warning, “Don’t come back.” Same held true for his marriage. “You’ve changed and I can’t live with you anymore,” his wife had said. She kept the kids and booted him out of the house.

He didn’t look back.

Gus had called from a pay phone to find out what room Sweet Sue was in-found he was in a ward, the kind with beds in rooms that ringed a nurses’ station. Gus fingered the hard peppermint candies in his pocket, Sweet Sue’s favorites. The ends of the cellophane wrappers crackled when he touched them.

The nurses and hospital aides at the station were deep in conversation when Gus walked by and entered Sweet Sue’s room. His roommate was sleeping, and so was Sweet Sue. The tread mark from a sneaker was outlined in ugly red and purple bruising on the old man’s left cheek. A bandage covered part of his skull and one eye. His arm was in a cast, and he had more bandages around his chest. A fury that Gus hadn’t felt in a long time boiled up in him, so thick and red that he couldn’t see for a moment. Then it subsided, chilling, turning into a sharp edge of calculating revenge that cut through the fuzz in Gus’s brain.

He stared at Sweet Sue. The man didn’t have a mean bone in his body and was as simple as they come. His shallow breathing hardly moved the covers on him. Gus thought he’d slammed the door on caring for anyone. But now Gus groaned and bent over the bed. He didn’t want to hurt, to feel. He couldn’t open up the logjam inside that kept everything behind it sealed out of sight and touch. Neither his daughter Jenny nor this old, broken-down hobo deserved what happened to them.

Gus leaned over and put his mouth close to Sweet Sue’s good ear. “I’m here, buddy. Gawd. I’m sorry.” He lightly clasped Sue’s scrawny good shoulder. “I’ll get the bastards. I promise.” Then he put the hard candy on the nightstand and left.

Gus took a bus and transferred and then got off on the east side of Lake Union. He had a favorite spot, a bench, where he could watch the boats and the seagulls. It was too cold, and there were no boats out sailing. The waves were an ugly gray, looking as mean as Gus felt. The seagulls did their thing, squealing and wheeling about, and he took the lid off his triple-mocha shot that he’d bought at Starbucks. He shivered in his thin shirt and windbreaker-but welcomed the cold. It crystallized his thinking. He didn’t have a lot of time. It was strange that a Rasta had kicked in Sweet Sue’s face-not any Rastafarians around, except the wannabes he’d seen from time to time. And the guy sure as hell wouldn’t be hanging around in the cold and rain of Seattle if he didn’t have to. He’d be on the first plane out of SeaTac, headed for Jamaica or wherever he came from, as soon as he’d peddled his weed and made some bucks.

The cold seemed to freeze the fuzz in Gus’s head, but made clear channels, letting ideas flow. It was like the synapses in his brain were snapping together, ones he hadn’t used in a long while.

He’d learned the hard way in investigations: look first for the obvious. Why was this guy hanging around a homeless camp, peddling dope to someone who probably only had chump change? He’d have easier chances making a sale with the potheads who hung out on Capitol Hill. A black man with dreadlocks, wearing a T-shirt with Bob Marley’s picture on it, would be accepted, fit in.

Gus reached into the bag of cookies he’d bought with the coffee. He broke off a piece from one and threw it by a dirty gray seagull, which inspected and then rejected it. Gus reflected again on the Rasta and thought about the stores and cafés that lined Capitol Hill’s main drag. They catered to a cultural mix of apartment/condo dwellers, community college kids, fringies, and refugees. Gus blew out his breath and it turned white in the cold air. Damn. He should have remembered before. A Caribbean jerk chicken place had opened up recently on Broadway. What if the creep was related or connected? It would make sense. Could be a reason for him setting up shop on the hill, making it his territory. Not much to go on-it was a stretch. But better than nothing. Gus drank the last of his cold coffee and then threw the remaining cookies on the grass. It’d be sunset soon. The leaden sky promised a dark night.

He shivered and stood up. What he needed was a plan…and a warmer jacket.

On the way to his locker at the bus station, Gus stopped at a liquor store and bought a couple bottles of Jose Cuervo. Then he continued on to the station to collect his winter jacket and stow away the one he had on. He took out his emergency envelope of cash and a gym bag that carried his essentials for late-night work. Then he stopped in the washroom. Now he had the beginning of a plan. But first he had to find this creep.

On the bus ride up Pill Hill, he kept his mind on Sweet Sue, picturing his pale, stomped-on face. He wanted to keep his focus. But then at his stop, a young woman stepped in front of him as the bus door opened. She flashed an apologetic smile, and Gus’s heart froze for a moment. She looked so much like Jenny-at least his memory of her. How long had it been since he’d seen his daughter? Six years? No, seven. She was fourteen then. Now a mother… No, not a mother. That’s what the letter from his ex-wife was about. The one that sent him on a long-term bender. The baby had been stillborn.

Gus,

I’m only writing because Jenny wanted you to know. She was going to name the baby after you. Why, I’ll never know. I don’t even know if this letter will reach you. You’re probably dead too. But I did what our daughter asked me to do and it’s done.

His ex hadn’t even bothered to sign her name.

Gus didn’t blame her.

Old emotions, the guilt and anger, and a sorrow he couldn’t handle, collided inside him. They churned in his stomach and his hands trembled. He clutched the sack with the two bottles of tequila in it like they were his only lifelines. He needed a drink bad. He needed a whole damn bottle worse.

Gus forced himself to walk in the direction where he thought the Caribbean restaurant was located-he remembered it as a kind of hole-in-the-wall place. Along the way, he wandered around the area sizing up the traffic and turning down drug offers. Doorways and alleys drew dealers and buyers like old lovers who could sense a soft touch and a score a block away.

After a couple of hours, Gus stopped and asked a couple of punks with dyed hair if they knew of it. They shrugged, pointed down the street, and kept walking, their laughter trailing behind them.

Once Gus found the place, he went in, sat at the counter, and put the gym bag by his stool. There was a couple seated at a booth, but otherwise the place was empty of customers. A large woman who probably topped two hundred pounds took his order for jerk chicken and coffee and then waddled into the kitchen. Gus struck up a conversation when the woman came back to wipe down the counter. He found out that she was the Caribbean Breeze owner and came from Kingston, Jamaica. But she didn’t hum the song. Her eyes said she’d seen and heard it all, and Gus didn’t try to play her for a fool. She looked at the bulky brown paper sack that he’d laid on the counter; the tops of the bottles showed. She shrugged and walked away.

Gus ate slowly when his food came, small bites because his stomach couldn’t handle much. He bided his time, waiting until he was sure that the owner was watching him. Then he took out his wallet, bulging with bills, and opened it so she could see the twenties and fifties. She brought over his check and he studied it. “Seems fair. That was a nice meal,” he said. He glanced down, pulled out a couple of twenties, and murmured, “Any ganja around here?” He riffled through the money in his wallet again, but didn’t look up.

The owner didn’t answer. She took Gus’s two twenties and his bill to the cash register. She turned and glanced at the couple in the booth. When she brought back Gus’s change, he left the extra money on the counter. “You keep it.”

She scooped up the money. Then in a low voice she said, “Go behind, in the alley. Mon there, he help you.”

Night had fallen, streetlights had come on and shadows crept into the alley. Walking down it, looking for the dealer, made Gus feel as if he had a big S, for stupid, on his back. There was a naked lightbulb over the backdoor of the restaurant and a big metal dumpster to its right. Gus looked up and down the deserted alley. A few doorways further along had lights over them. When Gus drew closer to the restaurant’s backdoor, a shadow shifted and a figure stepped out from it.

Bingo! It was the Rasta. Bets had given a good description. Except she left out the evil grin, the stringy body, and his lean, muscled arms. His dreadlocks hung to his shoulders. He’d be a standout in a line-up.

“You wan’ somet’ing, mon?”

“Could be.”

Gus knew better than to be too eager.

The dealer nodded at the gym bag in Gus’s hand. “Wah you got.”

“The woman inside, the restaurant owner, says you have something I need. And I have something you want.” Gus picked up his bag slowly. He gestured as if opening it. “Okay?” he asked. The Rasta nodded.

Gus slowly unzipped the bag. He’d tucked the sack with the tequila in it when he left the restaurant. Now he pushed the sack to one side. Under it was a clean shirt, his jeans, and underwear. They covered a loaded Glock, duct tape, and a pair of handcuffs. On top of the clothes, though, was an envelope with his stash of cash. Some of the bills fanned out from it. They were easy to see. Impressive too.

Gus pointed at the bag. “I’d like to do some international trading. Your dope, my money.”

Even in the alley’s poor lighting, Gus could see greed overcoming caution on the Rasta’s face.

Then Gus prodded: “Is there some place where we can talk business?” He reached down slowly and pulled out one of the bottles of tequila. “This makes negotiations more fun.”

They ended up in a back room in the restaurant at a small table. The woman closed early and left some big pots soaking in the kitchen. She didn’t look at the men or say goodbye. Gus figured she wanted no part of what was going on. He was glad. It made things easier for him.

He set the bottles of tequila on the table, one for the Rasta and one for himself. Jose Cuervo grinned back at each of them.

They haggled over price as they took straight shots from their bottles. The Rasta brought out his dope; Gus whistled when he checked it out. The creep was doing some serious business. The Rasta had everything from weed to meth and even some OxyContin. Gus didn’t pay close attention to the Rasta, who was pretty much out of it. The whites of his eyes were a spiderweb of red veins fringing his dark, dilated pupils. Gus poked at the dope, stalling, thinking ahead, while the man talked about the Seattle women and how they couldn’t get enough of him. He made an obscene gesture and pointed to the words No Woman, No Cry under the headshot of Bob Marley on his T-shirt.

With a drunken leer, the Rasta said, “Me mek woman happy.”

Gus let the silence build. Then he asked, “You score big with your weed around here? I hear some of the guys out in the homeless camp by the big church carry cash on them. Heard they made some big scores and don’t like banks.”

The Rasta sneered and took a deep drag on his tequila. “No way, mon. Me been there.” He shrugged. “Old mon try to stop me. T’ink he boss? Me fix him.” The Rasta punched the air and twisted his two hands, like wringing a chicken’s neck. He grinned with drunken satisfaction.

Gus leaned back in his chair and looked away. He didn’t want the guy to read the deadly anger in his eyes. Gus had his answer. The time had come.

The tequila had gotten to the Rasta, but not to Gus. Earlier, in the bus station washroom, he’d dumped one of the bottles in the sink and refilled it with water. The Rasta was the only one drinking the real stuff.

Gus was as sober as a judge and about to pronounce sentence.

He took the money from his bag and put it on the table. The Rasta leaned forward to count it-and then Gus pulled out the gun from his bag and pointed it between the Rasta’s scared eyes.

“Hand over the weed.”

The Rasta tried to focus, pull himself together, but he was too drunk. He fumbled for the package with the weed and put it on the table. Gus dumped it into his bag. Then he picked up the money lying on the table and jammed it beside the weed in the bag.

Gus motioned with the gun. “Stand up, scumbag, and take off your clothes.”

The guy looked at Gus, blinking, weaving on his feet.

“You heard me. Strip, take off your shirt and pants.”

The Rasta looked around, fear growing in his eyes. Slowly, he removed his shirt and then his pants.

“Underpants too, stud.”

The Rasta stood naked as the day he was born, except for his bare feet in large loafers. “Put your hands behind your head and keep them there,” Gus commanded. He could see the man was trying to sober up. But he’d had way too much to drink. The dealer couldn’t get his brain into gear; he could only let his eyes flick about, trying to find a way to escape.

For a moment, the image of Sweet Sue’s battered face and body replayed in Gus’s head. He felt like shooting the bastard weaving in front of him. But Gus had a better plan. He motioned the Rasta over to the backdoor and made him stand beside it. Then Gus opened the door, stuck out his head, and checked the alley. It was clear, and it was cold-freezing cold. The Rasta hung back.

Gus made him turn around so that he stood in the doorway, facing the alley. Then Gus cold-cocked the Rasta behind his left ear with the gun’s butt. The Rasta crumpled and sagged to the floor. Gus flipped him over and removed the handcuffs and duct tape from his bag. No ex-cop should leave home without them, he thought. He cuffed the dealer’s hands behind him. And then Gus stuffed a wad of the money in the dealer’s mouth and wrapped duct tape around it and the Rasta’s head. The man wouldn’t be running his mouth off any time soon.

Gus slipped out the backdoor and opened the dumpster’s cover, swinging it back against the building. Then he dragged the Rasta to it and, grunting, heaved the man over the side and into the dumpster. Gus looked over. It was about a quarter full. He figured the city wouldn’t be doing a pickup for at least a few days. No matter. He wasn’t through with the Rasta yet.

Gus took a deep breath in the cold air. It hurt his lungs-he wasn’t used to breathing that deep. Next, he hoisted himself up and into the dumpster, gingerly stepping into the smelly mess. He pushed aside the gunk until he’d made a place for the dealer’s body. Gus turned him over so that he lay facedown, his dick on the freezing metal bottom of the dumpster. Then he covered him with the stinky mash of rinds and peelings and other discarded food.

It was a fitting end and a lesson the dope dealer would live with painfully for a long time.

Gus climbed out, closed the lid, and went inside again. He tidied up after himself, cleaning his pants and shoes and socks. He found white vinegar in the restaurant kitchen and wiped down all the surfaces he had touched, then moved outside and wiped down the dumpster too.

He went back inside and checked around one more time before he turned out the lights, flipped the lock, and closed the door.

Gus collected the drug money that hadn’t gone into the Rasta’s mouth, and he took all the dope and stuck it in his gym bag. The money would make a nice anonymous contribution to the Gospel Men’s Mission. The dope he’d unload into the nearest sewer drain. He hoped the salmon would get a good buzz when it reached the Sound.

Gus heard the heavy motor of a truck pulling into the far end of the alley and the squeal of brakes. He ducked around the corner and looked back. It was a city garbage truck, the big kind that compacted the garbage. Gus stayed to watch. He saw the truck’s long skid arms slip under the dumpster, lifting and then emptying it into the truck. The dumpster’s lid clanged as it was lowered. Then the mechanical sound of the compactor’s motor revved as it efficiently ground up the contents.

Gus leaned back against the rough brick side of a building, hidden from view of the garbage crew in the alley. Then he bowed his head, but it wasn’t in prayer. He was staring at the realization, as clear as if printed on a poster in front of him. He could’ve stopped the truck-and the compactor. Maybe shouted or waved his arms before the terrible sound of the grinding wheels.

But he hadn’t. Now he’d have to live with that memory too. Gus shrugged.

It was a bad end to a bad creep.

Gus stuffed his free hand in his pocket and started walking. Before he caught the bus for downtown, he fed the dope and pills into a sewer grate and tossed the bag into a garbage can.

Gus got off on First Avenue and walked to Pioneer Square. He found a dank tavern and had some quick shots-he knew from practice exactly how many dulled the sharp edges of memory but still left him able to figure out next steps.

The odds were that the trash collectors would find or see something funny. Maybe the dealer’s skinny bones would jam the mechanism. Or the garbage collectors would notice a lot of blood and do some checking. Once something like that was reported, it would be carried on the local news. Probably say, What’s Seattle coming to? Do-gooders would be up in arms at such a heinous crime. Gus laughed at the image. Peaceniks armed with pitchforks, not rifles.

Gus welcomed the mellow numbness beginning to spread in his body. He wanted it to reach his chest, to surround his heart. Still its beating. Gus shook himself. Now was when he had to be really careful. He needed to think, and he pushed his shot glass away with a shaking hand.

Seattle PD had good cops. They might not care if a dope dealer ended up as beef stew in the city dump. But they’d follow through with their investigation. The headlines and the City Council would demand that.

A good investigator would interview all of the shopkeepers and restaurant folks around the alley. Ask the drifters and bums if they’d seen anything. The cops would sure as hell assume there was some connection between a Rastafarian and a Caribbean restaurant. And the owner could ID him. So could some of the punk kids he’d approached about buying drugs.

If they did a sketch from the café owner’s description and ran it over the wire, his picture might turn up. Sure as hell, his name and the fact that he’d been a cop in San Jacinto would come out. And why he’d left the police force.

The word would spread. Rogue cop.

Gus threw a couple bills down beside his glass and left the bar. He started walking, not caring where. He had a headache that was the granddaddy of all headaches, knocking the sides of his skull and traveling down to his shoulders. Suddenly, Gus felt too weary to move, his feet, dead weights. He couldn’t lift them. He shuffled into a doorway and leaned against the shop window.

Gus thought of Sweet Sue… and Jenny, and he wanted to cry. But couldn’t do that. The well had dried up a long time ago. He muttered, “Gus Maloney, you’ve screwed up your life. Big time.”

He nodded in agreement with himself. Then, after a long while, he slowly pulled himself together and swiped his eyes with his hand.

There’s no going back.

But Gus did change direction.

He headed for the hospital and Sweet Sue. Gus knew what he had to do. After he checked on Sweet Sue, he’d pack up and get out of town, head south, maybe just to Tacoma. Lay low. But be close enough that he could check on Sweet Sue. Soon as the old geezer was well, he’d let him know that he wanted his aide-de-homeless-camp with him again.