Author: Guede Mazaka
Greenly could be a real loudmouthed jackass, but even he didn’t deserve this dropped on him. Nothing to be done, though. When the Feds wanted in, it was best to just stand out of the way.
Thirty years on the force, and not a damned thing to be done. It was really lowering—nice to know what experience with the neighborhood and with the people was worth. Fucking bastards up in D. C. and Langley who couldn’t cool their heels long enough for the good hard thorough workers to start sending in their reports, which half the time were what solved the cases. No, election year and they all started getting ants in their hair, and it wasn’t the fucking stuff on the tops of their heads. So what’d they do? Send down some hotshot FBI guy to snoop around and tell the BPD what was really going on with a couple of dead bodies. Jesus Christ on his fucking cross, but a couple of dead bodies on this street were nothing special. Even mobbed-up dead bodies didn’t mean shit; maybe they were sparking a gang war, maybe they were having internal strife, and maybe, just maybe they were nothing more than a couple of low-level drunk punks walking into the wrong alley.
And the best part was yet to come. Not only was it a hotshot FBI guy, but it was a flaming one they were getting sent. Paul Smecker. Earlier on, walking into the office for the ritual touch-base hi-let-me-fuck-you-over-in-person meeting with the head of the local law enforcement, and the twist of his hips swished. The metaphor of taking one for the greater good just corkscrewed a little deeper in the wound.
He wasn’t even some young idiot that could be broken back, sent packing with his ears just beginning to dry out. No, he had age in his face and especially his eyes, which laughed because he knew exactly what his presence was doing to dignity and pride and territorial feelings and because he was very fucking much enjoying it. Smecker was a smartass and he’d survived federal law enforcement, so he knew he was a goddamned good one. Flashed it all around, with every dry little back-twisted comment and every extra-limp flip of the fingers and every. Single. Time. He requisitioned something and followed it up with “if it’s not too much trouble for you boys.”
Somebody needed to take him out back and show him with a pistol-butt that his kind didn’t get to make it that old, that they were supposed to burn out or fuck out or lash out one time too many and then there was the small obituary with its “long service to the nation” somewhere in the fine print. Biggest lie of all, because Smecker wasn’t here to serve anybody, except maybe his own hunger.
That was in his eyes, too. Only men that ever got it were the crooked cops, who were out to get whatever their badge would let it, and the feds, who flitted from case to case too fast to feel the backlash of one breaking. Maybe it wasn’t a hankering for cash, or for fame, or for power, but it was all the same. He was going to waltz into the case and take possession of it, fuck it hard till he ripped out all its secrets and then carry them off as trophies. It’d leave him emptier than ever and soon he’d be prowling some new tape-lined bloodstain, watching and waiting to tear into it. Never mind the media—they annoyed but only because they were fucking with the case. Never mind the ajar windows in the tenements all around with the many dull, cold, hating eyes peeping through. Never mind if they had family and if months later the repercussions were going to come down the line, bang bang bang and fill up the morgue with weeping women pointing out birthmarks. Never mind that. That wasn’t a puzzle.
Well, puzzle this one out, Smecker. Puzzle it out and God willing, it’ll puzzle you out. Fuck you inside out and leave nothing behind but your chalk-outline self.
Greenly stomping around the bodies, gloves swooping, crazy mouth in full swing. Smecker’s hand rose to push aside the BPD and signal his entrance, and all that could be done was to step back. Tip the metaphorical hat and hope he’d never walk out of the shit.