Crooked

On Sundays Mr. Harvey sat by the pond in central park and sketched the trees. When the sun began to set he’d tuck his pencil inside his coat, wrap a band around his book, and make his way to the diner across the street from his apartment in Harlem.

Around the blocks where he lived he was well known and much loved. In his younger years he was quite the philanthropist and most of the businesses open today were his ventures years ago. Now the hustle and bustle of the city did not quite entertain him as it once did. Now he was quite content to sit in the park, sketch the trees, and sit at home quietly.

Well into a Sunday evening in March Mr. Harvey sat at the counter of the diner across the street from his apartment and ate his bacon, lettuce, and tomato sandwich in silence. Occasionally the hostess would take his cup and refill it with a diet cola.

Outside the diner a black SUV stopped and a man stepped onto the sidewalk. He was dressed in a brown coat, blue jeans, and black t-shirt. In his hand he held a small revolver. No one paid him any mind. The SUV drove away and turned the corner. The man stepped inside the diner and walked into the bathroom, scanning the room as he went, the revolver tucked into his coat.

Mr. Harvery finished his sandwich and waved at the hostess for his check. While her back was turned to print the ticket, the man from the street exited the bathroom, raised his gun over the counter and across the diner to point at Mr. Harvey. In an instant the hostess was screaming, a man in a booth was dialing the police, the gunman was crawling into the SUV again, and Mr. Harvey lay dead on the checkered floor.

A couple of hours later police had arrived, an ambulance had taken Mr. Harvey away in a body bag, and a report was completed. Mr. Harvey was the victim of a random act of violence that would be investigated, but not answered. The diner closed early that night, the hostess left with her boyfriend, the man in the booth took a cab home to his wife and children. The police drove away with the thought of dinner on their mind.

In one police cruiser the lead homicide detective in Harlem and a young officer from the academy were not thinking about dinner, or paperwork, or getting off work. Instead they drove towards Jersey City where they’d meet a buyer for their services. The detective handed the other officer a little plastic bag with $20,000 in it and a note from their employer.

The note simply stated:

Greenville Yard, 2am

The young man, Officer Byron, looked at the money with unease. He set it in his lap and drove on. Detective Mayweather grinned, running his fingers through the freshly laundered cash.

“You know what I’m getting with this, Byron?” Asked Mayweather.

“No, sir.”

“I’m gonna take my lady on vacation. Yeah, that sounds good. Some time in the Bahamas, away from the wife.” Mayweather’s breath stank of cheap whiskey when he spoke. “Yeah, that’ll do me some good.” Mayweather always said “my lady” when referencing his mistress. His wife was always “my old lady,” “the wife,” or “that bitch.” Officer Byron always thought of this crude behaviour as rather brutish and beneath an officer of the law. But since leaving the academy he’d learned a lot about the police and how much was not beneath them.

The stack of bills in Byron’s lap felt hotter the longer it sat there. It didn’t feel right taking the money, doing what they were doing. But he didn’t really have a choice. With his fiance in the hospital, and threats coming every day from god knows where. He had to take it. After all, what did it really matter? An old lonely man was killed and they were just making sure no one found the killers. Old lonely men die all the time, his life was over already.

The rest of the car ride was spent in silence. Occasionally Mayweather would slurp from his flask, or smell the money they’d been given. As they drove through the Holland Tunnel, Byron tried to take his mind off the crime by thinking about his fiance. He could pay down some of their debt now. Maybe he’d even convince her to marry him, before it was too late.

After what felt like forever they exited the tunnel. Byron took a left and drove past Liberty State Park towards the trainyard on the south end of the city. Eyeing the large black SUV that followed closely.

When they got to Greenville Yard Byron drove until he spotted another black SUV parked in the shadows of a warehouse with a group of men standing around in silence. He parked the car facing towards them and shut off the engine. The SUV that followed them parked behind them and the 4 men inside got out.

“Alright, stay here kid.” Said Mayweather, he pulled his gun from the holster inside his coat and checked to make sure it was loaded.

“What are you doing that for, I thought we were good?” Asked Byron, he could feel his heartbeat accelerating.

“Relax, kid, I’ll just be a moment.” He got out of the car and walked towards the men in front of them. “Howdy, fellas, nice night!” He called genially.

“Shut up, pig!” called back one of the men. “You got what we’re looking for?”

Mayweather reached into his coat, the other men instantly lifted their guns and pointed them at him. “You best think hard about your next move, pig!”

“Relax, relax, it’s right here.” Mayweather removed a small black notebook from his coat pocket. “Here.” He tossed it towards the gunmen. “Now if you don’t mind, my partner and I are going to get outta here, we’ve had an awful busy night, and this really isn’t our jurisdiction out here.”

One of the other men walked forwards and retrieved the notebook. He handed it to another member of the gang. Eyeing Mayweather, the man said “This best be what we’re looking for, pig.”

“I assure you, it’s the only book that Mr. Harvey had on him.” The gangsters raised their guns at Mayweather again to signal they were done listening to him.

The man with the book, presumably their leader, flipped through the pages. He laughed. “Crazy, fucking old man.”

“Are we good?” Asked Mayweather.

The sound of a helicopter drew near to the gathering. Byron didn’t like that the gangsters weren’t letting them go. What did they want with the book? He put the keys in the ignition of the cruiser and prepared to turn the car on and get out of there.

“You know what, pig? I don’t think we are good.” The gang leader lifted his pistol and fired 3 shots into Mayweather’s chest. He was knocked off his feet and fell backwards onto the hood of the car. He turned his head to make eye contact with Byron and choked out one word:

“Go!”

A helicopter spotlight ignited the scene and a voice boomed out from a speaker “Drop your weapons and get down on the ground, now, we have you surrounded!” Suddenly the helicopter was right on top of them, at least half a dozen SWAT vehicles pulled onto the scene and everything was ablaze with gunfire and the red and blue flashing of police sirens.

Byron twisted the key in the ignition, threw the car into drive and slammed his boot on the accelerator. Mayweather rolled off the hood, leaving a thick streak of blood. The cruiser slammed into the side of the gangster’s SUV. The SWAT team opened fire on the gangsters and the gangsters returned fire. Byron’s police cruiser was pelted with bullets and he couldn’t hear anything besides blood pounding in his ears. He reversed the car, turned right, saw an opening and sped off into the trainyard. The SWAT team, recognizing one of their own, didn’t pursue him.

When Byron eventually stopped the car he was back in Harlem. He didn’t remember driving all that way. He got out of the cruiser and walked around it, inspecting the damage. There were holes everywhere, blood across the hood, and the passenger side windows were smashed. Byron himself had amazingly escaped with no injuries.

He got back in the car and picked up the plastic bag with the money. Tears sprang to his eyes suddenly as the events of the night unfolded in his memory. What did it all mean? A gang was willing to bribe 2 police officers at least with tens of thousands of dollars, and risk death at the hands of heavily armored SWAT teams, for a notebook? Why?

Byron looked around to get his bearings. He was outside the diner where Mr. Harvey was murdered. Police tape ran across the front door and windows. He opened his phone up and searched the internet for “Mr. Harvey.”

The first page wasn’t helpful, nothing related to the man from the diner. Byron searched “Mr Harvey Harlem.”

A website with Harvey’s face popped up. The photo of Harvey was from several years ago, but it was undeniably him. The site was titled: “Billionaire Announces Intent to ‘Out’ Illegal Activities Amongst Fellow Elite.” It was published 12 hours ago. Byron opened the link and continued reading.

Apparently, only 12 hours ago, Mr. Harvey had contacted media sources around the world announcing his knowledge of an underground web of illegal activity. He described some of the most heinous acts that could be committed and said that all this information he had compiled in code in one notebook that he kept on his person at all times. In another 12 hours he was going to make sure this book made it into the hands of New York investigators, even if it meant his own life was in danger.

Byron closed his phone and sat back in his seat. What did it all mean? Was this all Mr. Harvey’s plan? Or did his plan go completely wrong? Was Mayweather the investigator he spoke of? Or did he mean the SWAT team that intercepted them at the trainyard?

Byron opened his phone to read the article again. But the article had disappeared. He google Mr. Harvey. No results. Mr. Harvey Harlem. No results. Mr Harvey Harlem murder. No results.

There was a metal tap on the driver’s side window of Byron’s cruiser. He looked up and found himself staring down the barrel of another pistol. The man holding the gun said, “come on son, get out, let’s not have any trouble.”

Byron opened the door and got out of the car.

The other man put the gun away in his coat and smiled a toothy grin at Byron. “Now, I don’t know how much you know. But as far as I can tell you’re the only one left alive who knows a damn thing.”

Byron stuttered, “I-I a-assure you, I don’t know what you mean.”

“I-I-I, shut up.” The man said mockingly. “Now, you have a wife, as I understand it.”

“Yes sir.”

“You want her safe, Officer Byron?”

“Yes sir.”

“Would you do anything to keep her safe?”

“Anything.”

“Good.” The man grinned again. “My employers are very special people. And there's a notebook out there that concerns them greatly.”

Byron nodded.

“Do you think you know what notebook I’m talking about?”

“Yes sir.”

“Yeah, you do, don’t you. You’re gonna get that book back for me, you understand?”

Byron swallowed. “Yes sir.”

“Yeah.” Smiling evilly, the man turned away. “You have until midnight tomorrow, or you’ll never see your pretty wife again.”