Bad Beat Page 3

  “I thought they would say they took me, to like motivate you or something. I didn’t think they were going to actually make me stay!”

  “You’re my sister! You shouldn’t have said anything to them.”

  “They told me they’d pay. I figured this way mom would get some money no matter what. How was I supposed to know what they had planned?”

  Ash stepped between them. “Hey,” he said, raising his voice. The two of them stopped arguing and looked at him, wide-eyed, like they’d forgotten he was there. “We need to get gone. Let’s do this later.”

  Then Ash turned to Nariah. “By the way. We should grab a drink sometime.”

  Nariah frowned. “This isn’t really the time, is it?”

  “Well,” Ash said. “I guess not. But there might not be another chance.”

  Raleigh pursed his lips and pushed Ash. “Hey.”

  Ash shrugged and smiled. “Gotta try.”

  The three of them bolted out of the room. The stairwell was clear, and the floor of the bar didn’t look too much different than before. Everyone was still drinking and eating shitty food and watching the basketball game on television. They made their way through unmolested, and Ash began to play the angles in his head.

  If the reporter was still in the car, he’d tell Raleigh to book as soon as they stepped outside. Ash would call the cops. At this point, their presence was welcome. It’s not like he was sticking around either. Hopefully the reporter could hang around, sort things out, and his gaze would move from Raleigh to what was going on here.

  Ash was just about to be relieved when he saw Neck Tattoo coming through the door. They made eye contact, and the guy reached one hand for his back, toward his belt.

  That usually meant only one thing.

  Ash charged and slammed into the guy, hard, knocking him through the door, right into Pete, who seemed to be coming in to check on them. Oh well. Hopefully he did the smart thing—at this point, getting the cops involved was a very good idea.

  This was getting out of hand. If the guy had a gun, and there was a good chance he did, then shit was about to hit the fan. And before Ash could complete the thought, a hand wrapped around the back of his neck and a fist slammed into his head.

  He saw stars—honestly, stars, like in a cartoon—and fell to his knees. He rolled onto his side and looked up and saw the bouncer, ready to stomp his face into the ground as panic gripped the bar. People jumped up from their seats and moved toward the far corners of the room, to get as far away from the action as possible.

  The foot came up, showing the worn treads of a work boot, and Ash braced himself, hoping the blow wouldn’t break anything vital, when there was a crack and the bouncer paused, foot dangling in the air, and fell over.

  Nariah stood in his place, holding the shattered remnants of a bar stool.

  “Thanks,” Ash said. “At least one of you is useful.”

  “Shut up,” Raleigh said.

  “Now we should probably get going,” Nariah said.

  “Agreed.”

  Raleigh pulled Ash to his feet and the three of them ducked out of the bar. Neck Tattoo was writhing on the ground, holding his bloody face. Ash gave him a kick in the ribs. Just enough to discourage him from trying anything else.

  No sign of the reporter. Hopefully he could handle himself, because sirens rang in the distance, which meant Ash wasn’t going to stick around.

  Pete felt Neck Tattoo’s hot breath on his face.

  Yeah, he regretted the whole running into the bar thing now.

  “You again,” said Neck Tattoo. “Fine. You get it first. The other guy is next.”

  Pete could hear sirens in the background—at least he thought that’s what the sound was. His ears could still be ringing. He had no idea where Ash went, or Raleigh for that matter, but hoped they’d found their way out of this mess. But he still had some hopped-up dickhead yelling at him.

  He slammed his hand into the guy’s face, catching him off-guard. He felt his palm hammer into the guy’s nose, followed by a soft crunch and a muffled groan. Pete stepped back and saw the guy hunch over, his hands covering his face.

  “Y-y-you broke my nose,” the guy said, except it sounded like he was talking with a mouthful of tissue paper.

  The sirens were getting louder. Pete turned and ran back the way he came as people began to scatter from out the front door of the bar.

  “That’s all I know, Rivela,” Pete said. He’d been talking to the cop for about ten minutes. He’d walked him through what happened—an abbreviated version, without the addition of Raleigh and some thug who insisted on acting like he was John Wayne without the impulse control.

  Other people had seen him though, and they were asking the cops about the big guy with the bad attitude. The one who seemed to be at the center of the violence.

  “You sure you didn’t see this guy?” Rivela said.

  Rivela was a tall, broad-shouldered Spaniard who somehow ended up walking a beat on the wrong side of the river. He was a good source for intel, though Pete rarely needed to pick a cop’s brain for a sports story. Still, it never hurt to know who to call. Pete hated to burn him, and he wasn’t really sure why he was doing it.

  “I got nothing,” Pete said. “I followed a lead here and all hell broke loose.”

  “Dude over there says you broke his nose pretty bad,” Rivela said, motioning to Neck Tattoo, sitting on the back of an ambulance, paramedics looking him over. He was in handcuffs. They didn’t seem to want to help him all that much.

  “Is he going to press charges?” Pete asked.

  Rivela smiled a little. “We found a stolen semi-automatic on him. He’s got other concerns.” Rivela surveyed the scene. Broken door, bouncer with blood dripping down his skull, small groups of terrified people. “Hell of a thing.”

  “I’m just sorry I didn’t get much of a story. I heard some rumors.”

  Rivela looked around before talking.

  “There might still be a story,” Rivela said. “Let’s see if the rumors you’ve heard match up with the rumors that I’ve heard. You got plans tonight?”

  “My calendar is open for you, man,” Pete said.

  “Tumulty’s, after my shift—around nine. Can you swing that?”

  “First round’s on me,” Pete said.

  “Shit, better be more than one,” Rivela said. “I look like a cheap date?”

  “No comment,” Pete said, backing away. “Good to go?”

  “Yeah, get out of here,” Rivela said, waving him off.

  Pete nodded and stepped toward his car. As he got closer, he noticed a figure standing by the driver’s side door, smoking a cigarette. He slowed his progress a bit.

  “I need a ride,” Ash said, standing there like nothing happened.

  “Get in,” Pete said, trying to move quickly so they wouldn’t be seen.

  They hopped in and Pete steered out of the parking lot, started toward the nearest PATH station.

  “You gonna tell me what happened in there?” Pete said.

  “There was a girl,” Ash said. “I didn’t get her name. Pretty little thing. She seemed to be in charge. Brunette with a pixie cut, trendy glasses. Ask around a bit, I bet you’ll find something about her.”

  “That’s helpful,” Pete said. “But I’ve got nothing on Raleigh. Makes me wonder why I even helped you. Or why I conveniently forgot to mention you or Raleigh to the cops.”

  “You got enough for a story,” Ash said. “I saw you talking to your cop pal. It’s just not the story you wanted. Raleigh is a good guy who took a bad beat and we got him out of it. Isn’t that enough?”

  Pete didn’t respond. He pulled into the PATH station parking lot and turned off the car. They sat there for a minute, looking at the blue light coming through the glass windows. Pete turned to Ash.

  “So I guess that’s it?”

  Ash reached out his hand. They shook, Ash’s thick hand nearly crushing Pete’s.

  “That’s it,” Ash sai
d. “Thanks for keeping me out of this.”

  “You were protecting your friend,” Pete said.

  “The best I can,” Ash said, smiling for the first time that night. “As you can see, my best is often a bit of a fucking mess.”

  Ash got out of the car and ducked down to look back at Pete. “Safe ride home.”

  Pete nodded and watched Ash walk toward the train station. After a few moments he pulled out his cell phone and called the desk.

  “Hal?”

  “What the fuck, Pete? I heard there was a riot at The Library,” Hal said, his voice rising the longer he talked. “You better have something good for me, Fernandez.”

  “The thing with Raleigh didn’t pan out. False alarm. Nothing there,” Pete said. “Don’t worry. I’m on to something bigger. Got a lead on the person running point on The Library. Patch me through to Robinson on the metro desk and we’ll hammer it out for tomorrow’s paper. This one is going to be big.”

  An excerpt from

  The first Ash McKenna novel

  By

  Available in paperback and ebook from Polis Books

  Sharp crack and I’m awake.

  Whiskey-colored sunlight spills across my fingertips. There’s a white wall and a crumpled blue bed sheet in front of me. A boot is pressing my face into the hardwood floor.

  After a few moments, I realize that’s just the hangover.

  My blood weeps for nicotine. I need water and a cigarette. I need to go back to sleep and pretend this never happened. I need to reevaluate my decision-making process.

  Somewhere in the room there’s a hiss and a crackle. Through a veil of static a bored voice says, “10-36 Code 2, 10th and C.” Automobile accident three blocks east, no injuries or wash-down required.

  Good. I’m in my apartment.

  My cell phone shakes somewhere close. The vibrations rattle the floor and shoot nails into my skull. I work myself into a sitting position, dry-heaving twice. Moving hurts. The phone is behind the nightstand. Probably buzzed itself across the surface, waking me up when it hit the floor. There are three voicemails waiting for me.

  I need fresh air. After making sure I’m wearing pants, I crawl through the window and on to the fire escape. The bitter air clears me up a little. I’m no longer confused about being in my own apartment, which is a good start.

  It’s probably around four in the afternoon, from where the sun is and the look of the crowds on First Avenue. It’s cold, and I want to go back inside for a hoodie, but the hangover wants me to not move ever again.

  There’s a half-empty bottle of water cradled in the rusted slats of the fire escape. I’m pretty sure it’s mine, so I crack it open and swallow as I sit there and watch the city breathe in and out, comb through my memory for a clue about what happened last night.

  It started in my office. For the past few weeks some degenerate has been running up behind women, groping them, and bolting. Always after last call, always women walking by themselves, always around or near Tompkins Square Park.

  I organized a buddy system, so anyone who had to walk home alone could call a number and get an escort. There was also a decoy in place to draw him out. A pretty girl would walk around the park from 4 to 5 a.m., with a big angry bastard lingering in the shadows. The perp is a low-level coward. One beating would shut it down.

  But more than a week had gone by and nada. No sign. I was frustrated I couldn’t catch the guy, and I did what I always do when I am frustrated: Unspin some Jameson.

  My memory gets fuzzy around the bottle’s halfway mark. Everything after that is jagged. Bar tops distorted through the bottoms of empty glasses. Bodies in a crowd smothering me. White subway tile. Then my bedroom floor.

  At least I made it home.

  I bring my hand up to rub the sleep off my face and find the words you promised written on my palm. It’s my handwriting, but nothing else about it is familiar.

  The phone vibrates again. I type my PIN, set it to speaker, and rest my head against the cold brick.

  “Hey. It’s Chell.”

  Chell. The harsh crack of her name makes it sound like a swear word.

  May as well be.

  Her voice is slow, guarded. Like what she’s saying isn’t exactly what she wants to be saying. “I’m still really pissed at you, but I need your help. I think someone is following me. There’s this guy who’s been… look, I’m scared. I’m at Fourth and B. Can you come meet me? I know that after what happened, we should talk. I’m going to walk toward your place. If you’re home or you’re close, I’ll be walking up First. Can you come meet me? Please?”

  There’s a second message. Silence and a click.

  The third message is from Bombay. “Dude, turn on your TV or call me back or something. It’s Chell, man. Chell’s dead.”

  The story plays in a loop on NY1. A helicopter looks down at a junkyard in the Jamaica section of Queens. People are standing on a brown expanse of dirt broken by tires and scrap metal. The helicopter is too high for the camera to make out any details besides the color of their clothing. An army of police cruisers dot the street, along with a single silent ambulance.

  That scene shrinks into a little box that plays next to a sullen anchor, who says Chell was found mummified in packing tape. In a deep baritone that’s subdued to signify grief, the anchor says there were positive signs of sexual assault, with no suspects at this time.

  He calls her by her real name.

  The coffeemaker beeps to let me know it’s finished. I don’t remember making coffee. I pour some into a mug, then put the mug in the freezer to cool. I close the door and lean forward, my palms resting against the smooth white plastic.

  I can’t think. I need a cigarette. I can’t think without smoke in my lungs.

  There’s no pack next to the sink. If I had cigarettes, that’s where they would be. The ashtray on the windowsill only has a few stray butts smoked to the filter. I could run to the bodega, but I can’t open a door to a world where Chell being dead could be true.

  My phone is quiet, but the message is spinning around my head like a bad song I can’t shake.

  How can I smoke two packs a day and there’s nothing in this apartment for me to light on fire?

  There are no cigarettes in the freezer or under the sink or in the medicine cabinet. There isn’t a stray pack under the pile of clothes in the corner of my bedroom or behind the couch. I toss my sock drawer because I never really know what I’m capable of when I’m drinking.

  And no, nothing except a small elastic hair tie. Threaded around it is a single red hair, long enough it would have fallen from the top of Chell’s head down to her shoulder.

  My fingernails cut into my palm, and I can’t breathe. I wrap my arms around my sides, hold in the thing that’s trying to split open my skin.

  Chell is dead.

  An excerpt from SILENT CITY

  The first Pete Fernandez novel

  By Alex Segura

  Available in paperback and ebook from Polis Books

  Prologue

  The microwave beep — announcing that her popcorn was done — startled Kathy Bentley for a second. The noise was also enough to jolt her small gray cat, Nigel, from her lap and tip over the little bit of white wine still residing in her glass. Kathy sighed and plopped the glass on the table separating her couch from the television. She paused her well-worn DVD of “Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind” and sauntered into the kitchen, where Nigel sat waiting, eyes wide, wondering if whatever was coming out of the microwave could be for him.

  “This is Mommy’s,” Kathy said as she carefully pulled the hot bag of instant popcorn from the microwave. “None for you.”

  The cat gave out a cry as he saw that the food was, in fact, not for him. Kathy laughed. It was close to midnight and she had been home less than 20 minutes. After a 12-hour shift at The Miami Times, where she worked as one of the paper’s dwindling group of investigative reporters, it took very little to amuse — or annoy — Kathy tonight
.

  Today had been cluttered with meetings geared toward redirecting the paper’s goals and, more importantly, increasing the paper’s profits. It wasn’t a surprise to anyone that print was dying. With news, opinion, classifieds and pretty much anything of interest available on the Web for free, why shell out any money for something that would get your hands covered in ink? The state of panic there was something Kathy would drown with a few glasses of Chardonnay. Kathy didn’t feel productive or fulfilled by her work. As she walked back to her spot on the couch, she glanced at the clock hanging over her too-expensive entertainment center. Javier Reyes, supposedly her boyfriend, hadn’t called in over a day. Not totally foreign behavior for him, as he tended to pout after they fought, but troubling nonetheless. Kathy shrugged to herself. She was certain that they’d be texting each other at some point during the wee hours, either to extend the argument — about money, unsurprisingly — or to make the evening more interesting. Javier frustrated her — he was cagey, cheap and she’d caught him in a few blatant lies. Most of the time, these things would be grounds for a break up with Kathy. But for some reason Javier lingered. She couldn’t deny there was something that kept pulling her back to him. Maybe the old saying was true — the less they seem to want you, the more you want them. Javier had definitely mastered the art of seeming disinterested. Whether they were fighting or fucking, it was always passionate — dramatic. Feelings that reminded her of being a teenager. Feelings she knew weren’t genuine, but whatever. She wanted them to be.

  Kathy refilled her wine glass and gulped down a portion of it. Nigel curled up in his usual spot on Kathy’s lap.

  She put the movie back on with a quick flick of the remote, but found her mind wandering. She was entering her sixth year at the Times and felt like little had changed. She was a crime reporter tasked with writing “enterprise” stories — the kind that require more than a few hours’ investigation — at a paper that had no budget or interest in them. The days when she could spend a month chasing a few sources and putting together a 10,000-word series spotlighting corruption in the Miami City Council were long gone, if they were ever there. She was still ostracized, considered an unqualified hire by the veterans on staff, many of whom believed she had snagged the job because her father, with whom she barely spoke, was a long-time columnist for the paper’s local news section. Because of the dwindling page count, the number of actual stories she was expected to produce each week had dwindled to where she would not be surprised if she were one of the staffers let go in the next round of layoffs.