An Unsolved Case

      “Rat, you sneaky two-faced rat, I hate you! You betrayed me, you fucking betrayed me!” — screams everything inside, and the gun rests against the guy’s teeth.       The finger is almost on the trigger, but another voice, somewhere in the subcortex, stops him: “But you became attached to him as to your own, risked your life for him. Can you really do it?”       He can’t. He really can’t. Larry screams in despair, but abruptly pulls the gun away, as if afraid to change his mind, and shoots at nothing. He feels how the guy’s whole body jerked in surprise, how fast he breathes, and still clings to Larry’s hands with his own. Alive.       Larry hates himself for being weak, but it doesn’t last long: bullets pierce his shoulder and chest, and a man is thrown onto the ramp.       – Larry… — Mr. Orange croaks faintly. — Larry… are you alive? Larry…       Larry doesn’t have the strength to answer. The cops run up, someone knocks the gun out of his hand, hitting his fingers hard. The big black man grabs the traitor under the armpits and drags him aside.       – Easy, easy. It hurts, I know. Be patient, the ambulance has already been called. Try to breathe calmly.       The rat is coughing up blood. The nigga lifts the guy into a semi-sitting position, not letting him drown. Wipes the phlegm and scarlet streaks from his chin, loosens his tie and unbuttons the top.       – Hold on, friend, hold on.       – Cold…       – No, no, no, don’t even think about it! Just stay with me, okay?       – Jim… — the kid laughs, and the blood gurgles in his throat. — Jim, I fucked up everything…       – Be quiet. Don’t say anything, save your strength.       Larry watches from the ramp, feeling that he hates himself even more. How could he believe him? How could he admit that Mr. Orange had half the affection that Larry had? How could he let go? A wuss. A wuss is Lawrence Dimick.       A rat is Mr. Orange. He begged for forgiveness, clutched at Larry as a savior — no, kid, there will be no forgiveness. You won’t get that.       The undercover cop turns his head in Larry’s direction. Without blinking, he looks with moist eyes, and says with only his lips:       – I’m sorry…       – A rat… — whispers Mr. White in response and loses consciousness.

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      The alarm clock was blaring on the bedside table, notifying that it was already 6:15, that the detective’s position does not tolerate delays, and that would have to get up for work. Freddy’s hand lazily crawled out from under the blanket and slapped the button, disabling the signal. A disheveled head appeared next. With a frown, the guy looked around the room, wondering if it was possible to spit on the shower and sleep a little more, but almost immediately realized that no, this trick would not work in such heat. Freddy fell face down into the pillow; stayed up late watching TV — what a fucking good job you are, Newendyke!       On the way to the bathroom, he stumbled over jeans thrown on the floor, and almost sprawled next. He swore rudely, but it was his own fault; in two weeks without cleaning, the guy managed to make such a mess, which he could not do in a temporary apartment in four months, turning a once rather cozy atmosphere into almost an exact copy of a squalid rented dwelling. Scattered items, packages from canned food and fast food, magazines, receipts from the store. Except that now a Police Medal for Heroism was gathering dust on a shelf in the farthest and most inconspicuous corner — Freddy was still ashamed of how heroically he shouted in the back seat of a stolen car — and the posters hung on normal walls, and did not cover the peeling blue paint. Comics at the age of thirty-five, what childishness! It’s like he just moved out from parents and moved into the academy dormitory. However, Freddy didn’t care about other people’s opinions for many years, and the guy lived the way he was used to, and how it was convenient for him.       He lived alone; Freddy finally broke up with his ex, and he failed to create a new family — not every girl is ready to endure constant delays at work, which abounded in the life of a cop. He had to see this the hard way: six years ago, Mrs. Newendyke packed up her things in one day and went to her mother in Albuquerque. Freddy painfully endured the divorce; he never even admitted to himself that he agreed to work undercover in order to distract himself and not to drunk. And anyway, somewhere subconsciously, the guy wanted to prove to Sofia that all this is not just a civil service, and that Freddy is not always a fucked–up loser with a small salary. He wanted to prove that everything is not in vain, that he is worth something, and this world is getting a little better thanks to people who are ready to selflessly walk on the blade, risking everything.       And Freddy risked everything. He joined the gang, became his own, got used to the role so much that he literally believed in the stupid commode story that Holdaway was so excited about at the time. Freddy risked his life, almost like a character from a comic book. But unlike the comic book character, when Freddy’s life hung in the balance, there was no crowd of worried people in the hospital lobby. The only visitors were Jim, Jody, and the parents who had flown in from Tucson. Sofia never visited him.       After that, just the thought of opening up to another person again, getting back together with someone, made him sick, and Freddy personally cut off any prerequisites for a serious relationship, limiting himself to rare dates and casual sex. Got burned. Jim, watching from the sidelines, only falled into the facepalm, called Freddy a schoolboy and a fool, confident that the guy just did not meet, as they say, the One. But McCluskey, on the contrary, reacted with understanding and somehow even joked about the lone wolf on guard of the law, making Freddy laugh: a wolf, seriously? Have you even seen me?       To be honest, if he felt like some kind of beast, it was more like a dog, a beaten mongrel. Or a pointing dog, maimed and wounded on the hunt. As if the hunt wasn’t over yet felt it in gut. Or maybe it wasn’t about an old unsolved case and a personal life that had fallen apart to hell. Maybe it’s just that a part of the soul itself spread hot sticky blood over the ramp and the concrete floor five years ago, and dried up in that warehouse.       However, this morning such lyrics dwelt somewhere in the very depths of Freddy’s subconscious, giving way to quite primitive feelings — hunger and a wild desire to sleep for an extra couple of hours. The guy was going to get rid of hunger on the way to work, and hoped to wash off fatigue in the shower. But it didn’t help. The same tired, only now also wet face looked out of the reflection in the bathroom mirror, bruises under inflamed eyes. A mongrel. Freddy scratched reddish stubble thoughtfully with his fingernails — he needed to shave. No, fuck it. You can definitely spit on it.       But the coffee and hot dog cheered up; Newendyke entered the department in almost a good mood, greeted as usual and even exchanged a couple of jokes. But he couldn’t help but notice that many of his colleagues were looking at him strangely, as if trying to read his mind.       “Did I oversleep the briefing again?” — The guy thought to himself.       No one mentioned the briefing, and Freddy calmed down a bit. Writing off the strange views on his own suspiciousness and paranoia, he decided not to bother with trifles. He sat down at his desk, got into his computer, flipped through some papers, but very quickly realized that paranoia had nothing to do with it, and the increased attention to his person was by no means an invention of the sleepy brain. Something happened, something to do with Freddy personally, but every brute in the police department stubbornly kept quiet about everything. Only these squalid, sidelong glances that distracted from work, from which the lines had to be reread several times, and the mood deteriorated. Fuck it!       Freddy got up from the table and has left to the coffee vending machine.       – Boo!       – Damn it! — Newendyke jumped up, almost spilling his coffee, when a small palm suddenly rested on his shoulder from behind. — Jody, who does that?       – Wake up, ghost! — The girl laughed. — God, what a sight! You should at least shave!       – I didn’t have time. — Freddy runs hand over his chin.       – What is it this time?       – “Army of Darkness.”       – And how?       – That’s funny, — Freddy shrugs. — Look it sometime.       – No, thank you! — Jody carefully pushes the coins into the machine. — Watch your horror movies alone, the “Demon Knight” was enough for me. I’ve been sleeping hugging a baseball bat for two weeks!       – You’re a strange, Joe! You love action movies and westerns, although there are no fewer murders in them. But as soon as a vampire or a zombie appears in the frame, you start hiding and trembling.       The girl just rolls her eyes to the ceiling:       – Yes, yes, I, a fan of bloody shootings, pee out of fear from horror movies. You can keep laughing at me. In general, I am a realist, and I evaluate any film from a life perspective. My gun can handle a gangster, but how are you supposed to shoot at the walking dead if they’re already dead?       – Then you should watch the “Tales from the Crypt”, — Newendyke grinned. — It’s full of ordinary mortal bandits, and you can just skip the dead.       – Freddy! — McCluskey is indignant.       – Okay, sorry, — the guy laughed.       When Jody bends over for coffee, Freddy stares at her a little longer than the rules of decency should — the police uniform fits around the hips of a colleague not at all according to the dress code.       – You already know? — McCluskey’s face was not quite like the others. She wasn’t going to wash the bones or pass around another gossip. But she was interested. That’s why she was staring so intently, and the phrase “Do you know?” a running line was reflected in the girl’s brown eyes.       – Damn, what should I know? — Of course, Freddy didn’t know shit, that’s why he was mad. — Everyone is staring at me like I’m a monkey in the zoo — what did I miss?       – Dimick is being released.       Freddy choked on his coffee. Jody continued to calmly stir the sugar with a wooden stick.       – Are you serious? When?       – Soon, — Jody replied. — Five years have passed, his lawyer got a parole.       – Yes, I remember, he and the prosecutor agreed. The judge didn’t give in, did he?       – Yes, but he retired, and the new one is not so strict. Hey, — Jody gently tugged at the edge colleague’s shirt, bringing him out of his trance.       — Are you upset?       – Hmm… — the guy chuckled vaguely.       For five years, Freddy felt like he was still out there somewhere, in that warehouse. The nightmares in which the muzzle of a gun is in front of his eyes and a shot in the belly. The scars on the body, who aching in bad weather. Two corpses on the conscience, a mutilated colleague who could not be saved. The friend he betrayed. Is he a friend? Freddy is completely tangled, it hasn’t gotten any easier over the years. The fault almost didn’t let go of the guilt, just hid like a rat in the farthest corner of soul, waiting for the moment, when it could come out again. Waiting for the today.       Upset — no, that’s not the definition at all, it even sounds stupid.       – Freddy? Are you okay? Why don’t you talk to Simmons?       – What will he do? — Freddy snorts back. — Only Jim was ready to personally read Dimick’s guilty verdict and chain him to prison bars. Jim is gone.       He died a little less than a year ago. It didn’t even happen at work, he was just returning home from the store in the evening. Some freak ambushed him at the car in the parking lot and stabbed him in the back for fifty bucks. Jim bled to death before he even had time to call for help, and the bastard was never found.       Holdaway was worthy of the rank of lieutenant, not Simmons. Miles Simmons is an ordinary careerist, not to say that he is stupid, not to say that he is very smart. A passing person who is unlikely to stay for long, just stands on a step on the way to the next rank.       – Listen… — Jody hesitates, which is unusual for her. — Did you think that Dimick would decide to find you?       – I’ve been thinking about it.       – And what are you going to do?       – I have no idea. — Freddy tossed the empty paper cup into the trash. — We’ll see. Maybe nothing will happen.       – Do you find this funny? He’s a dangerous criminal and he was already going to kill you.       – And before that, he saved my life! — The guy gets annoyed. — No kidding, Cabot would have shot me if it hadn’t been for Larry. And I do not know how to react to his release! I don’t know if he’s going to look for me, take revenge, or let the fuck go — Jody, I don’t know! We’ll see. I’ll keep an eye on him from a distance.

***

      What does freedom feel like? Warm — anyone who has looked at the official gray walls for too long will say that. Inside the prison buildings, utility rooms, even inside the courtyard, all that. The climate of California does not seem to pass through these walls, as if in prison you are isolated not just from society, but from life itself. And the first thing you feel when you get out, even just outside the prison gates, is warmth.       However, Larry did not have to rejoice in the good weather for very long — his gaze caught a car across the street. It’s a too beautiful car to be here by accident.       “This is for me.”       After what happened at the warehouse, Dimick no surprising. Nothing. If someone had said a little over five years ago, that Larry would shoot old comrades, he would have laughed in his face, but not now. Tell him, then that he will become attached, as to his own son, to an unfamiliar boy and will protect him at the cost of his life and health — ha! Tell him, then that Larry will personally stand up for the cop rat and later will not be able to take a control shot at his head — who do you think I am, you sick bastard?       But not today. Today, Larry is not surprised, and therefore perceives the Chevrolet at the curb as a means of transportation to the final destination. Wherever this point is located.       – It’s hot today.       Larry leaned on the roof of the car and started a conversation, and the driver started in surprise, not noticing who came up. He is still young, inexperienced. This is probably his first serious assignment. But he behaves courteously, gets out of the car.       – Welcome back, Mr. Dimick.       – Thank you, thank you, — Larry nodded. — But why the pointless talk? We both know that you’re not waiting for me to give me a ride to the city. Who’s your boss?       – You know him well.       He tilts his head slightly — he will not give out information ahead of time. What would he do if Larry refused to get in the car and left? Will he try to force him to sit down? Shoot him? However, Dimick is not interested in this: he sits in the back seat and asks for a cigarette.