Byrd Man — Roleplayer Guild

| Identity |
Tracy Lawless (From Ed Brubaker and Sean Phillips' Icon series Criminal)

| Origin & Backstory |

Tracy Lawless' early life was rough. He and his brother Ricky were constantly abused by their drunken criminal father, Teeg Lawless. Teeg acted as chief enforcer for Sebastian Hyde, the kingpin of Center City. While Tracy took the abuse and quietly hated his father, Rick loved and admired Teeg to the point that it made Tracy sick and made him hate his little brother. Tracy and Rick were arrested for auto theft when Tracy was 18 and Rick was 15. Rick went to Juvie while Tracy got the choice to go to prison or join the army. Tracy took the army as his chance to escape Center City and his father.

Lawless excelled in the army, so much so that he became a candidate for special forces training. His covert work in Bosnia led to the slaughter of an entire village in Bosnia. In Iraq, Tracy was arrested after killing four US Army officers for their mistreatment of an Iraqi family. The army hushed up the crime and deemed Lawless too valuable to send to jail or kick out of the service. After a year in a military prison, Tracy was released to continue working for special forces. Shortly after he found out his brother Rick had been killed back home. Tracy escaped from the military base and went AWOL back home to Center City.

Once home, Tracy infiltrated Rick's crew and began to figure out who killed his brother while helping the crew on the score. Tracy stole cash from a Sebastian Hyde courier upon his arrival back home. Hyde's people watched from afar as Tracy killed Rick's old crew in revenge. After discovering the true nature of his brother's murder and the pointlessness of revenge, Hyde's people confronted Tracy and brought him to the man himself. There Hyde made him an offer: Tracy would work for him as an enforcer or Hyde would kill the few people left in the world Tracy cared about. With no other option, Tracy accepted and the role of the father became that of the son.

| Attributes |
While he has no powers, Tracy is a former Army special forces operator and has all the skills and abilities that come with that job. He is an expert getaway driver and is an extremely street smart and expert criminal.

| Character Notes |

Tracy lives in the Pacific Northwest, in a large metropolitan area called Center City. With the nature of the stories, there will be just a few NPCs:

Sebastian Hyde: Tracy's boss and boss of Center City

Jake "Gnarly" Brown: A former boxer who now runs the Undertown bar. A former friend of Hyde's, Gnarly's bar is a meeting place for the criminals of Center City

Leo Patterson: A criminal prodigy and Tracy's boyhood friend. Leo is currently serving life in prison for six counts of murder.

| Character Goals |
I just want to do hoodrat stuff with my friends. I mean, you know what I do and what I'm capable of. I want to write good criminal yarns 

| References |

Mission Hill
4:11 AM

Tracy Lawless cracked his knuckles and settled back into the seat of his car. Six hours into the stakeout and he began to settle in for a long haul. The house he was sitting on was a dump, a scorched husk of a building that someone torched years ago. It was the perfect place for squatters and people trying to lay low. Tracy had James Bagotti to thank for leading him here. Bagotti aka Jimmy Bags, capo to Mark Phlio and one of the many cogs in the Hyde organization, ran a dozen bookie shops around the outer boroughs. Tracy spent three days boning up on Jimmy Bags through his contacts, following the man and his family as they went about their day to day tasks.

Bagotti's bio read like a million others who joined the lief. He was old school Maggia, joined the outfit when he was still a teenager. Purse snatching led to strongarm robberies which led to hijacking and running numbers. Sixty years old and Bagotti had climbed as far on the criminal ladder as far as he could. To some that would mark Jimmy Bags as a suspect for the robberies. He couldn't get past old man Silvermane, so he was letting his own joints get heisted and he was splitting the money. He got paid and it was a way to rub s*** in the old man's eye. 

The clues that tipped Tracy off to the real culprit were long sleeves and itchy arms. Bagotti's youngest son, Carlo, still lived with his folks at the age of thirty. Tracy watched him coming and going the past few days. He always wore a long sleeve shirt and always picked at his arms when he walked down the street. It took Tracy all of ten minutes to peg Carlo as a junkie, the sleeves hiding the track marks that itched so bad when the kid needed a fix. He followed Carlo to a shooting gallery down near the waterfront. From there Tracy followed the guy Carlo copped from which led him to a stash house in Bed-Stuy. A small pack of four dealers worked out of the house. Four dealers, a four man crew ripping off bookie spots, a weak junkie whose father ran the bookmaking shops, a junkie could give them information for a fix.

He waited until nearly five in the morning before he made his move. Tracy slipped on a pair of surgical gloves and carried a Glock with a supressor attached to the end under his coat. He looped around the back of the building and came through a broken window, slow and quietly. Tracy pulled the gun out along with a flashlight covered in tape, emitting only a pin-sized light to use as a guide. He held his nose when he passed by three buckets that had been used as latrine. It took him ten minutes to find their stash tucked away in a baseboard near the fireplace. Tracy found nearly a hundred grand in crisp twenty dollar bills inside a satchel, not the type of money junkies handed over for horse. No, this was the type of money Jimmy's places carried before a big payout was coming. In addition to the cash, he found a half pound of uncut H and four machine pistols. Tracy tucked the money, dope, and guns into the satchel and swung it over his shoulder.

Tracy slowly glided up the rickety stairs like a ghost. Muscle memory kicked in when he reached the landing where the crew was sleeping. Check the corners, clear the rooms, plan your escape, kill as soon as you have eyes on the target. Flashbacks went through his mind, killing a Bosnian national in the 90's with a sniper rifle, garroting an Al-Qaeda cutout in Iraq. He was a Lawless, he had killing in his blood, but it was Uncle Sam who polished him and made him into a sparkly diamond of murderous potential. 

The four guys were passed out on piss-stained mattresses. Tracy kept the flashlight beam low and aimed. Recoil shot up his elbow as he fired off four quick shots. The rounds hissed through the room, four bullets exploding the four men's heads. He fired off four more to each man's heart to be sure he was dead before calmly walking out into the early morning air. Tracy tucked the gun into his coat and climbed into the car, driving six blocks away before burying the gun and his gloves in the trashcan.

Park Slope
10:11 AM

"Who the fuck are you?"

Jimmy Bags sized Tracy up like a piece of meat. Tracy stood on his doorstep, impassively meeting the mobster's gaze.

"I'm Lawless. You know who I am, who I work for. Let's take a ride."

The look of recognition filled Jimmy Bag's eyes, quickly followed by fear. He knew what Tracy did, and why he was visiting him like this.

"Oh, God... Please--"

"If I was going to kill you you'd be dead already," Tracy said with slight annoyance. "Let's take a ride."

Thirty minutes later Tracy and Jimmy Bags were sitting in Tracy's car, parked outside a coffee shop ten blocks away from his home. Tracy retold the story, the guys robbing Jimmy's shops, following the trail and killing the four men, and of course Jimmy's own son.

"Look... I know Carlo has had problems, and me and my wife we've tried to help him... but... you..."

"You know who I work for," Tracy said with a cool tone. "I'm offering you the chance to do it on your son's terms. Hyde will hold you and your family responsible for this theft. If he has his way, I'm gonna come back to your house with four more guys and we'll chop your entire family to pieces."

Jimmy Bags slumped forward in the seat and began to shake as he sobbed. Tracy ignored him and instead pulled a covered syringe from his coat pocket.

"This spike is loaded up with pure heroin. I don't care if your boy is goddamn Layne Staley reincarnated, this much pure H will kill him. It's either the OD or that other option I mentioned. Either give it to him or inject him tonight when he's asleep, but he does not live to see tomorrow."

Tracy slipped the syringe into Jimmy Bag's jacket while the man continued to cry. He felt a stab of remorse and something else much more powerful. Tracy realized it was envy. If Teeg Lawless would have been faced with this same dilemma, he knew Teeg would not hesitate to sacrifice his sons to save his own ass.

Jimmy Bags went back home somber and quiet. They rode in silence, the only time Jimmy acknowledge Tracy at all was a short nod to him as he got out the car and went into his house. For an old soldier like Jimmy, the nod was final acceptance to do what needed to be done. Tracy texted Stein that the job was completed. He told the lawyer to notify the Kingpin to check the papers and he'd find five deaths in Brooklyn all within the same day of each other, a quadruple homicide and one OD. The lawyer texted back his appreciation and told Tracy where to drop off the cash and drugs he had recovered. The money for the job would be waiting for him when he arrived home that night. 

Tracy started up his car and headed back home. It wouldn't be long before he got another text with another job and another person who needed to be hurt. Tracy hated himself, not because he was becoming his old man, but because he had become his old man. He glanced up in the car's rearview mirror and wasn't entirely sure who it was he saw staring back at him.

Tracy Lawless was mad as hell.

He drove down the freeway in the middle of the night, checking his rearview mirror every few seconds for any new cars that may have appeared behind him. He saw the two big duffle bags in the mirror, each one stuffed to the brim with cash. Tracy wore a coat that hid the body armor strapped to his chest. Dried blood was caked on his hands. It wasn't his blood. He fumed and kept the hunk of junk he was driving at seventy. His Charger was back in the city. It was too conspicuous to be used as a getaway car today.

The radio in the car played some god awful country music. He reached over and cruised up and down the dial until he found a talk radio show giving the news.

"One man is still at large after today's daring daytime bank robbery of the 5th Avenue Chase Bank. Masked and armed with automatic weapons, the five men came in during the lunchtime hour and made off with over nine hundred thousand dollars in twenties, fifties, and hundreds. Police soon arrived on the scene and gun battle took place, killing four of the robbers before the fifth masked man took off with the money through midtown, where he lost pursuing police in a high-speed chase."

Tracy listened to the rest of the news story with half-concentration. There were no leads on his whereabouts, and so far they hadn't publically identified the rest of his crew. Everyone but him was dead, gunned down by the cops. One of them blew Jack Legs' brains out before the guy could even move. Blood had spattered Tracy's chest and arms. They showed up way too fast for Tracy's taste. They were promised more time to get the money and get out there, but they didn't get that time. He gripped the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles were white. Tommy the Cork. Goddamn Tommy the Cork had sold them out, the son of a bitch. He'd given his word they would have at least five minutes before the police arrived. The fat bastard must have gotten greedy and double-crossed them. The odds on Tommy being there at the farmhouse waiting was too unlikely. Tracy was the only one left alive and he had the money. He was too big of a loose end, and no way cops would be there for an arrest. Tommy wanted that money all to himself.

An hour later he turned off the freeway and headed down a Southern Jersey highway towards the established rendezvous point. He could just keep going. He had the money, for Christ sake. But he didn't want to do that. He wanted to pay Tommy back for what he had done, the bastard.

Tracy started to slow the junk heap down as the farmhouse got nearer. The time for the meeting was supposed to be four AM, an hour from now, but he was sure Tommy was already hiding somewhere in the dilapidated barn. Tracy pulled to the side of the road twenty miles from the farm and got out. He lugged the two duffle bags filled with cash into the woods beside the road and left them there. He got a tire iron out of the trunk and placed it in the ground beside the highway, marking the place for his return trip, and got back in the car. A half hour later he came to an old and rotting farmhouse and barn. He pulled into the driveway and slowly pulled up to the old barn.

A parked sedan was waiting beside the barn. The windows were rolled down, and Tracy could hear a golden oldies station playing Tommy James and the Shondells. Tracy reached into his jacket and got out the submachine gun he'd used at the bank. Keeping it low, he stepped out the car and approached the parked car.

"Not so fast," a voice said from behind.

He felt a hard something in his back. A pudgy hand slapped the submachine gun from his hand and spun Tracy around. He looked into the fat and gloating face of CCPD Inspector Thomas Corcoran, head of the department's prestigious Special Robbery Unit. He was also supposed to be their inside man in the bank robbery. His job was to get them plans and details about the bank and surrounding area and provide them protection from the cops. He had done the first part well, but failed spectacularly in the second regard.

"You sold us out," Tracy said calmly.

"I just did some simple math," Corcoran said with a large grin. "This money divides up better one way than six. That is, after I give Hyde his cut."

"And you'll think he'll just abide you double-crossing us like this?"

"I'll tell him you pulled the double-cross. Tried to skip out with the money after it went sideways. I caught you in the nick of time, though, but see you fought back and I had to kill you. Damn shame. It's a stupid move, but you're a Lawless, kid. Stupid is your middle name."

Tracy felt white-hot rage at the last part. It was all he could do right now to not try to fight Corcoran, even with the gun aimed at him. Instead, Tracy kept his hands up as Corcoran backed away from him and shuffled towards the junk heap. Tracy stayed as still as he could while the fat man looked through the back of the car for the cash.

"Where is it, Lawless?!"

"In the trunk. I got the key right here."

Corcoran stared at him through the dark and started towards him. Just then, Frank Sinatra came on the radio and crooned.

"Strangers in the night exchanging glances
Wondering in the night what were the chances,
We'd be sharing love before the night was through?"

Corcoran began to rifle through Tracy's jacket pockets and found no keys. The cop started in through Tracy's pants pockets. He dropped the gun a few inches, focusing on getting the car keys from Tracy's jeans.

"Something in your eyes was so inviting
Something in you smile was so exciting
Something in my heart told me I must have you."

Snarling like a wild animal, Tracy struck and slapped at Corocran's gun. The piece went off twice, bullets snapping by Tracy's ear as they whizzed into the air. The gun fell to the ground with a dull thud. Corcoran tried to reach for it, but he was short and fat, a good six inches shorter and fifty pounds heavier than Tracy. He proved no match for Tracy's strong grip. He hit the cop upside the head with a glancing blow to the skull. Corcoran stumbled back and Tracy hit him with a right hook that knocked him to the ground. Tracy pinned him to the ground with his knees and held him close, his big hands wrapping around Tommy's fat neck.

"Strangers in the night, two lonely people
We were strangers in the night. 
Up to the moment when we said our first hello, little did we know
Love was just a glance away, a warm embracing dance away"

Tommy fought and tried to get his hands underneath Tracy's. He struggled and thrashed, tried to claw at Tracy's eyes and mouth. The more he struggled, the more oxygen he burned through and made his death that quicker. Tracy throttled Corcoran's neck for a solid ten minutes, so long that he left rub burns from twisting his big hands around the windpipe. He made sure that there was no life left in the man at all. For what the bastard had done to his crew, it was the least he could do.

"Ever since that night we've been together
Lovers at first sight, in love forever
It turned out so right for strangers in the night."

Tracy took Corcoran's corpse and locked it in the trunk of his car, parking the sedan inside the rotten barn before he got into his own car and drove back to where he had the money stashed. He got the two big duffle bags out the woods, took the tire iron marker, and kept going south so he could find a place to lay low for the next few weeks.

To look at Sebastian Hyde's office, you would think he was a college professor or some well to do businessman instead of the kingpin of Center City. There were books, shelves and shelves of books on the three office walls. The lone wall not loaded down with books was an entire long pane of glass that stretched across the wall in a window that gave off a pretty impressive view of Center City. The books were all random as hell. Everything from Gibbon's six part series on the history of Rome, to Danielle Steel. Tracy doubted very much that Hyde had even cracked open one of those books.in his library. The man didn't care about books, and he didn't care about his impressive view. The books and window were all a show to anyone who came into the office. It was projecting power. Look at how many nice things I have, look at the entire town that I sit above like a king. All of that boiled down to a simple message: Don't fuck with me.

"Tracy," Hyde said as he came in.

Tracy stood and wordlessly greeted the old man as he walked towards his desk. Hyde wasn't in his usual three-piece, but he still wore dark slacks and a collared shirt. Tracy remained standing until Hyde sat down behind the desk.

"It's late, let's cut the bullshit, son. Do you know Thomas Flynn?"

"Rings a bell. Does he owe you money?"

"No, unfortunately not. Flynn owns a good deal of the industrial park here in town. Supposed to be worth half a billion. He keeps his nose mostly clean, as clean as anyone worth that kind of money can be. He apparently has done something rather bad because he's being blackmailed. He wants to keep it under wraps, so he decided to come to me instead of the cops. He wants to pay me a good deal of money to make the blackmailer disappear. I'll cut you twenty percent of what he gives me and you make this asshole deader than the goddamn steak I had for dinner."

Hyde working for money didn't jive true to Tracy. He had more than enough money than he or his kids would ever spend. But what was left unsaid Tracy knew all too well. Flynn was asking Sebastian Hyde for a favor. All it took was for Hyde to get his foot into the door and he owned you. As bad as any blackmail could be, what Hyde could do would be ten times worse. For Hyde to get in good with a man like Flynn would give him something much more valuable than money. Flynn got your connections, contracts, businessmen, and politicians. Influence, a half a billion dollar's worth of influence Hyde could call on.

"What if I find out what he's being blackmailed for?"

The old man's eyes lit up and his eyebrows arched as he smiled.

"Go ahead and send that my way. Always good to have some insurance. Good luck, son."

Tracy nodded and stood, heading towards the door. He hated when Hyde called him son. he made a mental note that when he got his revenge on the old prick, he would hit him int he balls for every time the old man had called him son. After tonight, Tracy's count was up to 219.

Door pounding woke Sam up. The hangover pounding his temples was even worse. He reached across the bed to find a bottle that wasn't empty. No dice. He stumbled through empty bottles and crushed cans towards the front door. He still wore last night's clothes: an unknotted tie and rumpled shirt with pants that had just a hint of puke on them. 

"Samuel Bennett?"

Two men at the door. Meatheads in black Armani suits and Ray-Bans. Très goon chic. Sam cut odds he could take them. Sucker's bet. Instead, he nodded and lit up a smoke.

"The same Samuel Bennett of Samuel Bennett Investigations?"

Sam blew smoke rings. "The one and the same."

"We need you to come with us, Mr. Bennett."

Sam cleaned his nails and yawned. "Why is it these things always start with two dickheads in suits wanting me to come with them?"

One of them meatheads cracked his knuckles. The other popped his neck. Flexing and posturing were punk moves. Sam knew the way to scare a man wasn't by cracking your knuckles. It was by cracking his bones. He laughed and shook his head.

"If you two gorillas can get me a stiff drink then I'll go wherever you want me to go."

--

Sam sipped Thunderbird out of a paper bag covered bottle. The T-Bird was cut-rate, but there was enough booze to stop the headache. He sat in a study filled with books. Sam thought of a book he read in school once, it had a rich guy and a big study filled with books that were never read. He stared hard at a liquor cabinet in one corner. The sight made his mouth water. Scotch, high-grade grain alcohol. The real deal. It put his T-Bird to shame.

"Mr. Bennett."

An old man shuffled in. Stooped shoulders and wrinkled skin and blue veins and white hair. Thick glasses made his eyes look huge. He wheezed and collapsed onto a chair beside Sam. 

"James Doheny, at your service."

The name clicked. Doheny Oil. One of the titans of industry in the city. Nix on that, a former titan of industry. Somebody bought the old company out years ago.

"What's so urgent that you need to get me up at the crack of dawn--"

"--It's three in the afternoon, sir--"

"--And force me here to talk?"

Doheny wheezed. His face was coronary red. Sam felt heat from his body. He radiated bad health.

"You're a hard man to get in touch with, Mr. Bennett. I've been calling your number for the past three days."

Sam swigged the T-Bird and shrugged. "I've got problems with bill collectors. I don't want them to know I'm home."

"You're speaking of the ruthless looking Russians my men saw stop by your apartment building repeatedly over the past two days?"

"The people I owe money to have... aggressive debt collection tactics."

"Indeed," the old man wheezed. "Which is why you should be eager for employment opportunities."

Sam chugged the rest of the T-Bird and wiped booze from his mouth. The cut-rate warmed his chest and worked its way upward until he got that familiar fuzziness back into his brain. The buzzed state of existence he called life for the past twelve years. 

"What can I do for you, Mr. Doheny, that the two pet gorillas that brought me here can't?"

"You have a reputation for finding the dark places in this city not many others can. I'm afraid my two bodyguards are only adept at making people hurt. I need someone of your affections."

"Affectations" equaled stumblebum drunk that fits in better than meatheads in designer threads.

"What's the job?"

The old man pushed his glasses up his nose with shaky hands and wheezed.

"My granddaughter. She's... she's my daughter, you might say. I raised her from a pup and now she... betrayed me. She's out there, messing with a boy she shouldn't be. She's been constantly sneaking out of the house over the months, but it's been nearly three days since I last saw her. The longest she's ever been gone. She's over the age where I can issue an amber alert, and the cops they tell me they can't intervene because she wasn't kidnaped." 

The old man shook in something that seemed half sob and wheeze.

"I have all this money, but nothing I can do with it. Back in the day, I could snap my fingers and the mayor himself would be here to wipe my ass. The friends and connections I once had... and now..."

Sam inferred: "All I can rate these days is a single smokehound former cop who makes for a shit PI."

Sam felt kinship with the geezer. Doheny was a used up, wrinkled husk that was soon to board the night train to the big adios. He looked on the outside like Slam felt on the inside. Sam cut odds he would live as long as Doheny. He gave up and set odds he could make it to fifty. Both slanted as too high odds. Instead, he tucked the empty bottle of T-Bird into his jacket and pulled out the pen and pad he kept on him.

"Tell me everything about your granddaughter that may help me find her."

--

Sam sat in his heap and cruised a booze brainwave. Hell loomed outside. Skid Row: The bottom of the barrel in this city. Considering this city, that was saying a whole hell of a lot. This was his beat back during his days in patrol. It was hard work, lots of scraping and fighting. One time he knocked a rape-o shitbird's teeth out with a nightstick when he tried to fight back. It was good work. He went home at the end of his shift feeling like he actually accomplished something. But that was a lifetime ago. Budget cuts and targeted policing meant no cop cars prowled consistently. They were too busy protecting the fine, upstanding citizens of the city who actually paid taxes. 

Here homeless families squatted side by side with homeless drunks. Meth head hookers walked the streets with scabbed faces and reeking of desperation. Sam saw hookers with the Bug prowling for work, not giving a fuck if they killed the men they screwed. Sam saw junkies shooting up on the steps of a Catholic church. Sam saw a little girl way too skinny to even be malnourished. She had to have the Bug. His jaw got tight and he gulped his gin. He watched the lowest of the low sauntering around like they owned the place. Maybe they did. Maybe it was better to rule in hell here than to serve in the Burbs. Some social welfare people and nuns came by, tossing out clean needles and rubbers. Everyone whooped. A drunk slapped a volunteer's ass and asked if they had a pint of Ripple they could give them. Beleaguered nuns did the sign of the cross. Winos did the watusi. Smokehounds did the shimmy shake. Junkies did Irish jigs. Sam figured two years. At least two years until Sam was right there on Skid row cutting a rug with the junkies and doing the chorus line shtick with the hookers and drunks, five at the most. 

He finished off the flask of hooch and got out the heap. He was fresh meat to them. Panhandlers panhandled, junkies made vague threats for money, hookers pawed and promised carnal delights of the sort he'd never had. He stopped in the street and lit up a smoke. He cocked a finger towards an alley and got wide-eyed

"Oh, shit! It's the cops! Everybody run!"

The roaches scattered in the light of righteous justice and beaucoup beatdowns. Sam laughed and walked unmolested towards a dilapidated building. A dirty, sagging sign above the door said The Ferguson Arms. The hotel was the last known address of Bianca Doheny, twenty-six, heiress to the Doheny Oil Fortune. Fortune should come with air quotes, thought Sam. The old man's house was just as rundown as this flophouse. Sam had two G's in his jacket pocket for the job. Good enough for him, but chickenshit pay for one of the big PI agencies in town. In Sam's world two grand may as well have been two mil. Gramps said he thought Bianca had a shack job with a guy. A tall kid with sandy blonde hair was with her the last time she breezed through the house.  

He flashed his PI license at the clerk fast enough that he made him think it was an actual badge. The fat man looked up from his stroke book (XXX Girls of the Midwest 69) and squinted through thick, crust stained eyeglasses at Sam. He showed a photo of the girl. The pic was from a few years back when she graduated at SCU. Doheny said it was current enough.

"Seen her?" 

He slid the clerk a C-note to get the wheels greasing. He squinted harder at the pic before nodding.

"I think that's her. Jesus, that's what she used to look like? She's checked into 2C. Long-term tenant. Haven't seen her in a few days. 

"Seen her with a guy? A big, tall guy with sandy blonde hair."

"I seen guys. Lots of 'em, mister," he snickered. "Day and night they come in and out for her. I might be one of those lucky few thanks to you. Tell you what, you give me another Ben Franklin and I give you the key to her room."

Sam resisted the urge to turn his face into bloody pulp. He blew smoke before he shelled out fifty bucks and passed it across the counter.

"Ben's out for the day, but maybe you can do business with the Jackson Twins and Alexander Hamilton?"

He glommed the cash and produced a key. Sam palmed it and headed up rickety stairs. He padded down carpets stained with blood, puke, and cum. Old Man Doheny said she got a solid three grand allowance from her trust fund. Why the flop when she at least had enough money to clock a HoJo's? 

2C was a dump like the rest of the hotel, like the rest of the whole goddamn neighborhood. Dirty sheets, old pizza boxes, a makeup bag with garish eyeshadows and bright lipsticks, a medicine bag with junkie works, unopened rubbers and used ones, sex toys, a mirror with traces of coke lines. Sam suddenly knew why she sprung for the cheap and rundown no-tell motel. He found something scribbled on a pizza box. VIKKI - PLASIADES DELIGHT, and then a phone number. He wrote it down in a notebook and rummaged through the filth.

The only thing Sam couldn't find was definitive proof of a guy shacked up with her. The geezer said she bolted with a boy. The clerk said she had lots of men coming in and out. Bianca was hooking? Why? Had her drug habit gotten bad enough that three grand a month couldn't support it? Or was it just part of the aesthetic of the neighborhood? A rich girl slumming and playing street walker. Buy a room in a flop, sell your body, and shoot up morning til night. Très Slum Chic. All the bored rich kids were doing it.

Sam pulled the photo of her out of his jacket. Young, big smile and lots of pretty white teeth. Dark hair and a cute little nose. Full of promise with just a glint in one of those eyes Sam knew all too well was hope.

The Clerk: Jesus, that's what she used to look like?

If she'd changed at all, Sam knew that glint in her eyes was long gone. Somewhere between college and the Ferguson Arms it had been snuffed out and ground to powder in that cruel and ignoble way only life is capable of. His cell phone buzzed. He didn't recognize the number but answered it anyway.

"Mr. Bennett, it' s James Doheny. A note just arrived at the house. It seems to be a ransom note. I need you here as soon as possible, sir."

--

Sam swung by his pad on the way to Doheny's. He sat in a chair, slugged gin straight from the bottle, and worked angles.

FEATURE: Bianca rejects her grandad and does blow, Bianca shoots horse, Bianca turns tricks on the streets. Bianca has a trust-fund. Sam inferred: The hooking is pure thrill seeking. A middle finger in the face of the old man. Now the plot thickened an hour ago when a ransom note showed up at the Doheny house. 

He got his .38 snub out of a locked drawer. If the kidnapping was on the level, things might get rough and he'd need the piece. Sam slipped it into a shoulder rig and slipped the rig on under his coat. He pocketed the gin after a few more slugs from the bottle. The hooch hit his throat and sent buzzes through his brain. Booze clicks clicked his brain into working order. Something gnawed at him. The gin amplified the gnawing. Bianca Doheny's mom, the old man's daughter, was out of the picture. Sam asked the old man for the dope. 

Doheny: "She ran away some years ago and never came back."

The answer didn't jake with Sam. His response was too quick and dismissive. He pressed for more details and got the short shrift. Doheny said, "Do your job and find this one." He left it at that but didn't have to like it. A few more plugs of hooch to work up the nerve before he flopped on the couch and called up the number he wanted.

"City Desk, Agee." 

Arthur Agee, city news editor for the Gazette. A lifetime ago, Agee was on the cop beat hungry for copy and Sam was a young Homicide detective looking for press. A match made in heaven that came to an abrupt end when Sam got the boot from the PD.

"Artie, it's Sam Bennett."

"Sam?! Boychick, long time no speak. How the hell are ya?"

Artie was all mick but still liked talking like a Jew. He could spit Yiddish like the old country Jews in Baston Beach. 

"I'm fine, Artie. Making ends meet."

"I heard you were a private dick now. Meet any sexy femme fatales yet?"

Sam thought about the crack whore from last week. She had only three teeth and could trip on her tits if she walked too fast.

"Oh, yeah. The sexiest."

"You'll have to tell me about it."

Sam tipped the bottle back again. Somehow it had gone from full to half empty faster than he thought it was supposed to.

"I will," he said. "But for now I need some help on a job."

"Gimme the spiel, Sammy. What do you need?"

"James Doheny, you know him?"

"Yeah, rich oil guy back when this city still had oil. Owns all those rusty oil derricks south of town. That's why they still call that part of town Crude City."

"Could you comb through your paper's archives and see what you can dig up on him and his family, especially his daughter."

"Interesting. Anything you can tell me about this job?"

"Just that if it ends up being story-worthy you'll be the first one I call."

"Promises, promises, Sammy. I'll hold you to that. What number can I reach you at?"

"I'm on my cell, let me give you the number."

Sam gave Artie his phone number and hung up. He sucked the gin until a quarter of it was left in the bottle. Properly buzzed, he headed out to James Doheny's house.

--

Sam walked into the big house. The two heavies from before stood in the hallway, all big muscles and hard stares. They eyeballed him with attitude. He winked and made kissy faces. They full on fumed. He passed on by and went into the study. Doheny sat in a chair facing the door. His pasty was face coronary red edging on purple. The old man shook a piece of paper at Sam and flew spittle as he talked.

"Where the hell have you been?!"

"I had to pick up some things from my apartment."

"You goddamn drunk goldbrick, you better not be conning me."

Sam cut his eyes. "You keep talking like that I'm apt to leave and let you deal with this on your own."

Doheny scowled and tossed Sam the paper. A ransom note straight out of a movie. Cut out letters pasted to form sentences:

We HavE the giRL. 4 MILLion doLLars 2 see hER ALIVE again oUr pHone CAll wITh instRucTIons will BE sOOn

NO COPS!

Sam passed it back before lighting up a smoke. Doheny scowled again and waved smoke from his face. He took the hint. He stubbed the cigarette out and asked Doheny questions.

"How did it arrive?"

"One of my men found it at the front door. The doorbell rang and he did not see anyone nearby when he answered it. He brought it in and I called you after I read it."

"That was an hour ago?"

"Yes."

Sam reread the message and brooded. A real cop would dust the message for prints. A hunch gnawed at him worse than the mom angle. The hunch: Bianca Doheny's fingerprints would be all over that ransom note. A scent was coming from this whole job. It was the whiff of bullshit.

"Mr. Doheny, sir."

One of the gorillas sauntered in with a cordless telephone.

"I think it's them."

Doheny snapped for the phone. Sam skittered out the room and down the hall. A second phone sat on the wall. He slowly picked it up and listened in.

Dohney: "Hello? This is James Doheny, who am I speaking to."

THEM: "Peter. Peter Cottontail. Hopping down the bunny trail--"

The voice sounded hard. Too hard, thought Sam. Like the note, it was a Hollywood production of what a kidnapper would sound like. Peter Cottontail put on his best Jimmy Cagney and fronted for the old man. Someone watched too many movies. They thought fiction was real-life. 

"Do you have my granddaughter?"

"Sure do, old man. It's up to you if you ever see her alive again. You got our note, can you swing the ransom money?"

"It will be a chore, but I can do that."

"Good. We'll do the handoff tomorrow night at nine. The place is gonna be the north shore, near the ferris wheel. Got it?"

"I'll be there if you can give me proof of life."

"Hold on a sec..."

"Poppa?!"

Bianca Doheny's voice sounded more like out of breath than genuinely scared to Slam. The old man ate it up. The old man gasped. He went on the verge of weeping.

"Bibi, baby! Don't worry. Everything is going--"

"Tomorrow night at nine, geezer. Remember no coppers. We get a hint of flatfoots and we'll kill her."

The line went dead. Doheny hung up. Sam read the caller ID. BLOCKED. No surprise there. He went back into the study. Doheny wheezed loudly. He was teared up and gasping for breath. 

"Can you get the money by tomorrow night?" Sam asked.

"I can-- I can have it by tonight if necessary."

"Get it ready for the time stipulated. I'm going to spend tonight chasing leads and I'll be back first thing in the morning."

Doheny protested, but Sam was out the door before the old man or his goons could get a paw on him. 

He drove six blocks straight before stopping in a parking lot and pulling his phone out. He lit up a cig and inhaled it deeply. He blew smoke and plotted steps. Sam pulled a battered notepad from his jacket and flipped through the pages of personal information and access codes. Jake Holstead? No. he was too high profile to use. Baxter Miller? No. Miller would have changed his passcode by now, the paranoid bastard. Nevermind that Sam was about to justify his paranoia. Cris Aiken? No. He was probably a captain by now with a different badge. Jackie Fields? Yes. A hump who kept his passcode his kids' birthday, no way he'd change jobs or codes. Sam flicked his cigarette butt out the window and dialed City Tel.

"City Telecommunications Police Line, how may I help you?"

"I need to get the number and location of a phone line that just placed an incoming call in the Dutch Hill neighborhood. I also need a location on an unlisted phone line."

"Yessir. I need your name, rank, badge number, and police access code."

"Sure," Sam said, flipping to Jackie Fields' page.

"John Fields, detective second class, badge number 01257, and my access code is 840221505."

Key strokes. A few seconds silence and then, "... Okay, Detective Fields. What was the first number?"

Sam rattled off Doheny's phone number. A few quick keystrokes later and the operator had the phone traced to a downtown payphone. She gave Sam the address and he scribbled it down.

"And that second number, Detective?"

Sam filled through pages until he found it. The information he glommed from Bianca's flop. Vikki - Palisades Delight. Beneath it the phone number. He gave her the phone number and waited a few seconds. Another downtown address. The address just two blocks away from the pay phone. Sam thanked her and hung up. He killed the bottle of gin and looked at the note. Palisades Delight. The name sounded like an escort service. Vikki had to be a madam. The skin trade. When it came to whores and porn, there was only one man he knew who would be in the know.

The Mighty Thor.

--

He had blond hair and clear blue eyes. Heavyset. That line that blurred between normal and fat. The extra weight threw off the resemblance, but otherwise he was a dead ringer for the guy who played Thor. To hear him tell it the extra weight came from having to carry around that thing between his legs. He called it Mjölnir, and he said only the worthy could handle it. He ran a gigolo service out of the eastside. Old ladies, fat ladies, lonely ladies, the occasional man, all kinds of freaks flocked to him. Who wouldn't pay a grand an hour to be reamed, steamed, and dry cleaned by the one and only Mighty Thor?

"I know Palisades Delight."

Sam watched him from across the diner table. Thor was a good informant, the few ones he had left from his cop days. The only problem was he charged Sam for information like he was a john. Sam supposed he was, just in a very different way than the usual clientele.

"Call-girls, high-end stuff. I'm talking a few grand per hour. I've worked with them before on... things."

"What things?"

Thor got cagey and looked at his tuna melt. Sam scowled and forked over a C-note.

"Extortion," he said without making eye contact. Whores never made eye contact when they did their work. "The rooms they use are set up with cameras. They blackmail businessmen and anyone else they can afford to squeeze. I was in on a few of the squeezes, lot of right-wing congressmen and councilmen who are in the closet. Let's see how much those bible thumping fucks will support them when they see the good congressman with his lips wrapped around Mjölnir."

Hookers and extortion. Sam flashed back to his last days on the force. A dead call-girl consumed him and the burnout that was slowly building became a raging inferno. He got fired, he punched the Homicide CO, he went on a fantastic bender. He curled up into a bottle. He still called the bottle home. 

"Thanks for the time, Thor."

Sam stood up and passed him another C-note before heading out into the night. A little under twenty-four hours before the ransom. Sam cut odds on the whole kidnapping being bullshit. No bookie in the world would take the odds he made. The truth, whatever it was, rested with the call girls and whoever Vikki was. And he was going to find out what that truth was.

--

Dreams played on a reel:

His hands covered in blood. Old Man Doheny cut donuts in a wheelchair. He flipped Sam off and said get to work, shirtbird. A mound of naked bodies, wriggling and writhing in a huge orgy. Men doing women, women doing women, men doing men. Big Band music played. Bianca Doheny doing a pirouette. She was naked. She had her face and a pornstar's stacked body. Doheny's two goons waltz hand in hand. Sam did a tap dance. He tapped in the dark. A gun barrel sighted on him. He tapped out and tried to snatch it. The gun went off. 

Sam snapped awake. He was covered in sweat. Dream sweat and heat sweat. A bottle of gin in his lap. He sat in his heap downtown. A booze brownout while watching an office building. Palisades Delight sat on the office's sixth floor. Hour three of the stakeout. Straight boring, as expected. No wonder he nodded off. He took three slugs of gin to stabilize himself and got out the car. He straightened his tie, primped in the car window to look presentable. He went through the lobby and to the elevator. Up to floor six. Open on: a receptionist with a wide smile. Cute, girl next door look. She did not scream WHORE like he expected. 

"Hello, sir. Welcome to Palisades Delight. What can I help you with?"

Sam said, "I'm here to see Vikki."

The receptionist's eyes flashed. He saw something he didn't like. Her smile went from natural to too wide. Call it a put-on to play it cool.

"I'll send her right out."

She grabbed a phone. She talked hush-hush on the phone. Sam caught whispers. Sam caught "Don't know who." Sam caught "Shabby." Sam caught "Cop."

A minute later a zaftig woman pranced out into the lobby. Fortyish brunette with an updo and streaks of gray through it. Pleasant face. She did not look like a hooker or ex-hooker. She jived more office worker or school marm. 

She smiled at Sam and said, "Hello, sir. I'm Victoria Harper, May I see some ID please?"

He showed her his PI card. Slow this time. He did not want her thinking cop and get spooked. She looked at it, looked at him, and nodded.

"What can I help you with, Mr. Bennett?"

Sam flashed Bianca Doheny's pic. Her face stonewalled. Her eyes gave her away. They flashed recognition, only for a second but enough for Sam to catch. She acted like she was thinking before shaking her head.

"I'm sorry, I haven't seen her."

"You sure, Ms. Harper? I've been told she looks different than she does in this photo. I found your name and this place's number in her apartment. Her name is Bianca Doheny. Does that name sound familiar to you?"

"I'm afraid not. What we do here--" She gave Sam a knowing smirk. "--We have a lot of girls getting referenced for work. I can't tell you how many girls I've spoken to on the phone or talked to in person since last week." 

"What about a tall, lanky guy with sandy blonde hair. Seen anybody like that hanging around here?"

Another flash in her eyes. Fright mixed with annoyance. Warm. Sam was getting there.

"Certainly not. All our employees are female, even the cleaning crew. Any man hanging around without just cause would be thrown out by either building security or the police. And, Mr. Bennett, I have answered your question so you no longer have just cause to be in this lobby."

Sam passed her his card. He did not bring up the blackmail/extortion angle Thor gave him. He played nice and thanked her for his time. He beelined to his car and got in. Sam hinked on something down the block. A black SUV. It was there behind him earlier today. Same car or just a lookalike? He shrugged it off, those cars were everywhere. He counted seconds. Seconds became minutes. Minute thirty-one: Vikki Harper hauling ass out of the office building in pumps. Sam followed in his car slooow. She hit a payphone and dialed numbers. He could not hear but he could see. She spoke frantically. Her eyes were wide. They were concerned. She scuddled to a car and got in. 

Seconds passed. She pulled out and hauled down the parkway. Sam followed a minute later and weaved through traffic, staying four car lengths back and keeping the tail tight. Down the parkway to the southside.

Skyscrapers disappeared. Buildings thinned and yards started to appear. Vikki's car kept pushing to the outskirts of the city and into county territory. Oil derricks. Doheny Oil Derricks. Crude City. Sam slackened the tail and followed from afar. Vikki's car pulled into a ranch style house a half mile from the derricks. He kept going and parked a block away. His cell rang before he could get out. 

"Hello?

Artie Agee said, "Sammy, I got what you wanted and boy is it something. This family is Fucked up with a capital F. Back in the nineties we ran a piece on Old Man Doheny's daughter Sarah in the society pages. She was engaged to marry a regular joe schmo named James Fullbright. Tragedy ensues and Fullbright is killed in a robbery gone bad. There was a big write-up on it in the paper. Nine months later, the family posts the birth announcement of a daughter Sarah gave birth to. Bianca. Her kid with Fullbright. Ten years ago tragedy struck again. Sarah Doheny goes missing and is found two days later, a hypo in her arm and a half-dissolved hotshot in her system."

Doheny's words: "She ran away some years ago and never came back."

Sam lit up a cigarette. "Anything else, Artie?"

"No, nix, nein, nyet even. For a bunch of rich people they keep it on the QT. No society pages stuff out of that."

"Thanks, Artie. I owe you big."

"Damn right you do, boychick. Whatever this is, I either want copy or I want to know the whole story."

Sam promised Artie the full dish and hung up. He smoked and thought the new info out. Tragedy accrued over the years. Grief on top of grief. No parents and living in that rotting house with the old fart could make a girl chafe. He tossed his butt out the car and snuck down the block towards the house Vikki pulled into. He pulled his piece and peeped a front window. 

THERE: Vikki talking to a tall man with sandy blonde hair. No voices coming through the window but he could see worried looks. He ducked and scampered around the back. The back door was locked. He bent and shouldered the jam. It popped. He pushed slow and crept through the room. He heard two voices. He made Vikki's voice. A deeper one had to be the man. A third one just added to the din.

Sam came through a kitchen and into the living room. His gun out. Vikki looked shocked. The guy's mouth dropped. On the couch Bianca Doheny screamed.

--

Sam kept his gun trained on the guy. He was the most likely to come at him. He motioned with the gun towards the couch where Bianca sat.

"All three of you, sit. We're gonna have a nice chat."

They sat. Sam found a chair and sat in front of them. The gun still out and trained for any sudden movements. He looked at Bianca. The clerk at the motel was right. She had bleached blond hair and makeup caked. Her eyes scared Sam shitless. That spark of life was gone and then some. All he saw was vacuum. Not the cute college co-ed from the picture, but a hardened streetwalker. She wouldn't make eye contact with Sam

Sam said, "First things first, what the ever loving hell is going on?"

Looks exchanged between the three. Sam saw entire conversations play out with body language and facial expressions. Vikki started to speak. She got cut short. The front door shook. The front door buckled. The front door flew off its hinges. The door crashed on the floor. Doheny's heavies came rushing through, guns out. Sam pivoted and aimed. He popped off a shot. The lead gorilla took a slug in the shoulder and spun. He flew back against the wall and dropped his gun. Sam aimed for the second thug. The meathead opened fire at Vikki. The tall guy pushed her out the way, made a human shield. Two shots hit the guy in the back. He screamed. Vikki screamed. Blood sprayed.

Sam drew down on the man. The meathead drew down. He had the drop on Sam. Sam winced and braced to get shot. Shots rang out, the thug took three bullets to the chest. He flopped to the ground and bled out. Sam turned. Bianca Doheny with a .22 in her hands. She ran out the house. Sam called after her and ran. He stepped over the dying lug and gave chase. A black SUV in the driveway blocking Vikki's car. The one he made downtown as following him. Bianca got in the SUV and peeled rubber. Sam cursed and ran to his own heap. He was wheezing for breath by the time he got in and sped after her. 

He kept his foot on the pedal. The heap groaned and shook. He redlined it and kept pushing. Ten minutes later he caught up with the SUV on the parkway. She was hauling. She flew through downtown. He knew where she was going: the Doheny house. Sam tried to outrun her. His heap gasped for air. He kept pushing. His heap shook violently. Smoke started to pour. The clunker clunked out a quarter mile from the mansion. Bianca kept zooming as he pulled to the side of the road. He got out and footed it to the house. Halfway down the block to the place he heard shots. He ran double time.

Through the doors and inside the house. Sobs and the smell of something else down the hall. He caught whiffs of blood and cordite. Sam pulled his piece as he walked. Inside Doheny's study, the old man laying on his back with a gutshot. Doheny clamped two hands on his gutshot. He huffed and puffed and looked pale. Bianca sat in a chair and watched the old man dying with glee. She looked up at Sam, the .22 still in her hand. Sam held his hands up, palms flat and out. He dropped the .38 to show his surrender.

Doheny tried to say something. Groans and babble came out. Bianca smiled. Intuition and theory melded in Sam's mind. Hunches coalesced into a working theory that bordered on truth. He walked towards the other chair slow. He sat opposite Bianca. He looked into her eyes and almost fell in.

"Your mom and her fiancee, how much of that was the old man behind?"

Bianca said, "All of it. He had James Fullbright killed and it was made to look like a robbery. He used his powerful friends to rig it up. Politicians leaned on police lieutenants who leaned on criminals. Fullbright had to die. That... thing could not handle someone taking mother away from him."

Doheny moaned again. Sam smelled shit as he lost control of his bowels. Sam played a hunch. He asked, "Was Fullbright your father?"

"No. They put him as my father on my birth certificate, but it was a lie. I did not know the truth until I was twelve." 

"Is your dad who I think it is?"

Tears welled in Bianca's eyes. Those emotionless eyes leaking tears. Spooky looking. She nodded at Doheny. The old man coughed up blood.

"He is my father, that thing down there. My father and my grandfather. He kept my mother prisoner in this house for years. The things he did to her, the things he made her do... the things he made me do. Mother could not take it. She tried to get help. She called the police, social services, anyone who might help her. He bought everyone off and hushed it up. It wore her down to the nub. She ran away and sought out oblivion in the form of heroin. She overdosed and finally found comfort in the arms of infinite oblivion."

Doheny shook his head. Blood frothed on his lips. He looked dead pale.

Sam said, "Running away from home and the kidnapping, give on that."

Bianca said, "With my father getting older and sicker, I took jaunts from home and indulged my wild side. I took drugs and prostituted my body to enrage him. I soiled my body to make it less desirable to him. It made him mad. He was too feeble to beat me so he had his bodyguards do it. Another hooker I knew put me in touch with Vikki. I was originally going to work for her until she found out my secret. She has a habit of collecting dark secrets. The fake kidnapping was her idea. She and Jason, the man who got shot back there, facilitated it. Jason does security for Vikki's call-girl service. Or did. I think he died. They wanted money. I wanted to make him acknowledge what he did to me."

"You saw the ransom as a victory for you?"

"As close to one as I will ever get... or so I thought until I shot him. When those men came through the door... I just.. snapped. I could not handle them taking me back and putting me in this godforsaken house. The things they did to me, the things he did to me."

They lapsed into silence. Doheny's death rattles the only noise in the room. Sam's body ached for a drink. He longed for a drunk stupor to forget all this shit. His own form of oblivion.

Bianca said, "Are you going to turn me in? Vikki said you were a private investigator hired by him to find me." 

Sam looked at the thing on the floor. He did not feel hate. The animal dying there was a parasite. It was beneath contempt. Hating it would require an effort that it did not deserve.

"He hired me to find you. I found you. Case closed as far as I'm concerned."

Sam stood. He reached into his jacket and pulled out what cash he had left. The two grand Doheny fronted him at the start of all this shit. That felt like a lifetime ago. 

He handed the cash to Binaca and said, "Get out of here while you still can. This cash won't get you too far, but far enough away to start over."

Bianca nodded. She stood and walked towards the liquor cabinet. She tore rags and searched for a light. Sam stepped over Doheny's still body. He'd died during their convo. Good fucking riddance. He strolled out the house and down the street. Start over. It was a bullshit concept. You never start over. You are who you are. Somebody once said there are no second acts in life. Sam believed that thoroughly. Killing the old man wouldn't change what he did to Bianca. She could gutshot him a hundred times, none of them would take back all the times wrinkled, liver-spotted hands groped her and made her do horrible things. No amount of running could make her outrun herself and her past. She could change her looks, change her name, change everything about her. But come morning that face staring at her in the mirror would be the same girl: A product of incest who was a monster's plaything for over ten years. 

Sam walked to his heap down the block. He drained his bottle of gin and pulled out his phone. He'd have to report it, he had to. At least two people were dead, one of them maybe died by his own hands. He'd sort-shrift the cops. He'd say his car crapped out chasing Bianca and he couldn't get to the house in time. He'd withhold the truth. It was a lie, but so what?. It'd be just the latest lie at the top of the heap of lies he'd uncovered. Sam smelled smoke. He saw flames coming from the Doheny home. A blaze burning quick time fast. He saw a small figure scamper out the house and run into the dark. Bianca. Sam made a silent prayer to... whatever existed out there that she would get away and find some kind of peace. 

Someone in this world sure as hell had to.
Byrd Man Member

El Hombre Pájaro

Status

Recent Statuses

Bio

Most Recent Posts
