The Salvation Shark, Chapter 32

Anton

I catch Becki off guard. She should have known better. I slap her and she stumbles back a couple steps, clutching her cheek. Then I grab her by the throat and hurl her over the bed. She lands on the ground and lays there, stunned, while I pounce on her, raining slaps on her with an animalistic fury. She’s screaming and trying to defend herself, but not fighting back.

I’m roaring like a monster, “You fucking cunt! How dare you pull this shit now?!” I get up and throw her against the TV, which falls off the stand and shatters with an electric buzz. “You could have walked out the door! Instead, you had to bring them to me! Do you realize how much this complicates things?”

Before I can grab her again, Becki makes a dash for the bathroom. She gets the door closed and locked, but that doesn't stop me. I find her cowering between the shower and the toilet. She tries to slap my hands away, but I catch the collar of her shirt and push her through the shower curtain. She falls in a thrashing pile of nylon. I curl my fingers until my knuckles pop.

In the back ground, I hear people enter, voices, stomping, but I’m more or less concerned with beating the Hell out of this screaming child. They are in the bathroom. Guns are being cocked, and someone telling me not to move. I’m pulled away from her and handcuffs are put on me. My rights are being read, and they’re making sure the heap of a girl is all right. "I packaged her for you," I say, and someone tells me to shut up.

I’m lead out the door and shoved into a cop car. Police swarm everywhere, covering my face so the news crews can't get a picture. Information was "leaked" to the media from more sources than will ever be counted within the station, and the town will be flooded by morning. That doesn't leave me a whole lot of time.

The usual crowd of gawkers is pushing against the police barricades, including a serial killer, who thinks this is in response to the hooker he left in one of the rooms. That won’t be found until tomorrow, and Becki Murphy is a lot bigger news. While I wait, I count the number of people in the crowd who have secretly masturbated to pictures Becki. Sin is fashionable these days. I know it's been that way for a long time.

Eventually, two cops get in the car and we drive off the scene. They banter with each other, and make mocking remarks to me. I tune them out. I'm more concerned with getting out of this discreetly. I walked out of that hotel convinced Becki would be gone when I got back, but I never thought she'd turn me in. I thought she'd run back to her stage, and crew, and dancers, and her fantasy life and never mention again that she lived every moment terrified I'd come knocking at her door. This is not how she was supposed to react. Doesn’t she realize I have deadlines to meet? Fucking little whore.

I’m taken through the back door of the station, where there is also a crowd of reporters, only slightly smaller than the one out front. I’m led into an interrogation room, where I’m shoved inside and handcuffed to a chair. They leave me there alone while two fat pigs (one of whom was lying about the evidence tampering, and who only got away with it because five other cops lied too) watch me through mirrored glass.

Finally, after two hours and thirty-seven minutes they come in with coffee for all of us. “How are you, Detectives Keenan and Rogers?” I ask pleasantly. “It’s been a rough day, hasn’t it?” I lean back as much as I can and say, “Detective Rogers, did you know that Keenan fucked the shit out of your wife last night? She said he was better than you, and meant it.”

When Rogers looks over at Keenan, he snarls, “That will be enough." Is that good cop, bad cop, or stupid cop? They pull out chairs at the other end of the table. Keenan puts a Styrofoam cup in front of me.

I am still handcuffed. “Those cups aren't recyclable, you know?"

Cops are not good sports. When you are scared, they are happy. When you are angry, they are happy. When you find the whole event funny, they get very upset. Rogers almost jumps off the table and starts to pace, so angry he can't even look at me. Keenan is reserved. "So, Mr. Lazarus, is that the name you want to go by, or do they call you something else?"

"You can pick a name if you don't like that one."

"Anton Lazarus?" Rogers barks, still only able to look at the sides of my face. "What, are you some kind of supervillain? What the fuck were you doing with that little girl?" He takes a step toward me, but Keenan holds out a hand. "If I find out you hurt her..."

"Has Agent Martin arrived yet?" I ask.

Keenan furrows his brow. "Don't know him."

"He'll be along," I say.

"No way, buddy!" Rogers says. His face is bright red and he's dragging his cuffs up and down his arm. Rogers isn't sure if I'm correct about Keenan and his wife, but thinks Keenan did catch Rogers wanking to his daughter's Becki Murphy CD's in the office bathroom. He claimed to be reading song lyrics while shitting. He's chosen bad cop to prove he's a dedicated fan.

Keenan shakes his head. "FBI is turning over the investigation to the record company. Internal security will be handling this."

I grin. "That makes you a turnkey?"

Rogers almost pokes me in the eye. "You listen to me, pal. Their people won't be here until morning, and all they care about is the girl. They are going to take her and put you in the trash somewhere, you hear me?"

"Knock it off," Keenan says. "Someone will be along to take the two of you and this whole mess out of our hands. In the mean time, we'd like to know more about you. Detective Rogers is correct. We'll probably be the last people that give a damn about you. You know that just as well. I've never heard of anything like this before. Private firms don't take control of investigations like this. They certainly can't hold prisoners. You'll be shuffled off to some federal prison and spend the rest of your life in a cave. If you want anyone to hear your story, this could very well be your last chance."

"You got no ID, and no one seems to know an Anton Lazarus," Rogers says. "Who are you?

"Ask Martin. He'll tell you."

"We don't know any Martin!" Rogers shouts, slamming his fist on the table.

"He'll be along," I assure them in a calm voice. "He knows me. He knows what I've done."

Keenan smirks. "And what have you done?"

"You could stretch my crimes from here to the moon and have room to spare."

"And we've never heard of you!" Rogers shouts, gurgling with the saliva that's pooled under his tongue. He calms himself some. "You must be the perfect criminal."

“Not even the Devil is perfect, Detective Rogers," I whisper. "Sometimes even the Devil can make mistakes and not know things. Sometimes, he can even miss it when the little bimbo in his charge calls the police when he goes to have a bit of fun.” Before Rogers can ask if I said I was the Devil, I stand up and drop the handcuffs on the table.


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