Chapter 10
The thing about being an FBI agent for as long as Agent Constantine Striker has, was that you knew everybody.
Agent Chris Hale was, until very recently, a detective who worked in the Northeast Area District of the LAPD, which just so happened to be adjacent to Orange County. Not only that, but Con knew the head of the NAD well. Even more miraculous, the man in charge was one of the few members of law enforcement who didn’t consider Con a curmudgeonly asshole.
Or if he did, the man was an exceptional actor, on par with Doc the transgendered dwarf.
They’d worked on a few cases together years back. And while Con’s recollection of these cases was muddy, he thought one of them had to do with a jewelry heist ring. It was one of the more interesting cases that Marcus Allen had assigned Con, meaning that it had likely been assigned on accident.
The LAPD Chief’s name was Art Abner, but everyone called him AA because the man liked to drink. He was on the heavier side—nowhere near as large as Agent Hale—with short white hair and a mustache of the same shade.
AA was surprised to hear from Con but the fact that he picked up after only the second ring reinforced the idea that Con was in the man’s good graces. The chief agreed to meet for a coffee that afternoon, which both parties knew meant beer.
Con was in favor. He wasn’t hungover per se , but he was dehydrated from all the sweating he’d done over the past two days.
AA chose a bar in Orange County which was well known to cater primarily to law enforcement.
Con found the man at the back, in a dark booth. AA was still heavyset, but he appeared to have lost some weight since the last time they’d met.
“AA,” Con said as he approached.
Art, a smile on his face, rose and the two men shook hands. Con was unsurprised to notice two pints on the table, one of which was already half empty.
“Sit, sit,” AA instructed. The weight loss had made the skin on his face sag a little, suggesting that it had been rapid, and this made him look older than his fifty or so tours around the sun. Con hoped that AA dropping pounds had been as a result of one of those fancy new injectable drugs that they were always advertising on the radio and not because of something more serious.
As for looking older, well, Con didn’t judge. He was in no position to.
He was thirty-five going on sixty and looked every bit his age. Not that Con spent much time assessing his appearance.
He suddenly thought of Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs— nay , Seven Little People. Snow White famously looked in the mirror and asked the question, ‘Who is the fairest of them all’?
Would they change this iconic line to accommodate the woman of ‘indistinguishable race’ who had been cast to play the titular character?
Con grunted to himself.
Who cares—focus.
“Imagine my surprise when I heard your voice.”
Now this made him think of Matthew Nelson Neil and Con’s subsequent grunt was laced with considerably more disdain.
Like Con, AA was incredibly tanned. This made them both look older. Bodybuilders tanned before events to accentuate their muscles, to deepen shadows between striations.
But on the faces of law enforcement, all this served to do was make frown lines and crow’s feet more noticeable.
Con slid into the booth and considered his game plan.
His chameleon approach usually worked well with young cops, but it was considerably more difficult with people like AA who had been around the block. The last thing Con wanted to do was overthink things, come off as disingenuous. Add someone who, for whatever reason, still liked Con to his list of enemies.
He settled on getting directly to the point.
“I need a favor.”
AA’s face didn’t change.
“Figured as much. Let me guess? Gambling debts? Need me to shake down a local bookie?”
Con had a difficult time figuring out if the man was joking. Maybe he wasn’t, maybe Con’s appearance was even more disheveled than he’d thought.
“No, the only gambling I do is the occasion lunch at Taco Bell.”
Now it was AAs turn to look confused.
“Is that a joke?”
“It was,” Con said, a little surprised himself. “But on a serious note, I really do need a favor.”
“It’s gonna cost you.’
“You don’t even know what it is yet. Maybe I just have a few parking tickets over in LA.”
“Another joke. You’re on quite the roll. What do you need, Con?”
“I’ve got this new partner,” Con said, growing serious. His eyes drifted to his beer, and he spun the glass a little bit, watching the condensation stain beneath it grow. “I believe you know him?”
AA huffed, his mustache bristling.
“Fuck no. No way.”
“Yeah—yeah, way. Chris Hale is my new partner.”
AA wasn’t laughing now.
“I know, I’m the one who set him up with the position. I thought that dick Marcus Allen would give me a hard time about it, but he practically accepted the man without even asking for his credentials.”
Con winced. This was going to be harder than he’d thought.
“Right… AA, the man talks too much. Like all the time.”
“Don’t I know it. I don’t go out into the field much anymore, but his old partner called in sick, and I had to fill in. We were on a stakeout and Chris would not shut up. The only time he stopped talking was to eat. Thankfully, he does that a lot.”
Con debated bringing up AA’s own weight loss but didn’t want to stray from the subject at hand.
“Look, I’m not saying that he won’t make a good Agent.” Instead, Con only thought this to himself. “But he won’t make a good Agent with me .”
AA sipped his beer.
“Hmm . I’ve heard that you’re not the easiest to work with.”
It wasn’t a condemnation, just stating a fact.
“Which is why if Agent Hale is to get a real shot at being in the FBI it has to be with someone else.”
AA paused again to drink. When he was done, he swirled his nearly empty glass in an identical manner that Con had.
“Well, the case Chris was working, this undercover thing, is picking up steam. And we pulled him out in a way that he could easily be reinserted… under the right circumstance, that is.”
“And what circumstances might that be?”
AA smiled and Con realized that he didn’t need to be a chameleon with this man. But instead of feeling relief at being able to finally drop the act, Con felt naked and uncomfortable.
“Our closing rate at the NAD has dropped a little lately. Doesn’t look good for me and I just happen to be vying for the next step up the ladder.”
Con wasn’t surprised. And he wasn’t upset, either. Unlike Marcus Allen, who did everything he could to rise up the ranks, Con’s boss was sneaky about it. Deceptive, stepping not over but on top of everyone who so much as crossed his path.
“And?”
“And a recommendation from the FBI might go a long way to helping me climb,” AA finished.
Con didn’t hesitate.
“Done.”
AA’s smile grew and finished his beer.
“Then, well, I think said circumstances have been met. It’s good to see you, Con.”
“You, too.”
They shook hands again and AA started away, walking like a man who was unaccustomed to his slimmer form. He made it as far as the bar before tapping the glossy wooden surface and turning back.
“There is one more thing,” AA said loudly. “I have this tab—”
“I’ll take care of it.”
“I knew you would,” AA said.
Then the police chief was gone, leaving Con alone to finish his beer in much revered silence.