The Last Cop & Other Stories
By Frank Zafiro
()
About this ebook
Imagine, if you will:
◆ The last real cop in a changing world.
◆ A bottom-feeder fighting rumors.
◆ A meticulous P.I. battling story tropes.
◆ A revenge story involving a hamburger.
◆ The bittersweet nostalgia of a mob enforcer.
◆ A street racer trying to escape a small town.
◆ The confusing last words of a rich man.
◆ A surprise at the shooting range.
◆ A familiar robber.
◆ An untimely traffic stop.
◆ The confusing nuances of contemporary policing.
These are the characters and stories you will discover in this collection from award-winning crime fiction author, Frank Zafiro!
*Contains the Public Safety Writers Association award-winning stories "The Last Cop", "Hallmarks of the Job", and "One Fine Day."
Frank Zafiro
Frank Zafiro was a police officer from 1993 to 2013. He is the author of more than two dozen crime novels. In addition to writing, Frank is an avid hockey fan and a tortured guitarist. He lives in Redmond, Oregon.
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The Last Cop & Other Stories - Frank Zafiro
Foreword
I started with short stories.
Most writers do. They are a perfect place to learn, develop, and hone your craft. And while I did what a lot of writers also do—moved on to novels—short stories are not something you ever outgrow.
If anything, the craft involved in this medium is one that continues to challenge a writer, no matter what stage of the journey he’s on.
I went through quite a long spell where I didn’t write any short fiction. Everything was novella or novel length. But with the advent of The Concrete Smile (episode one of the series A Grifter’s Song) in 2019, I came back to writing short fiction. I mean, technically we called it a novella, too, but it was only around ten or eleven thousand words, so… Anyway, since then, I have managed to publish a few stories each year.
There is something satisfying in creating a complete piece of work that can be read in one sitting. While a novel can take weeks, months, or even years to come to fruition, I can knock out a draft of a short story in one or two writing sessions. The satisfaction of finding your way to a the end
is there, regardless of how short the journey.
Short stories are good for those ideas and situations that would not sustain a novel but are interesting nonetheless. They are the perfect venue to resolve some of our what-if
questions, or to examine small nuances of life in the world around us. Sure, you can undertake that same examination in a novel, but there it is one grain of rice among many. A short story distills it down, puts a sharper focus on it.
These eleven stories are intended to do just that. I hope you enjoy them.
The Rumor in 411
We had a good thing going, really.
What did I mean by that? Could be I meant the Hope Apartments. The place wasn’t The Davenport, but most people in Spokane couldn’t afford The Davenport, anyway. Gavin and me, we didn’t have enough money on any given day to even risk walking into the lobby of the place, but we could afford to live at the Hope. Barely. At least, we could until the same suits who could put themselves up at The Davenport for weeks on end came in and turned this old girl into another refuge for hipsters with cash. For a little while longer, though, we had a place to lay our heads, and that was a good thing.
I could just as easily mean me and Gavin when I say a good thing. Gavin Dane was a good friend. There weren’t many of those in the world, at least not of the true kind. Lots of so-called friends that were only there when the ride was smooth. Not Gavin. He was a thick and thin motherfucker.
So yeah, I could mean him.
But let’s face it.
I didn’t mean the Hope or Gavin.
I meant the drugs.
The pounding on the door woke me up from a vague, dark dream. All I could remember was that I was being strangled. Whoever had his hands around my throat was also slamming the back of my head into a brick wall repeatedly. As I came out of that half-reality, the drum beat of my head bashing into the wall was in perfect time with the banging on the door.
Ronnie! Wake the fuck up!
I groaned and blinked. Gavin’s bare feet were two inches from my face, but that was nothing new. These units only had one bed, so it was either sleep in flip-flop fashion, or one of us had to take the floor.
I slid off the bed. Gavin pulled the blanket over his head and turned to the wall.
Ronnie Rossovich! Answer the door!
All right!
I yelled. I’m coming!
I swung the door open. Oberg stood in the entryway, his fist raised to pound some more. He wore a pair of faded dingy white boxer shorts and a Winger concert T-shirt that didn’t cover the last three inches of his ample belly.
What?
I demanded. You’re going to wake up the whole place.
His eyes narrowed. It’s one-thirty, Ronnie. Everyone except the junkies has been up for hours. And you know what I say about junkies?
I did, but he was going to say it anyway.
Fuck the junkies,
Oberg pronounced. Then, without waiting to be invited, he walked into our tiny apartment. He looked around at the sparse furnishings. He sniffed in disgust and muttered, What a dump.
Oberg lived in one of the corner units. Those were a little bigger and, unlike ours, had its own bathroom. Somehow, Oberg equated not having to walk down the hall to pee as being anointed as nobility.
I closed the door. What do you want?
Oberg held out his hand. I need the ten dollars you owe me.
I held up my empty hands. I don’t have any money.
Bullshit. I saw you pay rent yesterday.
Which is why I don’t have any money.
Anita, the assistant manager, had been all over the tenants to pay for the month of October in advance, and we were no exception. Everyone had to be out after Halloween, so she didn’t want anyone skipping on the rent.
I’d been expecting Dorothy, the manager, who usually collected. She was older than Anita, but the years had made her kinder, not meaner. I had an appeal all set to go, but when the knock came, and it was Anita at the door with her hand out, things fell apart. I tried my line about needing food money.
Her eyes narrowed with her customary suspicion. Naw, what you buyin’ is going straight into your arm, Rossovich. Don’t try to con me.
If Elvis had told Anita Moss he could sing a little, she’d have regarded him with suspicion. She trusted no one. In my book, that was a vice, not a virtue. The fact that she was right about where the money would go didn’t change that.
I bargained to pay half now and half at the end of the month.
Okay,
she said.
Surprised, I repeated dumbly, Okay?
Sure. You pay me half now. Then you and Gavin get your skinny white asses on up out of this apartment for the next two weeks. I’ll slap a padlock on the door, and you can come back on the sixteenth. How’s that?
I paid her. Turned out I was still a dollar twenty-eight short, which she dutifully noted in her ledger before moving on to the next apartment.
Oberg had been staring at me as the image of Anita’s visit flashed through my mind. He seemed to be considering my logic. Eventually, he shrugged. It don’t matter. I need you to pay me today.
I rubbed the sleep from my eyes and moved to the kitchen. I thought we might have some packets of coffee left over from the box we swiped off the housekeeping cart at the Lincoln Motor Court last week. As I rummaged through the drawers, I said, What’s the rush? I’ve owed you that money for months, and you’ve only asked for it, like, twice.
I figured you’d get it to me eventually.
Oberg jerked a thumb toward Gavin. And if you welshed, I knew your boyfriend here would pay off.
He’s not my boyfriend.
Whatever. I knew he was good for it.
He was right. Gavin would cover the debt.
I opened another drawer. No coffee.
Is this because of the eviction?
I asked, figuring he was worried that once we got booted out, we’d all scatter to the winds, and he’d never see his money again. Which was probably true.
If that was the case, I’d be here two weeks from now,
Oberg said.
I checked the final drawer. Empty. I slid it shut and gave Oberg a weary look. I’m tired of playing guessity-fuck-fuck with you, Obie. I don’t have your money. I’ll try to get it today or tomorrow, okay?
Oberg shook his head. You ain’t gonna make it to tomorrow, Ronnie.
What’s that supposed to mean? Are you threatening me?
I knew I couldn’t take Oberg by myself, but I was also pretty sure Gavin and I together were a match for him. He struck me as the kind of guy who only needed one poke in the nose to go crying to mommy anyway. Or, in this case, probably crying to Dorothy.
But Oberg’s demeanor didn’t change. I don’t threaten,
he said. But there’s plenty of people around who are gonna want to punch your ticket.
What the hell are you talking about?
Oberg grinned, showing his yellow-stained teeth. You shouldn’t sleep so late. Word is all over the Hope, and it came in off the street.
Word?
His grin widened. That you’re a rat, Ronnie. A fucking rat.
After Oberg left, Gavin got up. We sat at the rickety kitchen table on hard metal chairs, me with my face in my hands and Gavin comforting me.
It’ll be okay, Ronnie,
he said in his easy, gentle voice.
It’s not true.
I know.
But people will believe it, won’t they?
Gavin didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. We both knew the answer. On the street, especially in the smaller ecosystem surrounding the Hope, a rumor like this was an insidious virus. The rumor didn’t need to be true for people to catch it. Maybe that was because they feared snitches so much or because they hated them. Maybe they just wanted to believe it. Or already believed enough crazy shit that believing this was easy. But I think it might just be a combination of all of that and more. Having a common target gave them something to direct their anger toward and someone else to feel superior to, all the while being part of the tribe while doing so.
You’ve got to face this head-on, Ronnie.
I can’t.
You have to. If you don’t, people will believe it for sure.
They already do.
Some maybe,
he conceded. But if we come out strong with a denial, that might convince most people that it isn’t true.
We?
I glanced up from my hands to look Gavin in the eye. Gavin Dane, who I always thought should have been a private eye or a movie star with that name. Instead, he was a quiet, resolute junkie who might be the only true friend I’d ever had. Or would ever have.
Gavin stared calmly back, a trace of his quirky smile playing on his lips. There was always something mysterious in those eyes of his. I was pretty sure where his love for me came from, that it was like Oberg said. Either way, it was a deep connection. I decided years ago that why didn’t matter. Gavin loved me and was loyal. I didn’t need to label it. When the most important thing in your life is how you’re going to find and pay for your next fix, labels kinda lose their usefulness, anyway.
Except for rat. That was a label that stuck. One that could break love and loyalty.
I just need to lay low,
I said.
"For a month?"
A few days, is all. Let things blow over.
This isn’t going to blow over.
Gavin squeezed my shoulder. You gotta face it. Tell people it isn’t true. It’s the only way.
Oberg’s right. Someone’ll kill me.
Oberg’s an idiot.
You don’t think someone would kill me over this?
Gavin let go of my shoulder. Nobody will believe it. We’ll make sure of it. Now, let’s go.
A shot of panic lanced through me, the first powerful thing I’d felt since waking. The sensation flashed me back to the dream of being strangled.
We gotta cop first,
I told Gavin.
Duh.
We took the stairs. Ever the optimist, Gavin punched the button for the elevator, but I just kept walking. That thing rarely worked, and no way did I want to be inside the tiny box when it decided it was time to break down again. Didn’t stop Gavin from trying, though.
Except for the ground floor, each level of the Hope was a carbon copy of the others. There wasn’t any benefit to living on the fourth floor, not unless you were a fitness freak who liked climbing stairs. As we descended, the slap of our tennis shoes on the steps echoed slightly in the old building. Each floor had its own smells as we passed.
As I reached for the door to the lobby, it opened on its own. Earl Ricci, the stocky maintenance man for the Hope, stepped through with a toolbox in one hand. I noticed a plunger in his other.
Earl saw us but made no effort to step aside. Instead, he lumbered forward, letting the door swing shut behind him.
Hi, Earl,
Gavin said pleasantly, moving out of the way.
Earl grunted.
Toilet problems?
Earl slowed, then stopped. He looked over his shoulder at us. Men’s bathroom on two. Again.
Yeah?
"Yeah. Probably all the homos flushing their condoms. Again. His eyes flicked back and forth between Gavin and me. Then he grunted and gave a half shrug.
Anyway."
Without another word, he turned and trudged up the stairs toward the second floor.
See?
I whispered to Gavin. Even Earl doesn’t trust the elevator.
We made our way into the lobby. The manager’s door was closed, so no Dorothy. That was probably good. She was tuned into the whisper stream of the street. If she’d heard the same rumor as Oberg, I knew she’d stop me to talk about it, to ask how she could help.
She couldn’t. Someone gets called a rat, no one can help.
Outside, the crisp October air bit into me immediately. I was never fat to begin with, but years of riding the horse had stripped away most of my weight. Cold cut through me easily. The battered orange OSU hoodie I wore was better equipped for a brisk spring day, not the winter weather that was settling in over Spokane already. Gavin’s jacket was no better. We’d have to hustle up some heavier coats soon.
If I survived.
I pushed the thought away, but it swung back like a punching bag after an ineffectual blow.
Come on,
Gavin said, rubbing his hands together and blowing on them as he turned to walk down the sidewalk. Let’s take care of this now. Then we fix.
Where to?
I asked, but he didn’t have to answer. Where else could we go to solve this?
The Lamplighter.
I wrapped my hands around my upper arms and fell into step beside him.
Stepping into the Lamplighter was the closest thing to time travel you could ever experience unless the laws of physics change. Due to the low lighting inside, the stale tang of decades-old cigarette smoke was the first sensation to wash over me. I’d been coming into the Lamp for several years but still wasn’t entirely used to the intensity of that first blast of ancient, embedded smoke. The low bass drumbeat and plucked strings of the Fleetwood Mac hit The Chain
played on the vintage jukebox in the corner. Only it wasn’t vintage, just the original, and the song playing now was one of the newest it featured.
Gavin was already moving across the dirty golden shag carpet, following the pathway worn by countless patrons. The 1970s décor meshed perfectly with the carpet and the cigarette odor. My eyes adjusted as I followed Gavin. I kept my head down, not meeting anyone’s gaze. Even over the sound of the music and low chatter, I heard a few mutters of rat.
I was in trouble.
Hey!
Lester Poole, the bartender, barked at us.
We both turned. Lester was a tall, thin black man. His clothes were stylish and more recent than the Fleetwood Mac tune on the juke but still hit their peak before Clinton was President.
Les pointed his bony finger, staring hard at me. "Don’t even think about shooting up in my bathroom."
I opened my mouth to answer, but Gavin beat me to it.
Of course not, Les.
Lester’s gaze shifted to Gavin and softened softly. Well, good. But no loitering, either. Paying customers only.
Gavin nudged his head toward Laszlo Nagy in the corner booth. Lester followed the motion. He scowled slightly, then turned back to his busy work.
Come on,
Gavin said in a low voice.
I followed him toward Nagy’s corner booth. Laszlo Nagy sat in the short-back black vinyl chair alone. Even though the man was almost as skinny as I was, no muscle stood guard. Nagy didn’t need it. He didn’t hold dope or money. Anyone stupid enough to mess with him would see it paid back times ten within an hour, and everyone knew it. None of us knew for sure who was backing him, but that didn’t matter. He’d shown his power on several very public occasions, so we knew it was real. Him sitting alone in the bar nursing a drink like this was an expression of that power, or at least flaunting that he had powerful friends.
Hey, Laz,
Gavin said. We stood at the table, not daring to sit without permission.
Nagy ran his hand over his long, stringy hair and eyed us both with contempt. The faded remains of a pair of black eyes was still evident on his face, punctuated by the greasy sheen of his skin. Honestly, it irked me. I didn’t believe him to be any more than a half-step above a user himself, but he tried to pose like he was the white Frank Lucas or something. I guess in our small world, he kinda was. The idea that someone dotted his eyes for him gave me some measure of joy, though.
Ain’t you two just popular these days,
Nagy said. He glared at me. "Especially you, Ronnie Rossosnitch."
It’s not true,
Gavin said.
Nagy didn’t look away from me. The fuck you know.
I started to repeat Gavin’s denial, but Nagy held up a hand.
Don’t bother. You’d just be diggin’ a deeper hole for yourself.
He grinned, revealing his ugly teeth. Which ain’t a bad idea, now that I mention it.
Look,
Gavin said, I don’t know where you heard this, but it’s bullshit. Ronnie’s not a snitch.
I’m not,
I added.
Nagy’s smile pressed into a tight-lipped scowl. So you’re gonna lie to my face, too? What, you think I’m stupid?
No,
Gavin said easily. I think you’re smart. That’s why we came straight to you.
Nagy absorbed the compliment, seemingly unsure how to react. I knew he liked