Savage Rage (14 page)

“He has one cycle, five weeks, to impress me, or I will rid myself and the platoon of a problem officer. Is that understood, Officer?”

Yeah, nice to meet you, too, prick.
“Perfectly, sir. Is there anything else, sir?”

“As it is your first day with us, I realize you are unfamiliar with my supervising techniques.”

Oh, no. I'm not unfamiliar. I've run into pricks before.

“Supervisors are to be addressed by their full rank. I expect you to adhere to that rule from here on. Is that understood?”

Jack felt like snapping to attention and giving a sharp
Jawohl!
Instead, he said, “Absolutely, sir,” and turned to leave.

“Officer!”

Jack casually turned. “Sir?” There was no rule or regulation, as far as Jack knew, that said supervisors had to be addressed by full rank.

“Don't try and fuck with me, Officer.” Greene's face was blooming an angry purple.

“Wouldn't dream of it.” Jack smiled. “Sir.”

The sky was clear and the sun was shining warmly for a March day. Kayne luxuriated in the feel of the sun's touch soaking into his dark sweatshirt, heating his whole body. He leaned back against a piece of plywood, his legs stretched out comfortably, then dragged deeply on a joint before passing it to Jesse. He felt the heat of the smoke in his throat and sinuses as he let it leak slowly from his nose. Life was good.

They sat on the footbridge spanning the ravine just north of Bloor Street, a link between the wealthy of Rosedale and the less affluent of St. Jamestown. In all his years, Kayne had never been on this bridge, had not known it existed until an unsuspecting weed dealer brought Kayne and Jesse out here to conduct their business.

The ravine was big enough to be called a valley and a street bearing its name, Rosedale Valley Road, snaked along the valley's bottom. Traffic passed in a mechanical hush far beneath them. The trees and brush to either side of the road were bare and lifeless, patches of defiant snow huddling within the ravine's shadows and recesses.

“Bet this looks a shitload better when the trees are all green.”

“Huh?” Jesse gazed stupidly at Kayne, his unfocused eyes shifting from his friend to the trees stretching out below them. “What's green?”

“Fuck, you're a dumb shit.” Kayne snatched the joint from Jesse's fingers. “You keep smoking this shit and you'll end up as dumb as Lisa. Stupid green-haired bitch.” He crushed the last of the joint and tilted his face to the afternoon sun. It felt good to be warm; he'd been cold too often in prison. He knew it was only a matter of time before he went back, he always did, so he intended to enjoy his time outside and that meant sitting on this bridge, comfortably buzzed and soaking up some sun.

There was no need to hurry; they had the bridge to themselves since it was boarded off at either end because it was being repaired. The dealer they had run into in St. Jamestown had led them down to the bridge, squeezing behind loose boards in the wood barrier. A nice, private place for business, he'd said. Kayne couldn't have agreed more.

They had left the dealer, unconscious, bleeding and bereft of his cash and merchandise, by the barrier and sat near the bridge's midpoint, where a section of the chest-high metal railing was being replaced. The long gap in the railing was temporarily filled with plywood and it was against this that they rested. Kayne noted Jesse spent more time hunched over his knees than leaning back against the wood. Kayne knew Jesse was a coward and figured the feel of the wood flexing and bowing behind them had unnerved him.

Coward or not, Jesse was useful. He knew who sold the best rock, knew which dealers were least likely to have a gun or someone watching them. Kayne didn't mind scrapping with a guy armed with a knife, but he hated guns, believed in his heart only cowards carried guns.

Jesse's most useful function was listening to what was being said on the street.

And there was a lot being said. All of it about Kayne.

He thought there must be close to ten people out there — hard-asses, dealers, crackheads — who bore his mark and everywhere those people went, for the rest of their lives, they would spread Kayne's name. Jesse told Kayne the police were looking for him and some of his victims were talking of settling the score themselves.

“Bring them on,” he whispered. He'd be ready for them. Next time he'd carve open the rest of their faces.

He reached into his sweatshirt's belly pocket and reverently pulled out his talisman. It felt good to hold it even when he wasn't using it. He loved the way its black surface gleamed in the sunlight, especially the sharp tip that had tasted so much blood since the day he had found it in the prison yard. Kayne had no idea how it had gotten there, but as soon as he had seen it he'd known it was to be his. That fuck Jeremiah had said so many fucking times that if Kayne looked to the Good Book he would find his way, find the talisman that would guide him through life. How right he had been. It was only fitting that Jeremiah had been the first to receive Kayne's mark.

“Why do you do it, man? Cut them, I mean.” Jesse was staring at the talisman intently. “Why not just kill the fuckers?”

Kayne looked at Jesse disdainfully. “Because I'm Kayne,” he stated absolutely, as if it explained all.

Apparently it didn't, not for Jesse. “I don't get it.”

“Use your fucking head, you stupid shit.” Kayne smacked Jesse's forehead. Jesse rubbed his brow and continued to smile stupidly at Kayne. Exasperated, Kayne shook his head. “Roll me another one and I'll tell you.”

A minute later, fresh cigarette in hand, he began. “Last time I did time, I bunked with this nigger. Big fucking sonuvabitch. Always reading the Bible. Called himself Jeremiah.”

“Like the pancakes?” Jesse giggled.

“What? No, you stupid shit. That's Aunt Jeremiah, you fuck.”

“Oh.”

“Now shut up.” Kayne glared at Jesse over the flaring tip of the joint as he sucked in another lungful. “Jeremiah was always reading to me, preaching about my evil ways.”

“What was he in for?”

Kayne laughed. “What else? Kiddy diddling, just like all those chest-thumping Christ preachers.”

“Fucking faggots,” Jesse added.

“Yeah, now shut up and let me talk.” Kayne passed the joint to Jesse to keep him quiet. He'd had enough; couldn't get wasted when so many people were gunning for him. “The only part of that book I liked was the story about Cain. You know who Cain was?”

“Sure,” Jesse squeaked, fighting to keep the smoke in.

Kayne went on as if Jesse hadn't spoken. “Yeah, well, Cain was the first murderer in history. He killed his brother. Can't remember the fag's name, but that's the fucking point. Everybody remembers Cain. Every-fucking-body. And everybody will fucking remember me.”

“But . . . wouldn't it be more . . . bigger if you killed them?” Jesse seemed to be having trouble following his friend's logic.

“You are a stupid shit,” Kayne repeated. “If I kill them, they'll just be dead. My way, they'll have my mark on them for the rest of their fucking lives and everywhere they go people will ask, ‘Who did that?' And they'll say, ‘Kayne did.' I mark them, just like God marked Cain so everyone would know he was a badass motherfucker. And everyone'll know I'm the baddest fucker out here.”

Jesse grinned approvingly. “I get it. Fuck, that's smart.”

“Fucking right it is. Jeremiah kept telling me to look to the book and when I heard my name I knew what to do. Found this,” he held up the talisman, “in the yard one day and carved my mark in Jeremiah's head the day before I got out.”

“You found that in the yard? How'd it get there?” Jesse had done enough time to know that finding something that big and potentially dangerous on prison grounds was a fucking one-in-a-million win.

“Fuck if I know.” Kayne stroked his talisman lovingly. “Left over from repairs, fell off the roof. Fuck, it could have fallen off a fucking plane for all I care. I found it and that's what fucking matters.”

“How'd you get that out, man? Don't they, like, search you?”

Kayne smiled smugly. “They ain't as careful searching you when you go out.”

Jesse snorted laughter and it wheezed loudly out of his broken nose.

Kayne tapped Jesse's nose with the talisman. “Who the fuck did that to you?”

“Cops.” His euphoric mood dried up as he remembered. “This pig comes into the restaurant where I'm eating and sucker-punches me, man. Busts up my nose.”

“Hope you kicked his ass.”
Or were you too busy crying?

“Got a few licks in,” Jesse admitted modestly. “But there was another cop there, his partner and they both jumped me. It was the first one, though, that broke my nose.”

A foggy silence settled between them for a few minutes. A car horn blared faintly in the valley and then their friendly dealer groaned from his end of the bridge. Kayne glanced his way: the dealer wasn't moving much.

“Too bad that guy's dead.”

“What guy?” Kayne asked absently, his thoughts on the beer they had back in the room. Just about time to head home. Maybe see if Lisa was up for a fuck.

“A dealer. Called his crack Black. Can't remember his name.” Jesse shrugged.

Kayne nodded. “I heard about him while I was inside. What about him?”

“They say he was the toughest motherfucker ever, killed anybody who fucked with him.”

“So?”

Jesse shrugged again. “Dunno. I just hear people say ain't never gonna be anyone tougher than him. Too bad he wasn't still around. If you marked him, then everyone would know who was the baddest.”

That caught Kayne's attention. “Yeah, but he ain't here. He's dead. If he was so tough, who did him?”

“Cop,” Jesse said simply.

“Figures. Fucking pigs always gang up on you,” Kayne declared.

Jesse was shaking his head emphatically. “Wasn't no bunch of cops. Just one.” Now it was Jesse's turn to tell a tale. “This guy killed the pig's partner. Slit his throat wide open.” Kayne nodded approvingly. “Then when Charles —” Kayne failed to notice that Jesse's memory had suddenly improved “— broke into the cop's house, the cop fucking killed him.”

“He broke into the cop's house?” Kayne asked disbelievingly.

“Yup. Was gonna fuck the cop's wife, but the cop killed him.” Jesse paused, then added, “Beat him to death with his bare fucking hands.”

Kayne was impressed. “No shit?”

“No shit,” Jesse agreed. “Hey! If you did the cop who killed Charles, then that'd prove you're the man.” He lowered his voice. “Fucking shit, marking a cop.”

Kayne nodded slowly, the substance of the idea hot and pleasing to him. “Fucking mark a cop. Yeah. You know which cop it was?”

Jesse smiled, a nasty little grin, and fingered the crooked mess that was his nose. “Yeah, I know which one it was.”

“Good.” Kayne sprang to his feet. “You find him for me.” He gazed lovingly at the talisman, still in his hand. “You find him for me and I'll fucking mark him. I'll cut his whole fucking face.”

“I'm an assignment?”

“Yup,” Jack replied smugly. “Oh, how the tide has turned, grasshopper.”

“How's that?”

They were cruising Allan Gardens, the city-block-square park in the heart of 51. An oasis of normality just up the street from Seaton House, the city's largest men's shelter and a short drive to the constant trouble spots of the division: Regent Park, St. Jamestown and Moss Park. But then everywhere was a short drive in 51, the city's smallest yet busiest division.

Allan Gardens boasted a world-class greenhouse at its centre and paved walkways, all wide enough for a scout car, crisscrossed the grounds in a loose spider's web. The first buds of spring were showing on the trees, giant mature monoliths that would bestow cooling shade come the city's humid summer. Manny kept the scout car on the walkways; the ground, just free of winter's grip, was too soft and muddy to drive on. Once the earth greened and firmed up, the cops would be free to cruise the park as they desired.

The park was relatively empty. Some pedestrian commuters were using its paths to shorten the walk to work, but most visitors were of the four-legged variety. The morning's regular complement of dog owners was out in full force and canines of every size and shape frolicked in the spring mud. Some owners frantically reached for leashes at the sight of the scout car; Jack and Manny waved them off. There were far more serious offences to worry about than a dog running loose. Unless you were a squirrel, of course. Besides, the untethered dogs tended to keep the drunks and crackheads to a minimum.

Allan Gardens had been Sy's special project. According to Sy, in the time before Jack's first interlude in 51, Allan Gardens was a haven for the streets' unsavoury element: drunks, addicts, dealers and prostitutes plied their professions and habits in and around the greenhouse. The public washrooms in the greenhouse had become drug-laden whorehouses. Good people stayed away for fear of being hassled or robbed. Discarded needles, other drug paraphernalia and condoms littered the ground. It had taken a combined and prolonged effort by the community and police to pull the park into the light. Sy's goal had been to keep it that way and Jack had no intention of letting his friend's efforts be undone. Now that he was back in 51, Allan Gardens was his and he intended to keep it that way.

“Remember the first day we worked together?” Jack watched a huge Newfoundland, mud up to his belly, chase an equally muddy tennis ball. The owner, seeing Jack's interest, pointed at the Newfie and held up his leash. Jack smiled and shook his head. The owner smiled in return and gave the coppers a thumbs up. “Staff Rourke told you to keep an eye on me, drive me around, keep me out of trouble.”