KOP Killer (14 page)

“Mark.” A dry-mouthed lie. “Mark Josephs.” I slowly turned around, my raging heart already running at a full sprint.

Two men. One held the blade up to my face, bright red light blaring through my shades. The other held a gun, the lase-pistol hanging lazily by his hip. He snatched the glasses off my face and tossed them over his shoulder before giving my mug a critical once-over. “It ain’t him,” he said. “He don’t look right to me. Mota said the guy would be a big bruiser. This shit’s skin and bones.”

Mota. These two worked for Mota.

“Look at the eyes, though,” said the one with the blade. “Don’t that look like him?”

With them both mesmerized by my big browns, I wanted to go for my piece, real slow so they wouldn’t notice, fry the bastards’ balls off before they knew what happened. But I couldn’t drop this folder in my hand without telegraphing my intention.

And I had only the one damn hand.

I was fucked.

Fear rippled up and down my spine. I leaned way back, away from the blade, my feet creeping backward of their own volition, my wincing backpedal taking me to the dock’s edge. I didn’t want to go down like this. Scared. Helpless. Weak.

Not like this.

“Who are you?” asked the one with the blade, a panama hat with a monitor-hide band on his head. The frayed straw brim cast his eyes in latticed shadow. He pressed a finger against the bar-fight bruise over my brow.

I let the fear show in my voice. Didn’t have to try very hard. “I told you. M-Mark Josephs. Who are you looking for? You want money?”

Their faces were hard, their sneers well practiced. They wore crisp whites that shone pink in the blade’s glow. These were the guys Maria warned me about, the ones from upriver who had come looking for me. Must’ve gotten tired of trying to find me and posted themselves somewhere outside Chicho’s.

“Who was that cop you were with?”

My face broke into a sweat, the heat of the blade burning my cheek without making contact. I wanted to move back, but my heels were nearly hanging off the dock’s edge. A river fly popped off the blade in a flash of light.
Fuck.
“I don’t know. We just met at a snatch house. I paid for an all-nighter, and he came in for a nooner, I think.”

The one on the right grabbed my dangling sleeve and felt around. “He don’t got a hand.”

“Mota said his hand would shake. Shaking hand ain’t the same as no hand. I told you it wasn’t him.”

Unconvinced, he asked, “What happened to your hand?”

“Got bit off when I was a kid. Monitor attack.”

“It ain’t him. We should get back,” said the one.

“What’s in that folder?” asked the other.

I tried to think fast, my mouth opening as if I had a lie ready. But nothing came out, my synapses firing blanks. “Um, see for yourself.” I lifted the folder but fumbled it away before he could take hold. Papers slipped free and fell to the water.

“C’mon, we gotta get back,” said the one.

“Yeah.” His partner took one step away then lunged at me and feinted a swing, the lase-blade’s fiery arc swiping in my direction but stopping short of making contact.

I flinched like a scared little gecko. Tipping backward, I tried to regain my balance, my arms flapping like a one-winged bird until I went over. I plunged into the water, briefly sinking before popping back up, my face covered in a film of river muck, one of Abdul’s case files stuck to my shoulder.

They laughed, the cocksure bastards. A grade-school bully kind of laugh. I stayed where I was, treading water, taking it like a bitch until they moved off.

I swam to a ladder, grabbed hold with the left, hooked the right over a rung and climbed. I felt my lase-pistol squeeze out from my waistband but couldn’t make a move to catch it without losing my grip on the ladder. Fucking thing plunked into the water a second later.

I hauled my ass up to the dock and immediately scanned the riverbank, my eyes searching for a panama hat. I caught sight of Mota’s thugs just as they disappeared down a street that led in the direction of Chicho’s alley.

I found my shades where they’d fallen and slipped them on. The smart move was to call myself lucky and move on. I was unarmed. And in more than one way. I should quit while I was ahead. Live to fight another day.

Just let them go.

I had the shakes. I told myself they wouldn’t last. The butterflies in my gut would soon settle. Everything was okay.

Just let them go.

But their laughter still echoed in my head, their damned mocking laughter.

The ’fraidy-cat shakes shifted into roaring rumbles of rage. The butterflies in my gut became angry jungle wasps.

Mota thought he could take me out with a pair of upriver thugs?

With my nerves ringing and my inner enforcer humming, I stormed up the dock, right up to the boat with the young fisherwoman. I jumped in, my feet thudding against the hull. Wide-eyed, she sucked in a terrified breath. The coin she was about to attach to her net slipped from her fingers and disappeared in the folds. I snatched the sack of coins. She didn’t protest. She knew better.

I marched to shore. The anticipation of violence coursed through my body. Reaching the riverbank, I kicked off my shoes. Couldn’t make a quiet approach with them squishing.

I pursued. I felt no pain in my arm. Couldn’t feel the pebbles under the soles of my bare feet. My face burned hot like it was still baking in the glow of the lase-blade, my soul crazed with a fire that my soaking clothes couldn’t cool.

I could see them now, the SOBs, walking shoulder to shoulder just a short ways ahead, but on the opposite side of the busy street. I started across, dodging cars and bikes, pushcarts and pedestrians. I tightened my grip on the sack. The coins felt plenty weighty.

Pedestrians dodged out of my way as I ran the last couple steps toward the one who had held the gun on me. My left arm took a wide, hooking swing, the sack of coins bearing down on his head. He turned around just in time for the sack to pound him on his right ear. He crumpled to the pavement like a rag doll.

The one with the panama hat reached for his weapon. I sank the sack into his gut. His blade and hat tumbled free as he collapsed to his knees. He was still sucking air when my next blow took him in the shoulder. The sack exploded on impact, a shower of coins crashing to the pavement. He tried to stand, coins shedding off his back, but hardly made it halfway up before I clubbed him back down with my stump.

Harsh, stinging pain shot up my arm. I brushed it off, just like I brushed off the shouting from behind me, the onlookers’ protests hardly penetrating my senses. I kicked him in the gut, stomped his ribs, worked him up and down. I dropped to one knee and leaned over him, water from my hair dripping on his face.

The questions spilled out of my mouth. “Who are you? How do you know Mota? What kind of shit is he into? Do you know Wu and Froelich?”

He couldn’t respond, his eyes bleary and bewildered. I tried to bring him back with a slap to the cheek, but he was too far gone, eyes rolling up in his head. I stood and evil-eyed the crowd encircling the scene. “Don’t fuck with me!”

Some took off. Others stepped back. Nobody looked me in the eye.

I bent over and raided the bastard’s pockets. Cigs. Cash. Rubbers.

And a badge.

*   *   *

Wet pants chafed my thighs. The soles of my feet stung like they were crisscrossed with cuts. Insistent throbbing nagged my arm. I’d busted something open in there. My empty shirtsleeve was stained crimson and dotted with clinging flies.

I made it back to the docks.

Shit.

Somebody had made off with my shoes.

*   *   *

I glanced at the clock while the barber counted my soggy bills. I’d been in the barbershop for over an hour now. A cut. A shave. Fresh bandages for my arm. I’d sent the barber’s daughter on a gofer run. New shoes. New pants. Yet another new shirt.

The barber finished counting the pesos. “That’ll do. Glad we could help you today, but you really should get that arm checked by a doctor.”

I walked out. Wasn’t in the mood for advice. I crossed the street and went down a set of damp, mossy steps into a basement bar. The room was long and narrow, coffin-like. The bar ran down the right side, nothing more than a rigged-up series of old doors laid end to end and suspended from the ceiling by a collection of ropes. No room for tables.

I took the stool on the end and ordered a brandy. The bartender reached for a bottle sitting on a shelf hung from a wall that glistened with sweat.

“How about a phone?” I asked.

“Gimme a minute.” She stepped away to attend to two empty-glassed customers who sat at the far end.

I sipped my drink. Just a little sip. I didn’t come to get drunk. Just needed to take the edge off, make it so I could think straight.

I pulled the shield out of my pocket and held it up to the light. YOP. Yepala Office of Police. Yepala was farther upriver than Loja. Five hours by boat. A town deep inside warlord territory.

I rubbed the badge with my thumb. Yepala cops. Christ.

I’d left them on the pavement. Fucked them up pretty good. To get out of there, I’d had to plow my way through a circle of concerned civvies. A do-gooder tried to stop me, a little man who said something about how I wouldn’t get away with what I’d done. I shoved the sap to the ground, where he had the smarts to stay.

Then I saw his kids. Two young boys, one already crying, the other about to. I hoped they’d learn the right lesson, that their father was courageous. Principled. But they were just as likely to grow up thinking their dad was a pussy. Knocked to the ground by a one-armed man and afraid to fight back.

That was the way of things on Lagarto.

I set the badge on the bar and stared at its shiny surface. Instead of sending a couple common thugs, Mota had sent cops to do me in. Yepala cops. I couldn’t make sense of it. If there was one thing this city had in abundance, it was thugs and dirty cops. Why outsource the job to YOP?

Unless they already had a relationship. Unless whatever Mota, Froelich, and Wu were into also involved those two cops. I remembered the night we’d broken Jimmy’s legs, how Wu and Froelich didn’t show because they were upriver at a monitor fight.

Or maybe they were doing business in Yepala. What kind of business, I could only guess.

The bartender returned with a phone. I called Maggie. No answer. I talked to her voice mail. “Hey, Maggie, it’s me. It’s Juno. We need to talk, okay?”

I set the phone on the bar, next to a doorknob that poked up like a mushroom.

What the fuck was I doing? That was what she was going to ask me. I was going to have to tell her all about the mission. It made so much sense a few days ago. Start with a small crew and work my way up. Soon I’d have all of KOP under my control. I’d done it once. I could do it again.

But that was before two of my crew got decapitated. Before I ordered Jimmy’s legs broken. Before I realized Mota was going to fight me to the end. Before I lost my hand.

Before I chased Maggie away.

Shit, and now I’d even injected myself into the nightmares of two teary-eyed kids.

A teen entered carrying a heavy washtub. He waddled forward, and with a clunk, set the washtub on the floor. He pulled off the tied-on plastic bag that served as a lid so the bartender could have a look. Clumped white mash soaked in a pool of clear liquid. I could smell it already, the familiar burn of shine climbing up my nostrils.

The bartender took a tin cup down from a shelf and used it to scoop up a sample, which she set in front of me. “Try this and tell me what you think. I don’t drink anymore.”

I tilted the cup up to my pinched lips and carefully sucked alcohol out from the mash. Shine blazed a path along my tongue and down my throat, the heat running all the way down to my stomach.

“Good,” I said, remembering a time when shine was all I could afford.

She had the teen drag the tub behind the bar while she got some money together.

I took another pull. Pure fire with metallic overtones. Tasted just like my gun.

The memory of it made me want to spit. Gun barrel on my tongue. Finger on the trigger. I’d almost done it. Almost. So what was keeping me from eating my piece right now? It seemed like a fine time. Before I paid for my drink.

But those cops had scared me on that dock. I was afraid of dying. That had to mean I wasn’t done, didn’t it?

I snatched the phone back up and tried Maggie again. Still no answer. Tried Josephs instead.

“Who is it?” came his gruff voice.

“It’s Juno. Maggie there?”

“Yeah, but she doesn’t want to talk to you.”

“Put her on.”

“You deaf? She doesn’t want to talk to you.”

I wasn’t taking no for an answer. I spoke superslow, carefully enunciating each word. “Put … her … on.”

A beleaguered response came back. “Hold on.”

What was I going to say when she came on? I scrambled for something as the seconds ticked nervously by.

The connection went dead.

Shit.
She hung up on me. Maggie had hung up on me.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
I slapped the phone down on the bar, sent the hanging wood door swinging on its ropes.

“Woman trouble?”

I sucked down the rest of my brandy. “Gonna need another one of these.”

I watched the amber liquid fill my glass. It’ll be okay, I told myself. Maggie will come around. Just needed a little more time.

And if she didn’t …

I couldn’t worry about that. Not now. I had to focus on the immediate. I imagined Mota with Wu, Froelich, and two Yepala cops, all of them standing around a stack of scratch.

I clutched my glass tight and took a hearty swig.
Mota, you pretty-boy son of a bitch. What are you up to?

fourteen

I
’D
lost the files—drowned in the river—but I remembered the name of Lizard-man’s first vic. Franz Samusaka. Died dickless with a tat on his cheek.

The taxi dropped me curbside. Actual curbs in this neighborhood. Sidewalks too. No foot-tramped paths of dirt running through walls of weedy growth. Here, the walls were man-made, brick and mortar with spirals of barbwire on top.