Bartender (9 page)

24.

Thirty minutes later, one of the CSI smartypants, Bill Powell, tells Saim, “Gotta wait for the tox screen to come back, but it looks like they had him tied up and doped him. Then, y’know, bang bang.”

Saim flips his hand up. Like,
Yeah. Don’t be so cavalier about this guy’s life.
“So they tie the bartender up. They inject him with... what?”

Powell says, “There are two kilos of heroin in the room right now. Packed for distribution. But I don’t think that’s what they injected him with.”

“They tie him up and inject him and then they cut him loose?”

“There are signs of a struggle. But the tape is cut. It isn’t torn.”

Saim considers it. “And they didn’t shoot him in the chair.”

“No blood splatter.”

“They shoot him on the ground. These Russian mob types.”

“Right.”

“So this wasn’t about killing the bartender. You just wanna kill the cocksucker, you just kill the cocksucker.”

“No. Looks like they wanted to torment him.”

Saim nods. “Thanks.”

Powell says, “Sure. Let you know when I get the reports.”

Joe taps Saim on the shoulder. “Captain’s downstairs. Prepare your butt.”

“Yeah. I’m puckered.”

***

NYPD Captain James Schaffer.

What a dick.

Fair.

But still a dick.

He waves at Joe and Saim from down the block. Doesn’t wanna talk where reporters might show up.

Joe says, “We’re gonna get fucked.”

Saim says, “Probably.”

They walk toward their boss. Big sonuvabitch with wisps of pale hair around the crown of his head. Looks like a slimmer version of the actor Brian Dennehy.

Schaffer’s the man who can make or break em. The man who they expect is gonna be pissed cuz they were suspended and involved in yet another shootout.

They wait for him to speak before opening their mouths.

Schaffer says, “How come, every time I even hear you two’s names, there’s a body involved? Then I gotta wait for the district attorney to clear you. Every. Goddamn. Time.”

Saim starts to say something but a glance from Schaffer shuts him up.

Both cops look at their feet like little kids. Their hands behind their backs.

Schaffer says, “Reason I ain’t screaming is I don’t want some prick from the
Daily News
or the
Post
or those fuckin weasel cocksuckers at Gawker overhearing. You got any idea how lucky it is the press likes you? Hero cops, hah. You guys are breathing PR disasters getting lucky killing the right guys. What if you’d opened up on some Sean Bell type? Can you even imagine that? You guys gun down a guy loved by friends and family or turn a scumbag into a martyr and then the papers and cable are talking about what corrupt racist pricks
we
are.” The captain’s face is red. He breathes hard.

Saim says, “That’s never gonna happen.”

“Oh? Tell me, Officer Dajani. Why’s that never gonna happen?”

“I wouldn’t let it,
sir
. Neither would Joe. We are not a coupla cops looking to fill a quota.”

“So you really
are
HERO COPS. Jesus Christ. Thank fuckin God. Now I can just tap-dance into my fuckin grave.” Schaffer waits a beat. Then: “I want you to know I’m angry. You get that I’m angry?”

Saim says, “Yessir.”

Joe says, “Yessir.”

Schaffer says, “Good. You guys weren’t even off-duty. You were
suspended
. You operated outside the boundaries of this department. You used your
civilian
sidearms to kill one man and bloody another. You were
not cops
at the time.

“What were you two thinking?”

Saim says, “We were observing an individual of—”

“Cut the bullshit. Talk plain.”

Saim bites his lip. “We were in the bartender’s place a couple days ago. Right after suspension. I got, I don’t know, I got a feeling something wasn’t right with the guy.”

Schaffer twirls a finger. “Cop radar. Your gut telling you this.”

Joe says, “Yeah. Something like that.”

Saim says, “So today, we went back to the bar. Talked to the woman working. Didn’t get anything outta her. Saw a girl come outta the building might know something, since she waved to the woman from outside. We followed her. Got a look at a pricey ring she had on. She tells us the bartender got it for her.”

Schaffer nods. “And you’re thinking there’s no way the guy could afford it, him living off tips at an unpopular bar on the Lower East Side.”

“Right. So we wait. Follow him here. Watch him sneak into the building from the fire escape. Him trying to be smooth. Then we hear shots. Five. We rush in. Put one Ruskie down after he opens fire.”

Joe says, “He hits his own buddy twice.”

Saim says, “Then we find the bartender’s body.”

Schaffer nods again. Exhales. Takes his time. Then says, “All right.” And that’s all. The captain turns. “If the forensics nerds say anything to make you look like you’re lying to me? I’ll bury you.” He walks toward his car. He says over his shoulder, “Your suspension’s over. Both of you. Starting day after tomorrow. You’re reporting to me now. You’ve managed to peak my goddamn interest with the Russian shit. You both got good instincts.”

Saim and Joe follow Schaffer at a safe distance, till their boss is settled into the driver seat of his Ford.

Joe says, “What’re you telling the press?”

Schaffer frowns. “I’m telling em that you were off-duty. But still bound to uphold the law. Because a cop never really takes time off. You intervened after hearing gunshots. You killed one suspect who opened fire on you. You apprehended a second.” He smirks. “I’m telling em you’re goddamn hero cops.”

Saim and Joe say in unison: “Thanks, boss.”

Schaffer squints. “Shit. I wouldn’t thank me. Vacation’s over and you’re in Suck Central. Your sergeant’s a fairy fuckin princess compared to me.” He turns the car on. “Someone’s gotta notify next of kin. And you two are more involved in this than anyone else I have.”

What a dick.

But at least a dick who might make Saim and Joe detectives.

25.

Borovinsky watches the cops below. Soon as he heard the second round of shots, he knew something went bad.

Not that he misses the thugs much.

Plenty more where they came from.

He thinks for a second. Just a second. Doesn’t want to lose his boner. Still humping Rebecca from behind, doggy style. Her skinny white ass bouncing off his groin. They both watch out the window.

Cops all over.

But there’s two he’s interested in.

White guy and a sand nigger.

Borovinksy grunts. Close to climaxing.

Rebecca fakes it. Grunts with him.

He grabs for her tiny breasts. Twists the nipples. Pumps against her. Rough. Thinks of this Russian model. What’s her name. Anne Vyalitsyna. She’s got some knockers. Then one. Two. Three. He fills the condom stretched over his dick with sperm.

He pulls out of Rebecca. Mostly glad it’s over. Since there’s some obvious shit he needs to deal with. But, looking at Rebecca, also sorta glad she ain’t the only one he’s fuckin.

This emaciated junkie chick.

He only needed her to get Kieron. Now he’s not sure what to do with her.

She saunters off to her bag for another dose.

He grabs the rubber on his prick and yanks it off. Tosses it in a corner of the room they’ve got for the night. Says to her, “Phone.”

She tosses him his cell. Then says, “Who you callin?”

“Some of my guys. You saw those two pigs when we were fuckin? The guys who were talking to the fat bastard in charge.”

She blinks at him. Like,
What the hell are you talking about?
“I’m high and you were railing me like that first night you got outta jail.”

Borovinsky smirks at her. Yeah, she’d been there when he got out. He was thankful for it at the time. He says, “Well, there are two cops out there who got my attention. I think they’re the ones who found Kieron.”

Rebecca grins. “What’re you gonna do?”

Borovinsky shrugs. His face twists into a smile.

She says, “All I want is my boy. Do whatever you want to the others.”

Borovinsky nods.

26.

Saim and Joe go from beat cops to HERO COPS to reporting to the goddamn captain and maybe becoming detectives and neither’s sure they really wanna be in that spot.

But they walk the long walk.

Longest walk goddamn ever.

Joe’s not having as hard a time of it. Why should he? He ain’t like Saim. Sounds shitty. But he just ain’t like Saim. Saim, the guy overthinking all this shit. Overthinking and overfeeling.

Saim walks down the avenues of Alphabet City. Ave A. Ave B. Ave C. Ave D. And if there was an Ave F it’d be a straight “fuck you.”

Whole planet’s littered with humans who’d be capable of going to the stars, curing cancer, and everything else, but they’re all just brutalizing each other instead.

Money.

Drugs.

Pussy.

Whatever.

Saim says, “The guy was a dad. A father.”

Joe says, “So? Sorry, man. But... he didn’t just stumble into that spot. He
invited
himself into that spot. We ain’t talkin about some prodigy cut down in their prime. A promising Harlem high schooler slammed by a stray bullet. Some pillar of the community. Some innocent. Guy obviously fucked up in some impressive ways.
That
is why he was where he was.”

“Y’know, sometimes people just fuck up. They think they’re doing the right thing and they just fuck up. This guy, all we heard about him, we heard he was a dude trying to take care of his kid. He was a worker. Doing what he had to do.”

“What he had to do was end up in a fleabag building at the wrong end of two guns held by thugs with drugs all over?”

“You gonna tell his son that? Cuz that’s who we’re gonna be talking to.”

***

Thing is, when you’re a cop, you don’t get the big guns. You get the
one
gun. Badge. Cuffs. Radio. Maybe Kevlar if you can convince the bosses you’re at risk. And maybe you get a flashlight. That’s it.

Badge.

Gun.

Radio.

Fuckin flashlight.

You’re the big dick swinging.

Right?

Right.

Academy tells you how to stay in shape. How to protect yourself. How to protect everyone else and protect the city.

But how do you talk to a kid whose dad ended up in a bad spot.

And you didn’t even pull the trigger, but you know he did some shit that
put
him into the wrong spot.

Could take sensitivity courses.

Talk to the shrink.

But. Christ. Then you’re talking to the shrink.

***

Joe says, “We goin to the bar?”

Saim says, “Where the man worked, where the man lived. I need a drink anyway.”

***

Saim sees the bar like a tomb. THE THING. Inviting him in, but he doesn’t wanna go. Since it’s gonna suck him in and consume him.

***

It’s last call when they sit down on the crummy old stools.

No blonde. Some kid. Says his name is Chase.

Joe tells him: “We need three shots Evan Williams. Four Yuenglings. Like now.” Not trying to be a dick but sounding like it anyway since the night’s getting old.

Chase says, “Sure. How you want it split?”

“Fuck you mean split it?”

The kid, a little confused. “I mean I can put two Yuenglings in front of you both and then a shot but you ordered three.”

“What makes you think we’re splitting?”

“I figured—”

“No. That’s each.”

The idiot bartending kid does as he’s told as quickly as possible. He spills a little bit of the drinks. Shaken up.

Saim grabs the kid’s arm. “Listen, we’re NYPD. Call Kieron.” He corrects himself. “Call Kieron’s number upstairs.”

The kid says, “Kieron’s out for the night.” He pulls his arm free.

“Call.”

“He’s out.”

“Call.”

“He’s
out
.”

Saim puts his Colt on the bar. The big beast of a machine making the point for both tired cops sitting there.

Saim says, “
Call
.”

Chase says, “Jesus, you gonna kill me? Don’t kill me. You want the money, you can take the money.”

“Holy shit, you’re an idiot.”

Joe does a shot. Says, “Get everyone out.”

Saim does a shot. Two. Then says, “Gimme the fuckin phone.”

***

The woman storms into the bar. Four in the morning. Just about. Pissed. She doesn’t like cops. Saim and Joe know that right off.
Knew
that when they trailed her to the falafel place.

Dark hair pulled up tight in a tail. Dark eyes burning cuz she’s annoyed, and Saim and Joe are the culprits and she knows em and she recognizes em, but she don’t know why the hell they’re there.

Two gays she thought were into her ring on account of the whole equal marriage thing got passed.

But she’s in a big sleep shirt and sweat pants.

Joe sorta falls in love with her then.

Saim says, “Sarah, please sit down.”

***

They sit at the bar. TVs around the room all mute.

The idiot kid Chase left with the customers.

Saim. Joe. Sarah.

None of em anything for a while.

Sarah shakes her head. Stares into her beer. Glad that Aaron’s asleep and hoping the boy stays that way for a good long time.

She thinks she’s in shock. Or something like it. Since the idea of Kieron being dead hasn’t even fuckin registered as something real in her head yet.

How the fuck could he be dead?

Well, he told you he had to go out tonight. He told you where those jewels came from. And you knew he was gonna do something else.

You knew it.

And you didn’t stop him.

She shakes her head again. Tries to kill the guilt in her brain. Jesus. Shit. What’s she gonna do with Aaron? The city gonna come take him away? She never, ever considered the idea of Aaron being
hers
. Not hers alone, anyway.

City’d laugh in her face if she went for custody.

That kid.

That poor goddamn kid can’t escape the stupid bullshit his parents keep pulling.

She knows she’s gonna cry. Not just weep. But roar and flail and beat her arms around the apartment when she gets back upstairs. Especially if she keeps drinking.

He can’t be dead.

He couldn’t have left her and Aaron like this.

She remembers the money upstairs.

***

Joe taps Saim’s shoulder. “You see those guys?” He tilts his head.

Saim looks away from Sarah’s worried face. And, yeah, he sees those guys. Outside. Across the street. Five of em, not exactly hiding. Their interest only on the bar and the fact that it’s shut down, but still has a coupla cops and a gal inside. Saim says, “I’m guessing someone wants us to know we’re being watched.”

“That or it’s a hit squad.”

Saim considers it. “Question is: Who’s the hit squad gunning for?”

They both cut a look at Sarah.

Saim says to her, “Stay here.”

He and Joe get up from their place at the bar.

Joe says, “What’re you thinkin?”

Saim unlocks the door. “Gonna have a quick chat.”

***

Sarah’s eyes go wide when she realizes the full extent of what’s happening. And what brutal end Kieron might’ve faced. She points at Saim heading outside. Shouts to Joe: “Is he fuckin crazy? What’s he doing?!”

Joe holds up a hand.
Stop
. The other hand rests on the butt of the Beretta on his hip. “Saim knows what he’s doing.”

“Do
you
know what he’s doing?”

Joe keeps his eye on the street outside.

But the answer is: Not really.

***

Saim doesn’t need to do anything to get the guys’ attention. They’re waiting for him. Five. In jeans and unremarkable leather jackets. Doesn’t really look like anyone is in charge. No hands in their pockets or jackets, but hovering
near
the pieces Saim knows they’ve got. They’re all checking each other, but none of em ever look to the same guy. Just thugs. Pack of dumb dogs sent out.

Saim waltzes up to em. Puts his hands on his hips. Eyeballs em. “Who’m I supposed to be talking to?”

They don’t say anything.

Saim waits. He doesn’t pull his gun or even get his fingers near the Colt. Doesn’t wanna spook the idiots. And he knows he can draw faster than any of the fuckers anyway if things go sideways.

Saim says, “Here’s the deal. You fellas leave. Go have a drink somewhere. Cool your heels. You wanna find me? We’ll make arrangements at Police Plaza. Okay?”

Saim looks around at all the random pedestrians. New Yorkers not really giving a damn since none of this has to deal with the situation directly.

One of em speaks up: “Why don’t you go away?
You
, sand nigger, and the otha cop. The one who sounds like a hick from the movies.” It’s a Brooklyn accent with some leftover Russian thrown in on the vowels.

So Saim says, “All right,
Ivan
. Ruskie pinko commie.” Working the tried-and-true method of pissing em off till they make a mistake. “You want us to go away? Me and my hick buddy?”

“Yeah, you faggots go suck each other off.”

Another says, “You can’t do nothin about this. We greased so many NYPD palms, you don’t even know if your partner’s gonna be on your side when it counts.”

Saim nods, thinking it’s bullshit and bluster. But also wondering if Schaffer sent him and Joe down here to get fuckin killed. Doesn’t matter yet. Saim says, “Here’s how it’s gonna happen—” then makes quick mental notes of the thugs. Thug A: Racist Guy who started talking first. B: Greased Palms guy. C: Has a blue polo shirt on. D: Wears sunglasses at night like a douche. E: Just, y’know, looks like a dick. “What’s gonna happen is you’re gonna go away, I’m gonna go inside and finish my beer.”

The five thugs shift their weight from foot to foot.

Racist Guy says, “We should just
go away
?”

Saim says, “That’s what I suggest.” He shrugs as the words come out.

“You can’t protect them forever, raghead. So let’s just see what happens.”

Fireworks explode in Saim’s brain:
Them. Sarah. Aaron.

Saim shrugs again and backs away. Toward the door. His eyes bounce from one asshole to the other. They give him canine looks. Real
asshole
canine looks.

He knew a Chihuahua once. An old boyfriend’s mom had the thing. Little fucker. Wanted attention all the goddamn time. Happy dumb tail wagging. Slobbery face.
Yipping yapping
.
Clicking clacking
on uncut nails as he ran around and tried to garner affection from everyone.

Happy little moron.

Till mom gave the four-legged bastard some toast—
toast
—then goddamn. It would growl and snap and bite. Still dumb as hell, but now it had
toast
it wanted.

The looks the Russians are wearing remind Saim of that stupid, snippy fuckin dog.

He keeps his eyes on their hands.

***

Saim slips inside.

Joe says, “How’s it lookin?”

Saim says, “How many mags you got?”

“One full, plus the one in the Beretta. They took our mags from earlier.”

“And I got two. So it could be worse.” Saim locks eyes with Sarah. Walks to her. Says, “Please get behind the bar. And keep your head down. Grab a phone. Call—”

Bullets shatter the front windows.

Screams fill the street outside.

Chihuahuas and their goddamn toast.

Saim unceremoniously tosses Sarah over the top of the bar. Then he ducks down with Joe. They kick over THE THING’s oft-abused tables. Tuck in behind em. Use em as makeshift barricades. Or at least shields that’ll postpone their getting dead.

Saim screams at Sarah. “Stay behind the bar. Get
down
. Do not come out. Find the phone. Call 911.”

Sarah collects herself. Crouches on the floor. “How’m I supposed to do that? You tell me I gotta find the phone but I can’t come out unless I want my head blown off.” She wipes her hands on her pants. Looks around. Doesn’t see anything except exploding glass and new holes being drilled by bullets.

And where’re Saim and Joe’s phones?

On the bar counter. Next to their drinks. All of which are getting exploded by hot lead.

Great.

Saim peeks his head out around the table. He’s greeted by more gunfire. Mostly handguns but at least one submachine gun. Probably a Russian PP-2000—compact little 9mm thing that’ll ruin your day.

Saim wishes again they had a shotgun on their side.

The wood floor splinters near where Saim’s face was a moment before.

Joe says, “Well?”

Saim says, “Well, they’re still pissed at us.” He pulls his Colt. Makes sure there’s a round chambered and ready to fly. “Wait till they reload.”

“Then next to the windows, where the solid wall is.”

Saim nods. “I go left.”

Joe nods.

For a heartbeat, there’s no noise.

Saim and Joe get up. They crouch-run to the solid walls. Slam themselves against fresh protection while the thugs reload their weapons.

Saim takes a look. Sees sunglasses-at-night idiot trying to lock a new magazine into his PP-2000. No wonder the guy thinks he’s so cool. Living proof that gun laws aren’t working.

Saim aims out the window. Sunglasses Asshole catches the movement. He turns his face and his gun in Saim’s direction. Saim greets him with three fat .45 slugs barked from the Colt. Two in the guy’s chest. A third that destroys the lower half of the bastard’s face. Teeth and bone fly. Dude’s tongue whips around like a wet pull-cord on a toy.

One down.

Joe brings his sights to bear on the Greased Palms thug. The thug not paying attention or noticing that Saim and Joe moved. So he’s got his gun up with two hands. Joe sends four 9mm rounds his way. The bullets hit along his side and burst out his chest. Four little geysers of blood paint the air with red ropes.

Two down.

Saim and Joe gotta move.