Jacknife

The sleek squad car moved through the desolate city streets of Lude, orange streetlight glinting off its dull grey surface, the siren lights mounted on top of it remained silent. This was just another car doing just another job, no fanfare here.
Sheets of rain pelted the vehicle as it carried two men onward to their destination, trepidation marked its coming, fear mingled with relief followed it like a wake. No one unmarked by its silent passage.

The building it pulled up to was typical lower-middle class, shoddy and weather-worn, old boxes and discarded bicycles formed a barrier between the walls and the dangerous street, as if the people sheltering inside had sought to fortify themselves from the harsher elements of the night.

Tonight their fortifications had failed, the two men – detectives – were on their way to a murder scene.

The car came to a stop and the two men stepped out, both tall and cold, chiselled features made hard by a life spent frowning, their bodies almost painfully taught. Bedraggled shapes parted for them like wailing peasants at an altar, moving aside for the priest, with awe and respect, as well as a healthy touch of terror.

They stepped across the bright yellow line without slowing, not a one of the fat city cops sought to stop them, their trench coats – as grey as the squad car and now slicked by the rain – marked who they were, how far up the cities food chain they had managed to claw.

Wary eyes glanced up as they entered the lobby, more useless cops taking useless statements, citizens who knew their civil rights, but were all the more frightened for it, unnerved flashes of faces. Here an old woman in a fluffy pink nightie, green goo smeared around her eyes. There a worried father, a brood of children under his swarthy arms, repeating the same story over and over to the cop.

They had no secrets, the two men took them in with a glance and moved on, Room 221 one of the twins had told them over the radio, and so to 221 they headed.

In the rumbling open air elevator the taller one finally spoke, breaking the tension.

“Sposed to be a nasty one” He said, removing his hat, “Multiple stab wounds to the chest.”

“I heard.” The other replied, his hat firmly planet on his head, “Anyone know the mark?”

“Nope, total mystery. Female, early 20’s, dark hair and tanned skin. Isn’t even her apartment.”

“Do we know whose it is?”

“Feller named Bojangles. Sounds fake. Got the twins chasing him up.”

The second man nodded, his hat dripping water through the grate on the floor as the elevator came to a stop. The room was at the end of the hall, next to an airy window boarded up against the rain, another of the cops stood outside, talking to a leggy brunette in a grey suit.

“When did The Investigator get here?” The taller one muttered darkly, “We can handle this.”

“Any excuse to see me, I expect” The shorter one grinned suddenly, the smile looking out of place on his careworn face, he called ahead to the woman, “Investigator Courtney, what a wonderful surprise!”
She turned to the voices, “Detective Cal” she replied, smiling a little smile, one that died as soon as she spotted her fling’s partner, “Detective Eaves.” She nodded.

“Investigator.” He replied shortly, “How’s the scene?”

“Clean, far as we can tell.” She looked into the room, “Lot’s of blood, hers. No hair, no footprints, no skin under the fingernails, no semen… nothing.”

“Suicide?” He asked.

“Few people stab themselves in the chest repeatedly.”

He nodded humourlessly; unsurprised that she hadn’t detected the apathetic sarcasm in his voice, “Let’s see it.”
They entered the bare room. Wallpaper - bright once, now faded with time and stained with water damage – a small couch, a smaller television set, few amenities.

“No knick-knacks, no curtains…” Jack spoke after a second, “This place was inhabited, not lived in.”

“There’s the mark.” Cal pointed to a hastily thrown bed sheet in the centre of the room, blood stained the carpet around the shape a deeper shade of red, photographers and evidence takers shied away and scattered in the path of the two solid men, leaving the room as the Detectives knelt beside the form.

Together they drew back the sheet, revealing the flesh beneath. She was pale now, all beautiful veins tracing red and blue, a single bloodshot eye staring into infinity, cold hands bound over her breast, tied by the ropes of rigor mortis. Most of her face wasn’t visible behind her hair.

“Six times.” Cal remarked, gesturing to the entry wounds with his fountain pen, “Twice above the heart, once in the left lung, another three times to various parts of the ribcage.”

“Crime of passion?” Jack asked, more to air the possibility before his partner could, rather than to get any real confirmation.

“Almost definitely, she’s pretty isn’t she?”

“She’s dead, Cal.”

“You know what I mean…” He used the fountain pen to part her hair, “Stunning eyes.”

“Christ.” Jack looked away, “I know her.”  Cal didn’t reply, waiting his partner out.

“The mark’s name is Laura Williams, she ran the dry cleaners down on Fifteenth Street.” He sighed, “I’d been going in there for months, flirted a little, talked some on a bad day. She was a good woman.”

The Investigator came forward, “Got anything off her?”

Cal took her aside, presumably to explain the situation to her, Jack went through the motions of evidence gathering automatically, his mind elsewhere.

Finally his partner returned and put a stern hand on his shoulder, “Let’s go grab a coffee. We’ve given the twins her name; they should have something for us by the end of the hour.”

Minutes later they were down the road, sipping hot cups of steaming black joe from chipped off-white mugs, drying themselves in a corner booth that stood stark red against the darkened streets, the lights outside the pane glass window distorted by the constant rain running down them.

The two didn’t speak of any casual matters, words were unnecessary, they’d been partners a long time and had exhausted conversations of common interest by almost the second day. But they worked well together, and when they did speak it was of just that: Work, of the case at hand.

After a time Cal’s transmitter chirped, the Twins with an update.

“Got a lead on Bojangles” the girl on the other end spoke, “Nineteen, in and out of trouble with the law on petty drug charges and some light thievery, cops tagged him as a ‘sophisticated crook’, also branded him a real ‘smart ass’”

Jack tried to work out which one it was, the Twins often switched their duties in the cramped computer room, slaving over the database on a dotty old computer that was outdated the week after it was purchased. He could picture them now, easily thinking of them as one person with one voice, hunched over the terminal in slacks and an oversized jacket, the chipped cornices flaking plaster dust down on them like snowflakes every time the thunder boomed a little too close.
He figured it was probably Trip on the other end, Pep busy in the filing cabinets that lined the other wall.

“Location?” Cal asked.

“Dropped out of sight five days ago, his friends – the ones we can track down - figure he’s dead, we got a lead on someone who figures they spotted him down near The 11th Hour Club yesterday.”

“We’ll check it out anyway, anything on the Williams girl?”

“Nothing more than you gave us.”

“Got it.” Cal clipped the transmitter back to his belt and scarfed the rest of his coffee. “We’re going to The 11th Hour Club?” he asked for much the same reasons Jack had earlier suggested the murder as a crime of passion.

“We’re going to The 11th Hour Club.” He confirmed absently, leaving his cup half drained as he escaped from the booth. They were making for the door when a student slammed into the taller detective, she was a small thing, blonde and soaked through by the rain, out alone on the dangerous streets, toddling her schoolbooks in one hand with a tiny child in the other.

She was thrown off-balance, sacrificing the schoolbooks to keep the child in her arms. It started squalling as Jack bent to pick up the scattered text’s.

“Hey thanks.” She beamed at him, looking the entire world like a fair-haired angel that had taken a wrong turn and stumbled into hell’s best coffee joint, “I didn’t mean to… Oh, hey!” She greeted him again, this time with the warmth of familiarity.

“You’re welcome.” He replied, handing her the books and making to swerve around her.

“Oh, uh. Hey, you don’t remember me, do you?” She asked, “I was talking to you last night, after you broke up with your girlfriend. I almost didn’t recognize you in the cop getup.”

Jack looked at her curiously, “I wasn’t here last night, and I don’t have a girlfriend.”

“Oh, bummer.” She frowned, “Must have been someone else after all, no worries.” The baby burst into a fresh peal of tears, “Oh crap, I have to get him some food, It was El, by the way, Ellie Rito. Thanks for the hand.”

“Detective Eaves.” He took her proffered hand and shook it briefly before ducking past her and out the door.

Cal and Jack hit the sidewalk, pushing against a driving rain that was quickly becoming sleet, The 11th Hour Club was only five blocks away and by an unspoken mutual agreement – which is to say, neither wanted to appear soft in front of the other - they decided to hoof it.

“That was unusual.” Cal said as he buttoned up his trench coat.

“The girl?” Jack replied, “Nah... A lot of people think they know me.”

They reached The 11th Hour Club without any trouble, the shabby little club served as the control centre for an almost organized criminal underground. If you wanted to do business in the underworld of the northern ‘burbs, you went through Jim Graves, and that meant coming to The 11th Hour Club.

Two women guarded the door, the blunt outlines of semi-automatic weapons only just concealed against their heavy raincoats, disguised more as a polite dignity than as any attempt to fool anyone. The name of the club was written in fluent running neon’s that flickered and flashed in time to a madman’s tempo, elementary chaos in the mundane. Drivers hunkered against the strong wind, their eyes flared sporadically by the glows of lit cigarettes as they waited for their owners to collect them.

No other signals or tags marked the building, just two guards and that sign. The people here knew who held the power.
One of the guards recognized them, the detectives were frequent visitors to The 11th Hour Club, they could never quite get enough on the crafty old man to pin him with a warrant, but they had gleaned from his clever word games enough in the past to make some very difficult arrests.

“Detectives.” Mori intoned formally, “What brings you hearabouts?”

“We need information.” Cal replied, “And we need it fast, the trail is going cold.”

“Aren’t they all?” The other woman replied, the two men didn’t know her name, but the word: “Justy” was scrawled across her knuckles. “What’s the charge?”

“Police business.” Cal said shortly.

“Then it’s none of ours, and none of Graves’s.” Mori replied, closing the matter. Jack watched his partner make his ‘can’t-we-just-blast-them’ face, and for a moment he was tempted to let it escalate.

“Murder, first degree. Chasing the perp.” Jack told her, putting a restraining hand on Cal’s arm, “Last seen with your boss yesterday, like to have a little chat, that’s all.”

“We figure a professional man such as old Graves would know where to find him.” Cal snapped. Mori rolled her eyes and stepped aside, Justy gave them a hard look as they passed her.

The club was dingy, the drinks served warm or not at all, the wait staff rude, the music just a little too loud and a decade behind the times. Complaints were made, but those who made them soon found the bouncers were very grabby. At this time of the morning, the club was deserted.

It was the sort of place an honest citizen would only visit once, and it was a façade only a dishonest citizen would spot. And no detective in the city was completely honest.

The two moved deftly through the crowd, offering the bartender a casual nod, the bouncers little more than a glance, as they pushed past the curtain marked “Staff Only” and back into the real 11th Hour Club.

From the outside the club looked like a little place backing onto a much larger warehouse property, one that simply read: “Gravy’s Shipping Co.” The loading bays were almost constantly full of trucks, and Jack knew more than one detective who’d give his shooting arm and a good fuck to know just what was shipped out of there.

From the inside the two buildings were one, a rude false wall existing between The 11th Hour Club and the Warehouse, more artful false walls and Japanese paper filters separated the real 11th Hour Club from Graves’s operations.

Dozens of men and women were scattered amongst tables, the red and blacks of card games on the dull green of playing felt, many chips and many dimes being exchanged with every hand.

The room smelt of desperation and desperate glee, the gaudy clothes of the high rolling patrons clashed with the subtle elegant decorations the big man had chosen for his establishment.

The detectives kept their heads down, not wishing to be seen. Detectives were as much a fixture to the 11th Hour Club as the patrons, and indeed added to the thrill. But it didn’t pay to recognize the mayor’s nephew losing big time over on the craps table.

Paid even less to be recognized by the mayor’s nephew as he lost big at the craps table.

The two pushed through the crowd to the slightly eschewed lounge area at the back, Graves sat in a pale plush easy chair, monitoring his casino through a series of close circuit camera’s scattered at every table. A lamp cast harsh light onto half his face, leaving the other in shadows. Here the patrons could come and gloat on their winnings, or more often beg for additional house credit.

He wore a white tuxedo jacket and black tuxedo pants, his tie split both colours straight down the centre. Jack had always felt this was the most unsubtle thing about the enigma of a man. A long thin cigar smoked from between his teeth.

“Detectives Cal and Eaves.” He welcomed them without looking up, “What brings you here?”

“Your arrest.” Jack snapped back, “You finally overplayed your hand.”  Graves chuckled in a fatherly nature, “No, no, no, I think not. You’ve come to beg more favours on behalf of your Chief, haven’t you? Tell him I’ve quite extended my credit as far as I’m willing to.”

Both men selectively ignored the jibe, but inwardly they breathed sighs of relief.

They’d caught Graves in a white mood.

“You’re here about the murder of that Laundromat girl, aren’t you?” He asked them genially, “There’s not much I can tell you, I’m afraid, but…” something on one of the CC’s caught his attention, and he waved his hand at them in a dismissive gesture “Excuse me, just a moment.”

He glanced over his shoulder and two people stepped out of the shadows, one was a huge brute with fists the size of bricks, the other a smooth faced woman with lithe muscles.

“Harold, Vera, we have a cheater on the second Black Jack table, could you please escort him out?” He asked them politely, both complied. The younger woman seemed to look at them for a moment, but didn’t say anything. Jack wondered if he’d imagined it.

Again the two detectives wilfully ignored the cry of despair as a young man was roughly dragged away.

“Not much gets by you, does it?” Cal said when Graves refocused his attention on them.

“I wouldn’t be very good at my job if it did.” Graves sat back in his easy chair, “The only man who might be able to I.D the killer of this girl is a drug mule who frequents the poker tables, his name is Bo – goes by the alias Bojangles – good kid, clever mouth, could go places if he learns to shut it once in a while.” Graves tapped another cigar out of the tin.

“Happen to know where he is?” Jack asked.

“Not a clue.” Graves replied, and suddenly grinned as he struck a match, “How unprofessional of me.”

Cal motioned for them to leave, and Jack followed him out. Graves gave them one last parting shot; “You won’t find your answers with him though, in fact if I’m on the money, he’ll be dead within ten minutes of your introduction.”

They exited through the false front, Mori leered at Cal as he passed and said something Jack couldn’t overhear as they crossed the threshold from light to dark and dry to rain.

“Come on.” Cal took off down the street, towards a side alley. Left with little else to do, Jack followed. It was well past the midnight in the city, the streets still well populated – if by a different breed – and the heavy weather still showed no signs of letting up.

When he and Cal entered the alley, it wasn’t so surprising to find it occupied, the tough from the club stood smoking under a flickering exit sign, the dim green flashes reflecting off her dark suit. The surrounding walls of the dark buildings stood like watchtowers, sheltering them from the rain.

“You had a tip?” Cal asked.

“This Bojangles, the one you’re looking for.” Vera began, “I know where you can find him.”

“What’ll it cost us?” Jack interjected before Cal could reply, nothing came free in this city. Her smoke went out, she tried to light it with shaking hands and failed, Cal brought his own Zippo up. A signal the two had developed years ago.

“I want out.” She said after a long draw, “Out of this life.”

“Don’t we all.” Jack replied sourly and stalked back to the entrance of the alleyway, keeping an eye out for trouble, letting his partner do what he did best. Time passed and the rain picked up, he heard the click of the Zippo behind him twice more, when the groaning started he glanced back to see his partner had the woman pinned against the seedy bricks of The 11th Hour Club.

He sighed and wandered towards the entrance again, wondering why the Williams girl’s death bothered him so much. Murder was nothing new to him, but this one really got under his skin. Was it because he knew the mark? Had seen her so often in everyday life? To see that little slice of normality, a girl he had thought about, fantasised about, caught in wanton intimate moments, joked with and teased. To see her lying butchered on the gaudy floor of a cheap motel was... almost too much to bear...

The moon, full and ripe, peeked from behind the cloud cover, interrupting his thoughts as it cast strange eclectic shadows across the streets, casting white light and fear into the hearts of the nocturns around him.

He himself one of them.

From the club’s entrance he heard a saxophone playing, remembered a time he’d dropped his uniform off at the dry cleaners and stumbled across the Williams girl belting out a jazzy sax tune, thinking she was alone, it had tapered off with an embarrassed smile and clumsy fingers as soon as she saw him.

A painfully thin woman, gaunt cheekbones and dark scabs turning her worn face into a jagged mockery of its former beauty, caught him off guard with her piercing blue eyes.

He remembered Laura’s eyes, full of life, dancing and twinkling in jest as her perfect lips delivered some stinging riposte. And again, dead and empty, staring up at a stained yellow roof, but not seeing it. Seeing nothing.

A scream pierced the night, echoing out of the alleyway, Jack drew his snub nose .38 revolver and bolted to the alley. The girl was on the ground, a gash on her leg bleeding profusely, Cal had his own snub drawn and aimed square at a thug.

Jack covered him as he helped the girl to her feet, the thug didn’t move, but neither did he seem afraid. An all too common occurrence in this part of the city, the little fish took on the big fish, only to discover a shark.

They got the girl in a taxi and she went on her way, comforted by whispered reassurances from Cal.

“Where we heading?” Jack asked.

“Downtown.” Cal replied, and set off on foot again.

The deeper into the bowels of the city they went, the scarcer the population became. No late night coffee shops here, only strip joints and bars, cheap and tacky. Prostitutes shied away from them, but kept them within sight. All too aware of what they were, all too aware they could be friend or foe. Aware they were the law, and aware that they were men.

The detectives ignored them, they hunted bigger game tonight, and they felt themselves closing in. Cal didn’t presume to explain where they were going, and Jack didn’t ask again. They watched every angle just as every angle watched them.

They reached a shabby looking brothel, the windows and doors done up in an Oriental style, one that would have looked exotic in another part of town but here in these surroundings screamed of desperation.

“In there?” Jack asked.

“You can stay out here if you want.” Cal replied.

“If I don’t come in you’ll waste the entire night inside.” There wasn’t the hint of a smile in his reply, but Cal knew he was joking.

The bosun of the house was a surprisingly young man, one Jack had seen through the station a number of times, unsurprisingly on charges of illegal prostitution and people trafficking - although both crimes barely rated a slap on the wrists these days.

“Snail-man.” Jack greeted him.

“Detective Eaves!” Snail replied, standing up from his office chair, spilling the popcorn in an attempt to brush himself off. The small colour television blazed away with some movie promising some false hope and an even faker dream.

“You know him?” Cal asked.

“We’ve developed a working friendship.” Jack replied, “Snail, we need one of your clients. It’s important.”

“Uh, sure…” Snail replied, “Which one..?”

“Bo, he may have signed in as Bojangles.”

Snail flipped through an old fashioned rolodex, pulling out a driver’s license and handing it to the tall detective. Jack examined it in a glance, it was a fake. The ink had run under the plastic, the picture was shopped over someone else’s, the age was obviously wrong and the name read only “Bojangles”.

He flipped it over, no address was listed.

“Third door, the torture chamber...” Snail pointed them down the hallway.

“Why don’t you wait here, Cal.” Jack said in low tones, “Keep an eye on Snail, he’s a slippery one. He’s helping us now, but I wouldn’t turn my back to him.”

“Got it.” Cal replied confidently, his attention more fixed on the whores than the slippery man.
Jack set off down the hallway, the musky smell grew stronger down here, the walls were painted an airy pink, each door marked by a paper sign with a euphemism for the deviant activity going on inside.

He eased open the torture chamber door, unsurprised to find a drab room with a single wooden bench. The walls were slate grey, and covered in a number of instruments, some he was hard pressed to identify. One in particular intrigued him, a carved horn like a rhinoceroses, ribbed and sharp.

Bojangles was strapped to the table, naked from the waist up, while an Asian beauty stood over him with a dripping candle. She fixed him with a dead eyed stare, evaluating and dismissing him in a glance, Bojangle’s eyes were filled with fright.

Jack knew he cut an authoritive silhouette.

“Officer! I didn’t know this was an illegal whorehouse!” Bo squeaked as he squirmed in his bindings, the girl enjoyed it for a moment before letting him loose, the lad rolled to his feet rubbing his wrists.

He was tall, his bare chest scarred but smooth. Long black hair fell in curls around the nape of his neck. There was something familiar about him, but Jack was sure he had never seen him through the station before.

“Bo, A.K.A Bojangles?” Jack asked.

“Yes, look, I thought…” he trailed off, “Oh you!” he said after a second, his eyes adjusting to the light as he recognized the man at the doorway.

Jack frowned.

“Here for more powdered courage, detective?” Bojangles asked with a grin, “Lucky for you I have some in my jacket just over here, you paying with cash again?”

“What are you talking about?” He felt the lie in his own words, he knew exactly what the boy was talking about, he experienced a disconcerting flash like double vision. Himself, talking to this boy, not thirty hours ago.

“Little Meth-C, nip of the old powered courage, clears your mind and lets that old natural charm flow through.” The boy continued slyly and winked as he reached into his jacket pocket and ruffled around.

The room span in and out, more images flashing before him, over what he was seeing, under what he was seeing, the past was the now, the now the past…

Mixing an orange powder into his coffee spiked with jack. The Asian prostitute moving away from him. Overhearing two men at the station blaming a rape on ‘powdered courage.’ Bojangles pulling something out of his discarded jacket. Talking to the Williams girl at the dry cleaners, asking her what she was up to after work. Bojangles turning towards him. Feeling dizzy and hurt and rejected. Heavy footfalls in the corridor behind him.

A knife.

A bloody knife.

Bojangles had a knife!

“Drop it!” Jack screamed, “Put it down!”

“Wha?” Bojangles started as Jack drew his snub nose.

“Put down the weapon!” He screamed almost hysterically, tears running down his cheeks.

“Chill, man.” Bojangles began lowering the knife.

Stabbing. Stabbing and blood and the horrible clean-up.

He swiped at his eyes, trying to clear the tears and the visions, “I said put it down!”

“Jack, lower the gun.” Cal said from behind him, he heard the double snick of another snub nose being cocked.

“Cal! He has a knife!” Jack screamed.

“Jack…” Cal started, almost kindly, “Get down on the ground, put away the gun… I just got off the transmitter to Pep, that El girl I.D’d you at the scene last night… At the Williams building…”

Jack screamed wordlessly, in his eyes Bojangles was advancing wildly, knife held aggressively.

“Hey come on man!” Bojangles said, close to tears, “I even leant you my hiding hole…”

That was too much, Jack fired. The bullet slammed into the young man, vivid red on slate grey. A girl was screaming. He fired again. Thought he fired again. Felt something hot in the centre of his back. The world span and swam and sparkled as he felt himself go facedown and not understanding why.

Cal was talking rapidly, but he couldn’t make out the words. Bojangles swore and cursed, it seemed startlingly clear.

Another scream rent the girl.

And in his mind he saw the knife coming down over and over again.

And then he saw nothing.