Princes of Arkwright (2 page)

“
I was hoping there would at least be somebody in here to play pool with,” said Tucker, “but he doesn’t exactly look approachable, does he? I guess I’ll just play a game solo. Can you give me change for a one?”

“
The tables are unlocked,” said the barkeep. “It’s on the house tonight.”

“
Aw,” said Tucker, like a schoolgirl who had just been given a Valentine. “God bless ya.”

He grabbed the despised cranberry juice and sauntered around the corner of the L-shaped bar to rack up the balls, taking a good look at the stranger as he passed. There was no one in this section of the bar and Bobby hadn
’t even bothered to turn on the lights. Only one low-wattage bulb inside a lamp that resembled a stained-glass window shone as it dangled over the table, casting a soft glow on the green felt.

Just as he was about to break, he felt a draft and heard the faraway sounds of the city. Someone else, at least, had come into the bar. He peeked around the corner and saw two guys and a girl stagger over to one of the tables and fall into the chairs, loudly demanding service. Obviously, they had had a bad day and were hell-bent on spreading their misery to the rest of humanity. But he had seen Bobby handle far worse before, so he just went back to his solo game of pool.

He had only just sunk a couple of balls when things took a turn for the worse.

“
This is the last time I’m going to tell you,” yelled Bobby. “You’re going to have to leave.”

Again Tucker peeked around the corner – this time to witness one of the guys jump up and pull back Bobby
’s arms. It was time to intervene. He threw his pool cue down on the table and headed toward the donnybrook in a slow trot. But he halted completely when he saw the other guy pull out a knife and plunge it deep into Bobby’s chest.

“
No!” screamed Tucker, forgetting for a moment that he was a police officer. His own scream brought him out of his momentary panic and he sprinted toward the trio. His attention was focused on the two men when the woman grabbed a hockey stick off the wall and swung it at Tucker. He jerked his head aside, but the stick caught him squarely in the back of the head, knocking him out.

His head was throbbing in agony when the voices of the trio woke him. His head hurt so badly he couldn
’t lift it. All he could do was stare straight ahead. The sight directly in his line of vision nauseated him. he was looking directly into the open but lifeless eyes of Bobby, whose corpse was lying just a few feet from his own. He was unable to distinguish the bartender’s blood from the bright red tile of the floor.

Beyond hope and beyond reason, the only thought that entered Tucker
’s head was tomorrow’s police blotter. In his mind, the desk sergeant was reading the name of Tucker Bromley in the daily report about the latest bar brawl. The only thing different about this one was that it yielded two dead bodies — unusual in Arkwright, but not unheard of. Then he thought he could hear the music of that guy with the bagpipes that always showed up at police funerals. He hated those bagpipes and now wished he had told someone that.

“
Well, we have to do something,” said one of the men. “He saw everything. And I’m not going back to jail.”

“
Shut up!,” screamed the other man. “Just shut the fuck up and let me think!”

Tucker closed his eyes tightly and cringed, but restrained himself from whimpering. He was in no condition to fight and was certain that he was about to meet his end on a barroom floor. But he heard the man
’s footsteps pass him by and trail off. Then the same man said, “Hey, you!”

Tucker opened one eye to see his would-be
executioner at the far end of the bar, hovering over the stranger who was still staring ahead and nursing the same Narragansett. Tucker had forgotten all about him.

“
Hey, you fuckin’ retard! I’m talking to you!” screamed the man into the stranger’s ear. But the stranger didn’t even flinch.

“
Didn’t you hear what I said, you fuckin’ retard?” shouted the man, grabbing for the stranger’s arm.

The shouting man had no sooner touched him when the stranger
’s head snapped to the side to watch the murderer with iridescent eyes glowing like embers. The look of authority in his powerful gaze shocked the murderer into relinquishing his grasp.

His skin shone like phosphorous as he stood up and faced his assailant, yet his features remained unchanged and betrayed no anger or any other emotion. Without a word, the stranger raised his hands over his head with his fingers splayed. He brought his hands down fast and suddenly, as if throwing an imaginary beach ball. A pulse of light and energy, bright as the sun, flashed from every point on the stranger
’s body.  It knocked the murderer to the floor and knocked Tucker out for the second time that night.

When he finally regained consciousness, the bar was bathed in silence. Tucker
’s headache had disappeared. Bobby’s lifeless body still lay sprawled on the floor. A stout rope bound the three criminals in one corner. Then Tucker thought he could hear them whimpering, but it was drowned out by the sound of approaching sirens, and the bar was flooded by flashing blue police lights.

Tucker stood up to survey the scene. He glanced down at the far end of the bar. The bottle of
Narragansett was gone.

So was the stranger.

3.
FOUR MONTHS LATER

D
etective Sgt. Tucker Bromley walked down Station Street with a box of saltines tucked under his arm.

“
Hey there, cutie,” said a beckoning voice. “Looking for a good time?”

The woman was a short
Latina with big brown doe eyes and long-flowing black hair. She was wearing a short, ass-hugging black skirt with thigh-high stockings and stiletto heels, and a white ruffled blouse. Her ankles were crossed as she rested against the edge of a brick wall.

“
That depends,” said Tucker. “How much do you charge for a half-and-half? I can get one for 10 bucks on the next street over.”

“
That’s gross,” said the girl as she adjusted her too-tight bra.

“
What’s wrong, Rochelle?” answered Tucker. “Not getting any bites tonight?”

“
Just one,” she answered. “I thought he was looking for action, but he just laughed at me and said he knew I was a cop.”

“
Of course, he did,” Tucker explained with feigned exasperation. “Your hair is washed, your clothes don’t have a single stain, and worst of all, you have all your teeth.”

“
Maybe I should have a few knocked out?” she said, throwing her head back with a laugh.

“
We could get my ex-girlfriend to do it,” said Tucker. “She’s good at kicking you in the teeth.”

“
Oh no!” said Rochelle, standing up straight. “You and Crystal broke up? You guys seemed like you had a good thing together. When did it happen?”

“
About four months ago, right after I was promoted to sergeant.”

Rochelle eyed him, waiting for more details, but Tucker just stared at an empty car about 20 yards away.

“Well, some women just can’t handle dating cops, I guess,” she finally said after realizing no more information would be forthcoming.

“
Sure,” said Tucker, looking down at the sidewalk. “That must be it.”

“
Hey Tuck,” she said softly, “I never heard; what happened that night in the bar?”

“
There’s nothing to tell. Bobby got stabbed by a couple of losers.”

“
Right. Then alone and unarmed you took down two men and a she-devil, each one of which was twice your size.”

“
They were pretty drunk,” said Tucker. “I don’t want to talk about it now.”

Rochelle sighed.

“Whatever you say. But you don’t have to do that, you know.”

“
Do what?”

“
That loner cop thing you like to do.”

Tucker rolled his eyes.

“You’re not the only one who feels alone, you know,” she said, with a slight edge in her voice. “Do you know what it’s like being the one Latina in a predominantly white male police force?”

“
I don’t know,” said Tucker. “Is it anything like being the one Protestant in an entire city of Roman Catholics?”

“
That’s different,” said Rochelle. “Nobody cares about religion anymore.”

“
Well, I guess that’s true.”

“All right,” she said, “now get out of here and let me do my job. How can I attract johns if they see me talking to a cop?”

“
I’m not in uniform,” said Tucker, pointing out the obvious.

“
No offense, Tuck, but you couldn’t look more like a cop if you dressed up like Wyatt Earp.”

“
OK, OK, I’m going. By the way, are you armed?”

“
Of course,” said Rochelle, wrinkling up her face.

“
Where do you keep a gun on an outfit like that?”

“
Want to search me and find out?” she asked with a grin.

“
Nope,” said Tucker, walking away. “I can’t afford it.”

Rochelle laughed for a while at this
parting shot until the sounds of the city finally drowned her out. Tucker had always thought of her as his best friend in the detective division, and was surprised to realize how long it had been since he had even talked to her. Four months is a long time to be friendless, but Tucker had settled into a routine that didn’t allow much human contact beyond cuffing suspects on their way to arraignment.

He hadn
’t gone far when he almost tripped over a man who was sitting on the curb and having a conversation with the twilit cumulous clouds. He was wearing an oily tan overcoat and his long hair was stringy and greasy.

“
Sátanam aliósque spíritus malígnos
,” muttered the shabby man, his voice trailing off as Tucker quickened his pace.

“
Christ!” thought Tucker. “Doesn’t anyone in this city speak English anymore?”

The shabby man wasn
’t unknown to the detective. He was as much a fixture of Station Street as the ancient brick mills that lined the riverbank.

It didn
’t take much imagination to picture the mills in their glory days, for their towering facades were still intact. Only now, most of the windows were bricked or boarded up, and savage weeds choked the shrubbery. Tucker glanced up at a tall, silent belfry atop the largest mill on Station Street and noticed that several of the bricks had fallen. In front of the mill, close to the road, was a shiny new sign that read, “Arkwright: A City Reborn” in both English and French.

In the mind of Tucker, t
he original immigrants who first came to the city looking for work looked at the mill companies the way a toddler looks at his parents, relying on them for everything, until the companies closed and moved south, leaving behind an entire community of hopeless orphans. Generation after generation, they remained, waiting for some economic messiah to come and restore the city to its glory days. Others, like Tucker Bromley, were wise enough to know it would be a long wait.

Station Street was built along the river, and boasted just as many twists, turns and backflows. The red maples that lined the road were old, and had long ago outgrown the holes in the sidewalk where they were planted as saplings. Their mighty roots pushed up the pavement, turning the sidewalk into a terrain of concrete hills and valleys.
St. Michael’s Church was the largest building on the street, its twin spires shooting into the skyline like great granite missiles. The one on the left boasted a clock that hadn’t worked since as far back as Tucker could remember. In the other was a solitary bell that now groaned rather than rang. The massive front steps that were once lined with bridesmaids and altar boys were now the final resting place for cigarette butts and the occasional beer can. Now the only time they attracted a crowd was during funerals where they served as a platform for seeing off the newly dead.

This heap of cold, gray building loomed over the whole community – the very stones and bricks passing silent judgment on a populace that didn
’t bother to pass through its arches anymore. In stark contrast to this monument to faded glory, a trite movable-letter sign sat near the front steps in a weak attempt to capture some lost sheep with an inspirational quote of the day.

“
Always be sure to entertain strangers,” read Tucker as he passed, barely registering the meaning of a single word, “for by so doing, some have entertained angels unaware.”