Hound55
DeadDrop
Blizz
Izurich
Theyra
Eviledd1984
Sotiras
NoriWasHere
Dion
05/22/47
Gotham Central
8:13 AM
Inspector Merkel slid a small box across his desk. Max nabbed it and opened it up. Chills. In the box: A silver lieutenant’s bar resting on crushed velvet. Merkel lit a cigarette and raised his eyebrows.
“A bit premature, but it does become official the first of July. Congratulations, Lieutenant Eckhardt.”
Max snapped the box closed and looked up at Merkel. "Thank you, sir."
"Don't thank me. Around here, we reward good police work with more work."
The Chief of Detectives smiled and pulled out a bottle of booze and two glasses. Max felt the Thirst come on strong. His mouth watered. He dry swallowed as Merkel waved the bottle.
“I know it’s early still, but one drink won’t hurt.”
Max saw the gleam in Merkel’s eye. Max resisted the urge to drool. Max shook his head.
“I’m trying to cut back, sir.”
Merkel stashed the bottle back. Max had a flash of intuition: Merkel wanted to see for himself. He’d probably heard the rumors that Max went cold turkey after he killed Chris Durfee. The rumors were true: Whiskey Max was dead.
Merkel said, “Well, maybe another time. You’ll be receiving official word in the next few days. First of July you report to the eastern division as the head of their detective squad.”
Max flushed and coughed. He said, “Sir, I was under the impression when my lieutenancy went through, it was to be as a commander of one of the downtown detective divisions. I think my work as interim commander of homi--”
Merkel held a hand up. “I’m going to stop you right there, Max. You have done some exemplary work for this department, especially in the last year or so. The Snapshot Killer was a career maker, and your work filling in for Boyle has been terrific.”
The inspector flashed a wry smile and added. “Hell, you even got Two-Gun Jack singing your praises, which makes me wonder what exactly you have on him.”
Max let the joke pass in silence. He waited for the other shoe to drop. “But…”
Merkel sighed. He held out his hand and ticked off points. “One, you’re thirty, Max. Young brass always breeds resentment with the rank and file, detectives more so than patrolmen. Two, a first-time lieutenant taking over any detective squad is unprecedented in department history. Your record plus political friends are why your first posting as a lieutenant isn’t a nightshift commander of harness bulls so count your blessings on that front. Three, Boyle has to be replaced with a Mick. Captain Branden is taking over Robbery from Coogan. You taking over Homicide would throw everything out of whack. We need to put a Mick in Homicide to keep the Balance.”
Max seethed. The Balance: Old school political machine bullshit. In the GCPD there were two kinds of cops: Irishmen and others. The Balance decreed that for every Irish brass, there was a corresponding other. The Balance was a relic of a bygone era. The Balance encouraged lines to be drawn down ethnic lines. The Balance fucked over qualified non-Irishmen. Non-Irishmen like Max.
Charlie Fields popped into the office before Max could respond. “We got a DB on the westside. Local precinct is radioing in for downtown assistance.”
Max pocketed the box with the lieutenant’s bar in it and started out the door. He looked back at Merkel.
“I’m not done, Inspector. We’ll talk about this later.”
Merkel stretched and smirked. “I’m sure we will.”
---
The Dining Car
8:45 AM
Slam ordered steak and eggs with a pot of coffee and and waited for his contact. He needed to coffee to stay awake. Long nights he was used to, but working downtown narcotics was très tedious. After Shotgun Max blew away Chris Durfee Slam put in for a transfer out of Homicide. The shooting put too much light on Eckhardt. It anointed him as a golden boy and blew Grogan’s mandate all to hell. Two-Gun Jack froze Slam out of the mob squad. He got scooped up by the narco boys.
Narco had a reputation as being the most corrupt. And in this white man’s department, that was saying a whole fucking lot. They were insular to the extreme. They shunned outsiders. They watched Slam warily and gave him shit assignments. He ran R&I reports, he ran tails on pissant dealers who operated without GCPD sanction, he intimidated independent operators and roughed them up. During raids he watched the backdoor in case someone ran away. He wanted to work cases. Requests got him the cold shoulder. His rep as dumb muscle was locked in with the narco gang.
Six months in and his career was stalling. Grogan never returned his calls and avoided him. His new idea was a desperation play. SHAKEDOWN CITY writ in neon. He had enough local celebrity cred to pique Gossip Gertie’s interest. His narco gig offered entrée to the scandal rag for scintillating copy.
The coffee came and Slam started on it with no cream or sugar. A few minutes later a tall redhead slid into the booth across from him. She grabbed the spare cup and filled it up with black coffee. He could smell booze on her. She downed the cup and started going in for a refill. Slam watched silently, intrigued.
“Gossip Gertie?” he asked. ”You sure as shit look a lot better than I imagined.”
The redhead said, “And for a former boxer, your face isn’t the pulverized mess I thought it would be. You’re still fuck ugly, but in an adorable kind of way.”
Slam chuckled while the redhead finished off her second cup. He detected the traces of a Southern accent. Hidden under the tough talk, but still there.
“Vicki Vale,” she finally said. “Managing editor for the Gabber and I’ll be working with you on… whatever this scam is.”
Slam lit up a cigarette. “Scam?”
Vale took Slam’s pack and lighter and lit a cigarette for herself. She blew smoke and framed headlines in the air with her hands.
“‘Prizefighter Turned Pugnacious Policeman Prowls for Pushers with Passion.’”
Slam groaned. “Jesus Christ. With writing like that you must work for Gertie.”
The waitress came and laid a plate in front of Slam. A sorry cut of meat next to two overcooked eggs. He stubbed out his cigarette and dug in while Vale started on her third cup of coffee.
“I know a shakedown when I see it, Detective Bradley.”
“Call me Slam,” he said between bites.
“We’ll compromise and I’ll call you Bradley. So, Bradley, Gertie thinks you can get him some primo dirt for the Gabber’s pages.”
Slam shrugged. “I’ve got snitches who know all kinds of things. Being a celebrity on top of a cop makes a lot of people eager to please. I’m sure once this thing gets rolling, they’ll be even more willing to give up some dirt. Now what about payment?”
Vale raised an eyebrow. “I look like I work for the GCPD payroll department?”
Slam shook his head. “Cute. I figured that old fag would try to not pay me. Look, lady, I’m helping your paper out--”
She cut him off. “In exchange for exposure, right? You want to be the one-man war on hopheads, get that career of yours back on track.”
Slam leaned forward across the table.
“Who says that my career is off track?”
She didn’t waste a second with her comeback. “So letting a witness die on your watch was part of the plan?”
Slam felt a pit in his stomach. He slung his silverware onto the plate with a loud clatter. Other diners looked over curiously. Slam saw a geek in an elk’s hat look up from his Bloody Mary.
He said slowly to keep his temper in check. “My going rate is sixty bucks a piece for each roust and story I provide to you.”
She shook her head. “Too high. I only get paid forty bucks a story.”
“Well, I’m doing the important part, sweetheart.”
“Thirty bucks,” she said. “Take it or leave it.”
“I can call Gertie right now.”
“Find a payphone and call.” She crossed her arms. “He’ll probably offer you ten bucks a story.”
“Jesus fucking Christ,” said Slam.
She pulled out a card and slid it across the table. She said. “No, Bradley. It’s Victoria Alison Vale.”
He looked at the card. It had her name and numbers. He let it there. Instead he pocketed his smokes and lighter and stood. “You can at least pay the bill. I’ll be in touch when I have something.”
---
Westside Gotham
9:02 AM
“The body is in the back.”
Max walked into the bungalow and put a handkerchief to his nose. The placed reeked of burnt flesh. The front room was in disarray. Jacobs, the western dick, led him and Fields through the house. More scenes of chaos in the kitchen and bathroom. Max stepped over broken mirror glass that littered the floor.
“Landlady found him this morning. She saw the door was ajar and came in… to this.”
The back bedroom was tossed just like the rest of the place. On the hardwood floor: a dead naked man. A white towel wadded up in his mouth. His eyes frozen in shock. Burns covering his body. Max held his nose and took a deep breath.
Fields asked, “Who was he?”
“Landlady said his name was Theodore Duncan. She claims he was a gigolo.”
Fields snickered as Max wrote down details in his notebook.
Jacobs said, “No shit. She claims he comes and goes all hours of the night. Wears flashy suits, has women over despite her complaints.”
“Thank god for old biddies,” said Max. “Jacobs, where are you in the investigation?”
“Uniforms are canvassing the neighborhood, morgue men are on the way. Although from the way those burns look I can almost guess the cause of death.”
Max bent down and looked at the towel in the dead man’s mouth.
“Don’t be so sure. The burns are scarring, but not life threatening.”
Fields said, “The burns were torture if I had to bet. See the way the place was ransacked? The killer was looking for something.”
Max stood. “The fact that they still tossed the place means our friend on the floor here didn’t give up whatever it was they wanted.”
Jacobs whistle. “Damn, I am sure thankful I called you downtown guys to come in on this one and take over.”
Max thought about a future where he was the boss of guys like Jacob. A whole squad of Keystone Cops at his disposal. Investigating nickel and dime crimes. All the important cases would be bootjacked by downtown detectives. The thought sickened him. It made him hanker for a couple of shots, something that would burn his throat and chest and drive the image from his mind.
A booming voice with a thick drawl. “Actually, this is our jurisdiction.”
Two-Gun Jack Grogan waltzed in like he owned the goddamn place. Two-Gun Jack in his shitkicker boots had a good four or five inches on Max. His Stetson added even more height. He winked at Max as he strolled through.
Max said, "Captain, this is a homicide."
Grogan pushed the stetson back and smiled. “Your powers of observation are outstanding, Sergeant Eckhardt. This is a homicide, and the man on the floor is a known organized crime associate. Or was, I should say. Mob squad is taking the case over.”
Max fumed as Grogan walked around the crime scene. He made chitchat with Jacbos. Max started to open his mouth. Two-Gun Jack turned around and cut him off.
“Congratulations on the promotion, Sergeant.”
Grogan slapped Jacobs on the back with a beefy hand.
“Truly, mentoring bright pennies like Detective Jacobs here is where you belong.”
