Tristan got a screwdriver from the trunk of his car and gave it to Jerzy, who first pried off the screen with his buck knife and then used the screwdriver to pop open the slider. Then he boosted Tristan up and through the window, and Tristan opened the door for him. They brought in the six-pack of beer that Jerzy had insisted they buy on this hot summer day and were having a brew when a black-and-white, fresh from the siege at the supermarket, parked on the street in front.
Tristan peeked out the window and saw two cops, a tall one and another one, both with streaky blond hair, walking toward the apartment, as though they were expecting trouble.
“Cops!” Tristan said to Jerzy. “Get rid of the buck knife! Sit on the kitchen chair and stay cool, fool!”
Jerzy said, “Fuck! We can’t get away from them! They’re everywhere!” And he shoved the knife inside his boot under the leg of his Levi’s jeans as Tristan opened the door before the cops reached the front step.
“Hi, Officers,” Tristan said with a smile.
Both cops looked wary, and Flotsam said, “We got a call from a neighbor that somebody climbed in the window here. Was it you?”
“Sure was,” Tristan said brightly. “We lost our key. Come on in. We appreciate that you’re watchin’ out for us.”
Flotsam entered with Jetsam following behind. Tristan noticed that each cop had a hand very close to his pistol, and he said, “This here is my friend Jerzy. He boosted me in the window. Our friend Mr. Kessler is expectin’ us here.”
“Wait a minute,” Jetsam said. “You mean you don’t live here?”
“Take a look around,” Tristan said. “Nobody lives here. There’s a fridge in the kitchen and a table and two chairs and a fleabag chair in the livin’ room, but that’s it. There ain’t no more.”
The cops moved their hands away from their pistols but still were looking very cautiously at both men. Jetsam said, “All we know is you two climbed in the window.”
“Him,” Jerzy said. “My ass is too big to climb in windows.”
“Okay,” Jetsam said, “but until we figure out what’s going on, we’d like to make sure you’re not burglars.” Then he said to Jerzy, “Stand up.”
Jerzy was used to cops. He stood, moved his hands away from his body, and let Jetsam pat him down. Tristan did the same for Flotsam. When the cops were through with the frisk, Flotsam said, “Your IDs, please.”
Both Tristan and Jerzy gave the cops their legitimate driver’s licenses, and Jetsam pulled out his rover and stepped outside the front door, only a few steps away.
“We’re clean,” Tristan said. “We already got a check run on us the other day.”
“Yeah?” Flotsam said. “You two must be pretty busy to always be getting checked out by police.”
“No, it was jist a ticket,” Tristan said. “But I guess we look suspicious or somethin’.”
“Everybody looks suspicious when they climb in windows,” Flotsam said.
“I can see that,” said Tristan. “You got a job to do.”
When Jetsam came back in the apartment moments later, he said to his partner, “Mr.”-he couldn’t pronounce Jerzy’s last name and pointed to him-“has been in jail a few times for drugs and grand theft. Mr. Hawkins has a misdemeanor record for petty theft and DUI.”
“The petty theft was when I had to steal some milk for my baby sister after our family got foreclosed on,” Tristan said.
Flotsam looked at Jetsam and said, “Why does everybody give us such lame stories?”
Tristan said, “Officers, is there somethin’ in this here apartment to steal? We’re waitin’ for Mr. Kessler, who wants us to help him haul some furniture and fix up this place for his pregnant daughter and her husband. It’s a hot day, so we decided to pop open the window and sit in the shade and suck on a brew till he shows up. No harm, no foul. Okay?”
Flotsam glanced at his partner, who’d finished writing FI cards on both men. Jetsam signaled by raising his eyebrows almost imperceptibly.
Flotsam said, “Okay, Mr. Hawkins, but maybe next time you should sit on the step outside to wait for your boss instead of scaring the neighbors.”
“I hear you,” Tristan said. “We’re sorry.”
When the cops had gone, Jerzy said, “So your name’s Hawkins. What’s your Christian name? Or are you a fuckin’ Muslim?”
“Whadda you care?” Tristan said.
“I jist wanna know if it’s a circumcised cock or an uncircumcised one that I’m gonna cut off and jam down your throat if you get me busted behind this crazy fuckin’ scheme of yours.”
During all the goings-on at the supermarket, and just after the surfer cops had departed from the duplex-office, Dewey Gleason as Jakob Kessler showed up, carrying an overnight bag, and unlocked the door. He’d never bothered to have the place alarmed, because there was nothing of value there. It was no more than a convenient spot to meet his runners, pay them, and receive the fruits of their labor.
He was surprised to find Creole and Jerzy Szarpowicz already inside, waiting for him. Creole was wearing a white Polo shirt and chinos, as though he was ready to work a job for him at a westside hotel. As usual, the Polack, in his black T-shirt, filthy jeans, and boots, looked like he’d just crawled off a Harley. Wearing his baseball hat backward made Jerzy even more repugnant to Dewey, if that was possible.
Dewey said in his accented Kessler voice, “How did you get in here?”
“Pried the window open with this,” Jerzy said, holding a big screwdriver like a stabbing instrument as he stepped between Dewey and the only exit door.
“You did what?” Dewey said, his accent slipping a bit.
“It’s a hot and smoggy day,” Jerzy said. “We wanted to relax inside. In fact, we bought a six-pack. How ’bout a brew? They’re in the fridge.”
“This is an outrage!” Dewey said, not sounding as outrageous as he wanted to sound. “I want to know what game you two think you are playing.”
“We ain’t-aren’t playin’ a game, Mr. Kessler,” Tristan said, correcting himself by force of habit when talking to this man.
“What are you doing, then?”
“We’re formin’ a partnership,” Tristan said. “You’re the senior partner and we’re the junior partners. We’re willin’ to work real hard. Sixteen hours a day if you want. But we’re takin’ a percentage of what we make together. No more chump change.”
Dewey turned as though to leave, but Jerzy didn’t budge. He stood with his arms folded, looking down at Dewey. Then he showed Dewey a mirthless smile, and said, “Siddown. Take a load off. Lose the wig. Lose the glasses. And lose the fuckin’ elevators. We saw you without them. You’re kind of a cute little shit when you ain’t playin’ gestapo.”
“I am leaving!” Dewey cried, and he pushed past Jerzy, who dropped the screwdriver and grabbed Dewey around the neck, driving his fist into Dewey’s midsection. Then he did it twice more.
“Chill, wood!” Tristan yelled. “What the fuck you doin’?”
As Dewey slid to the floor, gasping and going fetal, Jerzy said, “I’m cuttin’ to the fuckin’ chase. I’m sick of this game. I’m gettin’ his attention. You got a problem with that?”
Then he snatched the gray hairpiece, tape and all, from Dewey’s head, jerked the steel-frame glasses from Dewey’s face and tossed them on the kitchen table, and, for good measure, pulled the $600 elevator shoes from Dewey’s feet.
“Look at these skates, Creole!” Jerzy said. “I put these on, I could look like Frankenstein.”
You already do, you dumb Polack, Tristan thought, and you’re about to fuck up my whole play here!