‘So he killed the cop who interrupted the stickup?’
‘He raped him. Then he killed him. Then he danced around the bar and celebrated.’ Kelly stopped spinning the nightstick. ‘Well, this is all a long time ago, Ben Truman.’
The spinning and walking resumed.
‘So what happened?’
‘We — the police — tracked down Sikes in a hotel a day or two later. We had this military sort of unit then. “Tactical Patrol Force,” they were called, TPF. Helmets, black outfits, the whole shebang. It was big in those days. Every city had one. They stormed the hotel room and shot Sikes dead. Fasulo jumped off the Tobin Bridge a few days later, which was probably the only sane thing he ever did.’
We were coming into a charmless intersection anchored by a scruffy used-car dealership, which consisted of a portable office, a half dozen compact cars, and hundreds of little triangular vinyl pennants. Beside us was the euphonious Pleasant Spa. (In the old Boston dialect, a convenience store was referred to as a spa, and you still see the word in store windows around town.)
Kelly stopped to survey. The nightstick twirled. Spin, slap!
‘How do you do that?’
‘This?’ Spin, slap!
‘Yeah, how do you make it…?’
Kelly regarded the stick as if he hadn’t noticed it was spinning until that very moment. ‘I don’t know. You just…’ Spin, slap.
‘Show me. Do it slow.’
Spin. Slap.
‘You just kind of let it fall away from your wrist a little, then yank it by the strap here.’
‘Let me try.’
‘Do you know how long I’ve had this thing?’
‘Come on, it’s not the crown jewels. It’s a stick. Let me try.’
He passed it to me and I slipped the leather strap over my hand. I tried to imitate him, letting the baton fall forward then snapping it back toward my chest. The free end flashed up in my face. I ducked.
‘Nice and easy, Ben Truman. Don’t knock yourself out.’
‘Do me a favor. If I do knock myself out, just in case — shoot me.’
‘Nice and easy’
The club wobbled through a complete revolution and I grabbed it. The trick seemed to be that it did not turn in an even circle. The weight was unbalanced (the free end was thicker and heavier), and the strap introduced enough play that the axis of rotation shifted constantly. Plus, the thing was barely shorter than your arm, so it threatened to whack you in the head every time it passed.
‘Harder than it looks,’ I said.
‘Here, you better give that thing back before you hurt yourself.’
32
‘You again.’
Julio Vega leaned his shoulder against the door frame. The ex-cop tried to fix his filmy eyes on me but they were sluggish; he let them wander to a spot on my chest somewhere.
‘What is it now, Maine? Gittens send you back for more?’
‘No, sir. Gittens doesn’t even know I’m here.’
‘Of course he does.’ Vega snorted, then padded off barefoot.
Kelly and I followed him to the same room where we’d spoken ten days before. Vega fell into one of the sweat-slicked wing chairs and returned to his television show, ESPN SportsCenter.
There was something disquieting about Vega’s appearance. It wasn’t simply that he was drunk or exhausted — though he was obviously both drunk and exhausted. Something was missing, something had gone out of him. Whatever it is that hangs behind the curtain, behind the gristle and bone of the face, whatever it is that animates the eyes and nose and mouth, it had simply left. I could imagine Vega removing that pouchy, unhandsome face and laying it down like one of Dali’s liquid clock faces.
‘Have you been drinking, Julio?’ I asked.
‘Course I been drinking.’ He blew a scornful little sniff. Stupid question.
‘I need to talk to you about Raul.’
No response.
‘I said we need to talk.’ My voice was too loud, as if I could reach him by shouting.
‘Hey, Maine, I’m drunk, not deaf.’
Kelly and I exchanged glances. What was wrong with this guy?
‘Julio, what did Frank Fasulo have to do with the raid on the red-door crackhouse?’
‘Frank Fasulo? What the fuck you talking about?’
‘That night you raided the apartment with the red door, the tip from Raul had something to do with Frank Fasulo, didn’t it?’
‘Man, I don’t even know who Frank Fasulo is.’ He watched basketball highlights on the screen.
‘Tell me about the night you and Artie Trudell did that raid.’
‘I told you already, I got nothing to say about that.’
‘Julio, that isn’t gonna fly anymore. We’re going to talk about it.’
He shook his head. ‘Nothing to say, homes.’ The words were defiant, but Vega’s tone was not. He was reciting lines he’d rehearsed over and over, an actor walking through a part he’d played for too many performances.
‘Julio, I need to know who Raul was.’
Vega ignored me.
Kelly said, ‘Alright, that’s enough of this bullshit.’ He switched off the TV with a slap. ‘You’re going to cut this shit out and answer the man’s questions.’
‘Who the fuck you think you are?’
‘Shut up.’ Kelly turned to me. ‘Ask him again.’
Vega started to rise from his chair, presumably to turn the TV on again.
With the tip of the nightstick, Kelly nudged him back into the chair. ‘Sit down.’
‘Who the fuck are you? Turn the TV back on, man.’
‘You want me to turn it off for good?’ He raised the nightstick as if to smash the screen.
‘Hey HEY HEY!’ Vega appealed to me: ‘What is this? Like good cop, bad cop?’
‘I said shut up. Ben, ask.’
‘Hey, didn’t your boy here tell you?’ Vega’s voice was soft, aggrieved. ‘I’m a cop.’
‘A cop? Is that what you think you are? A cop?’ Kelly wagged the nightstick at him. ‘You’re not a cop, you’re a disgrace. Don’t you ever call yourself a cop.’
‘What are you talkin’ about?’
‘You broke the code, Julio.’
‘What code?’
‘You sold out your partner.’
‘I didn’t sell out no one. Artie got shot.’
‘Yes, he got shot, and then you sold him out. You let his killer walk. You sinned.’
‘What are you talking about, “sinned”? I loved Artie.’
‘Then why did you let Harold Braxton get off?’
‘Me and Artie, we were like brothers, man-’
‘Who put Artie in front of that door?’
‘I don’t know. It was…’
‘It was what, Julio?’
