REAL LIFE/REAL DEATH Chapter Eighteen

“HELP”

I tensed up, tried not to show it, briefly debated the merits of life in jail, and decided to just swallow my whiskey.

Koslowski sat down at the bar next to me and ordered a drink.

I said nothing.

After a few sips from his beer, he turned to me and said, “Ain’t you got nothin to say to me, Frank?”

I said nothing. I confess, when I’m drunk, I’m not much of a quick thinker. I’m impulsive, yes, but that’s not the same as being quick witted. Right now my impulses were telling to me to bite Koslowski in the jugular. It took all my thinking power to decide not to do that. Yet.

“You know,” he continued, “you’re a wanted man right now. You know you killed that guy back there? Every cop in town is looking for you.”

“So fucking arrest me.” I croaked.

“Do you see a badge? I’m off duty. Besides, that guy you killed, he was one of Gurly’s men. Gurly ain’t happy. He put the word out to the street--”

He left a tasteful pause before finishing his sentence, “—dead or alive.”

I was finding it harder to think by the second.

“So, which one’s it going to be?” I asked.

“Neither. I don’t give a shit about you, Frank. I’m interested in a much bigger prize, and I think you know where she is.”

“Fuck you.”

“Frank, you don’t get it. You’re fucked six ways to Sunday. Wanted by the Police and by Gurly. Every person in town is looking for you. Right now I’m the closest thing to a friend you got. Like I said, I’m not interested in you, but I am interested in something else. And I’m willing to help you out to get it. I’m offering you a deal here.”

“Are you deaf? Fuck you.”

“Do you understand what I’m fucking telling you? Before the night is over, you are either going to be in jail or at the bottom of a lake. But I’m here to give you a third option. You can be back in your shitty apartment sleeping off a hangover. I can fix things for you. Provided you help me out.”

I sucked the ice out of the bottom of my glass.

“I know she was with you. I know you met her friends here. I just need a room number. You can walk out that door right now, go home and get a good night sleep, and never think about this again. All you have to do is give me the number.”

Before I even thought about answering, I heard another familiar voice behind me. This time, the one I was expecting earlier.

“Frank, are you through yet? You know you’re not doing anyone any good by drinking. But I guess you don’t care much about that, do you?”

She was mad, go figure. She also hadn’t seen Koslowski, or maybe she didn’t recognize him. I dunno, but it was obvious she didn’t realize she was interrupting a conversation, one sided though it may have been.

But it didn’t matter, Koslowksi fucked it all up in no time.

First, he quietly said to me, “C’mon Frank, don’t make me threaten the girl.” Then he turned around and stood up. Sandy recognized him.

“Oh Jesus,” she whimpered.

Koslowski put on his official policeman’s voice, “Everything’s alright ma’am. I just need your cooperation. He grabbed her by the arm and said more sternly, “Tell me which room their in and nobody will get hurt.”

Those were the last words out of Koslowski’s mouth because I smashed my bar stool into the back of his fucking head.

Sandy and I ran out of the bar. I didn’t check to see if he was still breathing.

REAL LIFE/REAL DEATH Chapter Seventeen

"A FEW MORE"

The question tumbled out of my mouth.

“Did you just say, Koslowski?”

“You know him,” Super Citizen flatly said, glaring at me.

“Yeah, worked with him when I was on the force. Mother fucker’s been hounding me all week. I should have known he was up to something.” I confessed before spitting out a crass, “Fuck!”

I could tell a few of them were put off by my loud swearing. I don’t spend much time with groups of people in public and just got used to saying whatever thought came to my head. I guess that’s one of the things Sandy’s talking about when she says I need to get my head on straight.

But still. FUCK!

I don’t know why I even bother to get upset at myself, it’s all so fucking pointless. I knew Koslowski was a bad cop, but I guess I just didn’t believe (or perhaps didn’t WANT to believe) that he was actually mixed up in drug dealing. My head was hurting and I really needed a drink. Tension was high and I was fucking tired. These last few days have been the most stressful days of my recent life. They’ve also been the most sober, which comes as no surprise. I’m pretty sure stress and sobriety go hand in hand.

Thinking about how tired and sober I had become really began to piss me off. It was unfortunate then that there was a payphone downstairs in the bar.

“I’ll call Detective Ross,” I said, “he’s the guy you’re going to want to talk to.”

There was some arguing back and forth as I left the room, but I wasn’t really listening to any of it. I just wanted to make the call and get the hell out of there. I didn’t care what happened to anyone at that point. By the time I had got to the elevator, Sandy had come running out of the room.

“Frank, what’s wrong?” She asked, stepping into the elevator.

“Nothing,” I mumbled, “Once Ross gets over here I can finally go home and get some sleep.”

“What about everything that’s happened? What about that guy you shot?”

I continued to mumble. “Self defense. Whatever. I don’t care. I just want some fucking sleep.”

“Frank!” she shouted, successfully snapping me to attention, “if what you said up there is true, the Koslowski is looking for you. He knows something. You are in danger.”

“Probably.”

“Goddamnit FRANK!” she shouted just before the elevator doors clicked open.

Without hesitation I walked out of the elevator, pacing my way toward the phone. That must have pissed her off (I suspected it would) because she did not follow me out. Rather, she let the doors close behind me. Presumable she went back upstairs.

As I made my way to the phone, I felt the familiar approach of two lifelong acquaintances of mine: Self Loathing and Depression. I was going to call Ross, but not until after I’d gotten a few drinks in me. It’s the only way I can really have a conversation with someone anymore.

After a few whiskeys (I don’t remember exactly how many) I made the promised call to Ross. He did not answer. I left him a message, or sorts, apologizing for not waiting for him earlier, and telling him that I had some important information I needed to get to him right away. I would have told him to meet me at the hotel, but I couldn’t remember which one I was at. So I just hung up and had a few more whiskeys.

I downed the drinks pretty fast, I’m not one to waste time letting the alcohol settle, and waited for Sandy to come get me. I knew before long she would get worried and come yell at me for drinking, but I didn’t care. I didn’t care about anything at this point. Jennifer was back with her friends, and as far as I was concerned, she was no longer my problem. The mystery had been solved; whatever mystery it was, I don’t think I was ever sure myself. My god I was stupid. I’d been running around the last two days trying to find the answer to a question I didn’t even know. And the answer was staring right in my fucking face the whole time. I should have just stayed in my car that night. I never should have gotten involved.

Just as I was in the throws of my own form of self flagellation, I finally heard a familiar voice behind me, saying very familiar words.

“Jesus Christ, I knew I’d find you in the bar.

But it wasn’t Sandy, like I was expecting.

It was Koslowski.

REAL LIFE/REAL DEATH Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Sixteen

"IDIOTS"

The hotel room was full of idiots.

I guess that’s a harsh way of saying it, but I’m not a guy who wastes time trying to think of the perfect word to describe something. These people were fucking idiots.

The hotel room was actually pretty big; it had to be to hold all these people. It’s what they call a suite, I suppose. Whoever sprung for this room must have a lot of money to waste, and let me tell you, none of these idiots looked like they had any of that.

The Watchman, the guy that brought me and Sandy up to the room, he stood out the most. He must have been at least a good ten or twenty years older than everyone else. I’d place him in his forties. I guess he was kind of the unofficial leader of the group. He had a calm, but authoritative voice and a real procedural way about him, but not in a militaristic way, more like a boy scout leader.

The next one I noticed was Captain Kick. This kid looked ridiculous. He wore an all white shirt and pants, with red gloves, boots, and helmet. As if that wasn’t bad enough, he had a symbol on his chest; it was a white silhouette of the bottom of a shoe surrounded by red spray paint. He must have laid the paint on thick too, because it was splattered and dripping all over the front. The jackass looked like a used tampon.

The other two didn’t put near as much effort into their costumes. Pisces wasn’t even wearing a costume really, unless you consider looking like a ridiculous hippie with flowers in her hair a costume, which I do. And Ombre, was just wearing some battered old military BDU’s and a green tank top and ski mask. The kid looked like a criminal, but he was definitely in the best shape out of everyone here. He was probably ex military; he just carried himself that way.

There was another member of the team that was not present, Super Citizen. He was supposedly out getting more information. Jennifer didn’t like him, she said he never really talked to the group and never tried to make friends. I guess he took this thing seriously. That worried me.

“Detective Calico,” said Watchman interrupting my thoughts, “we seriously can’t thank you enough for protecting Night Cat the way you did. Everybody’s been on edge since the incident and we all assumed the worst.”

“Right, yeah well you know…” I’m not good when put on the spot and couldn’t think of anything eloquent to say. All that came out was, “you’re welcome.” I suppose that was polite enough though.

While Jennifer was talking with the rest of the team, Watchman took me aside to talk. I felt bad for Sandy, she was kind of keeping to herself.

“So, Night Cat tells me that you have a friend at the police force. Someone who can help us out?” He asked.

“Yeah. Well, maybe,” I said, “I was supposed to meet him tonight, but then things got fucked up. I don’t know if he’d really want to stick his neck out for me anymore?”

“Do you trust him?”

“Do I trust him?” I echoed.

“Yeah, is he trustworthy,” he repeated.

Do I trust Detective Ross? The same Detective Ross that got me fired and took my job?

“Without question,” I answered.

It’s true, Ross and I have a history, but I can’t really blame the guy for anything he did. He did what was right. I was in a bad place at the time. My wife and just left me and took our daughter with her. I’m not saying that excuses my action, I’m just saying it had broken me down. I was drinking pretty heavily, course I had been doing that for a while anyway, but now I was doing it on the job. We were investigating a double homicide. Wife and Husband had been killed, ten year old daughter was missing. Forensics had already swept the house, I had gone back to follow up on some new information. At least, that’s what I said, I guess I really just wanted to wallow in somebody else’s despair. I heard a scuffle behind me and fired my gun. It was the kid. She had been hiding in the neighborhood since the murder and came back for a toy. Thankfully, I was too drunk to shoot straight, but the shock nearly killed me. It was the last time I ever fired a gun(until today). Ross reported it, got me suspended, forced me into AA. I quit the force shortly after. I don’t hold a grudge. I know there was no malicious intent in Ross’s action, he genuinely wanted me to get help. He even made a few follow up visits after I quit the force, just to see how I was coming along. He was a good man, though, that’s for sure. I must have been a big disappointment to him.

“That’s great!” he exclaimed, “You see, we’ve got some information about the drug heist from the other night, but we need to be real careful with it. We’ve got a positive ID on the two parties involved, but we can’t go to the cops with it. I was thinking maybe the news channels.”

“Why can’t you go to the cops?” I asked, fearing I already knew the answer.

“Because the mother fucker selling the mother fucking drugs was a cop,” said a muffled voice from across the room.

I looked over to the door and saw a young man enter the room. He was wearing black slacks and a black button up silk shirt. A small black fedora completed the outfit.

Apparently, Super Citizen had arrived.

“Super Citizen,” questioned Watchman, “why aren’t you wearing your costume?”

“What, are you retarded? We’re in a five star hotel and are currently on the run from killers. I’d like to stand out as little as possible, thank you.”

Super Citizen looked like a guy that was perpetually pissed off. The guy had the appearance of someone who wanted to be classy, but I could tell it was an act. He spoke in a low, deliberate voice, like every sentence he spoke was a performance not part of a conversation. He had a thin, barely visible mustache, and his face was covered in pock marks. As my ex-wife would have said, “he had unfortunate skin.”

They say not to judge a book by its cover, but I didn’t like him. He looked like an ass and he wasn’t really doing anything to change my opinion of him.

“Who the fuck is this?” he growled, indicating me.

“This is Frank Calico. He’s a private detective and he saved Night Cat’s life. He’s going to get our information to a good cop,” explained Watchman.

“There’s no such thing as good cops,” he spat out.

“Look,” sighed Watchman, “I’m not going to have this conversation with you again. We need to get that information into the hands of the authorities. If what you say is true—“

“Course it’s true,” interrupted Super Citizen, “I recognized that mother fucker was a cop the instant I saw him that night, and I just double checked it out with my sources. Mother fuckers name is Koslowski. Some Polish prick.”

Shit, I tell you now, when I heard that name, I was much more surprised than I should have been.