Senile Squad: Adventures of the Old Blues (5 page)

“What the—”

Large smoked windows separated the main precinct from another office. The door swung open. The Sarge waved at them. “Yo, look what the K-9 dragged in. How’d you two like a job?”

“Sarge?” they asked in unison.

“If you’re finished reminiscing?” His bushy gray eyebrows raised in query. He stuffed his cigar back into his mouth and headed to his office with a motion for them to follow.

Paps and Jerry exchanged a look, shrugged their shoulders, and followed.

“Like it?” Sarge asked around his ever-present cigar stub.

“Like it?” Paps responded. “I love it.”

“I—I can’t believe it,” Jerry said. “It’s like we went back in time.”

“Back in time and then some,” responded the Sarge. “You two sure didn’t though. You both look old!”

“Hello, pot,” Paps said.

Jerry shared a laugh with the Sarge who indicated two chairs to sit in.

After a minute or two Paps glanced around and held his hands out. “How did you get all this?”

“Well,” the Sarge said. “Let’s say there are some very important people in this town who want us to enjoy our ‘golden years’ in an extremely comfortable environment.”

“I love it,” Jerry said.

Paps nodded.

“Makes you feel young again, doesn’t it?” Sarge asked.

Each man nodded and smiled.

“Well.” The Sarge paused, his countenance growing serious. “How would you like to not only feel young again, but be needed—and I mean needed like on a professional level again?”

Paps and Jerry exchanged a quizzical look and turned to the Sarge.

“Sure,” Paps said.

“But how?” Jerry asked.

“All you need to know is that there are some very rich people in this city called The Bureau. They think there’s real value in a bunch of old coppers together in a retirement home, in an environment where they fought crime for years and,” he pointed the cigar at Paps and Jerry, “in a specially designed facility where our decades of experience can be put to use—again.” Sarge emphasized the last word and leaned back in his chair to watch Paps’s and Jerry’s reactions.

“What do you mean ‘again’?” asked Jerry.

“The Bureau is renovating this place and not just for all the old coots who were sitting around doing nothing except wasting their old school experience. No, The Bureau thought us old guys could provide a community service as ah…ah…what did they call it? Oh! A think tank. We’d have old cops talk to neighborhood watch groups or advise current investigators on crimes they were having trouble solving. Anyway, The Bureau loved the idea so—” he gestured around him— “here we go.”

“Wow,” Jerry said. “This place really brings back a lot of good times. I could provide advice on what we’ve done for decades. No problem.”

“Glad you agree,” the Sarge said and leaned forward. “That’s phase one—at least for the public.”

“What else is there?” Paps asked.

“Sounds like there’s another shoe waiting to drop,” Jerry said.

“Is there ever,” the Sarge leaned toward the two men. “A few of them recognized that we could do more than advise and talk about crime. We could actually do something about it and from right here in this specially designed precinct.” The Sarge waved his chewed cigar around his office. “These guys included some special additions like what you saw when you came in the front doors: the medical and student areas. State offices are all provided at no cost. Needless to say, it made getting special permits pretty easy to come by.”

Warming to his subject, the Sarge grew more animated. “By far the most interesting addition is the precinct itself. You saw it as you walked in, a reconstruction of the old downtown station. That was by design. What you didn’t see was an actual functioning cop shop. The guys you walked by at the desks and on the phones are actually working cases.” Sarge glanced excitedly from Paps to Jerry. “What do you think?”

As if both Paps and Jerry comprehended at the same time, they slid their hands down the arm rests of their chairs, then both of them leaned back and cocked their heads.

“You mean,” Paps said as he twirled his hand around the office, “those guys are investigating current crimes? Stuff happening right now?”

“Uh-huh.” The Sarge plopped back in his chair and simultaneously popped the chewed cigar back into his mouth. “You got it,” he said and started rocking back and forth.

He let that thought sink in.

“But…but how can that be?” asked Paps.

The Sarge yanked the cigar out of his mouth. “We’re retired from the force but still have police know-how…well sort of, anyway. We don’t go running down the hoods, but we gather intelligence and evidence that we report anonymously to the proper investigation units at headquarters by using the Crime Stoppers phone line. How brilliant is that?”

“The what?” asked Jerry.

“Crime Stoppers,” Paps said. “It’s on TV all the time.”

“Right,” the Sarge said. “It was around before we retired but it’s big right now. People can call the hotline and report crime without giving their names. A huge success all over the country. Anyway, we give the information, and the appropriate unit, like robbery, auto theft, or the gang unit gets it. Our information should be so good that they don’t even have to follow up. They just mop up, cuff ’em and stuff ’em.” The Sarge said with a satisfied grin. “Course sometimes we have to help them out by providing surveillance of the hood’s activities and then it’s just a matter of them putting the case together for the prosecutor and bingo. The punks land in jail. We’ve been doing this on a small scale for a couple of months, but now we’re ready to move into phase two.”

Paps shook his head. “And that is?”

A full-bellied laugh shook the Sarge and he leaned forward. “Full-scale operations from the precinct. Surveillance and evidence gathering from all the problem spots in the city. We go under cover as innocent old men, but we’re equipped with state-of-the-art cameras, microphones, and light weapons.”

“Weapons!” Jerry all but whooped.

“Shoots pepper spray twenty-five feet!” an old copper crowed outside the Sarge’s office and held up his cane. He pointed the bottom of the cane at Paps and Jerry and made a
squish-h-h-h
sound.

“Put that thing down, Benson,” the Sarge growled. “Last time you accidentally shot that stuff in the office, we had to vacate the premises.” The Sarge looked back at Paps and Jerry. “Had to drop a piss pack on the floor where it landed so the medical staff would be none the wiser.”

“You mean nobody else knows?” asked Paps.

“Nope. It’s all ‘spy-versus-spy’ around here. We’re all undercover now. Cops playing cops that people think aren’t really cops anymore.” The Sarge reclined in his chair. “It’s awesome.”

“It’s freaking brilliant!” Jerry said.

“Under cover and under everybody’s noses!” Paps said. “So, where’s all this special equipment?” he asked. “I don’t see any surveillance cameras. And who gets the equipment for you? Does someone sneak it in from the outside?”

“Well, actually someone sends it.” Another mischievous smile from the Sarge. “Not in from outside, but, up from below. That’s why I asked for you two to be transferred here.” The Sarge pointed down at the floor. “Below this main building are old bomb shelters. Each one has been renovated. When you enter one of them through the front door, it looks like a typical supply room. One is linen and janitorial; one is medical; another is office supply.”

Jerry shrugged. “That’s normal.”

The Sarge clapped his palms together. “Exactly what we want people to think. What the legitimate supply rooms provide, besides supplies, are a cover for our armory, computer, research lab, and our tunnels.”

“What tunnels?” Paps asked.

“How do ya think we get all of the equipment and support personnel in and out of the labs?” The Sarge asked. “Or for that matter, how we sneak out of here for covert missions? The tunnels were built to help with some government sewer water separation program, so we just made them bigger than they needed to be,” the Sarge replied nonchalantly.

“The real purpose of the whole supply room system is to be a façade for the precinct. Whoever runs the supply rooms are the actual guards and gatekeepers of the precinct armory, labs, and tunnels. That’s why I wanted you two,” the Sarge said, and pointed at each man with his cigar. “I watched you two in the supply room at headquarters. You’re the best ever. Know this, if you accept this responsibility, you will be the backbone of the entire program. You’ll be the ones who ensure the secrecy of our underground network and the undercover supply supervisors of the entire facility. You guys are more than needed; you’ll be all that stands between what we are able to accomplish to fight crime and the exposure and subsequent folding of the entire operation.”

The Sarge paused and looked point-blank first at Paps and then Jerry. “So what do you say? Will you do it?”

In a heartbeat, Paps shot Jerry a knowing look and turned to the Sarge. “When do we start?”

“It’s almost time,” Ben Mitchell told The Bureau at their monthly meeting. “Things are going well to say the least. The Ol’ Blues have moved in, and there are only a few more projects being worked on with the rest of the facility.”

“How close to completion?” Dan Stevens asked.

“Couple weeks I think,” Steve DeGoff said.

“Dan,” Ben said, “that sewer retrofit was quite a trial.”

“Yeah,” Dan said and swept his hand through his thick, brown hair, “but it finally all came together. My pipefitters and crew were incredible.”

“No kidding,” Pam said. “Awesome job.”

“Yes,” Bonnie said. “Glad we had your mad design skills on our side.”

“Not to mention the manpower he provided,” Bud said.

The door swung open behind him and Ben turned around. “Al, Tyler,” he said in recognition of the Long bothers. “Just in time. We’re all going over to the opening together.”

“Great,” Al said. “The local media outlets think this is the best thing since bottled water.”

“True, but without you guys pulling your supervisors and construction workers from India and Malaysia, we would’ve lost the secrecy we needed.”

“I love it when things come together like this,” Frieda said.

“Yeah. This idea was gold, Ben,” Tyler said. “Solid.”

“The politicians love it,” Bud said.

“And the preservationists are thrilled to finally get a historic building the mayor won’t raze,” Frieda said. “I was at their meeting last week. They think we walk on water.”

“Not to mention the state snarfing up our free office space and training facilities,” Bud said in reference to the Department of Health and Human Services.

“The universities and medical centers—”

Ben held up his hands. “Okay, okay,” he said. “We’re definitely the topic du jour and we’re getting great press, but the tech center at the precinct is almost finished. Once we get that nailed down, we’ll be ready for the real stuff. Steve, are we close?”

DeGoff nodded, his well-gelled hair stayed securely in place. “Couple of weeks max and we’re there.”

“Awesome,” Ben said. “Need anything from us?”

“Another million,” Steve said.

No one in the room blinked at the sum. “You’ll have it by tomorrow morning,” Ben said.

Nods of agreement from all members brought a smile to DeGoff ’s face.

“Shall we see how it all looks on TV?” Ben asked. Without waiting for a response, he turned on his favorite local television channel. “We’ve gotten a lot of these feel-good media videos featuring retired officers who’ve served the community for years.”

Tyler said, “I liked the one that showed the old gents moving out of a ratty old apartment.”

His brother interrupted. “Nah, the one in his kid’s basement. That was great!”

“The families are really the ones selling it,” Frieda said. “They love the idea that Grandpa will be in a facility that reminds him of a time when he was young. Oh.” She pointed at the screen. “Turn it up.”

Ben complied. A family member spoke directly to the camera and audience. “These are men who were wasting away, like my grandpa. He was just sitting around and doing nothing. Nothing really interested him and now look.” The camera panned in the direction the family member pointed and zoomed in on a group of old men in a reunion of sorts. They were laughing and slapping each other on the back. Whether they leaned on canes or sat in wheelchairs, their infectious grins made compelling television.

“It’s like their memories have come back to life,” the reporter commented, “along with their purpose in life.”

The next story quashed the euphoria of moments earlier. A body had been found in an abandoned lot just off the interstate in North Omaha. The skull had been bashed in and every bone broken in multiple spots. The police had no leads. The neighborhood wasn’t talking.

“Maybe that’s where we should start,” Frieda said.

“As good a place as any,” Ben agreed.

Nobody in The Bureau knew it, but Clubba was building his empire as they were building the Ol’ Blues precinct. Making sure anyone who spoke or acted out of turn paid the price, as evidenced by another blunt force trauma victim.

SHANESE WHITTIER STROLLED THROUGH MILLER PARK enjoying the quiet beauty of spring in Nebraska. The brutal winter wind chill evaporated into still crisp air and sixty-five degree sunshine, a welcome relief from previous months. People sat on their porches watching children on their bikes or, like her, simply meandered through the public grounds or neighborhood sidewalks.

She stopped and turned back to her thirteen-year-old sister Melia, or “Lele,” bringing up the rear four steps behind. A hot pink cell phone in her hand held Melia transfixed.

“You always on that thing,” Shanese said.

“Cuz I got lots of friends to talk to,” Melia said without lifting her gaze off the electronic device.

“Well, come on then, slowpoke,” Shanese said with a playful tug on Melia’s braids. “We best head back.” Melia nodded but Shanese doubted the girl had any idea of where they were.

Shanese turned and took her sister’s shoulder in her hand and escorted her across an empty parking lot. “You’re gonna get yourself killed if you don’t look up once in a while,” she told Melia.

“And you’re gonna get yourself killed by that bully, Clubba,” Melia said. She speared her sister with a direct gaze from her dark eyes. “You need to dump him.”

Shanese turned away and began walking away. “I can’t. You know that.”

“He’s no man. He’s nothin’ but trouble.”

“Stop it,” Shanese said quietly.

Melia shrugged and turned back to her phone.

Shanese walked along the sidewalk lost in her own thoughts. At twenty-five, she’d seen more than her share of strife—much of it brought on herself. She now found herself on a long list of girls that Te’quan Yates Koak, aka Clubba, claimed as his own. Just the thought of him was like a kick in the gut. She didn’t know how to handle the continual horror he instilled in everyone…not just her. The entire neighborhood—city blocks of folks—lived in fear of him. Hardly anyone would look him in the eyes; he might take offense and call it an act of disrespect. Disrespect meant punishment and punishment…

Tires screeched behind her. In broad daylight and with his usual arrogance, Clubba skidded to a stop and shouldered open the door of his dark blue Yukon. He placed one foot outside and reached back for something. A sickening dread snaked along Shanese’s spine.
Kingpin
didn’t begin to describe him. He feared nothing and no one, or he wouldn’t be here in broad daylight. The air of authority he wore said he never gave a thought that anyone would call the cops. His six feet two inches cast a long shadow on the cloudless day. He planted one leg on the road but left the other on the running board. He pulled his well-muscled arm out, a wooden baseball bat in his hand. That tool had sent more than one enemy—real or imagined—to intensive care or the grave. He pointed it straight at her.

Shanese froze. She couldn’t swallow, speak, or convince her body to move. Tension radiated around him and through the air. He pointed the bludgeon directly at her, silently telegraphing how he’d obtained his nickname and his savage nature.

“You,” he said through gritted teeth, “been seeing another man.” He bit off each word.

Shanese’s heart skipped a beat; her breath caught in her throat. She glanced over her shoulder to make sure Melia was safe behind her. “Nno, Clubba,” she said knowing he’d never believe her. A rival had fed him a tidbit of gossip and that was enough to convict her. “I haven’t.”

He shrugged like it didn’t matter if she did or didn’t. “I’ll crush every bone in those pretty legs of yours and smash every perfect tooth out of your mouth.”

Clubba stopped and glared at the neighbors one by one. Conversations ceased; activities terminated. All focus centered on Clubba and Shanese and the unfolding drama before them. Each person Clubba locked onto quickly disappeared into their house, closing the doors—and any hope of aid for Shanese—behind them.

“I’m recording,” Melia whispered behind her.

“You’ll just make things worse,” Shanese whispered back.

“Worse than broken bones and teeth? No way.”

Clubba tossed the bat in the Yukon’s backseat and walked toward Shanese. Outrage radiated with every step. “He’s coming,” Shanese whispered frantically. “Shut it off.”

She willed herself to be a barrier between Clubba and Melia. It might be a vain effort to keep Melia safe, but Shanese had to at least try. If something happened, maybe Melia had a shot to run away…or so Shanese hoped. Clubba’s threat was real. Though he could—and did at one time—turn on the charm, she now knew him as a vicious thug she wished she’d never met. Bad enough that she was involved with him; the last thing she wanted was her sister involved.

Fearing any movement on her part would make matters worse, she kept as still as possible and forced herself to breathe. The dread coursing through her body would thrill Clubba. He’d turned the generic beating into an art form. He loved nothing more than watching terror fill his victims’ eyes when they realized what was coming and there was nothing they could do to stop it. His method was highly effective at keeping his women, his soldiers, and his enemies in check.

His promised bashing would take place at the time and place of his choosing. After all, everything in his world went according to his wishes. Clubba would personally deliver the beating, Shanese knew. He lived for that stuff.

He strode to where she stood and searched her face with an intense gaze. Shanese swallowed hard. “It’s not true,” she said.

His hand shot out and caught her around her throat cutting off all oxygen. She gasped and struggled, but his hand covered the front and sides of her neck. Slowly and surely he squeezed. She couldn’t speak for lack of air. Her hands flailed through the air but he held her away. On her tiptoes, as darkness nibbled at the corners of her vision, Shanese stopped fighting. Suddenly Clubba’s grip was broken by the scream of Melia, which startled him and caused him to let go of Shanese’s throat. Shanese fell back and lay on the ground sucking in huge gulps of blessed air and coughing with each inhalation. Towering over her, Clubba pointed at Melia. “Mind your own business.”

Melia just stared at him.

Without so much as a glance at Shanese, Clubba stalked back to his car and slowly drove off. Shanese watched him adjust his rearview mirror and look back at her. She was sure a smile was on his lips. Terror was his sidekick. Clubba loved the control he could impose on anyone who dared cross him. Shanese shuddered.

Her sister ran over to her and knelt by her side. “I got it.”

“Y-you got what?”

“Video of Clubba,” Melia said.

“All of it?” Shanese asked.

“Yes.”

“You better erase it.”

Her sister gave a disgusted sound. “No way.” She stood and held her hand down to help Shanese up. “Come on.”

Shanese rubbed her throat and asked, “Where?”

Melia’s eyes narrowed and her face tightened with conviction. With one determined gesture, she pointed her phone in the direction of the local police precinct. “To the cops. If you’re gonna take a beating, you’re gonna get a little vengeance on him too.” Melia’s eyebrows furrowed and she stopped on the sidewalk. “Oh, man.” She tilted her head and held up her camera.

Confused, Shanese stopped and shook her head. “What?”

“That pig left his handprint all over your neck, and I wanna get a good picture of it.”

Shanese turned away. “Don’t…you’ll just make things worse.”

“How much worse can it be than for Grandma to see you in the hospital after he gets done with you?”

“I can’t.” Shanese covered her face with her hands. “There’s no way out with him.”

“Well, we ain’t sittin’ around waiting for it,” Melia said. “We got nothin’ to lose. Now come on.”

Within hours of handing the video over to the police, an arrest warrant was issued for Te’quan Yates Koak aka Clubba. It wouldn’t take long to figure out who the snitch was. Clubba’s informants dotted the neighborhood; one was bound to find out who dared to turn against him.

After making the police report, Shanese needed to find a safe place to hide out—and fast. She could only imagine the torture awaiting them both after this. Looking at the road ahead, she saw two of Clubba’s soldiers in large white T-shirts standing on a corner about a block away. She grabbed her sister’s forearm. “Come on. We got to get out of here. Now!”

Clubba’s intelligence on police matters had been possible because for years he’d built his small criminal empire by forming bonds with each of the major Omaha gangs and some of their officers. They always seemed to know when the police had information on them and often found ways to avoid capture.

Zaifra Koak, Clubba’s refugee mother, taught him well. Traveling through war-torn Sudan, she’d survived by establishing alliances with the Dinka, Newir, Skeluk, and other Southern tribes. Not aligning herself with any particular group gave her the freedom to move among them all and eventually escape. During the nineties, over ten thousand Sudanese refugees migrated to the Omaha and Lincoln, Nebraska, areas.

Zaifra adopted the Christian name of Grace when she landed in England from her home. After two years there, a family in Omaha sponsored her trip to the United States. Blessed with a linguistic ear, she picked up the language quickly and ended up with a delightful mix of Sudanese and the Queen’s English. Once in America, she mastered the slang of the street as well as formal business jargon.

Clubba inherited his mother’s ear and following suit developed the ability to sound like a native of either nation. The accents gave him an air of intelligence and expertise. When necessary, he easily switched from the vilest street talk to fluent Sudanese to an articulate Wall Street CEO. Words were his to do with as he pleased—like the rest of his life. His mother’s native tongue, however, was his best recruitment tool. With it he could utilize the young immigrants and their parents.

Those more recently arrived in the community often called on him to translate letters, government papers, or employment applications. The ability to straddle both worlds gave Clubba his legitimate social standing and made him a leader in his community. The Sudanese not only looked up to him, they respected and then feared him.

To survive in Omaha’s urban gang war zones, though, Clubba needed to follow his mother’s example. Starting with the emerging Sudanese gangs, he moved on to the basic African-American gangs like the Bloods and Crips. Not stupid enough to sell or use drugs, Clubba quickly realized there was nothing to be gained by fighting over turf and dope. To freely associate with all gangs, he had to provide something they all wanted.

At first, it was guns. He directed his young men to burglarize homes, and then Clubba sold stolen guns to the crews. By forming contacts with individual gangs, he established himself as a partner to each without membership in any.

By chance he stumbled on something they all wanted even more, a substance that took the marijuana buzz to a volcanic level. Embalming fluid. Not just for the dead anymore; the living enjoyed it even more.

PCP had been used in the past, but it was more expensive and difficult to get. It also carried a hefty prison term. Embalming fluid was cheap, easy to come by if you burglarized funeral homes, and the high it produced was extraordinary. Dipping a joint in it made it
wet
.

The effects of smoking wet varied. Some people became so angry with people they hadn’t seen since the second grade that they wanted to find them and kill them. Others became anesthetized and felt no pain at all—good if you got shot or stabbed. Others felt invincible. All reactions were ideal combinations for
bang’n
activities. They all became the perfect pawns.

With so many families from a war-torn country, Clubba had his pick of young Sudanese men who liked to fight, liked the money, and liked the adrenaline rush that came from stealing, fighting, running, or doing drugs. Within months, Clubba had his network of people he could send into dangerous situations. If they died, there were always new replacements coming up through the ranks.

Life was good, but Clubba had bigger plans. Much bigger. His plans, however, were about to be put on hold, because of a little girl and her cell phone.