The Nightlife: New York - Chapter 7

Police Chief Schueller yelled in Detective Konowicz’s face, “Don’t tell me this chick went ballistic for no reason. I know what the fuck you were doing! Don’t lie to me.”

Konowicz spluttered, “She was on meth or somethin’. Serious, Chief. She was wired out hardcore, a public safety hazard!”

“You’re gonna find this girl, and I will get the truth! If I hear you were hitting her up for money, you’re gone. I told you last time, if another woman files a report against you, it’s over. Not even the union will save your ass.”

“Yes, sir. No problem. I’ll get right on it.” Konowicz shuffled out of the office.

“I know you will, and you’re gonna bring her to me safe and sound, so I can talk to her! Not a mark on her, you hear!” Konowicz didn’t acknowledge. He kept rolling out the door.

Schueller shook his head, a temple-pounding headache coming on. He recalled a book he read back in the eighties, The Peter Principle, about employees having a tendency to rise to the highest level of incompetence. According to the book, people hit the ceiling of their careers due to the inability to competently manage their responsibilities. Schueller had become convinced Dr. Lawrence J. Peter was a prophet. The Doc must have foreseen the life and times of Scott Konowicz when he wrote his book.

This was the defining characteristic of Konowicz’s life, incompetence. Konowicz was a shining example of the golden age of mediocrity celebrated across America today. His malfunctions reached into every facet of his life, leaving no stone unturned, no accomplishment untainted. His spectacular divorce and lack of children was a shining trophy on the mantle of failure he carried on his way to work––after spiking his coffee with cheap rum.

Konowicz ate, slept, and drank of ineptitude to such excess that it rivaled his alcohol consumption. When Schueller confronted Konowicz four years ago about his alcoholism, trying to help the idiot, Konowicz replied, “No Alcoholics Anonymous for me, sir. That shit’s for quitters! The only twelve steps I need are from the car to the front door of the liquor store!”

Schueller watched through the blinds of his office window as Konowicz approached his fat sidekick, Oberman. They couldn’t be more different in appearance, and yet they were two sides of the same coin. Damn near finished each other’s sentences.

Both detectives shared the same tendency for corruption and bribery––the primary reason Schueller partnered them together six years ago. Better to let two bad apples rot rather than watch them pervert others on the force with their corruption.

Schueller sighed, rubbed a hand across his face and mumbled to himself, “They’re poster children for labor union reform. If the union can make allowance for their continued employment, it must be fundamentally flawed.”

Schueller was well aware both detectives spent their unproductive days skating on the minimum effort required to keep their jobs. They played the Rodney Dangerfield role, I get no respect! He also knew they spent their lonely nights shaking down pimps, prostitutes, and drug dealers for a little bonus pay. Both hit the limits of their careers years ago and took it upon themselves to get ahead the old-fashioned way: threats, blackmail, extortion, and coercion.

Schueller sincerely hoped he could finagle a signed statement from this mystery blonde and put an end to both their careers. It took a lot of dirt to get rid of an NYPD officer, but those two had been pushing the limits of tolerable police behavior for far too long. The office of internal affairs had a dossier on both of them longer than most criminal rap sheets.

* * * *

Detective Konowicz was not a happy man. Every time he spoke, turned his head, tried to eat or drink, his nose spiked pain throughout his skull, causing a series of throbbing waves of misery. His Tylenol Codeine pain pills kicked in with a nice buzz, but the catcalls and teasing from his fellow officers left him with a foul attitude.

“Konowicz, is it true you had your ass handed to you by a hundred pound bimbo?”

“Hey! We should put the bimbo on Jerry Springer with Konowicz and Oberman. After she kicks their asses all over the stage, she can do a number on the stripper pole!” This knee-slapper had them all busting a gut with mocking laughter.

“I heard she zapped Oberman right in the nuts with your piece. Give her points for originality!”

“I bet the chief had their balls for breakfast over that shit!” The legend of their confrontation with the blonde grew with each retelling.

“Everybody’s a fucking comedian,” Konowicz grumbled under his breath to avoid inciting further comment. The incident with the little cunt was the most recent humiliation he’d endured, but it was a symptom of a much larger problem. This event sat atop a heaping list of embarrassing disappointments. The list stretched back decades, extending throughout twenty-two years of an unrewarding and meritless police career.

Life had not been good to Konowicz, but his police work provided a nice outlet for his anger and frustration. Out on the streets, he and Oberman didn’t take shit from criminals. Especially the prostitutes. Bust a few heads, shake down some whores, collect a few dollars, grab onto some new names and do it all over again. Whether by cash or services rendered, the girls always paid. Konowicz had the unbreakable power of the law behind him. Nobody dared defy him. Nobody but this blonde cunt.

Saddled with a broken nose for all his co-workers to see and appreciate enraged him to the point of murder. Konowicz planned to get that bitch one way or another. It was more than business––it had become personal. She’d never see the Chief. There would be no signed statements. He wasn’t a fool, and he surely wasn’t going down for some hot piece of tail with a bullshit complaint of extortion.

Konowicz fantasized long and hard about the horrible, unspeakable things he’d do to her before he killed her. Oh, how she’d beg and plead. She’d do anything he wanted. Anything. She’d try to pay him off first. They always paid when things got rough. He might even let her scrape up some money before he finished the job … drag it out a little longer. Konowicz got down to serious planning.

He approached Oberman privately during lunch at the greasy spoon diner they frequented. Needed to make certain Oberman was good with the plan.

“Hey … we gonna fuck this chick up when we find her? We ain’t taking no prisoners, right?” Konowicz spoke in hushed tones, his plugged sinuses added a nasal whine to his voice.

“That bitch is gonna wake up dead in a dumpster.” Oberman had a malicious gleam in his eye.

Konowicz had expected as much. They were both on track. Business as usual. “You get the artist’s rendering yet?”

“Yeah, it looks close enough. Where do you wanna start?”

“I was thinking we could hit up Talco. See if he knows anything.”

“I bet he knows where to find her. We’ll catch him tonight. He owes us one after the last stunt he pulled.”

“A package that sweet grabs attention. We’ll find her soon. She must be working with somebody. A piece like that ain’t walking the streets alone.”

Konowicz nodded. With the network of pimps and prostitutes they had access to it was only a matter of time before they tracked her down.

* * * *

Talco stood at the entrance to Chandler’s Bar and Grill waiting for the arrival of Oberman and Konowicz, a.k.a. Los Demonios. Everything involving those assholes equated to a deal with the devil. He wondered how he’d ever rid himself of their influence. He couldn’t imagine anything short of killing them that would free him, and he wasn’t a murderer. A pimp and a felon on probation, sure … but not a killer. Not yet.

“It’s about fuckin’ time you showed up. Been waiting twenty-five minutes! You think I got nothing better to do?” Talco hated waiting for them. They did this to him every time.

“Relax, sit down, have a beer. Haven’t you heard, patience is a fuckin’ virtue?” Konowicz gestured to a corner booth in the back of the bar. “You’re too high strung. Look at Oberman here, that’s what happens with too much stress.”

“Yeah fuck you too. Your ugly mug ain’t winning any beauty contests.” Oberman blasted Konowicz.

Talco looked at Oberman’s fat cheeky jowls with a nasty set of new scratches and Konowicz’s swollen-bruised broken nose. He prayed to the Blessed Virgin he would never allow himself to deteriorate so badly that he resembled either of them. His sleek, fit, twenty-seven year old, golden-tanned Puerto Rican body was in its prime, and he intended to keep it that way for years to come. To Talco, Oberman’s overweight fifty-plus years of bulk with a triple chin and beady eyes was the worst condition a man could be in. Konowicz, although thinner, was plenty undesirable in his own gaunt, balding way.

They looked like a wicked version of Laurel and Hardy with Brooklyn accents, heavy drinking problems, and noses for sniffing out nasty business. Somehow, their indecent ventures always found a way from their hands into his lap.

Los Demonios ordered rounds of beers and burgers. I’ll be paying for it. Putos didn’t ask for separate checks.

“I got somethin’ for ya. Look at this.” Oberman handed an artist’s rendering of a woman’s face to Talco. “You recognize her?” Talco looked over the drawing for a moment and shook his head.

“She’s working the streets. She’s been seen last week near Palmetto and 60th. Claims to be working alone, but she’s a hot little piece. She ain’t out there on her own.”

Talco sensed something personal in this. He got a sickening feeling. There was more to this girl than they were telling him. He speculated she had something to do with the scratches across Oberman’s face and silently praised any woman brave enough to fight back. The sad part, this girl was already fucked. She just didn’t know it yet. You never go head-to-head with NYPD, a serious mistake.

Konowicz stared hard at Talco, making certain to impart the severity of his request. “This baby’s got your name all over it. You find her and we’re square for the last payment you owe. Think you can handle it?”

Perhaps the girl was involved in heavy shit, heroin or something. Maybe it was legit police work. “I’ll ask around, see what I can find out. I’ll put in the time, but I can’t guarantee anything. And what if I can’t find her? All this for nothing? You still gonna be on my case? I got a life too, a wife and kid!”

“Hey, you need to remember what’s important. Do everything you can to protect that sweet little chica at home. You go down on a probation violation and you’ll be doing twenty-four months. That ain’t so good for the mamasita. You want her earning the rent on her back while you’re locked up?” Konowicz threatened in his nasal voice.

Talco knew these weren’t idle threats. Either of them could make a phone call to his probation officer and Talco would be immediately thrown in lockup. A convicted felon on probation, he had no rights. And he wasn’t exactly keeping his nose clean, running a prostitution racket on the side. His life had been a living hell from the moment the detectives had pressured one of his girls into revealing the name of her employer. They had owned his ass ever since.

Oberman growled like a dog and winked at Konowicz. He looked to Talco with a low gravelly chuckle. “Of course he don’t want that. He’s got a beautiful wife, and a newborn baby. He’s going to do exactly what we tell him to do.”

Talco seriously considered killing these two disgusting pigs. They sat calmly drinking beer at his expense, talking about how easily they could ruin his life. His temper flared, his fists and jaw clenched tight. Generations of hot-blooded Puerto Rican genetics warred against his better judgment. Evita had warned him constantly to calm down and think before acting, Cool it Papi, te quiero mucho.

His hot blood put him in prison after he beat an asshole senseless for smacking down Evita when she refused him anal sex. In the jury face-off of a fast-talking Puerto Rican vs. a respectable white businessman, the verdict against Talco was a foregone conclusion.

The one witness who might have helped his defense had remained silent. Talco refused to let Evita take the stand. She’d begged Talco to let her testify. But the prosecutor knew the score. He’d threatened to have Evita deported to Colombia if she testified. Talco had forced her to stay away from the court room to protect her immigration status.

Found guilty and carted off to prison, Talco learned real quick who his true friends were. Evita was the only one who stuck with him. Her money paid for the sleazy attorney who did nothing for Talco’s defense. Evita was a keeper. He married her two days after his release from serving twelve months, a two year suspended sentence hanging over his head. She’d waited the entire year for him. She was there when no one else gave a damn. She proved her worth a hundred times over.

He owed it to Evita to keep a grip on his temper. He swallowed down his pride and fury. “Alright! Take it easy. I’ll do what I can, but don’t expect miracles. If my people know who she is, then we got her. I’m on the job.”

“Damn straight you are, and you’re gonna pay the fuckin’ tab too!” Oberman motioned to the waitress. “We need another round over here.” Oberman and Konowicz always drank their fill when Talco was buying.