The Unwilling(9)

“Anyone here seen Jimmy Hooks?” French showed the badge as he approached a group of men on a loading dock, their legs stretched out, backs against the brick. They saw the shield, but didn’t care enough to hide the needle. “Hey. Jimmy Hooks. You seen him?” One of the junkies turned his head and gave a slow blink. French held out a ten-dollar bill. “First to tell me gets it.”

“Oh, hey, man, I think I saw him…”

“Not you.” French knew the guy, a proven liar. “You two. Jimmy Hooks. I’m not going to bust him. I just want to talk.” He produced an other five, and all three junkies pointed at an old factory across the street. “If you’re lying, I’ll be back. I’ll take the money and your junk.”

“Nah, man. No lies. Jimmy Hooks. Straight up.”

French dropped the bills, and crossed the street, stepping over shattered glass and keeping his eyes on the door three stoops down. Two girls lingered there. Hookers, he thought. They saw him, and split. He let them go. Through the open door, he saw mattresses, old sofas, candle wax melted to the floor.

“Hey … mister cop.”

That came from a junkie so skinny a good breeze might lift him up and float him away. He was on a sofa, barefoot and shirtless and half-gone.

“I’m looking for Jimmy Hooks.”

The junkie pointed into a long, dark hall.

“Is he alone?”

“Shit, man…”

The junkie grinned a loose grin, and French thought, No, not alone. Following the hall, he found other rooms and other junkies. French was too jaded to feel much, but the spring inside wound a little tighter.

At the rear of the building, the hall bent right and ended at a steel door beneath a bare bulb. French palmed the revolver, and knocked twice. “Police. I’m looking for James Manning, goes by Jimmy Hooks.” If this were a bust, French would have men behind him and at the back door and in the alley outside. Manning, though, had never been busted for dealing. He was too clever, too slick. “Let’s go. Open up.”

He pounded on the door until metal grated and a dead bolt slid open from the inside. The door opened to the length of its chain, and a sliver of face appeared, pale skin and a dark, disinterested eye.

“Warrant.” It was not a question.

“Tell Jimmy it’s Detective French, that I want to talk.”

The head turned away. “Yo, it’s like you said.”

“So let the man in.”

The door closed, and the chain scraped. When the door opened again, French saw James Manning in a leather chair with his hands behind his head and his legs crossed at the ankles. He was midforties, a local, a dropout. The men with him were a full mix of skin colors and ages. The room would be clean of drugs and weapons and cash. Those things would be in the building, but with other men, in other rooms.

“Detective French.” Manning spread his hands in mock welcome. “I thought I might see you tonight.”

“So you know he’s back.”

“Your son leaves a ripple larger than most, so yeah. I heard.”

French stepped into the room. Five men, total. Only Manning was smiling. “Have you sold to him?”

“I don’t understand the question.”

“I want to know if he’s using.”

“Hey, the world is full of wants. I want. You want.”

Two men slipped into French’s blind spot; he noticed but didn’t care. “Do you know where he is or not?” Manning showed both palms and a second smile that made French feel sick inside. He shouldn’t have to do this. He should know where to find his own son. “You have a kid, right? A daughter?”

Manning stopped smiling. “Don’t compare the two.”

“I’m only saying…”

“Your son’s a junkie. My daughter is eight.”

“But as a father…”

“I don’t give a shit about that.”

“What, then?”

“Favors.” Manning leaned forward in his seat. “I’ll go first to show you how it works. I haven’t sold to your son. That’s a favor, and that’s for free. I can tell you where he is, too, but it’ll cost you.”

“A favor in return.”

“A cop favor.”

French took a steadying breath. The men around him were bottom-feeders, the worst. He wanted to arrest them all or beat them until his hands bled. “I’m not asking for a kidney,” he said. “The favor will be commensurate.”

“That’s a nice word.”

“Where is he, Jimmy? I won’t ask again. I walk and the favor walks with me.”

Manning settled back in the chair. Three beats, and then five. “You know Charlie Spellman?” he asked, finally.

“Should I?”

“Two-bit dealer. Wannabe player. He has a house at Water Street and Tenth, one of those little rentals. Your boy crashes there.”

“If the information’s good, I’ll owe you one.”

“Yes, you will, Detective. One commensurate fucking favor.”



* * *



French made his way down the filthy hall, ignoring the laughter that trailed him. He felt angry and unclean, and took those feelings all the way to Water Street and Tenth, a quiet intersection in a working-class neighborhood of small houses with small yards, of people good and bad. He’d known the area since his years as a uniformed rookie. Most calls were for domestic disturbances or vandalism or public drunkenness. There was little violent crime, almost never a homicide. Taking his time to study the houses near the intersection, he keyed the radio, and asked dispatch for the make and model of any vehicle owned by one Charlie Spellman. It didn’t take long.