Lou and I sat in an unmarked car tucked away in an unlit alley. The smell of convenience store coffee, cigarettes, and Lou’s Aqua Velva hung in the confined atmosphere like stakeout smog.
“Watched that old Jennifer Aniston movie last night, HBO,” Lou said. “The one where she’s on the outs with her boyfriend. Nothing else was on.”
“Uh huh,” I said, as I looked through a pair of field binoculars, my focus on the front porch of an old single floor bungalow across the street. The front door was as beat up as the rest of the house, the remnants of a paint job clung to it in curled lime green flakes. Only one of the four windows had shutters, and the gutters had weeds growing in them.
“What’s the name of that movie?” Lou asked.
“Can’t recall, but I know which one you’re talking about.”
Lou shifted, making the vinyl in the in the Crown Vic squelch.
“Yeah, it wasn’t bad. But that guy, the actor who plays her fella in the movie, you know what his problem is? He never shuts up. Saw him on Leno this one time. Jay couldn’t get in a word in edgewise. People like him, always cranking the yapper.”
“You don’t say,” I said.
“Yeah. It’s always talk, talk, talk, never taking a breath, never give the other guy a chance to chime in. That’s how you really learn, ya know, by sitting back and soaking in the information. That’s why I never met a dull barber. Stands all day and listens. Like a sponge, those guys are.”
“Guy who cuts my hair talks plenty,” I said, looking over at Lou, his thick, gray mustache twitched.
“Yeah? You consider him a smart guy?”
“I wouldn’t call him dumb.”
“Then he hears plenty, wise-ass, believe me, he hears plenty. That’s how you learn, by shutting up and listening.” Lou took a sip of his coffee. “Anyways, like I was saying, that was an okay movie.”
I looked at the clock; 4:20 A.M.
“What do you think?” I asked, taking another look at the house. All the lights were still on, but the silhouettes moving around inside the place had slowed to a stop. Pretty sure they had finally settled in.
Lou took another sip from the paper cup then put the plastic lid back on. “Yeah, let’s go. I need to take a leak anyway.”
I got out and stood under the dark overhang of a gnarled tree that hugged the perimeter of the alley. It was just out of the way enough to allow for the occasional passerby, never
growing too big to draw the ire of a chainsaw. As viable a survival tactic as you’ll come across in Deadtown.
The alley itself was nothing more than a dirt path overgrown with weeds that separated four lots. Both sides of the alley were bracketed by fences; one a standard chain-link deal, the other tall and made of wood. They were both old and in shitty condition, in lockstep with the rest of the neighborhood. It was a fifty-fifty bet whether the houses on the lots were occupied. If they were, it was even odds again they were occupied by something you did not want to disturb. Or, run into in a dark alley. Life was ironic that way.
Lou soon joined me, giving an awkward hop as he secured his zipper.
“Where you say these guys are from again?” asked Lou.
“Don’t know for sure. Balkans maybe, Ukraine. Guy heading them up goes by the name of Boyar. Rumor has it he’s been around for a long while. Served in the Czar’s army in 1914, that much we know, maybe even before that,” I said.
Lou racked a shell into the Mossberg he carried, then hid it behind the folds of his tan trench coat. “Unusual for these buggers, one of these guys gets that long in the tooth, the others usually eat him alive. What makes this asshole so special?”
I shrugged, checked my own weapons.
“Interpol has him pegged as a possible war criminal.
Internment camps, ethnic cleansing, happy stuff like that, but all unconfirmed. No matter, he has juice in the old country; guys over here respect that.”
I pushed the slide of my Colt 1911A1 back just far enough to see I had one in the chamber, then holstered it. The Maglite was easier, just flicked it on and off, being sure to cover the escaping light with my hand so as not to catch the attention of the wrong set of eyes. It was a bit heavy for a flashlight, but that extra weight on the receiving end was a difference maker in this part of town.
Lou smiled, “War criminal…that’ll make for a nice change of pace. Come on.”
I followed Lou down the alleyway and across the street, letting him take the lead. He who has the shotgun goes first. We walked down the sidewalk like it belonged to us and across a front yard full of brown grass, climbed the loose cement blocks stacked in the shape of stairs to the front porch. Lou went left I went right, each of us ending up on opposite sides of the green flaked door. I noticed the words Ratz Roozt were etched into the door casing.
I nodded at Lou. He fished out a pair of latex gloves and snapped them on. When he was finished, I did the same. Nodding again, I stepped back then kicked in the door.
“Police! Everyone down!” I barked, in my best imitation of my academy instructor.
Lou went in ahead of me, “Down! Get your ass on the floor.” Lou liked to be specific, work one guy at a time.
I counted five perps in the main room, all in lawn chairs, sitting around a beat-up end table. They all looked up at us with those big, vacant white eyes. Their skin was hairless for the most part, bright pink, bumpy like a vulture, which made sense since they shared the same dining habits. All wore blue jeans and most were in tee shirts. One had on a soccer jersey with that fucked up Cyrillic lettering. The standout though was the Boyar.
He was bigger than the others, 6’3”, at least as big as Lou. He wore a purple silk robe with white fur trim turned yellow with age. His skin had a darker pigmentation too, closer to the color of rust. He sported two long ponytails of jet-black hair that he draped over each shoulder and tied across his chest. Unlike the rest of the bunch, he barely took notice of us.
I made a point of putting the muzzle of the Colt in his face. He looked at it, then me: all cold, all calculation.
“On the floor, big boy.”
He complied, but in a leisurely fashion. This one was going be trouble.
Lou got the rest out of their chairs and onto the floor. I cuffed the Boyar and took a closer look at the end table they were sitting around, wanting to see how they passed the time. I expected dice or cards. Instead, I saw bones. Finger bones would be my first guess. They were scattered across a multicolored, square board with exotic symbols.
“Milo!”
Lou’s warning gave me the second I needed as the ghoul in the soccer jersey came off the ground at me all red muzzle and sharp teeth. The guy wanted a piece of me in the worst way.
Taking a half step back on my left foot, I brought the Maglite over in a sweeping arch. I caught the bastard clean on the side of the jaw, eliciting a sharp crack for my effort. Put him right back on the floor, this time out cold and missing a few of those sharp teeth. I followed up quick and secured his hands behind his back.
“Any more bullshit like that and you’re all stains on the rug. Got it?” Lou wasn’t happy.
When I was done and they were all cuffed, I looked to my partner.
“You good?”
He nodded, keeping the shotgun up and ready. “Keep an eye on them, I’ll check the rest of the house,” I said and took the narrow hallway to the back of the house. The floorboards creaked underfoot with each step.
I checked the first side room. It was bare except for a pile of trash in the corner. No doors on the closet; it too was filled with a pile of trash. Old plastic bags from a grocery store, a deflated basketball, and about a hundred scratch-offs, all used.
I moved onto the next. A close copy of the first, except for a couple of sleeping mats on the floor and a rack of guns along the wall: AK’s, Tokarev’s, some Turkish stuff, even some Iranian copies of western brands.
Across from this room was the bathroom. Surprisingly clean, but the shower rod was missing a curtain. The last room was the only room with a door. I turned the handle and pushed in, immediately the smell brought me up short. Humid air heavy with iron so strong you could taste it. That distinct tang of an unventilated butcher shop, I couldn’t help but gag. Looks like our tip paid off.
I steadied myself and pushed through the door, my Colt out front. It was a full kitchen with a small stove, long countertop and deep sink. A couple of butcher knives and a bone saw lay at the bottom of the sink, unwashed and sticky with old blood. A silver standup fridge-freezer combo hummed in the corner. It was new. The handle still wrapped with clear tape.
A moldy tarp hung beyond that. It divided the room in half. Before I looked behind the tarp, I opened the fridge. The light came on, showing a clean white interior. The freezer came open next. Cold, dry air hit me in the face as the humid air flash froze into fog. Past that, frosted blocks covered in clear plastic, each about quarter the size of a shoebox, filled the space completely. I pulled one of the blocks loose and scraped away the frost. Benjamin Franklin’s face stared back at me. I shoved it in my jacket pocket—the feel of cold cash on my hip made me smile.
Now for the tarp. I pulled up the corner to reveal a drop cloth with the chopped and dissected remains of several big animals hanging above. Hooks skewered with livers, hearts; some other parts I couldn’t identify. Intestines strung out across the back wall like grotesque Christmas lights. I waved away a small cloud of flies so I could get a better look at the bigger chunks. All the heads, hands and feet were missing. What was left was covered in thick, black fur, reminiscent of a German Shepard’s coat.
I got up close and so I could get a good whiff. The flesh wasn‘t rotten yet, but it was turning. I guessed they had only been up here for a day or so, which coincides with the hit on Lupo’s gang.
I moved back out to the living room and motioned Lou over.
“What did you find?” he asked. He followed me into the kitchen. I let him pull back the tarp while I went to the freezer.
Lou grunted, “Looks like four of them. Same number Lupo said went missing. You think this Boyar is making a play?”
I shrugged, “I have no clue; let‘s find out.” I tossed him the block of cash. “And happy birthday.”
Lou caught it in his off hand. He used his thumb to scrape away the frost as I had.
He grunted, “Happy birthday to me.”
Lou and I went back into the front room. We pulled the Boyar up and back into his lawn-chair. With his hands cuffed behind him, he sat at a weird angle, looked real uncomfortable. I didn’t care.
“What’s in the kitchen hanging from those hooks?”
Those dead eyes of his looked to drill right through my skull. “Dog,” he said, thick with a yet to be determined East European accent.
“Dog, huh. Pretty fucking big dog wouldn‘t you say?”
The Boyar shrugged, “Very prosperous land is America, grow big.”
“Funny thing though, big ass dog carcass looks a lot like big ass werewolf carcass. Colleague of ours, Lupo, he says a few of his guys just up and vanished a couple of nights ago. You know anything about that?”
The Boyar smiled, “No. But please, send this man condolences.” His laugh sounded like a hyena choking.
Lou put the butt of his shotgun to the back of the Boyars head, knocking his upper body parallel with his knees. He recovered quick though, sitting back up, smiling at me, dead eyes still drilling — tough old bastard. I nodded to Lou, he came down hard again, and again. The ghoul boss came up a little less fast with an added wobble, but no smile this time. Blood trickled down around his ear in bright rivulets.
“All right, I’m going to lay it out for you. For all of you.” I motioned to the prone ghoul gang.
“Being new in town, you might not get how things are done around here. Let me make it real simple: things only get done if Lou and I allow it to get done. Understand?”
I pulled out the wad of frozen cash, sat in one of the abandoned lawn chairs, and faced the Boyar.
“You see, Lou and I get it that… Uh,” I snapped my fingers, “What’s the term I’m looking for, Lou? I wanna say pieces of shit…”
“Independent contractors, Milo.” Lou said.
“Independent contractors, thanks, Lou. Lou and I get it that independent contractors, like yourself, don’t always have an easy time of it in Deadtown, which is why we provide you our services as liaisons to the inner workings of the underground economy. You have a problem in the future? Come see us and we’ll get it worked out. Avoid the messiness of our current situation.”
The Boyar nodded, “How do I know you are
“Ask around,” I said. “Detectives Milo Kelly and Louis Lastowski with the UCD, they’ll tell you.”
The Boyar laughed again, “The UCD, Unnatural Crimes Division.”
“That’s right. You’ve heard of us?”
Those dead eyes bored into me again, all the humor gone, “Yes, the Spook Patrol. You and he are big joke, from what I hear.”
Spook Patrol, I hated that term. It’s what the regular cops like to call our unit behind our backs. They’d never say it to our faces. Lou and I may not be the best cops ever, or the most honest, but we had a job to do, and we did it the best way we knew how. With cutbacks and forced retirement being shoved down our throats, trying to keep a place like Deadtown from tearing itself apart wasn’t easy.
I forced a smile and leaned in, the smell of sour milk grew stronger the closer I got. “If you think we’re a big joke, just try us. We’ll put you down and in an unmarked grave so fast, you blink those big white eggs you call eyeballs, and you’ll miss it. Besides, from what I hear about you and your crew, that piece of justice is way past due.”
I let that sink in as I put the money back in my pocket. “In the meantime, we’ll count this as your first contribution to the cause,” I said and got up out of the chair.
I dropped a pair of handcuff keys onto the screwy looking game board. It hit with a metallic clink, sending one of the finger bones spinning. We exited the way we came in without a backward glance. When we got back into the car, Lou said, “That fucker ain’t gonna play ball.”
I nodded and he turned the ignition over on the Crown Vic. The big V8 rumbled to life only to be forced into a restless idle while me and Lou sat in silence. I looked at the dash clock, 5:08. Only a couple hours till our shift officially started. I opened the glove box and pulled a cell phone from inside. I brought up the only number in the memory and hit call.
“Lupo, it’s me. I have the information you wanted, 118 East 22nd, off Elyria. Door’s open,” I said, then hung up and tossed the cell back in the glove box.
We sat and watched the street. Deep shadow blanketed each end, leaving the Ratz Roozt a well-lit center stage, waiting on the final act. Nothing moved for a long stretch, within or without. Then those shadows began to stir.
“Think they got out of those cuffs?” Lou asked.
I shrugged, “About to find out I guess.”
Hunched figures with broad backs and long snouts converged on the house in loping strides. They moved from one dark space to the next, never letting me get a good look, but I knew what they were. A single, sharp howl cut the night, and Lupo’s men broke into the light and rushed the house. The dash clock said 5:23.
“Denny’s?” I asked Lou.
“Sure. Your turn to buy,” he answered and pulled the car out of the alley and onto the road. As we drove by, white flashes of light lit up the windows of the house. Gunshots blasted the night air. Guess some of them did get out of those cuffs after all.
I didn’t know which side would come out on top, and I really didn’t care. Best-case scenario, they’d wipe each other out. Make our job that much simpler in the aftermath. But, that was something to worry about after breakfast.
by 
Latest posts by W. E. Wertenberger (see all)
- Shakedown in Deadtown - April 23, 2019
So goooooood Willard
Bill:
Your dialogue & descriptions add reality & life to your story!
Wonderful Writing!