Motor City Shakedown by D. E. Johnson Read Free Book Online Page B

quickly reversed direction and locked onto the back of my head. I dived again, again swimming downstream. This time when I came up, the light found me almost immediately, and the boat sounded like it was very close.
    â€œFreeze, Anderson,” a voice called. “You go down again, you ain’t coming up.”
    *   *   *
    A pair of policemen dragged me out of the wagon and pulled me up the broad concrete stairs toward the maw of the Bethune Street police station. My shoes made a squishing sound with each step. A man stood in the doorway, hands on hips, silhouetted by the light behind him. Detective Riordan. His six-foot frame, fedora, and the curl of smoke rising from his ever-present cigar made him immediately recognizable. We stopped two steps below him.
    â€œGod damn it, Anderson,” Riordan growled.
    I looked up, startled. It wasn’t that long ago he’d punched me in the mouth for taking the Lord’s name in vain. In the near dark, the scar that curled from his mouth toward his ear looked like the lopsided grin of a jack-o’-lantern.
    Riordan shook his head. “You are one dumb son of a bitch. She saw your face. How could you have thought you’d get off this time?”
    I shrugged. What was I going to say?
    Riordan pulled the cigar from his mouth and looked at it, a disgusted scowl on his face. He hurled the cigar onto the steps, spun around, and walked into the station. Without looking back, he said, “Lock him up.”
    *   *   *
    I sat awake all night in a cell with three other prisoners, all drunks sleeping one off. Shortly after a pinkish light began to show through the small barred window at the back of the cell, I started sweating and sniffling, and silently lamented the loss of my morphine. The guards were probably enjoying it by now.
    The sun was full up when a guard slid four bowls of gruel and cups of coffee under the bars. I ignored them, keeping my arms wrapped around me to try to stay warm. One of the drunks, a husky German who stank of stale beer, grabbed two bowls of oatmeal, if that’s what it was, so it didn’t go to waste.
    Shortly after lunch, which I also ignored, a guard brought me to a telephone, and I called my attorney, Mr. Sutton. I spoke with a secretary, who told me to keep my mouth shut (advice I already took as gospel) and wait for Mr. Sutton, who would be there as soon as possible. Then it was back to the cell. The drunks were gone now, replaced by a small man with long greasy hair and the sunken mouth of the toothless. Even though he was sitting on the bench at the back of the cell, I could hardly stand being pushed inside. A stench poured from the man, some combination of shit and rot.
    I sat at the end of one of the side benches, as far away from him as I could, and leaned back against the bars. My stomach was cramping, and sweat ran down my face. I closed my eyes, hugged myself, and shrank into the corner of the cell.
    â€œHurts, don’t it?”
    I opened my eyes. The stench-ridden man was now sitting five feet away from me on the bench. He looked closer to death than he did a threat, so I closed my eyes again and ignored him.
    â€œOpium?”
    That opened my eyes. “What?”
    â€œIs it opium?” His mouth was a black hole, framed by pink gums. “That’s mine. Looks like it’s yours too.” His jaws worked back and forth, and I couldn’t take my eyes off the wrinkled, puckered skin around his lips.
    â€œNo,” I said. “I’m no addict.”
    He cackled. “So you say, so you say. Bet if I had some you’d change your tune, eh?”
    I sat up and gave him the “dead eyes” look Wesley had taught me. With a look of alarm, he slid back a few feet. “Man! No offense, I just know what you’re feelin’.”
    â€œIf you don’t shut your mouth,” I said, “I’m going to shut it for you.”
    Looking hurt, he