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Authors: Timothy C. Phillips
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can clear myself.”
“Listen, Roland, I want to help you, but I can’t discuss this here.”
“All right, then. I’ll meet you somewhere.”
“That would be fine, I know the perfect place.”
* * *
Keeler arrived at the “Double Nickels” around 12:30. The place was a hash house and bar that served as a hangout for the cops that worked at the West Precinct. It’s located on 55 th Street, hence the name. He had suggested the place, of course. Home court advantage, I supposed. I would have preferred Sally’s Diner. To further the Double Nickel’s motif, the place was decorated with obsolete road signs from “55 MPH” speed zones; various police paraphernalia was hung on the walls.
Young Jake looked none the worse for wear. I wondered if he’d slept at all since I saw him last. If he hadn’t, he showed no outward sign of fatigue. By contrast, I felt like a survivor of the Bataan death march. Rejoice, O young man in thy youth . We took a seat in a dim corner booth, under a large framed photograph. It depicted two long lines of men in what looked like British bobby uniforms. The caption read:
Birmingham Police Department, 1910. The Good Old Days.
The waitress, a good-looking redhead in her late twenties, brought us coffee. Her name was Beth; she and Keeler greeted each other by first name. We sat in silence until we were served. I decided to skip the niceties.
“I need some answers to a few things.”
“Like what?”
“Why would Hazelwood want me dead?”
“Maybe he was working on Longshot Lonnie O’Malley’s order.” He sipped his coffee and regarded me levelly. That was the same kind of reasoning that had been present in the squad room the previous night. I drew a deep breath.
“Longshot Lonnie has no gripe with me.”
“How can you be so sure? Maybe you have another case that involves his business, and something you’re doing has gotten him mad enough to put the hit on you.” His tone was still guarded.
It was obvious Jake was still uncertain if he could trust me completely. Admittedly, there was a connection between Lonnie and myself, but I doubted they knew about it. But the story Keller and Magnuson presented couldn’t be what the West Precinct detectives really believed. I couldn’t accept this theory. I turned it over in my mind. It just didn’t add up.
“No, Jake, Longshot Lonnie would send some of his Irish boys to whack me, not some cop he’d just turned, which is a pretty valuable property. Besides, I have no beef with Longshot Lonnie. And it can’t be tied to anything else I’m doing. The only other case I’m working at the moment is a young runaway.”
“Do you mind giving me a name?”
I looked out the rain-streaked window. A pretty young black woman in a red raincoat was walking a majestic-looking German shepherd along the sidewalk across the street. She looked like a young Eartha Kitt. She seemed very proud of the dog. I thought of Jerome, and the tattered, homeless old woman, bereft of her last possession.
“I don’t know, Jake, it’s a tough situation. I appreciate that you want to look into all leads. But this is a run-of-the-mill case. A girl’s parents hired me to find her. I’m handling it with kid gloves. This kid’s got a drug problem and she’s trying to straighten herself out. The last thing she needs in her life is police attention.”
He looked down into his coffee cup, as if trying to divine an answer.
“So you haven’t told the parents. Sounds like you might be letting yourself care just a little bit.” At that last remark the all-business cop tone finally went out of his voice.
There wasn’t much I could say in response to that, so I didn’t bother. I looked down, feeling a little uncomfortable. After a moment he went on.
“Look, Roland, I just want to do a little checking. I won’t hassle the girl, I promise. You can think of it as free help. There’s no information that you have to share with me. But I could be taking a
“Listen, Roland, I want to help you, but I can’t discuss this here.”
“All right, then. I’ll meet you somewhere.”
“That would be fine, I know the perfect place.”
* * *
Keeler arrived at the “Double Nickels” around 12:30. The place was a hash house and bar that served as a hangout for the cops that worked at the West Precinct. It’s located on 55 th Street, hence the name. He had suggested the place, of course. Home court advantage, I supposed. I would have preferred Sally’s Diner. To further the Double Nickel’s motif, the place was decorated with obsolete road signs from “55 MPH” speed zones; various police paraphernalia was hung on the walls.
Young Jake looked none the worse for wear. I wondered if he’d slept at all since I saw him last. If he hadn’t, he showed no outward sign of fatigue. By contrast, I felt like a survivor of the Bataan death march. Rejoice, O young man in thy youth . We took a seat in a dim corner booth, under a large framed photograph. It depicted two long lines of men in what looked like British bobby uniforms. The caption read:
Birmingham Police Department, 1910. The Good Old Days.
The waitress, a good-looking redhead in her late twenties, brought us coffee. Her name was Beth; she and Keeler greeted each other by first name. We sat in silence until we were served. I decided to skip the niceties.
“I need some answers to a few things.”
“Like what?”
“Why would Hazelwood want me dead?”
“Maybe he was working on Longshot Lonnie O’Malley’s order.” He sipped his coffee and regarded me levelly. That was the same kind of reasoning that had been present in the squad room the previous night. I drew a deep breath.
“Longshot Lonnie has no gripe with me.”
“How can you be so sure? Maybe you have another case that involves his business, and something you’re doing has gotten him mad enough to put the hit on you.” His tone was still guarded.
It was obvious Jake was still uncertain if he could trust me completely. Admittedly, there was a connection between Lonnie and myself, but I doubted they knew about it. But the story Keller and Magnuson presented couldn’t be what the West Precinct detectives really believed. I couldn’t accept this theory. I turned it over in my mind. It just didn’t add up.
“No, Jake, Longshot Lonnie would send some of his Irish boys to whack me, not some cop he’d just turned, which is a pretty valuable property. Besides, I have no beef with Longshot Lonnie. And it can’t be tied to anything else I’m doing. The only other case I’m working at the moment is a young runaway.”
“Do you mind giving me a name?”
I looked out the rain-streaked window. A pretty young black woman in a red raincoat was walking a majestic-looking German shepherd along the sidewalk across the street. She looked like a young Eartha Kitt. She seemed very proud of the dog. I thought of Jerome, and the tattered, homeless old woman, bereft of her last possession.
“I don’t know, Jake, it’s a tough situation. I appreciate that you want to look into all leads. But this is a run-of-the-mill case. A girl’s parents hired me to find her. I’m handling it with kid gloves. This kid’s got a drug problem and she’s trying to straighten herself out. The last thing she needs in her life is police attention.”
He looked down into his coffee cup, as if trying to divine an answer.
“So you haven’t told the parents. Sounds like you might be letting yourself care just a little bit.” At that last remark the all-business cop tone finally went out of his voice.
There wasn’t much I could say in response to that, so I didn’t bother. I looked down, feeling a little uncomfortable. After a moment he went on.
“Look, Roland, I just want to do a little checking. I won’t hassle the girl, I promise. You can think of it as free help. There’s no information that you have to share with me. But I could be taking a
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