I got a call from Precherman, which is weird in itself. That he wanted my help was even weirder. He set up a meeting for a crappy little apartment building at the corner of 27th and X, his home turf, this had to be bad news.
I gathered up Lloyd, who didn't really want to go, "It's all icky, there," he whined. He whined, but got into the car.
"I don't like it either," I admitted reluctantly. "Preach called me, it must be something important. He usually handles his own issues internally. If he's calling us, it's because he doesn't want to raise his profile."
"Either that, or it's something that involves crossing a line that he's not prepared to cross."
Lloyd is good. He's probably right, which made me a little more nervous than I had been as we reached the meeting site.
My hinky-detector started to throb as we got to the apartment. Top floor, farthest from the stairs. Dead-man's corner. I knocked. Preach opened the door. His eyes shifted quickly to the right, but it was too late. An enormous pair of hands grabbed my coat and hauled me into the apartment. The arms those hands were attached to, flung me across the room. The dry-wall smelled damp and old. I know because my nose nearly became integrated with it at a significant velocity.
One of those enormous hands pressed into my back, pinning me to the wall. The other enormous hand reached into places all over me, and into some places I'm reluctant to touch, myself. "He's clean," a voice just behind my ear stated ever so matter-of-factly. Good thing I left my Nerf blaster at home.
Lloyd and Preacherman were sitting side-by-side on a cheap ratty-assed couch that looked like it had been upholstered in the late 70's during a bad microdot trip. Looming over them was a guy in a cheap three-piece suit, bad hair, and porn-star mustache. He held a gun on Lloyd and Preach. He looked like he knew what he was doing. That was actually reassuring.
Mr. Big Hands had his gun pressed up to my ribs. He didn't vibe nervous, either. Good.
The door slowly closed. The closer had an authoritarian air about him, which made it almost funny to watch him look around outside, as if trying to determine how the weather looked as he sealed us in. He actually looked pretty decent in his suit, which just meant that it fit well enough to conceal his shoulder rig. His shoes were good, and well-kept, which meant he didn't run in them, and his coat was an obligatory trench affair, open, but with the belts tucked away. He liked to appear bigger than he was. All of which was fine, since I knew who he was.
"Detective Lieutenant Moore," I said. "So nice to see you, again. It's been what, five years or so?"
"Cut the chatter," he growled. "You know what this is about."
"You want to chat? Put the guns away," I said. "We're not packing and there's no threat from any of us."
He gestured to his two goons, who seemed disappointed as they holstered their weapons.
"I repeat, you know what this is about."
Interesting. Statement, not question, this could get really hot, since he was already assuming things that I didn't have a clue about. "Unless you're here to grill me an how the Huskers' only real problem on offense is to see that the Young Guns get an equal number of carries in order to give I-Backasaurus Rex a break, I have no idea."
"Trying to play it cute, huh?"
"Not at all. That would be like Northwestern trying to play anything that even resembled a defense. The let Penn State score 34 on them. Penn State! The Knitting Lions celebrate getting into the endzone as often as Republicans hold office in Chicago, and they scored at will on Northwestern. Rex, Taylor, Kenny and company should have no problem dropping 50+ on the Purple Pussies."
Lt. Moore slammed his hand down on the table, "Shut it!" he shouted. "You need to tell me why you did this," he said as he tossed me a small bundle.
I caught the bundle and unwrapped it. It was a photograph, or rather a series of photographs printed on one sheet. The showed a very interesting tableaux of Lt. Moore and a pretty well-known "Lady of Negotiable Affections" engaged in a sequence that when viewed in a certain angle, at a certain light, would place Moore in a very bad way. The sheet had been wrapped around a Barbie doll that someone had taken extreme pains to dress exactly like the woman in the picture. I had no idea they made tube-tops that small. "Look, Moore, I already know you're on the take." he bristled. "The thing is, I don't care. It works to my advantage, sometimes. I've got no reason to pressure you."
"Speaking of pressure," Preach chimed in. "The defense is gonna have a good old time with Dan Persa and Northwestern. He is a good, accurate passer, and they run a spread offense. This will be like the good-old days for the Blackshirts. They've been shutting down this stuff for three years, and are now playing with more confidence than they have all year. Throw in the fact that Persa is a bit gimpy and you can pretty much take the runningback on any zone-read plays. Where Persa is really dangerous is when he keeps a play alive with his feet, and then finds a receiver who has improvised on his route. I don't think he'll get that sort of time, today."
"I don't know, man, he rambles sometimes, but in this case, he makes sense." I tossed the bundle back to Moore. "This isn't my style, anyway. The last thing I need is a bunch of cops making life difficult for me. They tend to rally for each other, which is good. I even think they would rally around you, even though you're Internal Affairs. A dirty cop in IA is just too delicious an irony for me to ruin it with a silly, stupid, poorly thought-out blackmail play."
"I could run you in and play some 48 hours of grilling to 'check your story'," he said as he held out his hands to make the air quotes sign.
Lloyd found his voice. "You could do that, and we would endure the 48 hour no charges exercise. Then I, for one, would go to the press. Get the word out on Lieutenant Moore and his 'Rotten to the Core' squad." Lloyd played air quotes, too. "How soon until not one or two, but dozens of the shakedowns start coming forward, hmm?"
Moore looked flustered. None of his usual threats and intimidation were working. You could see the wheels in his head turning as his support staff looked to him to make the call.
"One more thing, Moore," Lloyd added. "The only thing that has me concerned, right now, is that this might be a trap game for Nebraska. Just after a huge win, and just before a big game against an opponent that has this week off. The team might be looking ahead, and not paying attention to the here and now. By all accounts, Nebraska should roll, but even the best of us can fall into a trap."
Lloyd was right, and stared right at me as he spoke. He does have a way of making you feel like crap. Especially when he's right about who made the mistake.
Moore got up. "Right. This wasn't you?" he asked shaking the bundle at me.
"Nope."
"Then you need to find out who did it, who's out to destroy me."
I knew I had to make my decision on the spot. I don't like the guy. I don't even respect him. Throw in the counter-argument that I was bored, and I was resting on quite the dilemma. "I'll tell you what, Moore. I think Nebraska is going to beat the Purple Pussies by the score of 56 to 14. More than enough to cover the spread, which is 17 1/2. If the Huskers cover, I'll find out who did this, on the clock, expenses included. If they fail to cover. I'll do it for free. If they lose, you're on your own, because I'll be too depressed to do anything productive."
Moore looked us over, nodded and pointed at the door. Mustache and Big Hands headed for the exit. Moore came right up to my face, "You think you know where my boundaries are, but trust me, you don't," he whispered in a voice that was almost intimate. With that he spun on his heel and headed for the door.
I looked over at Lloyd. "You know what we have to do now, don't you?"
"Indeed. We need to watch some football. Then I need to make sure the micro-transceiver in my tie-tack picked up the whole conversation. I'm using the Darth Vader flash drive, too."
"Anyone up for some tailgating?", I asked the room. Lloyd and Preach nodded.
Husk-husk and on the qb.
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