Damnation Street

Part Two
Bishop's Sword
11.

That Sunday morning, suddenly, Bishop was set free. He was surprised. He'd been expecting trouble.

Ever since he'd broken the clay-headed guy's arm, he'd been lying on his cell bunk wondering what kind of hell he'd have to pay for it. He figured Ketchum would dance on the Hall of Justice rooftop when he got the news. Before this, the inspector had been keeping him here on bullshit charges that wouldn't hold up ten minutes in court, but there was all kinds of garbage he could throw at him now. Bishop figured he'd be behind bars for a year before he even got a hearing. It was his own damn fault too. He should've kept out of the whole business. He should've let the Clay-head cut the punk's head off. What did he care?

But it was too late to worry about it now. He'd done what he'd done; there was no changing it. So he waited on the cell bunk, expecting trouble. Only trouble never came. Deputies came. They took the screaming Clayhead away. Then, a little while later, they came back and took the screaming punk away, the willowy pale-as-paper punk whom the clay-headed guy had been trying to kill. They took him away in his soiled coveralls, and Bishop figured they'd come back for him next. But they didn't. All that night and all the next day and all the next night, they didn't. Deputies went past the cell and new prisoners arrived and old prisoners left, but no one said a word to him. If Ketchum was dancing on the roof, it was a long dance. He was still at it. Nothing happened.

Then, about eight o'clock Sunday morning, a towering deputy with a sorry face opened the cell door. He waggled his thumb over his shoulder. "Bishop," he said.

Here it was then. With a grunt, Bishop got off his cot. Rolling his shoulders defiantly, he strode out of the cell into the hall.

But it was strange. The sorry-faced deputy didn't cuff him. He didn't even take him by the arm. He just walked down the hall to the elevator. After a second Bishop followed him. They rode down silently together one floor. They stepped out into Processing. There was a counter and then the big tiled room where Bishop had been searched when he came in. A short, round deputy shoved a plastic bag across the counter at Bishop: his clothes. Bishop took the bag into the tiled room. He stripped off the county orange and got back into his jeans and his T-shirt. The clothes smelled of beer and there were whiffs of that girl too, that bank teller or whatever the hell she was. He was glad to get them back.

When he was dressed, he came out again. The big sorry-faced deputy returned to the elevator. Bishop followed him. This time they rode down to the fourth floor, Homicide.

The sorry-faced deputy led the way through the maze of desks and filing cabinets and inspectors in their shirtsleeves. He led Bishop back to that cramped, dingy interview room the size of an outhouse, the room where Ketchum had harassed him when he was first arrested. The deputy held the door open, and Bishop stepped into the room.

"Wait here," the deputy said.

It was the same as before. Bishop sat slouched in the chair, staring at the grime-dark soundproofing. Waiting for Ketchum to finish dancing on the roof or whatever the hell he was doing, and come down here and charge him with battery or attempted murder or conspiracy to run a criminal enterprise or something and basically throw him into the hole for the next five years or so. The only thing he didn't understand was why they'd given him back his clothes.

Now here came Ketchum, also the same as before-Ketchum and his Baleful Glare of Wrath, exactly the same. Same as before, the sinewy little black man propped a foot on a chair seat and leaned over Bishop, seething and silent.

Finally, Bishop got sick of it. "What the hell's going on?"

"If it was up to me, you piece of garbage…" Ketchum growled back at him.

Bishop didn't get it, at first. Then the surprising idea occurred to him. "What? You mean I can go?"

Ketchum couldn't even bear to say it out loud. He nodded. He took his foot off the chair. He turned away, snarling and despondent.

Bishop blinked, scratched his jaw. It was an unexpected turn of events, all right. What do you know? he thought. He hadn't realized how crappy he'd been feeling till just now when he suddenly felt a lot better. He had no clue what was going on, but he wasn't going to ask questions about it either. He got out of his chair. His sardonic smile found its way back to his face.

Ketchum caught that, caught the smile with a sidelong glance. That was too much. He shook his head in disgust. He muttered curses into the knot of his tie. "Yeah, you can be real proud. You can put this on your resume. You know why? You know why you're getting out of here?"

Bishop shrugged. "No. Do I care?"

"If it was up to me, you'd be looking at battery."

"Yeah, I figured that was coming."

"But you know that fuck? That fuck whose arm you broke?"

"Yeah?"

"The fuck with the knife?"

"Yeah, the clay-headed fuck with the knife, sure, I know him."

"Punk he was trying to kill?" said Ketchum.

"Skinny white kid, sure. What about him?"

"Name is David Adalian."

Bishop's mouth opened. He made a little noise, a sort of laugh. The two men were only a couple of feet apart from each other in that outhouse of a room. For a second he could only stand there, looking deep into Ketchum's steaming brown eyes.

"Like Joseph Adalian?" Bishop said finally.

Ketchum gave a quick nod, jutting out his chin. "He's Joseph Adalian's son."

"Whoa," said Bishop.

"The punk and the fuck were dealing meth together. Punk's an idiot. Fuck's a fuck. Punk got busted, dealt the fuck; fuck didn't like it, tried to cut the punk."

"Except I broke his arm," Bishop murmured.

"Except you broke his arm," Ketchum growled.

Bishop laughed. "So now Adalian…"

Even Ketchum chuckled once in a dejected, nauseated sort of way. "Right. Now Adalian calls some of the lawyers he owns, and the judges he owns, and the faggot mayor and district attorney, who if you ask me he also owns…"

"And suddenly I'm free as a…"

"…psycho piece of shit in a city run by circus clowns, you got it."

"Actually, I was gonna say 'bird.' Free as a bird. Or maybe a spring lamb," said Bishop.

Ketchum made that dejected chuckling sound again. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his slacks. His narrow frame was hunched as if he were carrying an anvil on his shoulders or maybe just the weight of an idiot city. "Congratulations. You now have a friend in organized crime. Like I said, you can be very proud."

Bishop snorted. "Yeah, that is embarrassing." His leather jacket was hanging on the back of his chair. He worked it off and slung it over his shoulder. "I sure do hate to leave under those circumstances."

"Yeah, I'll bet."

"If it makes you feel any better, I'll go home and dress in orange and sleep in a room full of muscle-bound Mexicans."

"Don't press your luck, prick. You'll be back."

"It's always a pain in the ass to see you, Inspector."

"Likewise."

It was only a single step to the interrogation room door, but Bishop managed to put some swagger in it.

"Hey," Ketchum said.

Bishop paused, looked at him, his hand on the doorknob.

Ketchum said: "Adalian's the devil. Take my word. Whatever he offers you, you put your hand on it and you won't need me to run you to ground. You'll die in prison as sure as I'm standing here."

"Thanks," said Bishop. "That's a very helpful tip. You should write a book." He turned back to the door.

"Hey," Ketchum said.

Bishop rolled his eyes, looked at him again.

Ketchum said: "Why'd you do it?"

Bishop shook his head. "Do what?"

"The fuck. Break his arm. Why'd you do it?"

"Hell, I don't know. He had a shank."

"Yeah, but he wasn't after you. He was after the punk. You knew I'd come down on you for it. You could've just let him cut away. You don't give a shit. So why'd you do it?"

Bishop thought about it a second. "Because," he said. "Because fuck him."

He walked out and left Ketchum muttering.