Grass Read online

  “What would I do without you guys? You’re the best. You know I’ve always said the police in this town are grossly underpaid. What if my Rosangela had been here instead of me? I want you to take this tray of lemon-almond cannoli back to the station with you.”

  The two detectives finished eating just as the Salento PD van pulled up. The punks were en route to lockup when Mitchell dabbed the corners of his mouth with a serviette, then turned to Sandovan. “Well, my friend, that was most satisfactory.”

  “The sandwich or the remarkably efficient way we restored calm to this taxpayer’s place of business?” Sandovan replied.

  Mitchell laughed. “Both, pal. Both.”

  They thanked Emilio, resisting the offer of a gelato for the road. Then headed back to the precinct for an afternoon of paperwork.

  It would turn out to be the least eventful day of the week.

  2

  The cigar cutter gleamed in the light. Its owner clipped the end of a hand-rolled Churchill and then lit up. He continued to fondle the cutter in a way that made the man tied to the chair in front of him very nervous.

  The man was swimming in his own bodily fluids. Sweat and urine soaked his clothes. Too bad. The silk suit had cost him a week’s pay—$4,500. He had tried to be brave. But the men who surrounded him in this room were ruthless.

  A case of ginger ale sat on the floor. One bottle was all it had taken. At first he had no idea what they were going to do. He’d even joked about it.

  “Hey, that’s not my drink. You got any bourbon?”

  It seemed to work. The men laughed. Then one of them had unscrewed a bottle of ginger ale, put a thumb over the top, shook it violently, and jammed it up his right nostril. It was a technique learned during a year in a South American jail. As the man tied to the chair found out, it was brutally effective. His head exploded in agony.

  He talked. Told the men everything he knew about his boss’s drug operations. He sang like one of the three tenors. Now, as he eyed the cigar cutter, he wondered if he was going to sing a couple of octaves higher.

  “You’ve been very accommodating, Terence,” said cigar cutter man, the man the others called the Colonel.

  “Well, that’s one hell of a post nasal drip you gave me,” Terence replied. “Look, man, I’m dead on the street now anyway, after what I’ve told you guys. Why not just let me go?”

  “Why not indeed,” the Colonel said. He snapped his fingers and a large swarthy man next to Terence produced a stiletto. The blade cut through the hemp binding his wrists, and Terence stood up, a look of disbelief on his face.

  “You’re going to let me go?”

  The Colonel smiled. “That’s what you asked, isn’t it? In the nineteenth century the poet Oscar Wilde said, ‘Always forgive your enemies; nothing annoys them so much.’ And so I am setting you free. You amuse me, Terence. I know you are a clever man. Don’t disappoint me.”

  Terence’s shoulders sagged with relief. “I promise, you’ll never see me again.”

  He headed for the warehouse door, gingerly backing up past the carcasses of a half dozen rats, happy that he was not sharing their fate. By the time he reached the door, he knew that he would be back within half an hour, this time with three friends and four machine pistols. Because Terence knew that his one chance at survival wasn’t fleeing Otis, his boss and the city’s biggest drug lord. No. Otis was just as ruthless as the Colonel, and he had never heard of Oscar whatever the fuck. His only chance was to erase the mistake he had just made.

  The echo of Terence’s custom ostrich skin boots had barely died out when one of the Colonel’s men, Luis, turned to him and said, “Do you really think he’s that smart?”

  The Colonel looked at the perfect inch of white ash on his cigar and shook his head. “No. Sadly, I do not. I believe he is going to have a shower, change his clothes, gather some friends, and come back to try and rectify matters in a rather dramatic fashion.”

  Another man, Diego, piped up. “What should we do?”

  The Colonel stood, buttoned his suit jacket, and pocketed the cigar cutter. “Leave them a technical. We don’t want anyone knowing about us just yet.”

  The men walked in perfect cadence to a silver sedan. Diego retrieved a black shoulder bag from the trunk while Luis opened the front passenger door for the Colonel. The Colonel never sat in back. It was not humility. People always assumed that a leader would be sitting in the back. And the Colonel had once survived an ambush that left two of his men in the back seat looking like crushed pomegranates.

  Five minutes later, Diego emerged from the warehouse. He got in and they drove away. The Colonel looked over his shoulder. “So, Diego, what did you leave them?”

  Diego smiled. “I chose the rhinos.”

  The car erupted in laughter. The Colonel smiled and contemplated the execution of the rest of his plan.

  Twenty minutes later, a 4x4 with a six-inch lift kit pulled up to the rear door of the warehouse. Terence and three hoods put full mags in their HK MP5 machine guns, chambered rounds, and got out of the vehicle, careful not to slam the doors. They crept to the window, and looked inside. The Colonel and his men were nowhere in sight. But the chairs and table remained, with the rest of the case of ginger ale. On the table sat a laptop, open and powered up.

  Terence and the men entered cautiously in case the Colonel’s men were waiting in ambush, but they relaxed when they saw the warehouse was empty. One of the men walked over to the laptop. He touched the track pad, and a video started to play.

  “Hey, Terence, check this out!”

  The video showed two African black rhinos engaged in an earthshaking act of intercourse. The men laughed and applauded the enthusiastic efforts of the male rhino. A narrator described how the black rhinos were an endangered species. “The mating ritual takes place over several days, with copulation lasting a half hour at a time.”

  One of the men teased another, “Hey, Franky, you could never be a black rhino with your two minutes of staying power.”

  Franky laughed. “Well your sister says she likes it quick…she can get more guys in that way.” The two men cackled.

  Terence had had enough. “Shut that thing off. They can’t have gotten far. And if we don’t find them, we’ll be the ones getting fucked. Let’s cruise the streets and look for them.”

  The man who had started the video reached for the laptop. “This is a slick piece of gear. I’m taking it with us.”

  He closed the laptop. The magnetic catch completed a circuit, triggering an explosion powerful enough to blow out every window in the warehouse.

  The forensic team that worked the scene later that day spent hours scraping the pieces of the men into six containers for analysis.

  3

  “He ate shit? He literally ate shit!”

  Mya Laing shuddered and nodded.

  “How could you eat shit and not know you’re eating shit?” the man asked.

  Mya paused for a moment. “I believe he thought it was some kind of a nouvelle pâté. And he had a really bad sinus infection, so he couldn’t smell a thing.”

  The man, Garrett Lawrence, a senior account planner at the advertising agency of Dunn, Burgess & Taylor, ran his hands through his expensively restored hair. “He picked up a knife, dipped it in shit, spread it over a piece of melba toast, and ate it?”

  Mya nodded again.

  “You’re shitting me,” Lawrence responded.

  Mya shook her head at the lame pun.

  The incident had occurred two hours earlier during a major presentation to one of DB&T’s largest clients, The Shalimar Toilet Paper Company. The client had rejected five previous proposals for a new campaign, leaving the creative director on the account—a twenty-six-year-old whiz kid—a raging bundle of caffeine-crazed nerve endings. Today’s presentation was his sixth attempt to mollify the client, a pretentious fourth-generation quisling in a family business, who had been silver-plattered the job of VP Marketing.

  The television spot
s were brilliant. The partners agreed they were on strategy, and had even filmed one at their own expense, testing it with two focus groups of consumers. The consumers had actually applauded the commercials.

  In spite of this overwhelming endorsement by the agency and the consumer panels, Conrad Helmsley the fourth, Shalimar VP of Marketing with a bad cold and attitude to match, had given them a thumbs down.

  Jak Mosely, creative director on the fast track to partnership, went ballistic.

  “You don’t know shit,” he had said.

  Helmsley, pleased that he had gotten a rise out of the young hotshot, removed his glasses and cleaned them. “Actually,” he said, “if there’s one thing I do know, it’s shit. I have a one-hundred-and-fifty-million-dollar research facility where teams of scientists test Shalimar toilet paper against every type of bowel movement imaginable. So I don’t need any more of it from you, thanks.”

  Mosely stormed out of the boardroom just as the caterer was arriving in the reception area. He intercepted the tray of fruit, cheese, pâté, and crackers, took it into the men’s restroom, and the rest would become part of advertising’s underground history.

  After seeing Helmsley chow down, and being warned by his own sense of smell that something was amiss, Peter Dunn, the senior partner in the agency, had “accidentally” spilled his coffee on the tray of food, thereby preventing anyone else from making the same mistake.

  “Oh my. I’m terribly sorry folks,” the genuinely charming Dunn had said. “Cynthia, would you remove this tray and see if there’s another to be found please.”

  At which point Helmsley piped up, “See if there’s any more of that pâté. It had a texture that was unlike anything I’ve ever tasted.”

  Mya found it took all her willpower to avoid throwing up or bursting into laughter.

  Lawrence shook his head as he heard Mya’s recount of the meeting. “Jak’s going to pay for that one.”

  “Not likely,” Mya countered. “He’s still the best idea guy in this town. And he’s got a mantle full of Cannes Lions to prove it. Besides, you have to let people blow off steam every now and again.”

  Lawrence shrugged. “Why couldn’t he just boxercise or boink an intern on the photocopier like everyone else?”

  Mya gave Lawrence a look that would frost damage an orange grove, then headed for the door. “I know it’s a ton of revenue, but sometimes a client like Shalimar isn’t worth the aggravation. Have a good night, boxercising.”

  Lawrence laughed. “Never know, it might be the other option.”

  Two minutes later Mya squealed her Porsche out of the company parkade. Ten minutes later she pulled into the underground parking garage of her condo. She rode the elevator to her 30th floor residence and unlocked the door. The smell of garlic and fresh basil wafted towards her.

  She walked into the kitchen, where Mitchell was in the midst of opening a bottle of wine.

  “You got a warrant?” she deadpanned.

  “I could get one, but I’d rather conduct an illegal search and seizure,” he replied.

  She breathed deep and took in all the aromas. “Who says there’s never a cop around when you need one. I am starving. Especially after the crazy day that I had.”

  Mitchell put his hands around her waist and pulled her close to him. “It was nice to see your fridge was stocked. I’ve got that penne pasta ready to go into a pot of salted water, and the shrimp are thawing in some cold water in the sink. A little chili-lime shrimp and pasta extravaganza for the most talented suit in the ad business.”

  He bit her on the ear lobe, and she winced.

  “Ow! I’m going to need that ear if you want to keep eating like this.”

  He laughed. “Relax, you’ve got another one right over here.”

  He bit the other one. She grabbed a ladle from the counter and rapped him on the knee.

  “Ahhh,” he exaggerated, hopping away. “My knee! There goes my last hope of making the pro tour.”

  She took a couple of glasses from the cupboard and poured the wine.

  “You’ve got expensive tastes, my law enforcement friend,” she said, looking at the label. “This is a 1998 Aldo Conterno. Pretty posh on a cop’s salary. I only have two of these in my collection.”

  “You actually only have one now.”

  She laughed and removed the clip holding up her hair, shaking it out so it fell to her shoulders. “Well, why not.”

  They savored the dinner, taking the time to decompress, exchanging stories, and arguing playfully over whose workplace was more insane. In the end, they declared it a tie. When the bottle of wine was spent, Mitchell carried Mya into the bedroom, bumping her head on the doorframe in the process.

  “Very suave, Mitch,” Mya laughed.

  Mitchell put her gently on the bed. “Oh don’t you worry. I’ve got suave to spare.”

  4

  The next morning they awoke to the chatter of an FM deejay and his obsequious sidekicks making prank phone calls to East Indian convenience stores.

  Mitchell groaned. “I can’t believe you listen to those idiots.”

  Rolling over, Mya punched the alarm’s off button. “It means I have to react quickly to turn them off. And that burst of energy wakes me up.”

  He pushed his pillow into her face and headed for the shower. “I’ll go first. You make the coffee. It’s the one thing you never burn.”

  She tossed the pillow after him and got out of bed, grabbing her mobile and turning it on to get the early headlines.

  In the kitchen, Mya began what Mitchell called “the ritual.” She took whole coffee beans from a small foil bag and ground them coarsely in a coffee mill. She put filtered water in the kettle and put it on to boil. When the water reached the right temperature, she poured the ground coffee into a large French press and added the water. Stirring the grounds gently with a plastic spoon to avoid nicking the glass, she then put the top on the coffee press and set a timer for four minutes.

  Mitchell walked into the kitchen freshly shaved and dressed, wearing a Loro Piana sports jacket that Mya had bought him for his birthday. He closed his eyes. “Ohhh, that smells good.”

  “Me? Or the coffee?”

  He laughed. “You smell like sex and sweat. So yeah, I was talking about you.”

  “This coffee doesn’t smell half bad either. It’s Ethiopian.”

  “And did you follow the ritual?”

  “You know I did. Make yourself useful and get the cream out of the fridge.”

  Mitchell opened the fridge and took out the cream, some bagels, and a container of dill cream cheese. When the bagels were in the toaster he walked to Mya’s front door and got the newspaper. They sat and read the news, her on her mobile, him from the front page.

  She chided him gently. “Still prefer the dead fish wrap?”

  “Yeh, guess that makes me old school, right?”

  “It does. But I like the old school for some things. I like that you read the paper. And you hold the door for me. And stand up in a restaurant when I come back to the table. I love that you can repair a leaky faucet and change your own oil. I’m still waiting for you to put your jacket across a puddle for me to walk on though.”

  “You gotta stop buying me jackets that cost two grand if you want me to do that.”

  “You’re worth it.”

  “No argument there.”

  “So what do you love about me?”

  Mitchell folded the paper, put it down, and took a sip of his coffee.

  “Dunno.”

  She wiped a bit of cream cheese from his chin and licked it from her finger.

  “Seriously?”

  “Well, you know guys. We don’t really pay attention to stuff like that.”

  “You’re lying.”

  “You’re right.”

  He thought for a moment. “I like that you don’t mind slumming with a cop when you could get a neurosurgeon or stockbroker who makes a lot more money and would make life easier for you. I like that you we
ar lingerie instead of underwear. I like that you don’t throw a football like a girl. You know what a Gordie Howe hat trick is. And you never ask me ‘what are you thinking?’ You drink girly cocktails. You won’t let a pushy salesperson win. And when you get a speeding ticket in the Porsche you don’t tell them who I am so they’ll forget about it. You pay it. I love that your hair is never fully under control. And the way you cry every time ‘Moonstruck’ comes on the movie channel.”

  “Awww, Mitchell.”

  “Now if you could only cook something besides Pop Tarts, I’d marry you.”

  “You fucker!”

  He made a face as if shocked at her language, and they both laughed until their sides hurt.

  “All right, enough fun and games, I’m outta here,” Mitchell said.

  “Go and make the city safe. Tell Eddie I said hi.”

  “Will do.”

  Twelve blocks to the south, at the same time Mitchell was leaving Mya’s condo, the Colonel was leaving the apartment of a woman he’d met the night before. He rode the elevator alone to the lobby, took a side door into the alley, and pulled a new, pre-paid cell phone from his pocket, preparing to call Luis.

  Before he could place the call, three men stepped out from behind a dumpster. They were dressed like they had spent the night outdoors. All three wore several layers of clothing. The biggest one, the leader, wore a bandanna on his head. His face was weathered by the elements and from years of surviving on the streets. Despite the wear and tear on his body, his eyes were alert and wary, like an animal unsure of its place in the food chain. Further down the alley, the Colonel noticed a shopping cart piled high with urban detritus.

  “Got a cigarette?” the big one said.

  The Colonel looked at them. “No.”

  He noticed one of the men moving to his right. He held a two-foot length of metal pipe. The man smirked and said, “I don’t believe you. You look like a smoker.”

  The Colonel’s eyes followed the man. “I am a smoker. That’s not what he asked. He asked if I had a cigarette. I do not.”

  The third man began to move to the Colonel’s left. “You must be smoking something, otherwise you’d know that you should be shitting your pants right now.”