December 23 - 10:34 PM
The Waterfront, Jersey City, New Jersey
We had our guns drawn out, Trevor biting his lip in anticipation. Oliver Jackson was close by, he knew it; the smell of perfume and gunpowder was hovering over the warehouse like a malevolent spirit. Trevor cocked the hammer of his Beretta and crouched behind a stack of boxes. It was a snowless Christmas, yet the rain poured down and, with the cold, formed a sheet of black ice on the pavement that I wasn't particularly fond of.
We climbed up the catwalks silently, fingers poised and itching to pull the trigger. In the control room, Trevor furiously kicked at the old mattress that Jackson supposedly used to make sweet love with his mistress. Trevor had not experienced sweet love for three years and had become increasingly bitter and tight-lipped over the matter for that time.
Jackson was not there. Trevor sprung into one of his rapid-fire rages, unloading his Glock into the mattress while yelling a series of jumbled profanties I couldn't make out, after which he got down on his knees and further mutilated the mattress by hand.
By the time we got to the car, it was raining even harder and Trevor was drinking the last of the whiskey from his hip flask. We got inside the Impala, and shut our doors in unison.
As the engine roared alive, Trevor noticed something. His expression changed from anger to hatred.
"Jackson, there's Jackson!! White Buick! Go, Harry, goddamn it!! Go!!" Trevor
At his request I hit the gas and car fishtailed out of the alley like a bat out of hell.
Det. Trevor Banner was a 6 year detective for the NYPD. I outclassed him by five years, but he was more ambitious that I was or ever'll be.
On the other hand, Oliver Jackson was a piece of Irish scum that deserved to be flushed down a toilet.
I didn't know, at first, why Trevor picked on slimy Oliver Jackson, but I knew after a while.
November 4 - 1:08 pm
Weequahic, Newark, New Jersey
Over the radio, we both heard the Newark dispatcher announce a 444 at Renner and Osborne. It had been a dreary day, and since we were both willing to spice it up, we took the call.
When we arrived there, a young foreign man with a Remington was pumping rounds into a police cruiser while two officers barked orders to no avail, as if they were in charge here. He had blood on his forehead, apparently a result of crashing his Toyota into a telephone pole.
We stopped, drew out our pistols and took cover.
"His licence tags were overdue by four months. The plates were out of Florida, so we stopped him, and he took off but he snagged the pole over there and...."
"Okay. Enough talking. We'll handle them. Orders won't work now. Bullets will." Trevor said coldly.
Trevor stood up and shot off two rounds. One of them busted through the trunk of the Toyota, the other nearly clipped the man's shoulder. The man cursed in some European language and popped open the trunk, carrying at least 30 pounds of crack cocaine. He lifted up one of the 5 pound plastic bags and stumbled away. We paused, as we watched him lose his grip, fumble over the bag, and fall, the shotgun discharging and grazing his face. He lay foetal, screaming in pain as he cupped his head in his hands. The officer called for an ambulance as we rushed over, amazed. Trevor grinned, saying "He just made our job easier."
"Nicolaus Ioannidis, drug runner out of Greece. Not much personal detail. Practically blank." I closed the folder under the lights of the interrogation room. He looked silly bandaged up, but I didn't tell him that.
"You want my file, Nico? My name is Detective Harry Lacy, I'm 43, happily married, I'm Jewish and I smoked pot in high school. Now, I want to know what you were doing with enough coke to retire 30 years early."
He didn't say anything. I wasn't a corrupt cop, but I whipped him in the face with the but of my gun. He howled, his wound flaring up again. He glared at me, then he smiled.
"Can you speak English, Zorba? If you do, tell me why."
"To be specific, it's a who."
"Athanasios Michelakakis. He's a drug kingpin that operates out of Tangier. Ships anything that comes through."
"Who was the buyer."
"Some guy named O. Jackson. I think he's with the Irish mob."
Story under construction.