The Life and Times of Innis E. Coxman Read Free Page B

with a vengeance.
    He’d
demanded a large payoff to insure “misplaced evidence” in Esteban’s case. John
knew it was the only money he was ever going to see from him. The envelope no
sooner hit the vinyl of his ‘76 Hornet than he produced a semi-auto from his
waistband, firing two jacketed .380s into the Puerto Rican’s chest.
    The
detectives assigned to the shooting didn’t believe Sweetbuck’s version of
events. He said the dealer had tailed him, getting out of his car when he
arrived and threatening to kill the officer for the arrest. Said he’d been
forced to pull his off-duty Walther in self-defense. There were too many holes
in his statement, however, the biggest of which was why John had parked behind
the restaurant to begin with. Whenever the detectives revisited the point, John
maintained that it’d been too crowded in the front lot and he didn’t want his
Hornet getting scratched. Restaurant staff said yes, they were always full at
dusk. That evening had been no different.
    The
detectives called bullshit. John’s car was seven years old, its Bayshore Blue
paint job already marred from shopping carts and weather. A normal person
wouldn’t even care about parking it in a hailstorm, much less the cracked
blacktop of an Awffle Spouse. They suspected a ripoff, but they couldn’t find
any evidence to contradict John’s story. Besides, the .32 revolver found in
Esteban’s hand was hard to refute. (Sweetbuck had grabbed that piece from a
multiple-murder scene where he was the first responding officer. It’d been in a
victim’s hand unfired. He knew it would come in handy as a throwdown.)
The investigation was closed. John was allowed to return to work, though a
cloud of suspicion hung over his head like a cabbage fart.
     
    ***
     
    Sweetbuck
operated more discreetly after that, collecting cash from drug pushers in exchange
for the privilege to operate, so long as they never dabbled in H. As part of
the arrangement, they’d funnel information about other dealers vying for
control. John would pop them to minimize competition and keep the money flowing
his way. After a jacket filled with a history of good busts, he became the
youngest officer in his city to make detective.
    The
bump in rank meant he could ditch the alley meetings with low-level runners and
demand audiences from the higher-ups. He began shaking hands that brought a
change in his financial situation—the frequency of payoffs tapered, but the
envelopes got thicker. Complicity in the rackets became so profitable, in fact,
that he could afford to hire a live-in maid.
     
    ***
     
    Labianna
St. Jaxum was originally from Minneapolis, the only daughter of a prominent tax
attorney whose specialty was teaching big corporations how to fleece the
federal government. He’d funded her first year in the South on the contingency
that she get a job or an education once the free ride was over, giving the
twenty-year old ample time to weigh her options for the future. She’d been a
fuck-up since high school graduation and her father thought maybe this was what
she needed—a new life in a new town without old temptations to steal her
promise. Instead of seeking employment or a trade school, however, she spent
the year barreling through her monthly stipends, purchasing expensive jewelry,
full-body massages, clothing from high-end department stores, and trips with
pretty boys charged to Daddy’s name.
    Labi,
as she’d been known her whole life, was a rich man’s daughter, accustomed to
nice cars and no-limit credit cards; annual vacations to Europe, Aruba, and
tropical isles most people only get to see in books; cashmere sweaters with her
initials embroidered in the collar; a walk-in closet full of shoes that hit the
ground twice before being discarded; and a chinchilla cardigan given to the
Salvation Army after three trips to the dry cleaners.
    Four
seasons came and went. Labi was shocked when her father actually cut her off.
    The
easy life became a