Morning slashed through the curtain gap and carved a line across Bullock's spine. He lay twisted on the couch in yesterday's clothes, shirt wrinkled, trousers creased. His tie was a forgotten snake on the floor.
He snored on until the knocking escalated into a siege.
"Motherfucker," he mumbled into the cushion, catching the grit Perez left behind last time she crashed there.
The banging returned, harder. "God damn it," he groaned, rolling off the couch and slamming his knee against the coffee table. "Shit!"
He staggered upright, back cracking like knuckles. "I'm coming!" he barked, muttering curses all the way to the door. He peeked through the peephole, scratched his jaw, then opened it a sliver.
Pollack. Fritzy. Mendez. Tenspeed. Brownshoe. Rusty. Chen. And half the goddamn department.
"What the hell is this, a parade?" Bullock said.
"We need to talk," Pollack replied.
Bullock stepped aside. They funneled in, crowding his living room like a bad omen.
He didn't like the energy. Tight jaws, darting eyes, a room strung taut like wire. Once the last man stepped in, he turned the lock. His fingers pressed the tension coiled in his neck. This was going to be a mess.
"Well?" he asked.
"The freak got Fulman, Mazzocchi, and Lorenzo," Pollack said.
"Fucked them up good," someone added.
"Snapped Lorenzo's forearm."
"Fulman pissed himself."
"I heard he shit his pants," Brownshoe said.
A few chuckled. It didn't last.
"This isn't a goddamn joke," Pollack cut in. "The freak left a message. 'An eye for an eye.'"
"Then yanked their teeth out," Tenspeed said.
"We all know why," someone muttered.
Bullock's head perked up, "Oh yeah? What's the theory?"
"Come on—Gordon got jumped by those assholes," said another.
"How the hell do you all know that?"
"From me," said Pollack.
"Yeah? Who told you?" Bullock snapped.
Pollack hesitated. His eyes drifted. Bullock knew. He shook his head, clenched one hand into a fist.
"You tell that red-headed mick to swim back to the motherland before I grind his teeth into the pavement—back stabbing piece of shit." Bullock said.
"Alright, alright," Pollack said, hands up. "I saw O'Brien at Nellie's. Asked what went down. Doesn't take a detective to connect the dots. Gordon's helping the freak, or he knows who he is. And you—" he looked at Bullock, Chen, Rusty "—you guys know something?"
A thunderous knock broke the standoff.
"Motherfucker," Bullock muttered, borderline grateful. He unlocked it and yanked open the door. Perez.
"Not now."
"We need to talk," she said, muscling past and blinking at the assembled crowd. "So. You've heard." A smirk tugged at her mouth.
"Yeah, we heard," Mendez said, flat. "Look Harv, all we want to know is who the freak's picking—and if we're all next."
"If it's just Loeb's guys then, we should call out," someone muttered.
"No one's calling out," Pollack snapped. "Everyone better show the fuck up, or hand his badge and quit like fucking pussy." Pollack eyed anyone who dared challenge him. He turned back to Perez, "What've you heard?"
"Same as you, probably."
"You think it's just Loeb's people?" Pollack pressed.
"That's my guess."
"A guess?" Mendez scoffed.
"I'm not clairvoyant, Al. Just got instincts."
"How the hell would he know who's on Loeb's payroll?" Tenspeed asked.
"Maybe he's got a list," Bullock said.
A loud silence followed, eyes darting around like each man was thinking of every fucked up shit they'd done.
"What about Gordon?" Pollack asked Perez.
"What about him?"
"Drop the act, Mari," Mendez said. "He's either helping the freak or he knows the guy. Which is it?"
"He works with him," Perez replied.
Groans rippled.
"I say we sit this one out," Mendez muttered.
"Not our mess," Tenspeed agreed. "Let the freak sort Loeb's crew."
"What about Gordon?" Chen said.
"He jumped in bed with the freak. That's on him," said someone.
Perez's voice cut through: "Gordon's been doing your job. Both of them have, and that's what he gets?"
"What the fuck did you just say?" one of guys stepped toward her.
"Another step and I'll knock you fucking teeth out," Bullock said, eyes locked on him, voice low.
"Enough," Rusty snapped, gently grabbing Bullock's shoulder. "Perez, you know this shit ain't that easy. If we could mask up and clean house—get rid of guys like Lorenzo, Mazzocchi, Fulman—we would. And you—" He turned to the guy who stepped, "—next time you twitch, I put you down. Clear?"
The man nodded.
"Wait—you haven't heard about Brandon?" Perez said.
All heads turned.
That grin on her face slipped loose now, couldn't be helped.
"Shit," Pollack said. "He got Brandon too?"
"Good riddance," Mendez muttered.
Bullock narrowed his eyes. "What happened to Brandon?"
Perez lit up like a kid with a match who going to enjoy the chaos.