Pest Control

     “Let me put all of this into perspective for you,” I said to my guest, handing him a double bourbon on the rocks and taking my seat across from him.

     “Please, enlighten me,” he said, trying to sound calm and taking a swig of his drink. Judging by the sizeable sip he took though, he was substantially terrified.

     “I have a problem, detective, and I would like your help,” I began.

     “You called me here for a case?”

     “We’ll run with that for now.”

     “Okay, I’m all ears then,” he said as he pulled his tie loose and took another swig. His drink would surely be dry by the end of my speech.

     “You see, detective, this city is held together by an intricate and immensely delicate balance of power, with myself at the center of everything. Think about it like this, Cosa Nostra, the Russian Mob, the Triad, and the Yakuza are all my puppets. I own organized crime in San Francisco. The gang wars have been silenced because I made it so.”

     “And just how did you manage that?” asked the detective, further reducing his drink.

     “I made a bet.”

     “Excuse me?” he managed to choke through a mouthful of booze.

     “It was very easy, really. I went to the man in charge of the federal organized crime units monitoring the four major factions and bet him that I could end the chaos within one year, under the condition that I was permitted to use any method I saw fit, and that there be no federal involvement. They were allowed to enforce their laws and authority over street thugs and civilian crimes, but everything related to the four exclusive crime organizations, including racketeering, trafficking, and gang killings, was my territory, and the fed was to stay out, or my deal ended.”

     “Did he take the bet?”

     “At first he didn’t believe me, but I was able to demonstrate just how serious I was. He walked out the door a richer man, and I had the immunity necessary to stabilize the city.”

     “But what was in it for you?”

     “Detective, I’m surprised. Think for a moment, how much money is involved in the underworld business that these gangs controlled. I arranged for the deaths of the four bosses and left my signature, a dried rose, on their bodies. Additionally, roses were sent to the families of the late bosses and to each under-boss, just for added effect. Naturally there was outrage among the factions, but my boys knew what they were doing, and I was kept safe long enough to talk some sense into the under-bosses. Money and death weigh heavily in my line of work, and for the last decade everything has been running smoothly.”

     “I fail to see how this concerns me,” my guest pointed out. His drink was most entirely ice.

     “It doesn’t, particularly. Your partner is my greatest concern at the moment.”

     “…And why is that?” he asked, now pulling his tie completely undone and relieving himself of two buttons, then checking his drink to be sure that it had been thoroughly drained.

     “Because,” I began, presenting the hot end of a Walther 9mm to his nose, “your partner doesn’t respect the natural order. My immunity does not include the Sherlock Holmes antics that you and your partner have a certain aptitude toward. So, naturally, I begin to have a bit of a problem when your cases start putting my boys behind bars and threatening my authority. Frankly, I’d much rather get rid of the problem than relinquish my underworld monopoly. That’s where you come in.”

     “You’re going to shoot me to get to my partner…” he said, tripping over the words as they left his mouth and focusing his eyes on the barrel of my gun.

     “Now, detective, I’m insulted,” I said with a smile while lowering my gun, “that would just be uncivilized, and your corpse in the bay would only help our friend, detective R.J., file a conviction against me.”

     “So what are you going to do?” inquired my guest. I could see the sweat gathering on his forehead.

     “You know, Andrew, running the underworld of a city as intimate as San Francisco has its perks,” I began, producing a mirror and a rolled up dollar, “and one of those perks is information. I know who buys what, how much they buy, and how often they indulge. Judging by your transaction records since your arrival last year, I’d say you’ve got more than just a recreational infatuation with the blow that I bring into this town.”

     Andrew’s eyes hadn’t moved from the white powder since I put it on the table. Guys like him were almost too easy.

     “I can’t say I blame you though,” I said, taking the line furthest to the left and leaning back in my chair as the acrid, semi-metallic taste at the top of my nasal passage created that familiar rush, “because I bring some good shit into this city.”

     With that I invited him to indulge on the remaining two lines, which he greedily sucked up into each nostril, then wiped what remained onto his gums. He was upset and scared and roughly ten seconds from realizing that cocaine wasn’t the only thing he’d just stuffed up his nose.

     “Andrew, baby, you need to chill out a little, man. Go easy on yourself, ‘cause that stuff will take the life right out of you if you’re not careful.” The words poured coolly out of my mouth as I refilled his long since parched glass.

     He was starting to shake and couldn’t keep his eyes with mine as he grabbed for the drink that never made it to his mouth. The crystal glass shattered on the floor and Andrew shook furiously, tearing away at his shirt.

     Maybe just shooting the poor bastard would have been more civilized, because watching a man die of arsenic poisoning is not a pleasant sight. I can’t imagine that the death feels any less vile than it appears, but this way was much cleaner for me. When they find him dead in his apartment, lying across the coffee table with a bottle of Gentleman Jack and a few unfinished lines, whoever finds him will just think that he died of his own vices.

     The dried rose included in the package, however, would cause some more interesting activity than a routine overdose investigation. The city officials would know to stay away, and R.J. would bring his yuppie-hardboiled-ass right to my front door. That was another perk of being in charge. There are guys who specialize in posing a crime scene just how you want it, without leaving any clues unless you put them there.

My pinot noir tasted even better after the kill. Fuck R.J., he would be dealt with in due time.

_____

     “Rodney!”

     “Yeah, boss?”

     “Go see who’s at the door. I’m expecting someone.”

     “You got it, boss,” Rodney said and ran off to greet R.J. He’s a good kid, really. Eager to please, like most young men are. I wouldn’t usually permit such a young man to work for me, but he is my son, and he wanted in.

     R.J., on the other hand, was late; a week late, to be sure. No appointment had ever been made, but Andrew was found two and a half weeks ago. I figured that R.J. would have at least dropped by last Monday, for one reason or another.

     I can’t imagine what he’s been doing all this time, though. He had nothing to go on, ‘cause the city won’t touch me. I was interested though, as I always am. Maybe he was going to threaten me. Pull a gun on me. Pretend he found a DA stupid enough to look at any files on me, and tell me I was going away for life. I didn’t take him to be the type to apologize for being a moron though, and he was too proud to strike a deal with some lowlife like myself. Like I said, this would be interesting.

     “R.J.,” I said as he entered with the swagger of a gunslinger entering a bar after a shootout. “You look thirsty, what can I get you? I’ve got a fine assortment of wine in the cellar, or if something stronger suits you better, my cabinet is well stocked.”

     “Nothing, thanks,” he said dryly. He pulled off the look nicely, that was for sure. Fierce eyes, a permanent five o’clock shadow, his tan trench coat, and black fedora made him look like a character out of a gangster film.

     “Won’t you sit, R.J.?”

     “I’ll stand, thank you.” His tone was still cold; angry.

     “Hmm… Well, R.J., I don’t know what I can do for you. I can’t tell you that I’m sorry for helping Andrew die. I didn’t really do all that much; he was dumb enough to come here, and he put that poison up his nose out of free will.

     “I don’t really have anything to give you, besides a bullet to the head, maybe, but I doubt I’ll even go that far. But please, have a seat, have a drink, and we’ll talk like men. Now, what can I do for you?”

     “You know damn well why I’m here. The way I see things, we can settle this in one of two ways. One, you can confess to me now and I’ll arrange a light sentence, law permitting, for your laundry list of crimes. Option two lets you reach for your gun while I put one in your shoulder and bleed a confession out of you.

     “I gotta say, R.J., I’m not a fan of either of those options.”

     “Tough titties, that’s all I’m givin’ you.”

     “Is that so?” I said looking him straight in the eye. His hand was floating over his holster, but when his eyes flashed to the absence of a gun in my lapel, I caught the side of his head with my right hand. He pulled out his piece, but I grabbed his arm at the wrist, twisted it around, and promptly broke it at the elbow. Once the arm was broken, his hand released the gun and it dropped to the floor with a clack while his cries of pain filled the empty café.

     He held his arm and silenced the pain by gnashing his teeth. I shook my head at him as I picked up his gun, dropped the clip from the handle, and placed it on the table. The remaining round sprung out of the chamber as I pulled the slide back, and I grabbed it as it spun in the air- just a fun little trick- then I placed both the bullet and the gun on the table, beside the clip.

     “I expected higher of you, R.J., but something told me that you might try something stupid.”

     “Fuck off, Randall.”

     “Fuck off, Randall,” I repeated, still shaking my head. “Now, that’s class. Your ma would be so proud.”

     He stared at me in contempt for a moment, still forcing the pain in his arm away from his voice.

     “You know, R.J., I’ve put up with you for far too long now. I let you live because I thought that maybe our differences could be settled in a more peaceful manner. Since I’m clearly mistaken about that, I’m wondering if just shooting you would be the best decision.”

     A few minutes passed in silence, broken only by car horns from outside and the soft patter of rain on the building. He was at my mercy and we both knew it. Again I motioned for him to sit, and after he refused I drew my chair.

     “Alright, R.J., I’ll tell you what. I’m not gonna kill you, and I’ll tell ya why. You can’t touch me, because there isn’t a cop, judge, jury, or gang member on your side. Hell, even the people on the streets, in their cars, at home, and at work are on my side, ‘cause I keep everything quiet. So, there’s no way you’ll ever make a case against me. I’m too good to leave anything obvious, and although the law may not like me, it needs me, because I pick up where it drops off. Now, you’ve never been a real threat to me, so I haven’t killed you. You’ve been a bother though, and that’s why Andrew is dead. Bother me again, I’ll break your kneecaps. After that, I’ll bust your knuckles with a ball-peen hammer, or maybe take off a few fingernails. Shit, I’ll drop your sorry-ass off on skid row, busted up and high as a kite before I’ll kill you.”

     R.J. stood in silent agony like a statue in my café. He knew I was right, and short of my confession to a very brave court, he couldn’t convict me of anything. Clearly, all he had left was his recent attempt on my life, and since that had failed, there was really nothing left for him.

     “Get the fuck out of here, R.J. There’s nothing for you in San Francisco. Go home, pack up, and move on with your life. Be a journalist. Get a girl, start a family, just get the fuck out of my city.”

     That was the end of it. Without a thought of responding, he turned around and left. He was gone by the end of the week, and that was the last I heard of him.

Fin