Savage Rage (7 page)

“I take it you're the crisis team?”

“Yeah, we are,” the half-plainclothes, half-uniformed cop said, not sounding overly impressed.

Jack didn't blame him; he sure as shit didn't want to deal with loser Ted anymore. “He's all yours.” Jack stepped aside, waving the crisis cop in.

The cop moved into Ted's bedroom and was followed by his escort, the psychiatric nurse, Jack assumed. At first glance, Jack thought Manny had changed jobs.
Do all guys who shave their heads grow goatees
? But the nurse was too short to be Jack's former partner. About the same height as the cop — book ends, Jack thought sarcastically — the nurse gave Jack a dismissive look as he stepped past.

What's your problem?

Nurse Little Manny tapped Juliet on the shoulder. “Excuse me, officer.” He took her spot on the bed when she got up. The cop stood to the side, forming the third point of the triangle between cop, nurse and loser.

“Ted, is it?” the nurse began, speaking slowly and calmly. Jack figured the calm wouldn't last long once the nurse learned Ted had been willing, or at least said he had been willing, to take a swan dive because of a burnt sandwich. “I'm Aaron. I'm a nurse from St. Michael's Hospital.”

The cop turned to Jack and Juliet, but his words were for Jack. “You can wait in the other room.”

Jack's back went up. First Ted wastes their time and now this jerk thought he could order them around as if being on some stupid team made him special. Jack had been about to step into the living room; he'd had enough of Ted's blubbering. But he decided to stay put.
Fuck this cop and his crisis team.

Juliet must have sensed the tension growing in the room. It wasn't hard to miss, with two cops glaring at each other. “C'mon, Jack. Let's give them some room.” She had to tug on his arm to get him moving.

Once away from Ted and his two holier-than-thou babysitters, Jack relaxed. He blew out a deep breath and some pent-up frustration in the process. “Those guys are supposed to help us out?”

Juliet shrugged, heading to the kitchen. “Seems like everyone's in a foul mood,” she declared, looking pointedly at Jack.

“What's that supposed to mean?” First the cop with the fire-hydrant head, then the chubby nurse, now Juliet? As he'd told Ted, this wasn't right, not by a long shot.

“Nothing much,” Juliet explained, crouching to pick up the frying pan and sandwich. “I guess Ted likes grilled cheese.” She tossed the pan into the sink, adding to the unwashed stack. She found the garbage under the sink and dropped the charred bread in. She went to wipe her gloves on the dish towel, thought better of it and used her pants.

“Well?” Jack asked, impatient.

Juliet joined Jack by the couch, where they could keep an eye on the bedroom door. Officer Hydrant Head had deliberately shut the door. Closing it had not been the wisest of tactics but Jack grudgingly admitted to himself that he might have done the same had the roles been reversed.

“You tore quite the strip off Ted and it seemed a little excessive. Harsh.”

“He pissed me off,” Jack defended.

“Obviously.” When Jack didn't answer, she blunted the edge of her words with an open smile. “You could have toned it down some, that's all.”

Jack wasn't so annoyed that he was invulnerable to her smile. “Okay, I guess I was a bit offside, but come on! He was going to kill himself over bad cooking?”

Juliet grinned in agreement. “Some people are just perfectionists, I guess.”

Jack snorted and they settled in to wait for Hydrant Head and his nurse to deem the lowly uniforms worthy of notice. It didn't take long. A few minutes later the bedroom door opened and Ted came out, bracketed by Nurse Little Manny and Officer Hydrant Head.

“Ted's agreed to go to the hospital with us, so we won't need you for transport,” Hydrant Head announced.

All five of them left the apartment. The ride down in the elevator was quiet. Even Ted was silent, his sobbing all dried up for the moment. With nothing to say, Jack studied Nurse Little Manny and decided that, other than the shaved head and goatee, the man looked nothing like Manny. When Juliet had explained the CIT to him, Jack had just assumed the nurse would be some soft-hearted tree-hugger, but this guy — Aaron, was it? — didn't come across like that at all. Jack noticed that Aaron kept a wary eye on Ted and the slight downturn to the corners of his mouth suggested he wasn't the biggest smiler. Not at work at least.

Aaron was also wearing a jumbled uniform. Unlike his escort's royal blue jacket, the nurse's was a dark blue, almost black, emblazoned with CRISIS TEAM across the back. He wore a ballistic vest over his T-shirt and there was a radio on his hip. Jeans and running shoes completed the outfit.

Semi-casual and pretty comfortable looking.

They left the building and Hydrant Head placed Ted in the rear of the CIT car, an unmarked Crown Vic, plain white but with a caged back seat. Then the cop headed for the driver's side before Jack could say anything, so he spoke to the nurse. Aaron stood in the V of the open door with one foot already in the car. He did not look impressed.

“Listen, I just wanted to . . . apologize for overreacting up there. I guess I've been a little stressed out and Ted looked like a good target to blow up at.”

Aaron looked at Jack for a moment, not speaking, then nodded. “Yeah, well, you definitely could have handled the situation better.”

“So I've been told,” Jack agreed, gesturing to Juliet. “But, honestly, I don't understand it. I mean, I know he's depressed, but he burned a sandwich. I could understand it if he was getting evicted or something, but it was so . . .” Jack groped for a word.

“Inconsequential?” Aaron suggested.

“Exactly.”

“That's what made it so bad,” Aaron said, shaking his head at Jack's ignorance.

“You've lost me,” Jack admitted, truly bewildered.

The Crown Vic roared to life, telling Aaron it was time to go. He ducked his head into the car. “Hang on a sec.”

Straightening up, he said, “I've got to make this quick.” He ran a hand over his scalp, looking at Jack as if he was searching for the easiest explanation. “Depression is often described as hatred turned inward. A depressed person will think things like ‘I'm no good' or ‘My family would be better off without me.' They feel loathsome or useless.”

“That's what he said,” Jack remembered, pointing at the rear seat.

“I don't doubt it. If you or I had burned our lunch, we would've said, ‘Shit, I'll have to make another one.' Ted thought, ‘I'm so useless, I can't even make a sandwich.' Get the idea?”

Jack nodded slowly as understanding dawned. “I think so.”

“Don't they teach you about mental illness at the college? Depression, schizophrenia, borderline personality disorder?”

Jack laughed, embarrassed. “I've never heard of that last one. They teach us our grounds for arresting under the Mental Health Act, that's about it.”

“Unbelievable,” Aaron said and in that one word Jack heard a depth of frustration. The car jumped as the engine revved. “That's my cue to go.”

“Hey, thanks for the help and the quick lesson. I'm Jack Warren.” Jack held out his hand and Aaron gave it a quick, firm shake before climbing into the passenger seat.

“Aaron Wallace. No problem, guy. See you around.” Aaron slammed the door but not before Jack heard him say to Officer Hydrant Head, “Jeez, guy. You're one impatient bitch, aren't you?”

Jack's impression of Nurse Little Manny jumped a few notches.

1437 hours

Jesse Polan was horny.

If there was one thing worse than needing some crack and not being able to find a dealer, which rarely happened in Jesse's neighbourhood, it was being horny with no one to fuck. Jesse wasn't just a bit horny, he was that blue balls, gonna explode kind of horny. The kind of horny he only experienced when indulging in some particularly fine rock. And he had scored some exceptionally fine crack yesterday, not as good as that Black stuff on the streets last summer, but pretty damn good. He'd also been able to afford half an eight-ball thanks to a couple of easy house breaks. He had spent all of last night high with enough rock at hand so that every time he felt himself coming down all he had to do was light up and he was back to feeling fine.

But he had woken up this morning — or was it afternoon? — with a fucking giant case of blue balls. After a quick hit to get him started, he headed out, looking to get fucked. He hoped to run into what's-her-name with the green hair. She was skinny as shit with a couple of lumps she called tits but could she ever suck a dick. Fuck! He was getting hard just thinking about her. When he found her, he'd offer to share what was left of the half eight-ball if she came back to his room. That would be fucking fine. Nothing like fucking on crack. He was so hard it felt like he had a steel pipe shoved down his jeans.

Jesse stepped out onto the rickety front porch and paused to pull at his dick, trying to find a comfortable position. On the sidewalk, a woman pushing a baby stroller saw him and frowned.

“What the fuck you looking at, bitch? You wanna suck it?” Jesse unzipped and the woman hurried off. He laughed at her fleeing back. “Bitch prob'ly never saw one as big as mine.” Fuck, yeah, he was feeling fine!

He zipped up, careful not to snag the equipment and pulled his jacket tight. Still fucking chilly. “Thought it was s'posed to be spring. Fuck.” But not even the brisk air could dampen his mood. He had a good coat, army surplus, with lots of pockets to hide things. It was fucking warm and kick-ass black. Jesse liked black. It was tough, cool. Fucking kick-ass fine.

That green-haired chick — what was her name? Linda? Leslie? Fuck her name — usually hung out around Queen and Sherbourne, so Jesse headed south on Sherbourne, following in the steps of the cocksucking bitch with the stroller, though he had already forgotten her. As he was about to cross Shuter Street, who did he spot but the green-haired whore. She was working the corner over on Seaton. One glimpse of her lime spikes and he was steel-hard again. He crossed Sherbourne, his dick leading him like a blood-pumped divining rod.

She was watching the cars cruising by and didn't see Jesse until he was beside her.

“Hey, Greeny.” Jesse grinned, proud of the nickname he made up. What the fuck was her name?

She jumped when he spoke, but by the time she turned to look at him she had a twenty-dollar version of a come-hither smile on her face. “Hey, baby, you looking to party?”

“Fucking A, I am.” Fuck, but she was skinny. Even skinnier than the last time he'd fucked her and that couldn't have been more than two weeks ago. She must be seriously hooked on rock and that was just fine with Jesse. Fucking kick-ass fine. Any whore who needed crack that much would be more than willing to spend the night fucking and sucking. And for a lot less rock than he had originally thought about sharing.

“Twenty for a blow, forty if you wanna fuck too.” She opened her ratty old raincoat to show him her stuff. She had on a grungy T-shirt cut off just below her itty titties and Jesse could see her hip bones jutting out above the sagging waist of her jeans. Fuck, she was skanky. Smelled skanky, too. But Jesse's dick had only one thought in its head and it was saying that Greeny, small tits, skanky smell and all, was just what he needed.

Jesse stepped close, digging into his pocket. Shielded by their bodies, he opened his hand to show her six pieces of rock, each pea-sized piece individually wrapped in tiny twists of plastic wrap. Her eyes flared and her ashen tongue darted out, licking her cracked, pale lips. Jesse smiled. He was going to have fun tonight.

“What say we go back to my place and party there?”

“You'll share?” Her voice was no more than a shocked whisper. She sounded like a devotee enthralled in a vision.

“Three for me, three for you, baby.” Which would leave him with plenty more for himself after he kicked her out on her skinny ass. “Let's go.” Jesse grabbed her by the arm, but she dragged her feet to a stop after only a few steps.

“I can't,” she whined.

“What the fuck you mean you can't?”

“I . . . I'm not supposed to go anywhere.”

“What . . . oh.” Jesse snickered. “Been caught keeping a bit more than what's yours, eh?” Fuck. If her pimp had her under orders to stay in one place, which he would do so he could keep an eye on her and collect after every trick, then her coming back to his place wasn't going to happen. But Jesse's balls were about to blow out the front of his pants. “All right. Twenty for a blow. But you ain't gettin' any of my rock.”

Greeny whined again, a feeble mewling sound back in her throat. “Please, I'll fuck you for free.”

“Tell you what. If you blow me real fuckin' good, maybe I'll give you a piece. Maybe. Where to, bitch?”

Seaton Street was a nice little residential road lined with old houses. She led him up to a laneway that ran from Seaton and behind the apartment buildings on Sherbourne Street. She pulled him into a tight gap between two dumpsters and dropped to her knees. Jesse tilted his head back as she fumbled at his pants. Finally! But after a few seconds, he realized she was tugging at his pocket, not his zipper. The bitch was after his rock!

“You fuckin' whore —” The words died in his throat as he felt something cold and sharp press into the soft flesh beneath his ear.

“Move and I'll cut you, motherfucker.” An arm wrapped around Jesse's throat.

Jesse froze. “Chill out, man. I ain't doin' nothin'.”

The bitch had set him up. Fucking crack whore! Next time he saw her he was going to slice her open from snatch to throat. But for now all he could do was play statue while the green-haired bitch dug the rock out of his pocket.

“Get his money, bitch. Hurry!” The guy behind Jesse smelled almost as bad as the whore and when he spoke warm spittle sprayed Jesse's ear.

The whore was whimpering in excitement as she turned his pocket inside out, dumping the rock onto the ground. She cried out in dismay and began frantically snatching up the precious rock. Jesse felt like stomping on it, crushing and grinding each fucking piece into the asphalt. And maybe her fucking fingers as well. But he stood still, the knife at his neck a strong reminder of what would happen if he moved.

“What the fuck are you doing, bitch? I said get his fucking money!”

“He's got rock, Leo!” She was sobbing hysterically, searching through the garbage at her knees, her fingers splayed like those of a blind man hunting for his dropped cane. Each gem she found disappeared into her pocket.

“What else you got, fucker? Huh?”

The knife jabbed into his neck and Jesse knew he was going to die. Fuck! All he'd wanted was a blow job. It wasn't fair. It just wasn't fucking fair. He'd never done anything to this guy or his whore. Fuck, he couldn't even remember her name.

“Don't kill me, man. Please don't fuckin' kill me.” His voice cracked. Hot tears spilled from his eyes. Jesse didn't feel so fucking fine anymore and the woman with the stroller would have laughed if she saw the snivelling boy the tough guy with the dick had turned out to be.

“You make it worth my while,” the man, Leo, breathed, almost caressing Jesse's ear, “and maybe I won't cut you. Much.”

“You always talk tough when you're sticking a guy, faggot?”

The arm holding Jesse flinched and the knife jabbed him, sharp, hot pain, as his captor spun, trying to see who the uninvited guest was. Jesse whimpered, still in Leo's embrace. Leo stepped back from the shelter of the dumpsters. The whore ignored everything except the precious pieces of crack.

“Who you calling a faggot, asshole?” Leo demanded, digging the knife in as if Jesse had spoken.

“You're the guy with his fucking dick shoved up another guy's ass. Looks kinda homo to me, faggot.” The new player in this little game was standing not ten feet away, smoking a cigarette like he had nothing better to do. Despite the cool air, he was wearing only a dark blue sweatshirt and jeans. The sweatshirt's hood was up, draping the upper half of his face in shadow, but the sleeves were gone, no doubt ripped off to expose arms knotted with muscle. Studded leather wrapped each wrist.

“Fuck off, motherfucker. This bitch's money belongs to me.” Leo jerked Jesse closer.

“I fucking hate cowards.” The man's voice was low, gravelly, his words unhurried. Jesse flashed on an image of Clint Eastwood draped in a poncho, a hat pulled low over his eyes. This guy was talking like Eastwood did in those westerns. Just before people started dying. Jesse was not an educated man; he'd left school halfway through grade seven. But he realized his situation had just gotten a lot fucking worse. As a robbery victim, he would have lost his crack and what little money he had left. But caught between Leo, who kept squeezing him tighter and sticking him with that fucking knife and the new guy, Jesse knew he had gone from robbery victim to shield.

“Hey, man. Leo? C'mon, Leo, just take my money and go. Please?” Jesse liked to think of himself as a tough guy and he'd prove it, too, every time a safe opportunity presented itself, but his real talent was begging. He wasn't a big guy and begging was how he had survived all this time. He'd learned that a lot of predators lost the heart to seriously injure their victim when that victim was wailing and blubbering on his knees. Jesse would rather be spat on in disgust than take a beating like a man.

“C'mon, Leo, please, I don't wanna die.” His tears were flowing in earnest. His chest hitched as he sobbed. “I don't know this guy, man. Just let me go.”

“A man shouldn't cry.” The stranger flicked his cigarette butt away, then reached up to slowly push back the hood of his sweatshirt. A strip of black hair, cut short and about three fingers wide, crested the stranger's head. His face was lean, angular, and the goatee did nothing to soften it. His was not a friendly face but one more prone to cruelty. If the man laughed, Jesse thought, it would be at the expense of others. He radiated violence and in its heat Jesse's tears ran dry.

Something about the stranger tweaked a memory in Jesse's crack-shrouded mind. Something he'd been told? Some rumour on the street?

“Leo?” Green Hair was checking in.

“Stay where you are, bitch. You run on me and I'll kill you too.”

The whore had stopped searching for the dropped crack long enough to clue in that something wasn't going according to plan. She scuttled deeper into the dumpster nook.

Leo, his whore and loot secured for the moment, turned his attention back to the man in the hoodie. “Fuck off, motherfucker, or I'll slice you too.”

The stranger shook his head; his eyes never left his prey. “Can't.” He stepped toward Jesse and Leo.

“This little bitch belong to you? You can have the motherfucking loser, but I'm keeping what's fucking mine.”

Leo shifted, ensuring his human shield was between him and the approaching stranger.

Jesse might have stopped crying, but his face was sweat soaked, his greasy hair matted to his forehead. He searched frantically for an escape route, knowing he'd have only a brief chance to save himself when the violence started. And he never doubted it was going to get violent; the stranger had blood in his eyes. It was a hunter's look. A killer's.

To the right was the whore, hiding between the dumpsters and a wood fence. Leo was behind Jesse, backed up against an unyielding dumpster. The stranger was in front of Jesse, almost close enough to touch. All Jesse could hope for was a chance to dive to his left. If he could get free, he would run as fast as he fucking could. To hell with the crack and his money.

“Back the fuck off, man!” Leo thrust his knife threateningly at the stranger, slicing the skin on Jesse's neck as he did.

Jesse wailed.

The stranger attacked.

His hands flashed out, ensnaring Leo's wrist and hand. With a pleased grin stretching his tight lips, the stranger began to apply pressure, forcing Leo's trapped hand against his forearm. Leo's knife clattered to the ground and Jesse wriggled free. He was halfway down the alley when a sudden, sharp scream stopped him.

Jesse turned. Leo was on his knees, cradling his right arm to his chest, the hand hanging at an impossibly wrong angle. Now it was Leo's turn to cry. Tears coursed down his black skin.

“A nigger?” Jesse was stunned. “A nigger tried to rob me? A nigger?” Jesse found courage in his outrage and Leo's defenceless circumstance.

“Thought you might come back,” the stranger said when Jesse stood beside him. Suddenly, viciously, the stranger smashed his knee into Leo's face, driving his head into the dumpster with a dull, meaty
clang!
The sheer brutality of the strike shocked Jesse, but only for a moment.

When the stranger didn't follow up on the attack, Jesse pounced, laying into Leo with his motorcycle boots. His nigger-stomping, ass-kicking boots. Again and again Jesse slammed the heavy boots into Leo's ribs. A maniacal grin contorted his features. He thought he might be drooling.

In time — seconds only, really; his drug-wasted body was incapable of sustaining such intense effort — Jesse fell back, his cadaverous chest heaving spasmodically as he fought to breathe. Through watering eyes, he watched as the stranger hauled Leo to a sitting position, propping him against the dumpster. The stranger pulled something from a pocket and held it so Leo could see it. Jesse shuffled closer. It was a flat, jagged triangle of black stone, no bigger than his palm. He squatted down to observe, intrigued.