Drawing Thin

2-1

2

Spadros quadrant was divided into 8 precincts, each with double the manpower of the number below it. Which seemed odd, considering the closer you came to the Pot, the more crime was generated.

Over the past twenty years, Paix had rolled his way down to Precinct 1, the largest precinct in the quadrant. A place for senior Trainees rotating through for a month before graduation, Probationary Constables who didn't score well on their Entries, drug-addled or alcoholic cops on their way to death in the Pot, and men like him, who just didn't fit.

Precinct 1 police station was at 24th and Snow, just off Spadros quadrant's Main Road. Paix and Briscola went to a nearby street vendor for luncheon.

Paix ate his rice bowl with relish. He hadn't been on a search in a while, and his meager breakfast was many hours in the past.

"I thought I'd find you here, Hanger."

Paix set down his thick paper bowl, lay his chopsticks across it, and turned to the voice. "C.K!" The two men shook hands. "Want to join us?"

Detective Senior Constable Cartas Kanhu was a big, balding, somewhat too hard-drinking man in a three-piece brown tweed suit. "Sure, I'll sit." He plopped a paper plate containing a burger and fries on the round gray table then held out his hand to Briscola. "You must be the new partner."

After a grimace, Briscola took the man's hand. "Not that new."

C.K. laughed his big belly laugh. "Just teasing. I know who you are." He patted Paix on the shoulder and spoke to Briscola. "This is the best cop on the force, and don't you forget it."

Paix smiled, but when someone said that, the question always flashed through his mind: so why am I a Constable?

C.K. grinned at him. "You think your job is bad. I got six cases going at once, and I can't go home until I got leads for all of them." He took a bite of his burger, relaxing into the gray wrought-iron chair as he chewed. "Damn, this actually tastes good. I must be hungry."

Briscola snickered.

Paix knew why he was a Constable. Why he wasn't a detective anymore ‒ why he would never be a detective again. It meant dealing with the many, many deaths in this city.

It meant dealing with the Families.

The thought of letting those ‒ people was too kind a word ‒ own him made his stomach turn.

"Are you going to finish that?" Briscola seemed to be a bottomless pit when it came to food.

Paix pushed the bowl over. Grease was beginning to seep through. "Be my guest."

When Briscola went up to get another serving, C.K. said, "Sorry about that."

Paix shrugged. "It's of no consequence."

"You've had it rough. I mean, you were here when I rotated through as a Trainee."

"And now you're Detective Senior Constable."

"Yeah. And you should be Senior Lead Constable by now, or even have Green's job."

Wolff Green was Commander: the man who ran the station. "Maybe I should." He prepared himself for the inevitable line.

"I won't say it, Hanger. I want to, but I won't."

You gotta learn to play the game.

* * *

Inside Precinct Station 1 was semi-controlled chaos, day or night: carts of files trundling past, suspects and witnesses being brought in or led out, clerks bringing this or that somewhere. Paix liked it.

His desk was on the ground floor, where Constables and Probationary Constables sat typing like a sea of secretaries. At the moment, more than three-quarters of the desks were empty: most were out on their beats. When receiving a "major case" such as this one, a half-hour was allowed to prepare reports before returning to duty.

The Lead Constables had a ring of desks on the second floor just inside a black metal banister. Each desk faced the back center stair, which was decorated with threadbare red and green ribbon as a nod to the holiday. The Senior Lead Constable, the heads of the support departments, and the Commander had their own offices on the third floor, with glass windows overlooking from on high. The Commander's office was the largest, with picture windows spreading over the entire inside front of the narrow building.

Commander Green, a stern, ancient man, stood surveying the room.

After his last round of trouble, Paix had been assigned a desk precisely in the middle of the room. Paix always imagined it was placed so the Commander could keep an eye on him.

A pale yellow folder sat beside his typewriter, containing a single sheet with the messenger's missing person report and the case number, which was printed on the folder's tab. Paix unbuttoned his jacket, hung it on his chair, sat down, opened his notebook, and retrieved three report forms from his file drawer. Paix didn't like to dilly-dally about with paperwork. He preferred to have some chance at getting home on time.

Briscola trailed behind, setting his rice bowl on the desk to the left. "I hate paperwork."

Paix ignored him: filing a report was part of the job. Placing carbon paper between the sheets, he produced three copies: one for his Lead Constable, one for his Senior Lead Constable, and one for the file. Paix saved the best one for the file.

Paix sat for a moment considering, then opened his file drawer. Recommendation for a second search tomorrow, assuming the boy didn't turn up today ‒ that one he clipped to the report going to his Lead Constable. Request a "Keep A Sharp Look-Out For" (KASLOF) notice with a photograph and description of the child, to go to all taxi-carriage drivers, train stations, the zeppelin station, the hospitals, and the morgues. A request for the Clubbs to detain any children between the ages of five and fifteen attempting to leave the city (male or female ‒ it was too easy to disguise a child) until their identities and those with them were verified.

It wasn't that Paix doubted the word of a Memory Boy, but he wanted it documented that he'd made the request. Fortunately, these were all check-the-box forms and could be done in his own handwriting.

The photographer walked up with a large envelope. "Your photos, sir."

Paix looked up at the man, surprised. "That was fast."

"If it were my child," the photographer said, "I'd want these done right away."

"Make a copy for the missing board, if you will."

"Already done."

It wasn't often you got such quick action. "Thank you." At a whim, he stuck out his hand. "Paix Hanger."

"Martin Roberts," the photographer said. "Pleasure to help."

Paix turned the envelope over to open it. Unfortunately, a good man like Roberts would soon be snapped up by a finer precinct. It was the nature of things in Bridges.

Inside the envelope lay copies of the boy's portrait, already labeled with the case number, with photos of the crime scene and evidence: an imposing stack. The drawing of the red mark on the wall was included as well. Paix slid the envelope into the folder, attaching one copy of the portrait photo to his report for the file with a paperclip.

The boy's eyes burrowed into his soul.

Five hours had passed since David Bryce disappeared. Paix turned to Briscola. "You done with your report yet?"

Briscola had his feet up on his desk, eating. He put his feet on the floor. "What?"

"I want your report on my desk tomorrow morning. No excuses." Paix got up, put on his jacket, buttoned it. "Come on, we gotta go."

Paix dropped his reports in the respective message boxes. A glance over at the Missing Board: David Bryce's photo was pinned there with the rest.

Glimpsing the board always left him melancholy: so many children.

* * *

Paix signed out a carriage from the pool and told the driver to make for the bar over on 33 1/3 Street and Scoop Avenue.

The Backdoor Saloon, like everything else in the quadrant, was owned by the Spadros Family.

Leaving the carriage parked on Scoop, Paix and Briscola went inside. A smoke-filled, black-paneled room lay before them, silver glinting here and there at the bar along the back wall. A door past that led to dealings Paix was sure he didn't want to know about. Round black tables edged in silver held only a few people: it was Yuletide, after all.

Mr. Eight Howell, one of the Spadros men assigned to the street, sat smoking cigars with a three others. Howell was a short man with a big bushy beard. He glanced up, surprised. "Constable Paix Hanger. It's been a while. To what do I owe the honor?"

"You got a minute?"

He laughed, resting his cigar in an ashtray. "Sure." He went to another table and pulled out a chair. "You boys want anything?"

"No, thank you," Paix said. Not only were they on duty, he couldn't risk being impaired. A place like this could become as dangerous as the Pot on a moment's notice. Paix and Briscola sat across the table from Howell.

"So what can I do for you, Constable?"

Paix said, "A boy's gone missing. You hear anything?"

Howell seemed genuinely surprised. "From around here?"

"2nd Street. But I thought you might've heard something. A new trafficker in town? A smuggling sweep looking for kids?"

Howell frowned. "No. We don't tolerate s**t like that in Spadros anymore. The Old Man put a stop to it."

By "The Old Man" Howell meant Roy Spadros, the quadrant's so-called Patriarch. Paix had never seen the man, only his portrait, but he looked ‒ and sounded ‒ like a truly scary fellow.

"Now I got no idea what goes on in the Pot," Howell said.

"Our next stop, unfortunately," Paix said.

Howell pushed his chair away from the table and stood. "I'll ask around."

Paix pushed his hand into a small second pocket he'd sewn inside his right jacket pocket, palming the five dollar bill he kept there for truly urgent matters. Then he shook Howell's hand, transferring the bill to him.

Howell glanced at his palm, keeping it faced towards him, and smiled. "Pleasure doing business with you."

Paix stood, tipped his hat, and left. Five dollars was half his month's salary, but if this got Howell to take a serious interest in hope of another, it was worth it.

Now he had to figure out where to get a five to replace it.

When they were back in the carriage, Briscola said, "I thought they wouldn't talk to cops."

"They usually won't." It'd taken a long time to get Howell to trust him.

"So why's he helping you?"

Paix leaned back. "I already heard Spadros was cracking down on kid trafficking. So him helping me is of mutual benefit."

"I don't understand."

"I just told him there's a child snatcher in the quadrant. That's valuable information, might even help him gain points with the guy he reports to." He shrugged. "Sounds as if they're finally serious about clearing out the vermin."

"Plus you paid him."

So he had seen it. "Plus I paid him."

Briscola blinked. "Won't his buddies be angry that he's even talking to you? I thought there was some rule or law about talking to cops."

Paix grinned. "Naw. I know all of them."

"How's that?"

Paix jerked a thumb backwards. "I grew up over there."

As far as he knew, his parents still lived at their little house on 30th, three rooms for them and their seven children, now grown. But Paix hadn't seen any of them in twenty years, ever since his father disowned him.

When Paix joined the police force, his father beat him, told him he was a disgrace and a traitor. His older brothers and sisters didn't lift a finger to help.

Everyone said Paix was a strange child. Instead of idolizing the swaggering Associates and their Acey-Deucey beat-down boys like the other children did, Paix admired the police. He liked the crisp blue uniforms with their brass buttons, the sense of rightness about devoting your life to help others.

The reality was very different.

The Bridges police force was full of weak men. Everyone eventually ended up on the take. Party Time, booze, cash, girls ‒ each form of payola depended on the man's weakness.

Paix was determined never to let himself get that way. He refused to be bribed or look the other way ‒ even when he'd been beaten within an inch of his life. He'd never back down on a case just because it involved some mobster. They were men, like him, and they needed to follow the law, like anyone else.