Slice

BUCKHEAD

“Ya jes’ fuckin’ with me. Bloated GAWDAMN SHOAT,” he shouted at the agent who yanked him backward and he fell over on the hard floor. “Iffn’ I wasn't tied to this weuns ‘d have us a different story then, tubby.” The standing man kicked him hard and the man tied to the chair spit, started to say something, changed his mind and stared straight up at the ceiling. Fuckin’ faggots.

“You're a real piece of work, aren't ya, Mr. De Witt, or Mr. De Half-Witt—which is it?"

“Yo're a big fuckin’ man now."

“You're an ignorant, redneck, no-account piece of SHIT, boy. You know that."

“Fuckin’ fa—” He grunted in pain as the man kicked the top of his head.

“I hated to do that, Mr. Witless, youuns git gooey kid stuff on my shoe. And what kinda language is that anyway, peckerwood? Cain't YOUUNS talk too good?” He mimicked the man tied to the chair. “Are you a fuckin’ hillwilliam, dummy? Is that YOUUNS problem?"

The man named Wendell De Witt stared up at the ceiling without blinking an eye. He'd put up with horseshit like this all his life. It didn't faze him. He looked over at the agent looming over him. “Iffn’ youuns talk real sweet to me I'll let ya’ suck ma pole later on.” He almost blacked out for a second when the man kicked him again in the top of the head. He kicked with the flat of the foot to leave as little evidence as possible, not that he was particularly worried about it. The tough country bumpkin appeared to have passed out, so he passed smelling salts under the man's nose and he came back with a cough and cursing.

The agent opened the door and said to someone in the hall, “Gimme a hand with this, will ya?” The other agent entered the interrogation room and they lifted the subject up so the chair was upright again.

“Listen up, Mr. De Shitt. I'll be back in a few minutes with a couple friends of that cop you assholes shot. And the four of us will play bridge, okay? And YOU'LL be the fuckin’ bridge, tough guy.” He slammed out of the room.

“You okay?” the second agent asked with genuine concern in his voice.

“Yeah. I'm jes’ fine."

“He loses his temper. I'm sorry about that, man."

“That's no problem."

“You know, Mr. De Witt, if you'd cooperate with us it could make a big difference for you.” He sounded so warm and friendly. “This is the time to work something out, you know?"

“Commere.” De Witt gestured with his head. “Lean over here an’ I'll tell ya somethin'.” As the agent leaned over slightly De Witt hawked up a big goober of bloody phlegm and spat it into the man's face.

“OH FOR CHRIST'S—” The man watching all of this through the one-way got up, his wooden chair scraping on the floor, and walked into an adjoining office, where he picked up a phone, dialing.

“Howard Krug,” the SAC said, picking up his private line.

“No goodski. Sorry."

“You didn't really believe that animal was going to fall apart behind some bad cop/good cop, did you?"

“Nope. So what now? What, uh, you want me to put Joe back in there for a while?"

“Huh uh. Just put ‘m back in lockup and pull James Lee in and see what you can do."

“How long I get with Lee before Buckhead and IAD are in on it?"

“What do you need?"

“Can we keep him overnight?"

“Negative."

“Well?"

“Pull him in and act like you got him nailed. The usual. Keep him till close of business. You know, five-thirty, six o'clock tops. Cut him loose and let him go home for supper to think about it."

“You got it."

“Remember—he won't know they got to John Monroe somehow, so make sure you don't tip it."

“He's gonna know when he goes home tonight."

“Maybe so. But just play it like he doesn't know. Maybe we'll get lucky. Depends what kind of poker player he is."

“Okay. We'll see what happens."

“Call me later at home."

“Will do. I'll let you know."

“Just a couple things. First make sure first thing you do is the bit about the special, hidden cam we got him on in the entranceway. Run that right at the beginning. Don't wait for him to crumple. He'll stonewall. You just gloss over it like you don't care if he denies. Then—"

“Right, he's gonna go, Hey, that's bullshit, or whatever, and I can just say, like, I shrug and say, Hey, you and your attorney will have a copy to study. I mean it's all there where he picks up the money, I mean where YOU pick up the money, and if he goes, BULLSHIT you couldn't have it because I didn't do it, I just shrug as if I expected him to say that and plow right into the next thing."

“Remember, though, somewhere before you cut him loose you're gonna have to say something like, Hell, man I was just kidding. You want to leave it as light as you can. I was just puttin’ you on, Jimmie old boy. I mean, you never know how bent outta shape these guys are gonna get and—just remember you might have to get on the stand behind this."

“Okay,” the agent said, thinking to himself, What a schmuck.

“Now, let's say he's a good actor. He stonewalls. He didn't do it. No way. Not only do we have this famous surveillance cam in the entranceway, all that shit, but then that's when you hit him with the business about the computer-enhanced crap. Simulation-of-sequence time study. All that crap. I mean, we got him there. He's righteous for it."

“Right."

“We've looked at the pictures and we've got you picking up on camera. And in the study you can see that mathematically you were the only one coulda got the money—"

“What about John Monroe, do we—"

“Oh, yeah! That's the other thing. Imperative you don't let Lee know that John Monroe's been killed."

“Sure. Gotcha. I meant, we make sure he thinks, you know, there's no way the perps could have got the money out of the bank. The polys, all that."

“Right. Just stonewall it,” he told him, breaking off the connection. What a schmuck, the agent thought. General Stonewall, he thought contemptuously, which is the nickname by which SAC Krug was known within the Bureau.