The Retirement Plan

Chapter 23

DeShawn let his head lean to the left, his ear almost touching his shoulder. Repeated the process on his right side until he heard the joint crack. The vertebrae-raping blue foam mattress in the holding cell had done a number on his spine. Mattress; more like the thin blue mat he did rolling tumbles on back in high school.

Still, at least he was out.

He approached the sleek blond-wood counter and addressed the custody sergeant sat hunched over the keyboard. The sergeant, typing, not acknowledging his presence. Took at least thirty seconds before he deigned to raise his eyes to meet DeShawn. "¿Sí?" DeShawn asked for his phone.

"¿Nombre?" The man knew damn well what his name was, had booked him in eight hours ago. Even with the black mask, DeShawn could tell it was the same cop. Had a cyst in the center of his forehead that reminded DeShawn of the guy who played the main villain in Beverly Hills Cop. Stephen Berkoff. Always cast as the bad guy, had one of those faces suggest he was bad to the bone.

"DeShawn Simmons." The sergeant made him spell it out, giving him that irritated look that said he had better things to be doing with his time. The kinda look you get down the DMV from some officious little public servant after your legs cramping from standing in line half the damn day. Like they were Misery's equivalent of the cherry on top.

DeShawn inhaled through his nostrils, lips pursed so tight they were in danger of turning purple. Only thing he could do to prevent himself from running his mouth off and getting his ass slung back inside.

The sergeant sighed, using the armrests to push himself out of the swivel chair. Like he didn't need the exercise.

"Oi, geezer." DeShawn looked around at the loud skinhead just entered the lobby. Guy did the hardman walk across the floor, square shoulders moving up and down. A deep violet ringed swollen eye, visible above the hem of his blue surgical mask. "Geezer."

The desk sergeant eyed the loud Londoner in a contemptuously. Almost made DeShawn forget his grievances.

"Detective Alonso," the skinhead said. "Get him for us, yeah."

"Español," the sergeant said.

"No mate, I'm English."

"¿Hablés Español?"

"I told ya, I'm English. I need to see detective Alonso." The skinhead's eyebrows kissing as the desk Sergeant told him in Spanish to take a seat. "Sunshine, I don't have a danny what you're saying. I don't speak the lingo." The sergeant walked off, leaving the irate skinhead glaring furiously around the lobby. "What you looking at, mate?"

DeShawn did his breathing technique to keep his blood pressure from soaring into the stratosphere. "This look like a ship deck? I'm not your mate."

"What?"

"I've just come from a night in the tank, and I ain't in no hurry to go back. But you keep looking at me like you begging for a beat down. I'm in a mood to oblige." Some memory seemed to jar loose in the skinhead's thick skull, and he took a step back.

"Relax, pal, I've no beef with you."

The Sergeant returned to the counter, handed DeShawn back his cell phone.

"Geezer, I need to speak with detective Alonso,"—the skinhead threw a guilty glance DeShawn's way—"I got something he's going to want to hear." Then in a low tone, "Tell him it's Chris."

"Detective Alonso, he no here," the Sergeant said. "He come after."

DeShawn pushed the heavy glass door open and stepped out into the afternoon sun. He removed his navy hoodie, draping it over his left forearm. Walked three blocks, cussing the police and the humidity, before he found a taxi rank.