Shades of Grey
 by Feliks Chase

Cave's was full of jerks. I mean, most bars around here are, but in ten years of coming to Cave's off shift, it's always been less endowed with scum than most. Mostly this grimy little joint was a hang out for losers and dispirits - like me - with nothing in their lives except measuring the condemning passage of time, until the inevitable claimed them. And who knew, in this neighbourhood, when that'd come. And who hoped. 
"Well, if it isn't Detective Sebastian Schnider! Come here and get plastered!" I groaned. The last thing I needed was some shifty kid, fresh from the core thinking I'd buddy him through a drinking session. I was in half a mind to just leave, but I didn't. Instead, I found myself gravitating through the crowd to his table. The stench of unwashed despair embraced me like a long-lost friend. Yeah, I belonged here. Mac, on the other hand, definitely didn't. 
"MacDouglas, you sure you're old enough to be drinking?" He grinned, as I ran my eye over him. He reeked of tequila. Not my poison of choice, but it seemed to be keeping him happy. Too happy. Cave's drunks tended to be the quiet kind, and management liked 'em that way, sinking into their glasses, and their private hells, wrapped in silence. 
"You come here often?" MacDouglas asked, and I couldn't help laughing. 
"More often than you. Why're you here alone, anyhow?" I wasn't entirely comfortable being seen drinking with a soak-eared rookie, but if I stood any longer my legs were going to give out. I sank into a chair, and watched him knock back his drink. 
"I'm not alone anymore." He sculled the lot, and gave me an ingratiating look that made me sick. He's one of those blonde, blue-eyed kids that women go ga-ga over, with that kind of floppy fringe-thing they love, jawline you could cut yourself on - in comparison to me, ugly as an overweight grizzly, he must really have looked something. Thank god women didn't much bother with this place. 
"I came here to meet someone. A contact." 
"You're meeting a contact like this?" I asked him, shaking my head in disbelief. The guy wouldn't have lasted a New York second without an escort in my neighbourhood. 
"He doesn't know he's a contact." MacDouglas answered, waving his drink. "I wanted to make it look authentic." I considered this, while I lit up. MacDouglas fanned the smoke away from his face, a habit I despise. I mean, I'll put out a cigarette if I'm asked to, but I got no time for some people's idea of a subtle hint. I like brute honesty - I don't like phonies. 
"Is my smoking bothering you?" I asked him, knowing the answer. 
"No, sure, you go right ahead." he said, wheezing like an asthmatic, and scraping back in his chair to get away from me. His choking like that was annoying me so I stubbed the Camel out on a beer mat. 
"You didn't have to do that." he said, eyes bright from the liquor. 
"I know." I growled. "So who 's this contact you're meeting?" 
He leant forward conspiritorially, and whispered in a voice half the bar could hear, "He's a buyer - distrib to a guy called 'Stoner'." 
"Stoner Farcroft?" I asked him, not sure I'd heard right. We'd been hunting that scumbag for months. The guy's real name was Roger Farcroft, but he'd earned himself the nickname 'Stoner' through his drug habit, and his MO. Stoner was wanted on at least two counts of murder - both prostitutes, one beaten to death with a rock. We knew this, because, like the sloppy piece of fertilizer he was, he'd left the murder weapon sunk in her skull. 
So you can guess, I was real keen to meet this guy, if he really was Stoner's dealer. MacDouglas hadn't told him he was a cop. So, what had he told him? 
I didn't get a chance to ask, as MacDouglas stood up, waving to a guy who'd just walked in the bar. The guy didn't look too pleased, MacDouglas waving at him like that - not entirely subtle. I pulled him down, and told him to stop making a scene, but he was too far gone to even hear me. 
The guy came over to our table, and gave me a stare of naked contempt. He didn't know me; probably just his take on civilisation. I could relate. He sat down, took out a fag and lit it. I smiled. He slipped his zippo back into the pocket of his leather jacket, and nodded towards MacDouglas. 
"Who's the freak?" he asked me. 
"Who the hell are you?" I demanded, so he knew I wasn't the one he was meeting. I thought I'd seen him somewhere before, but I couldn't place his face. He kept his eyes on me a second longer, then took in MacDouglas. MacDouglas was starting to wheeze again, and for a second I felt sorry for the kid. He was in way over his head, and drunker than I think even he planned to be. I was glad I'd found him - probably saved him from getting his floppy-fringed head kicked in. 
"Stoner recommended you." MacDouglas started, and the guy in the leather jacket blew a cloud of smoke his way. He looked at me dubiously. MacDouglas coughed again, and I rolled my eyes. I'd have to take over, or this was going to be a disaster, and another dead end. 
"Here." I slapped my hand flat on the table. Leather Jacket didn't look down, just put his hand out, and took the folded note. He held his hand in his lap, and checked, then nodded. 
"What're you looking for?" He asked me, ignoring MacDouglas now. Just as well - MacDouglas was on the border of passing out. I was on my own, so I took a stab. 
"Snow?" 
"I don't do coke!" the guy hissed, leaning over so I could see my reflection in his eyes. "Hash, pot - nothing else." I didn't see how buying a joint from this guy was going to help me find Stoner, so I changed tack. 
"Not what he said." I can move pretty fast when I want to, and the guy didn't twig to what I was doing until I had the cuffs on his wrists. 
"What the hell is this?" he asked, voice rising in pitch as he looked from drunk old MacDouglas to me. 
"You're a dealer - I'm a cop. Let's go." I started to get up, but he pulled me back down to the table, panic settling on his face. 
"What do you want?" he asked, keeping his voice low. "You gonna bust me for pushing dope? For dope? " I stayed silent, letting him stew. 
"I was told you were into something a little harder. Maybe if we go to your place, take a look around..." Now he was wetting his shorts. Whatever he had at home scared him more than being caught with a few ounces of lawn clippings in his pocket. 
"You want something - cops always do." He was talking fast, not sweating yet, but close to it. He still thought he could talk his way out of it - I was willing to listen. 
"Stoner Farcroft. He's gone underground - I need to know where." 
"Where?" The guy repeated back to me, like an idiot. He shook his head. Seemed like this was something he wasn't keen to divulge. Not just yet. "I know where he was." he offered, but I shook my head. 
"I need to know where he is, right now." 
"I don't know, man, I have no idea." Now the sweat came, like it always does, damping down his hair at the front, and glistening under his designer stubble. 
"Yeah, well, it's his place or yours." I started to get back up again, but he stopped me, desperate as a cornered rat. 
"Okay, look, if I tell you, you have to let me go right now... right now, so I can get away." 
"I'll put you in a cell." I counter-offered. "For your own protection, of course." 
"No way, man! I'm not going to jail for him!" 
"No, you're going to jail 'cause you're a pusher." He studied my face, and saw I wasn't kidding. 
"Okay, I'll take you there - then you let me go." I nodded. No point in pushing him anymore, or he'd get so scared he'd do something stupid, just to save his sorry skin. 
"Let's go." I took the cuffs off, and we got up together. Outside, I slammed him against the wall, and took his gun. 
"You can have this back when I let you go." I promised, and he nodded, relaxing a little, and got into the car with me. MacDouglas appeared in the doorway as we pulled away from the curb. I gave him a royal wave as we drove off, and watched him sag against the wall in the rear-vision. Leather jacket was watching me. 
"Left here." he said, keeping his eyes on my face. I drove through the downtown streets, swerving around a stumbling drunk as he fell off the sidewalk into the street, mumbling to himself. This whole town's full of crazies. 
"What's your name, anyway?" I asked the kid. He licked his lips, and looked away out the window, muttering something I couldn't catch. 
"What?" I growled, and he turned back to me. 
"Damon Porter." That was it. Explained why he looked so familiar, too. 
"You're Ian Porter's son?" He didn't answer. He didn't have to. Detective Ian Porter was the most crooked cop I'd ever had the displeasure of partnering on the force - what is it they say? Like father, like son. 
"I know what you're thinking." he said coldly. I doubted that he did. "...Why'd the son of a cop go into dealing." I stayed silent, and he carried on with a bitter laugh. "If you knew my father like I do..." He trailed off, suddenly realising where he was, and where he was going. He froze up again, and for a second I thought he was considering jumping out of the moving car. Then he relaxed, and laughed again. 
"What's funny?" I demanded, as we drove towards Farcroft's hideout. I didn't think I'd be laughing if I was in his position. 
"He's gonna kill me for this." For a second, I thought he was talking about his father, then realised he meant Stoner. Again, I didn't say anything. He was probably right. Well, not Stoner maybe, but one of his cronies. There was no place for a nark on these filthy city streets. 
"Him, and everyone else who's been nailed by the cops since I moved into the neighbourhood is gonna want a piece of me." 
"I offered to put you in a cell." I said, and felt him shoot me a glance. 
"I'd rather die, than go to jail." he said deliberately, and I wondered what his logic was. 
"If you're afraid you'd shame your family, I think your father's already taken care of that one." I said, then instantly regretted it. It doesn't matter how bent a cop is, you don't bad-mouth a guy to his own son. Damon stared at me, and I felt a stab of guilt. I started to speak, then stopped. we were there. 
I recognised the car from the police report. Dark grey Ford, with a stone shatter in the rear window. I slowed down, and pulled over half a block down the road. Damon locked his door. 
"You're not staying here." If I needed to get out in a hurry, I didn't want to come back and find my car missing. 
"What do you want me to do - introduce you?" he asked me. I snorted. 
"Why not?" I knew my gun was loaded, and that gave me eight chances of hitting my target. I looked over at Porter, and he gave me back a scared rabbit look. "Here." I took the rounds out of his clip, and gave the gun back to him. He had a Glock - probably a gift from his father, caring soul that he obviously was. I had to leave a round chambered, otherwise any idiot could tell it was empty. "Shoot me with that bullet, and you'd better make sure you kill me." But he just nodded, pathetically grateful. He really didn't expect to be alive, come morning. Before I got out of the car, I felt I ought to say something - something to make up for the comment about his father. 
"For the record - " I made sure he was listening. "For the record, your dad was a good cop. I mean, he did a good job." 
"Yeah, sure." He said, but I could tell he didn't believe me. My comment probably just confirmed what he already knew. 
We got out of the car, and he took off into the shadows. I didn't blame him - things were bound to get ugly. I didn't call for backup, there wasn't time - and I couldn't pass up the chance to catch this slime ball. 
There was a light on in the living room, and I could see the flicker of a TV set though the stringy curtains, even though I couldn't hear anything. I picked my way across the yard, trying not to impale myself on the old car parts, and broken beer bottles that littered the place. 
sloppy all around - the door wasn't locked. I let myself into the hallway, and got out my Maglite. 
There are guys on the force who'll tell you the best weapon they ever carried is a Maglite torch. You hit someone with one of those 5-D cells, and they're not getting back up again in a hurry. Mine didn't exactly have blood stains on it, but it'd seen some action, if you know what I mean. 
I did a five second tour of the rest of the house - every room was dark, every room empty, except the living room. I came up to the door, and put my ear up to it. I could hear a funny sound, and it wasn't the TV - heavy breathing, and a kind of rhythmic thump - like the noise a rickety chair makes when you rock on it. I stepped back in disgust. The guy was obviously keeping himself amused. But, repulsed as I was, I knew this was the best time to jump him - so to speak. 
I busted through the door, and sure enough, there was Stoner, boxers around his ankles, hand in his lap, and a look of amazement on his face. But he wasn't alone. There was a prostitute on the floor between his skinny legs, still half-dressed. Porn played on the TV, perfect backdrop. 
Stoner stayed where he was for a second, then jumped up, kicking the prostitute out of the way as he did, pulled his shorts up and reached for a weapon. 
I didn't hesitate - I didn't doubt what he was going to do. I squeezed off a round into his leg, and he fell sideways, down behind the couch. The prostitute screamed, and quit the room. Behind me, someone switched off the lights, and I turned and pulled the trigger - only my gun was empty. My heart stopped, and for a second I could hardly breathe. That sonofabitch - he'd switched his Glock for mine, somehow. I could hear Stoner scrabbling around on the floor like a scared cockroach, and I shone the torch around the room, trying to find him, and keeping in mind that we weren't alone. 
In the light from the TV, I could see cartons of junk stacked all over the room, but no Stoner. Then something hit me on the side of the head, and a bright light flashed behind my eyes, Mag dropping out of my hand as I fell. I felt for it, and found the thing that'd hit me - a brick - a damn brick, in his house! Feet moved past my head, and I reached out, grabbing Stoner's shot leg. He screamed like a stuck pig, and reached for his weapon of choice. 
I could feel blood trickling down my face, and I knew my eyesight was going. I pulled on his leg, trying to pull him down, but he was above me, holding that brick, ready to bring it down. 
With my last bit of strength, I sank my teeth into his leg, deep as I could, hearing him howl. I felt him tense to bring the brick down - and then a gunshot rang in my ears. Stoner fell to his knees, and then collapsed on top of me, the brick falling just short of caving in my skull. 
I lay there in the silence, waiting for the second gunshot. There wasn't one. After half an hour, I got up enough strength to push Stoner off, and crawl back to my car, then drove down to a payphone. 
Ballistics matched both bullets to service-pistols, which I found kind of funny, even in hospital with my head in a bandage. Seemed the first shot had been fired from my old buddy Ian Porter's gun, and the second, the killing bullet had been from mine. They tracked Porter Senior down and asked him about it - I think he told them to go screw themselves. 
Besides, Stoner was dead, and between us, we'd managed to save a third street walker from being brained. Where I come from, it's results they want, not accountability. And I guess there's something in that. Kept me alive, anyway. As far as I'm concerned, it's all shades of grey. 
The End


Feliks Chase was conceived somewhere in New Zealand, and rumor has it, is still there, hidden somewhere amongst tall stands of Flax and Pukeko.