His pride and joy.
Weapons.
Glock, Beretta, snub-nosed .22, and the beauty, the Smith & Wesson .44 Magnum.
Serious firepower.
He loved that elephant, the wood grip, the sheer weight in your hand, you hit a freak with that, he wasn’t never getting up again.
He’d put Bruce on the turntable, “Thunder Road,” “State Trooper,” “Stolen Car,” and he was wired.
The Magnum in his right hand, the thought of eating the barrel occurring more and more.
One squeeze, no more crap.
Late on a Friday, Deadwood on the box, he had the piece to his mouth when his door received a bang.
Holding the weapon loosely by his side, he opened it.
Morronni, a box of pizza and a bottle of merlot, said,
“Beware of goons bearing gifts, right?”
He glanced down at the Magnum, asked,
“You expecting company or just riled up?”
He moved past Kebar, said,
“Deadwood, love it, since Brian Cox joined, it’s moved up a notch, you think?”
He tossed the box on the table, asked,
“So, you got any wineglasses?”
Kebar got a mug, none too clean, said,
“Knock yourself out.”
Morronni used his silk handkerchief to clean it, poured a measure, looked at the Stoli bottle, said,
“Whatever gets you there, am I right?”
Kebar stayed standing, swaying actually, and asked,
“The fuck you want?”
Morronni pretended offense, then smiled, a predator’s one, said,
“It’s payday, my man.”
Tossed a fat envelope on the counter, said,
“A little extra this time as we have a favor to ask.”
Kebar didn’t touch the thing, asked,
“And that’d be?”
“We got a shipment coming in Friday, need to know if the narcs know.”
Kebar nodded and Morronni asked,
“You’re good to go on that?”
Kebar gave a bitter chuckle, said,
“What you pay me for, right?”
Morroni opened the pizza box, tore off a hefty slice, stuffed his face, then midbite said,
“Slight problem has come up.”
Kebar was having double vision, would he have to shoot the two Morronnis he was seeing, asked,
“Yeah, what’s that?”
“Your kid, the Mick cop, he did a real number on my boy Gino.”
Kebar was delighted, Jesus, that kid, said,
“And?”
Morronni was looking in disgust at his white shirt, a dab of sauce had landed there and he seemed pissed, said,
“Fucking hate when that happens, oh yeah, your boy, he’s going to have to make restitution.”
“What did you have in mind?”
Morronni debated another wedge and decided against it, said,
“I’ll think of something.”
Kebar had to know, asked,
“And if he doesn’t?”
Morronni stood up brushing crumbs from his suit, said,
“Then it goes on you.”
Kebar thought of the firepower he had so very close to hand and for one brief mad moment he considered blowing the scumbag to hell and gone, but then what of Lucia?
Morronni, as if he read his thoughts, laughed, said,
“You’d like to lash out, eh, show some muscle, but you know, you ain’t got no fucking juice, pal, you’re a cop on the take, I own your ass, and because of that little stunt, I’ve had to take some... what’s the word, punitive measures, get you back in the game, it hurt me to do it but let it be a lesson to you.”
Kebar went cold, asked in a very quiet tone,
“What measures?”
Morronni was at the door, said,
“And spoil the surprise?”
Then he was gone.
Kebar, despite the amount of booze he’d consumed, had become stone sober, hurting, hungover, but sober.
Time to pull out of the spiral and get his frigging act together, he tore off his reeking clothes, got in the shower and stood under it, ice cold for five minutes.
It was sheer agony but it sure drove the toxins out.
Shivering, from booze and cold, he got his uniform on and was wondering if he could stomach some caffeine when the phone rang, he picked up, a tremor in his hand, went,
“Yeah?”
“Mr. B, it’s Mr. Kemmel, at the nursing home.”
Kebar’s stomach plummeted and he went,
“What’s the matter?”
Pause.
Then:
“There’s been an incident.”
“Stop fucking around, what happened?”
“I think you should get out here, right away.”
Click.
He hung up?
Kebar was going to call the fuck right back but he better move, he threw the phone back in its cradle.
The drive out there was murder, tailgating all the way so he slammed the siren on, his own personal one he had borrowed from Property, and still took him forever to get out there, his mind a mess of snakes and dread.
He finally made it, tore out of the car, ran in and there was Kemmel, a serious expression on his face.
He motioned Kebar to his office and, biting his lower lip, said,
“It’s your sister...”
Kebar grabbed him by the neck of his Hugo Boss shirt, snarled,
“What?”
In a high voice, Kemmel said,
“Someone got in her room, broke both her arms and, it seems, tried to strangle her.”
Kebar let him go, a sob breaking from him, asked,
“Where is she?”
“At the hospital, she’s at the hospital and in deep shock.”
Kebar was in hell, asked,
“Did she say who did it?”
Kemmel was shaking his head, said,
“She’s receded into a catatonic state, she has retreated into someplace safe in her own mind.”
Kebar demanded,
“Aren’t you supposed to mind the patients, isn’t that your fucking job?”
Kemmel reasserted some authority, said,
“It happened in the early hours of the morning, we only have night staff, and believe you me, they’re stretched to the breaking point.”
Kebar got the address of the hospital and started out. Kemmel said,
“Mr. B, in light of this... incident, we may have to review her continuing stay here.”
Kebar kept going, if he’d responded, he wasn’t sure if he could keep himself from beating the schmuck to a pulp.
His uniform got him to see a doctor at the hospital without delay and he was told that she’d suffered a massive beating, her arms broken and her nose, and they were just now checking but they suspected she’d been... raped.
And the marks on her neck, the bruising, huge welts, whoever had done this, he’d gotten off on the strangulation, the doctor telling him this was shocked, nigh shaking.
Kebar felt like he might pass out, asked,
“May I see her?”
The doctor was sympathetic and said,
“This evening would be best, she’s in intensive care now, we want to ensure there is no internal bleeding.”
Back in his car, Kebar remembered Morronni’s words:
“Punishment.”
Lacking anywhere else to go, he went to work.
O’Brien, the CO, had him on the carpet, reamed him a new one, and warned:
“IA is on your ass, and what do you do, you take sick leave without telling anyone, you were... once... a good cop... but I think you better start looking at the security ads, that or Leavenworth, now get out of my sight.”
He passed the kid, who was behind a desk, and tried to greet him but the kid stonewalled.
Kebar got down to the car pool and the guy assigned there smirked, went,
“Back to the Lone Ranger again?”
Kebar didn’t rise to it, got in the prowl, burned rubber outa there.
His mind was hopping with every form of revenge known to man, and his first order of business was to find out who did the number on Lucia. Morronni would have contracted that out, and Kebar knew exactly who to ask.