by Larry Low
That night was to be our moment of glory. We were going to go out with a bang. Frank was more than ready. He was pumped. I would admit to being keyed up.
A skuzzy individual sidled up on cue and said. “Don’t keep Cousin Charlie waiting.”
“A big buy coming up and then bye-bye for Mr. Espadu,” Frank said to me before we got out of our rental car. “Max are you ready for Freddie?”
“Ready for Freddie,” I agreed. It was one of Frank’s favorite expressions.
Frank was in the lead. He insisted on going first. Before entering the apartment, the last thing I noticed was a brown blotch on the hallway ceiling. It was out of place in such an expensive building. If we had dealt with the overflowing bathtub first, we might have been successful. Genius resides in the details. It quickly became irrelevant. The whole thing was a fiasco from the get-go.
Surrogate Joe tells our story. It’s a technique that I picked up in my Post -Traumatic Stress Disorder sessions. Surrogate Joe was gentle with Max. On the other hand, he could get as mad as hell at Frank in a manner that Max would never quite allow. Joe simply would never forgive Frank for not bringing in backup with him. Whose side was Surrogate Joe on? That would have gotten ten of us killed.
We entered. Espadu was in the living room. He greeted us. Frank walked across the plush carpet, one step at a time. I followed with the briefcase. In replay, the scene is in slow motion. Frank walked across the carpet, one accentuated step at a time. We had never made a buy this big. This would be a take down of magnificent proportions. We were bound to make history. It happened with lightning speed.
The power failed. I called in vain for Frank. Joe took command. It must have been Joe who got the circuit breakers turned off. Through trial and error, he restored power. I could hear the clicks in my head. The lights lit carnage of a repulsive nature. A semblance of confusion, part shame, part terror, overwhelmed us. Frank and Cousin Charlie were locked in unholy embrace. Charlie, his chest raked raw, was lying beside Frank. I understood. I was overwhelmed. Frank had achieved a peace that surpasses understanding. What would this do to Sue? Lord knows? I would not have the courage to tell her? That job would fall to Joe. How he managed, I never could fathom.
Investigators eventually learned that a wired electrician had traded trade-work for coke. Even so, I wanted to charge the individual in the apartment above who had let his bathtub overflow, thereby transforming mild hazard into deadly danger.
Joe went blind. He was in a rage until his anger dissipated. Having your feet held to the fire is not a nice way to go. There is no nice way. It must’ve been mercifully quick. Max concurred.
Frank would never have been happy sitting behind a desk solving crosswords and becoming bitchy with subordinates. He would never have succumbed to post-traumatic-stress disorder either. Frank was too tough. Wrong! No matter how tough you are, a thing that is too big for you can result in a take down. It’s not something that you conquer on your own. I know. I tried it that way until Christie came into my life and would not leave. There were times I hated her for not being willing to give up on me.
Frank’s wife, Sue, tempered by tragedy, was transformed from vivacious loveliness to a hauntingly compelling but unapproachable beauty whose somber expression never wavered. Officers on the loose, their brains sullied by a suffusion of hormones, confused sad with sultry. A few married officers cast covetous glances in her direction.
Reviewing the operation with Estrada, the weirdest thoughts went through my head. ‘Capital Negligence.’ After a heavy moment of dreadful silence, Estrada said, “The suspect died in hospital, Max. Cocaine snakes caused blood poisoning. It was the coke that killed him.”
In an instant, I made my decision to quit the force. It was too late to crave the blood of the guilty to avenge the innocent. Although I could not help hating him, I knew that there was nothing I could do to punish John Espadu. He was just a poor fool who had allowed himself to become a cocaine statistic. Staying on would only provide me with an opportunity to redirect my bitterness. There was nothing I could do for Frank except help out with his kid.
I would gladly have continued to serve if I had really believed that I could make things right. The clincher was that I knew that I couldn’t stand the thought of being greeted by a somber Sue in Dispatch. Putting my degree to good use, I accepted a safe sinecure in an accountancy firm. I was soon back in the old traces but in a new guise. Money laundering investigations became my bag.
After five years Joe is nothing more than an ungracious puppet, I keep locked away. Frank, on the other hand, is with me more clearly than he was on that fatal night. From the fatal moment, Sue and I have been an integral part of each other’s lives. I took to heart what she had told me about brotherly love on that fateful evening. . It is a good thing that Christie came into the picture when she did. In a weak moment, I may have tried to drag Sue back a century or two and that would have ruined everything for Frank Jr. and me for I had learned that because Frank and I were so close that we were closer than brothers that according to ancient Iranian tradition, I was obligated to take care of my brother's widow.
A young woman suddenly alone with a ten-year-old boy, Sue did not dwell on her husband’s death. She was too busy. There was nothing that could be done to make it okay. To assuage my own pain, I made a point of lending a hand whenever Sue required a man’s strength. She only permitted me to do a modicum of clean up around the yard and only until Frank Jr. was big enough to take on the task.
During school holidays, I took Frank Jr. to Tucson with me on Thursday mornings and invariably let him fly. At the age of 12 he could trim the Cessna out and set the power to cruise. If anything were to happen to me in flight, he was now trained to land safely. We had a pact that we would never discuss flying in front of his mother. She had enough worries. I guess the best thing that I ever did for Frank Jr. was simply to talk to him about his Dad. It was difficult providing a semblance of mentoring while feeling horrible thoughts of guilt that if I had done things differently: shared with Frank, something, anything, he would now be watching his son grow up. I know he is.
The tragedy was made even more poignant because Sue and Frank had been childhood sweethearts who had abided in love until death had rendered them asunder. They had been notorious for leaving parties early, need to get the baby sitter home or whatever. It should be no surprise then that Sue absolutely refused to become involved with another member. “Fooled twice, shame on me,” she told me a year or so after Frank’s death. One or two of the more naïve officers, considering No! as a maybe, had impulsively expressed the hots for her. At least one poor soul had implied that he was in love with her. So I had heard. Perhaps it was Joe. I really can’t remember. Joe and Max would have had a falling out over that, I’m darned sure. It would do no one any good. At this late date, Sue was not about to settle for second choice.
Forty minutes south of Black Canyon, I shook off the fatigue that was conditioned as much by my thoughts as by the tedium of the road. The traffic was getting thicker now. I was becoming nettled by tailgaters. I had been much more relaxed driving a marked car. It’s a treat driving inside a bubble zone. You never had to worry about tailgaters. I was almost nostalgic when I recalled my first six months on the force.
“Oh, wonderful! Max,” I exclaimed. I wondered what sort of snafu had arisen this time. How could it possibly involve me?” I glanced at my watch and answered my cell phone.