The Scorekeeper

It felt a little bit strange to be walking the streets of Washington, DC as a man with no direction. Just a week ago, he was an Army staff sergeant pushing patrols out of a forward operating base in the Helmand Province, in Afghanistan. Bad intelligence lead to an unfortunate friendly fire incident during a coordinated attack on a Taliban position with the ANA. The bad intelligence in itself probably wouldn’t have resulted in the decimation of an ANA platoon. He could have figured it out. Piss poor competence by the ANA, resulting in their location to be very far off from their reported location, in itself wouldn’t have resulted in it either. But the combination was a deadly one. And he didn’t even make the call. The lieutenant did. And he didn’t blame the lieutenant. The lieutenant made the right call, under the circumstances.

But he still had to pay for it. Some heads had to roll. It was politics. All politics. Somebody had to fry, and somebody up the chain of command had decided that frying the lieutenant would have a detrimental effect in undermining the officer leadership. And he didn’t get a bad deal. Not a really bad deal. He kept his rank. His discharge was honorable. They just gave him a bar to reenlistment, and hinted to him that he had free will to come back in country as a contractor, making three times his military pay. That’s really not a bad deal. And he might just take them up on it. Except Jack Macon had some business to attend to in DC first. And that business was to pay a visit to his ailing mother. And find out what exactly happened to his younger brother.

He didn’t grow up in DC. In fact he didn’t even know the place. Pops took a job as an accountant in DC when Jack turned 17. Jack had already made the decision to enlist in the Army, and pops had already signed the age waiver. Steve went with the family to DC and finished high school there. The last time Jack visited DC was four years ago, to attend his father’s funeral, who passed away from a terrible accident. And now, to add insult to injury, he’s back for another funeral. Steve’s.

The place was, in some respect, sort of like Chicago. There are the good parts. And some parts where the streets run mean and will eat you alive if you don’t treat them with respect. Like the Washington Highlands/Bellevue district where the apartment is. DC is an expensive place to live. If you aren’t a wealthy politician, you don’t live in a nice area. Hell, the Chicago neighborhood where he grew up was worse than this place, and this place is pretty bad. The Chicago gangs made the Taliban look like Sunday school students in comparison. But that one deli had what was probably the best brisket sandwich north of Texas. And Gino’s Pizza had an indescribably good Italian combo. This damned place, however, doesn’t seem to have any redeeming qualities.

You don’t walk down these streets alone, as a stranger. You either hang with your group, or you come equipped with street smarts and a hell of a lot of guts. Steve fits in the category of the latter. It was fairly quiet. It’s hot enough that the bangers aren’t hanging outside in force. Or, there is yet a third category. You have some protection. Steve alluded to it once but the Torino family had their thumbs completely clamped down on the street gangs in that part of the neighborhood. The connection? Pops was the accountant for a company owned by the Torino family. And no, you don’t just walk in to that kind of job. You’re there because you come with references and a track record, and have established that you can be trusted. Yeah, pops was a little bit shady. They say that the fruit doesn’t fall far from the tree, but Jack refused to allow himself to fall in to that trap. Steve didn’t seem headed that way either, but a lot can happen in four years.

The apartment looked the same as it had the last two times Jack had visited it. Dilapidated. In disrepair. The constant odor of mold and mildew. Not because the Macons are slobs by any means, it was just an old, moldy building in disrepair. Some of it you can fix. Some of it you can’t. Ma had been losing it lately. Alzheimer’s. In fact, Aunt Grady was going to take her back to Chicago, right after the funeral. Aunt Grady was… here. Ma was just slowly rocking back and forth in the rocking chair, staring out the second floor window to the streets below. She was just starting to lose it four years ago. Now it’s really bad. So bad she can’t even take care of herself. That was supposed to be Steve’s job. Jack had been out of the picture too long. But, Aunt Grady stepped up to the plate. More power to her.

It was the middle of the day, and Aunt Grady was already knocked out for the rest of the day. She was an aunt by marriage, not by blood. That was a factoid that made Jack feel a whole lot less weird about his urges towards her when he hit puberty. She was a very attractive woman back then. Was. That was a long time ago. Jack sighed, and spoke to ma. “Aunt Grady doesn’t know what happened to Steve either. She tried to ask you, but you just wouldn’t answer.” Jack gave up and decided to nap on the couch. Then the unexpected happened.

Ma turned around. “Jack, I don’t know how long I’m going to have a clear mind. It comes and goes. So I’ll tell you this now, since I never may be able to again from here on out. It’s the Torinos that took out your father. The Feds audited the company and he gave them up. And the Torinos took Steve. They took him because four years later, the Feds closed their investigation and hit them with heavy fines. They wanted to set an example.”

“What? Now you tell me this? Do the cops know…” It was a wasted question. Ma slowly reverted back to the rocker, gazing with dead, glassy eyes outside the window on the street below.

The funeral was brief. It wasn’t even really a funeral. It was just a memorial at the funeral home, followed by a cremation, and only a handful of people showed up. Literally, a hand full, as in five fingers. Ma, Aunt Grady, Jack, the funeral home director, and a young black man that introduced himself as Jerome, Steve’s friend. Jerome was dressed in, as what could best be described, what a gangster might wear to a gangland funeral. Damn Steve, what did you get yourself in to?

Jack was angry. Pops probably brought his demise on himself, but Steve didn’t deserve to be caught up in it. He just sat in the empty apartment, stewing in his vengeful thoughts. This was just a little bit personal. Aunt Grady already left with Ma, taking all of the important papers with her that she could find. The lease on the apartment would just lapse. After that, the property managers would clean it out, sell anything of value, and lease it back out. Jack did a cursory search of the place. Ma had systematically been cleaning the place out, selling the valuable for money since pops passed away, so it was already picked fairly clean save the furniture. Despite that, stashed in the master closet, was pops’ riot shotgun, and .38 Special revolver. He visualized sending some slugs and rounds in to some choice Torino family members. But that wasn’t happening. Or was it?

The fact of the matter was that Jack was lost. He really didn’t know what to do. The easy thing was to just get up, walk away, and go back to… Actually, Sullen International, a military contractor that he has an open invitation to, has an office in New York. He wasn’t sure if he really wanted to go back to Afghanistan. The place was a hellhole. This place is a hellhole. What makes one hellhole better than the other hellhole? Oh, right. The money. Taking revenge on the mafia doesn’t pay. Taking revenge on the Taliban in the guise of a ‘private security contractor’ pays quite handsomely. And it’s not like Jack is independently wealthy. Yes it’s true he managed to save up a fair amount during his deployments (how are you going to spend it in the middle of the Afghan desert?) But at some point he will need an income.

He wasn’t in the mood for eating, or even hungry from the moment he stepped off the airplane at Dulles, but that was a day and a half ago and now he was. There was a corner market that had grocery items, and sandwiches and things like that. But that is the only place he really knew. It was literally a few steps from the apartment, and nobody in the neighborhood wanted to venture more than literally a few steps from their residence if they could help it, at least on a regular basis. He ventured down the street. There was the barbecue joint. Barbecue sounded good. Barbecue meant brisket. But the place didn’t have brisket. They had ribs.

Smart money says buy you a rack of their smoked spares, get the hell out of there and eat it at home. But Jack was as desperate to get away from the dreary apartment as he was to eat some food. Then they came in. A pack of tough looking young black men wearing colors. Bad choice, Jack.

“What you got there, whitey? Those some ribs you got there? Them look pretty good.” The leader, a tall lean man in dreadlocks stared him down.”

“I don’t want no trouble. If this is your place, I apologize for the disrespect and I’ll move along.”

Another, younger black man ran from the back of the pack. “Whoa, whoa whoa, hey, this man is my homey.”

“You for real?” The leader in dreadlocks asked.

“Yeah, that’s Steve’s brother.” Jack could tell that the kid was Jerome, whom he met at the funeral home.

“No shit” the leader replied. “Sorry about your brother. May he rest in peace. Enjoy your ribs. But a friendly word of advice. Watch yo ass in this neighborhood.”

“Hey Jerome. Can I talk to you for a bit?” Jack asked.

“Man I gotta roll.” He looked around, as the pack departed the restaurant. “Tell you what. Meet me at the corner store, about eight.”

The sun was going down, and it was still eighty five degrees. Most places, you don’t sit on the curb outside the mini market and drink ice cold malt liquor, but you can here, with the appropriate company. Who cares. The Po Po don’t, and they don’t come around anyway unless there are bodies to be picked up. Jerome was on his second 32 ouncer, and he was still looking around nervously.

“So tell me about the Torino family” Jack said, as he cracked open a fresh can of malt liquor.

“Let me break it down for you. The street crews rule the streets. But the street crews mostly have to answer to the Torinos. The Torinos are the top echelon. But see they ain’t a big operation, so they don’t get the attention of the po-lice the same as the big crime families. And they operate in secret. Nobody knows much about them. But they got pull. Huge pull. If you’re in with the Torinos, you’re safe from the street crews. They won’t touch you” Jerome replied.

“You said mostly have to answer to the Torinos, what do you mean by that?”

“Our crew, the K Street Mob, we ain’t the Torino’s little bitches like the other local G’s. Let’s just say we got an understanding.”

“Now I don’t understand something. My brother was a white guy not part of a gang. How exactly is it that he ran with you guys?”

“Let me explain something. On these streets, you survive in one of three ways. If you’re in with the Torinos, you’re good. Ain’t nobody gonna touch you. Or, you are part of a street crew. If you don’t have one of those, you pay the ruling street crew to keep you safe.”

“I see, so my brother was paying protection then.”

“No, no, it ain’t work out like that. You see, Pop Macon, and your whole family, were protected by the Torinos when he was working for them. After he turned on them, they wasted him, and quit protecting your mama and brother. Now, see, we rule this part of the street, and we ain’t see eye to eye with the Torinos. We lost some homies of our own to them. So we uh, watched over them. Otherwise the Casa Locos would tear them up. To be real honest with you, we did it more to diss the Torinos than out of the goodness of our own hearts.”

“So I understand the Torinos killed my brother. Given what you just said, where does that leave you guys with the Torinos?”

“We ain’t going to war over that. Even if we would, it’s like fighting ghosts. Ghosts with guns, and enforcers that show up, regulate and disappear before you can blink an eye.”

“You guys seriously don’t know any of them?”

“Oh we know the street guys. They come well manned, well armed and well armored. The shot callers? Don’t know. But there is one man in particular, that if we could take him out, we would.”

“Who is that?”

“They call him the Scorekeeper. He isn’t the very top, but if the Torinos decide they need to do some enforcement, he decides who has been good, and who has been bad. The Scorekeeper chose your pops. The Scorekeeper chose your brother. But ain’t nobody actually know who he is. And if you go asking those questions… you end up dead in the street.”

“If I came up with a plan to take those fucks out, would you guys be with me?”

Jerome’s jaw dropped. “Yeah. I can tell. You’re one of them Army guys. You may have your shit together back in Fallujah. But this ain’t no Fallujah. These are the streets of DC. If I even mentioned the idea of having a stranger white boy leading us on a gansta war, even as a joke, Big T would cut my head off with a knife on the spot. You really don’t know what you’re dealing with. Can’t help you with that one.”

Jack poked around the cooler section of the market debating on whether to get the plastic wrapped egg salad or chicken salad sandwiches. Either were probably about as likely to contain botulism. There was the frozen section but all they had were those TV dinners and those are nasty, plus it takes about five to make a meal. He settled on a tube of braunschweiger and a mini loaf of bread. And a couple more thirty two ounce malt liquors to help with sleep.

The Sikh register clerk took his money and deftly bagged the items. “You aren’t the first one to come in to this place and try to clean it up. But trust me my friend, it is easier to clean up Moscow by removing Putin. It did not go so well for those before you” he said in a thick East Indian accent.

“I figured as much. I was just thinking out loud. Damn sure could use some Gurkhas around here. See you around.” Jack exited the store. The clerk’s face lit up as if a light bulb went on.

He crashed out on the couch after devouring his makeshift sandwiches and downing the malt liquors. It didn’t feel right sleeping in Steve’s bed. I would feel downright weird sleeping in ma’s bed. It also occurred to him that maybe, just maybe, these Torino fellows might still have an axe to grind with the Macon family, and to that end he retrieved the riot shotgun and the revolver, some ammunition, and stored them loaded – locked and loaded in the case of the shotgun, at the foot of the couch.

And the K Street Mob as protectors? They didn’t do such a good job for Steve, now did they? Then again, it goes to show you get what you pay for. As aggressors against the Torinos? Street thugs they were. Trained and disciplined soldiers they aren’t. Anybody can drive by a man walking on the street, and shoot him out of the window of a Lincoln, or corner him in a bar twelve to one and knife him, but how would these jokers fare in a real fight? Probably not much better than the bangers that joined the military. They were almost invariably the worst, most ineffective soldiers.

But those were just idle thoughts. The reality of taking these assholes out was… it just wasn’t going to happen.

It was an imposing looking brick faced high rise building on Hudson Street in the Tribeca district. Jack expected a more modern looking skyscraper to house Sullen International’s corporate headquarters, but it kind of fit. It looked institutional. Bullet proof. Old school. If he had to guess, it was probably built in the 1930’s or 1940’s. Maybe even earlier than that. Nearly all of the tenants of this building, mostly telecommunication firms, have fancy signs in the lobby indicating the floor and suite of the outfit in question. Sullen International’s was just plain Jane, and if you weren’t actively trying to find it, you wouldn’t know it was even there.

After an eighteen story elevator ride, and a long maze to negotiate (maybe it was a test?) he finally arrived at a massive mahogany door with a sign and logo on it. And it… had a keycard reader for access. Where was the public entrance? Forgive my ignorance, just tell me where the front door is. He gave a sharp knock. A minute later, the door cracked, and opened. A woman in horn rimmed glasses peered out. “Can I help you?”

“Yeah I’m… looking for whoever does the hiring around here. I realize I’m probably at the wrong doorway.”

“We don’t, actually have any open positions here right now. We just filled the last one in accounting last week.”

“Oh, no… no I’m not here for an accounting job, or at this office, I’m looking for work as a contractor.”

The woman started to look annoyed. “Probably building maintenance is maybe who you might want to talk to. We don’t do our own interior improvements and repairs.”

Jack gave a slightly awkward laugh. “No, not that either. I’m sorry. I mean, as a military contractor. A private soldier.”

The woman looked confused. “Oh. Um… you know what, step inside, and have a seat… um… here, at my desk. I’ll be right back.” It was clear this was a working room, not a public reception area. She was probably the closest to a receptionist they had. The room was large, filled with cubicles, and it led to back offices with glass walls.

Several minutes later, a tall, bald lanky older man in dress slacks and a sharply pressed, starched white shirt and tie came out. Jack stood up. He eyed Jack up and down with a menacing glare, as if to assess if he was a threat or not, threw his arms slightly forward as if to suggest a ‘what the fuck?’ and finally after an awkward silence, gave his head a nod, in a motion that indicated he wanted Jack to follow him. They walked past a maze of cubicles, and in to a private office, adorned with military awards, citations and photographs. “Please, have a seat. My name is Thurmond Sullen. I am the CEO of this organization.” It was clear from the large photograph on the wall next to the flag that he was formerly a two star general.

“Sir. My name is Jack Macon. I’m a former Army staff sergeant, most recently deployed to Afghanistan.”

“If I understand correctly, you are here looking for a job as a contract security operator for our firm?”

“Yes sir, that is correct.”

Sullen sighed. “Mr. Macon, we don’t hire our assets here. We don’t bring our assets here. This is a corporate office. We handle contracts and finances, and that’s it. We hire guys like you at our field offices.”

“Sorry, I just assumed that, you know, like Blackwater….”

“Blackwater… right. We’re a little bit bigger than Blackwater used to be, back before they… well that is another story in itself. But obviously, this is not a training and recruitment facility. Actually, I hope it isn’t obvious. Because if it was obvious, well, that speaks to your situational judgement capability.”

“They told me I had an in at this company, before I left Afghanistan.”

“Well then you should have stayed. Wait… who told you that you had an ‘in’ with us?”

“The Army. My commander.”

“Uh huh. The Army? Now they would never lie to you, now would they?” Sullen replied in a mocking voice. “You look like a good kid. Go online, submit your quals, and if someone is interested, they will call you back. If they are impressed enough with you during the call, and your background checks out, they will invite you to Dubai, your cost. If they still like you sufficiently enough, they will take you to Kandahar, Or Mogadishu, or Myanmar, or Caracas, or wherever you are best suited, at their cost, put you through the ringer, and if you still impress them, then you’re hired.”

“I was afraid of that. What I do know, from the contractors I worked with, is that you don’t get in a place like this without knowing someone.”

“Well” Sullen replied. “I don’t really get involved with field operations, but I suppose you’re right, ninety five percent of the time. But don’t be discouraged. There is still that other five percent, right?”

Jack was dejected. The trip to New York to follow up on a gig with Sullen International was a complete waste of time. Thurmond Sullen had a point. He should have known it was a corporate office. That said, you would think that Sullen, or somebody there, would have at least given him the name of someone to call. Back at the DC apartment, he was relieved that the power was still on. He pulled up Sullen International’s website to look at the online application form. But all of the large contractors did that. Six hours, four malt liquors and a few shots of Jack Daniels later, he had submitted his electronic resume to all of the major contractors he could think of. Which was only four. It was getting late in the day, and he realized he hadn’t eaten since he left New York. There was still some bread, now stale and some sausage spread from a couple days ago. Ribs sounded pretty good.

The barbecue place was empty. The ancient looking black man that served as the pit master poked his head in to the dining room, and observed Jack. “You’re back again.”

“Yeah, I’d like to get some more of those ribs” Jack replied.

“We’re out. Sorry.”

“Something smells good. What else you got?”

“You don’t get it, do you?”

No sooner than Jack was about to get up and leave out of frustration, two men walked through the front door. It was Jerome and the leader of the K Street Mob, the dreadlock bearing man named Big T.

“It’s all good, Smokey Joe. Why don’t you bring out a platter of that brisket and some corn bread” Big T said, as he took a seat next to Jack. Jerome sat on the other side.

“Why the change of heart?” Jack asked.

“Jerome tells me, you want to get some payback on the Torinos?”

“Yeah. I do. I understand you don’t exactly see eye to eye with them.”

“I don’t. But I’m going to tell you something, and I need you to listen up. You don’t understand how things work out here. You put a word like that out on the street and you’re as good as dead. Now I’ve been kind to you. But that can change. You keep your nose out of that business.”

“Okay I get it. I don’t have your support. But what’s it to you if I go at it alone?”

“Because like it or not, when someone on this street starts poking in to the Torino’s business, it makes me look bad, like I’m not doing my job. I may hate them. But we all have to play by the rules, or we don’t survive out here.”

“All right. Message received.”

“Good” Big T said as he stood up. “Best thing you can do is get your ass out of this neighborhood. Because there is nothing left here for you. Enjoy your brisket.”

There was a note shoved under the front door of the apartment, with just a short, handwritten note. N and South Capitol, near Buzzard’s Point, tomorrow at three. It was cryptic. It said nothing else.

Jack stood at the southwest corner of N and South Capitol. It was on the other side of the river. More downtown looking than Bellevue, but a whole lot less ghetto. He was standing in front of a small liquor store. There was a parking garage to his right and a dialysis center on his left. Diagonally across was either some sort of hotel or apartment high rise with a sports bar at the bottom. He decided that most likely, the sports bar was the location.

It wasn’t a busy time, and it wasn’t a busy day. It was a little bit cool and wet, following an afternoon thunderstorm. There was a man seated at a small table wearing a paddy cap, who was smoking a cigar, and reading a newspaper. He was out of place. Nobody else was seated outside. Nobody else would want to sit outside. He lowered the paper, made eye contact, and motioned for Jack to have a seat. He had a thick, dark walrus mustache and wore a tan colored tweed jacket.

“I’m glad you showed up. I was beginning to think that maybe you were blowing me off.”

“Forgive me” Jack said. “But I don’t have the slightest clue who you are.”

“Detective Moses Fourkis with the DC police organized crime unit. Mr. Macon, I need to tell you, you’re really screwing up my investigation.”

“What? What investigation, and how?”

“The Torino family. Oh yeah, we know the intelligence on the street. Rumor has it they offed your father and your brother.”

“Well… then… I mean, why haven’t you guys done anything about it?”

“Here’s the thing. It’s not that we don’t want to, but you have to understand there is a small picture, and a big picture. It’s like… like a brick house that you want to bring down. You can’t just knock out a brick, you have to bring the whole house down at once. You knock out a brick, they just replace it, and by the way now they are on to you, so they fix it even stronger.”

“Okay, so, you guys have all these resources….”

“It’s a little bit embarrassing. Washington DC is literally the hub of the FBI, CIA, NSA, and pretty much every Federal and local agency that can bring down organized crime. Yet, for example, Salvatore Cottoni. Oh yeah, he set up base here. But, we knew everything about him. His family. His organization. We knew how many pieces of toilet paper he used to wipe his ass, yet it was still a major effort to bring him down. But the Torinos? They are… elusive. Should we know who they are? Of course. Do we? No. So… so that leads us in to exactly what the problem is. You, my friend, are driving them deeper underground.”

“So what exactly is it that you want me to do?”

“What do I want you to do? Leave. Get out of here. Get the hell out of Bellevue at least. Don’t go back. You’re not helping. You’re hindering. You don’t belong there.”

“My family lived there.”

“Don’t give me that shit. We checked you out. We know every goddamned thing you did and where you moved and grew up, and by the way thank you for your service, but you know yourself that you don’t goddamned belong here. There, rather. Here is close enough.”

“You know, ever since I got here, I got nothing but bitch slapped and told to go someplace else. I’m getting tired of this, really fast.”

“Bitch slapped? Do you know the K Street Mob? They don’t hesitate five seconds to waste someone just because they don’t like the way you looked at them, or because you walked their street uninvited. You should consider yourself lucky.”

“Well, I guess that’s that then. I guess I will mosey down the corral and ride off in to the sunset, Hoss.”

“All right. When I told you that what I wanted you to do was leave, it was what I wanted you to do because you don’t deserve any more suffering or to be the next one to go down. But if you are really serious about making a difference, there is, actually something you can do.”

“What’s that?”

“The closest link… the closest link that we can find to the Torinos, is the K Street Mob. They know who they are. I’m sure of it. I want you to wear a wire. I want you to find out. I need names. Places.”

“You yourself said they would kill me in a heartbeat.”

“Right. But they haven’t. And I myself don’t understand exactly why. But, you seem to have their trust. Or sympathy. Or something else. I don’t see these guys having either trust or sympathy, but who knows. I mean, it’s dangerous, but, again, if you want to do something for your family…. It’s your choice.”

“All right. I’ll do it.”

Smokey Joe just shook his head. Jack was seated at the same exact table. “How was that brisket?”

“That brisket was outstanding” Jack replied.

“Did you like the ribs better, or the brisket?”

“I liked both, equally.”

“Well, I’ll just get you a plate of some of each. And… I mean, you’re a white boy and all, what um, I mean like let’s say it was your last meal, what sides, would you like?”

“Oh… well, you got a potato salad? Maybe a sweet roll?”

“Sure. Sure.”

Last meal, what the hell is he talking about? Two black men, apparently drunk, staggered in to the barbecue restaurant, and started arguing. Within a couple minutes, they were fighting, and throwing punches. The fight led to Jack’s table, where he was full on tackled by one man that had been literally thrown overhead by the other. When the carnage was over, apologies were made, both men seemed to sober up slightly, and they went on their way.

Big T walked in the doorway, alone. “Looks like some good stuff. Did Smokey Joe hook you up right?”

“Yeah, he did. Hey, uh, so, I did think about things, and yeah, it makes sense to stay out of your business, but, I was just hoping to, you know, close out some things, in my own mind, if that’s okay with you.”

“Sure. That’s fine, my man. Let’s take a ride.”

Big T’s car was parked outside. “Holy shit” Jack said. “That is one sweet looking Gran Torino.”

“Yaaaaah, it is. Do you know that it came from Jamaica?”

“No shit? Caribbean?”

“Naaaah man, New York!”

“Heh. Where are we going?”

“You will see. So, tell me, what did you want to know?”

“Who are the Torinos? Who is the Scorekeeper?”

“The Scorekeeper. The Feds, the DC cops, they always try to stay one step ahead of us. We move, they counter. We win. Every move, so far, has been a win for us.”

“Oh?”

“Ya man. Every move. I should know, because I’ve been keeping score.”

“So… who are… the Torinos?”

“Hah. The Torinos. I almost called them the Tortinos, but that sounded too much like frozen pizza. So I called them the Torinos. Like, what you are riding in.”

“What?”

“The Torinos don’t exist. Never have. The feds, other crime families, other gangs… they fear the elusive Torinos. They fear them because they know nothing about them. They know nothing about them because they fictitious. They ain’t real.

“So my father…”

“Knew too much.”

“And my brother…”

“Knew too much.”

“Why are you telling me all of this?” All right Detective Fourkis. Now would be a real good time to step in. You got what you want.

“Oh I guess you deserve to know. You should have just stayed away.” Big T pulled a joint out of a pouch and lit it. “Oh and by the way… this ain’t going to do you no good.” He reached under the seat and pulled out a broken wire transmitter.

The hospital light was glaring. Jack slowly opened his eyes and there were a couple blurs. White blurs. As they came in to focus, he could tell that there were two nurses hovering over him. One was waving a vial of smelling salts above his nose. Jack coughed and became lucid. The nurses left. A few minutes later, Detective Fourkis came in the room.

“You were damned lucky. We figured the wire went bad and we moved in just before Terence Bouchard was about to put a nine millimeter bullet in your head. Sorry about the flashbang, but trust me, it was for your own good. Now, we still had the foresight to wire Bouchard’s Gran Torino. We got it all” Fourkis said.

“Big T?” Jack asked.

“Big T. And you know what? We kind of suspected the whole Torino family thing was just a front. That confirmed it.”

“So you’re going to get them for killing my father and brother now?”

“That’s right. We’re just wrapping up some loose ends and we’ll go get ‘em.”

“I guess I have no reason for staying here any longer then. I’ll be moving on.”

“Good. Where’s your next stop?”

“Got a few military contract jobs lined up. I’ll probably be out of country in a day or two.”

“Good deal. Take care.”

Fourkis walked outside of the hospital, had a discreet conversation with two undercover officers, and then walked half a block down to a dark, smoky lounge with discreet booths, sent a text and waited. Two beers later, Terence Bouchard, Big T, discreetly slid in the bench opposite of him.

“Let him go. He’s no threat” Fourkis said.

Big T shook his head. “Man, smart money says tie up loose ends, my man.”

“Yeah well, I played hell deep sixing two bodies from the same white family. A third is too risky. Besides if he talks, so what, if anything, it’s just going to help us. Unless of course you told him about the connection with the department. But you wouldn’t do that, right?”

Big T started sweating. “Nah. Of course not. Who the fuck you think I am?”

“Good. Oh and, by the way, your boy was short on cash. Something going on I should know about?”

“Nahhh. Don’t worry about it. I’ll make it up next payment.”

“Good.”

Bouchard left. Fourkis swirled a martini in his hand. Dumb fuck. You should have never approached Jack Macon, much less talk to him. Sorry my friend, but you simply aren’t going to work out. Fourkis looked at his electronic watch, and started a mental countdown. Five, four, three two…

The explosion ripped the roof clear off the Gran Torino, and sent pieces of Terence Bouchard flying over a quarter block radius in all directions. Guess I need to find someone else to keep score.