Chapter 9
Dutch strode towards his desk a few hours later, the flesh of his back still sore from the cuts there. But as he walked he felt like he was floating, like he was high.
"Good morning, Dutch," Claudette said kindly, looking up briefly from her paperwork and back down. But her eyes snapped up again. "My God, Dutch. You look like you didn't sleep at all last night!"
"Just less than usual," Dutch said, hardly recognizing his own voice. He sat down and opened a drawer, sifting through files until he found the one he wanted. He had looked in the mirror this morning while brushing his teeth, and it was true. He looked pretty bad. He was much paler than a on a normal day, and the circles under his eyes were much darker. But he felt better than he usually did, and that was what mattered.
"Are you OK, Dutch?" Claudette asked, suddenly at his side.
"Hm?" He looked up at her, a little startled by her sudden appearance beside him. "What do you mean? I feel great."
"You sound different, and look different."
"I only got a few hours last night, that's probably why," Dutch said in an explanatory half-truth.
Claudette was silent for a moment, then she asked quietly, "Did something happen with Crystal?"
He looked up at her once more. "I guess that depends on what exactly you mean."
"There wasn't a fight, was there?"
"Yeah, there was."
"Did everything turn out OK?"
Remaining quiet, he just nodded and turned back to folder, flipping it open and scanning the first page. But he found himself rereading that same page when he soaked up none of the information there.
"Dutch?"
"Yes?"
"Are you sure everything is OK?"
"Yes, I'm sure," Dutch said, sounding a little impatient but really fine with her inquiries.
"All right," she said, patting him lightly on the back.
Flinching, Dutch instinctively, grabbed at his shoulder before he could stop himself. He looked up sheepishly at Claudette, who was eyeing him strangely. He retuned his hands to his desk, palms flat on the mess of paperwork.
"What was that?" Claudette asked.
"Nothing, just a little sore is all."
"From what?"
"Who knows," Dutch said, shrugging stiffly.
"He's probably just sore 'cause he's not used to the workout of sex," Vic chimed in as he passed. Then, over his shoulder: "How's your bitch, anyway?"
"Don't call her that," Dutch growled. "And none of that is any of your business."
"What?" Vic persisted, turning on his heel to fully face Dutch as he spoke to him. "You don't want to talk about your hoe with an old friend?"
Dutch rose, the movement irritating the cuts on his shoulders. "I said don't."
"Well, you have to admit," Vic said with a careless shrug, "the girl has got to be a hoe to willing sleep with you."
Stepping around this desk and just barely finding the will to restrain himself, Dutch leaned back on the desk and grinned wryly. "A little hostile this morning, aren't yuh?" He hissed. "Jealous?"
"Of what?" Vic scoffed. "Of you tiny dick? I'm fine, thanks." He turned to continue towards the Strike Team's room.
"Now you're running away," Dutch said loudly. "My, my, my! What has become of the infamous Vic Mackey? The dirty cop I'm sure everyone knows took down the Armenian mob for the money train and deals with pimps and drug handlers."
Vic froze at the words, not so much the insult behind them, rather the mention of the Armenian mob. He thought he'd left that behind, but here it was. Dutch Boy had brought it back up...again.
Slowly, Vic turned to look at him, then stepped forward, and quickly strode across the room till he was face-to-face with Dutch. "You know you have nothing," Vic snarled. "You never fucking did!"
"What's the matter, Vic?" Dutch replied dryly. "Scared? Are you needing a shoulder to cry on?"
Lifting his hands roughly against Dutch's chest, Vic set him back hard on his desk, sending paperwork flying to the ground. "Shut the fuck up, dick."
Dutch only laughed. "Maybe next time you'll just think a little bit before you open your fat fucking mouth."
For a moment moth men just stared at each other, eyes locked, silent, like bristling dogs sizing each other up.
Several people were watching, but most had decided it was wiser to move on with their business, and so they scampered along their way, leaving only a few brown-nosers to await the results. It seemed like several minutes had passed before only two or three people were left, and Vic stepped back from Dutch.
"I don't have any time for your shit," Vic snarled, jabbing a finger in Dutch's direction. "Just keep your nose where it belongs and no one will get hurt."
"Oh, I'm shaking in my books," Dutch drawled as Vic walked off, each word oozing sarcasm.
"Dutch," Claudette hissed after the remaining few viewers had wandered off. "What the Hell has gotten into you?"
Something bad, Dutch thought as he stood with a smile and looked back at Claudette. "Something I like."
A half an hour after his conflict with Dutch, Vic snuck out the back door and hoped in a car, driving himself down town.
He pulled up against a curb where a small group of hookers stood smoking some cigarettes and drinking Cola. "hey," he barked as he rolled down the window. "Vicky!"
A girl with ebony skin who couldn't have been older than sixteen stroke over in her ratty stiletto boots, purple miniskirt and black halter top. "hey Mackey," she cooed as she leaned into the window, making sure to show off her cleavage. "What can I do for you today?"
"I need to speak with Connor," Vic said, hanging her a twenty, which she promptly stored in her bra.
"What 'bout?"
"A nuisance that could get him thrown in jail," Vic said. "Much like I might do to you if you don't just tell me where he is."
Vicky seemed to consider this before backing away from the window and pointing down the street. "There's a crack house on 11th and Brooks. Has a purple door outside. Tell them your lookin' for Chief and they'll take yuh right to him."
"Thank you," Vic said with a wink. "I'll be sure to tell him what a good job you're doing."
The crack house was easy enought o find, but harder to get into than Vicky had said.
He pounded on the door, and after a few moments a scrawny Asian boy with bleached hair opened the door and peered out. "I'm looking for Chief," Vic said.
"Nope," the boy replied with an thick accent. "Wrong place, man."
Just as the boy had been preparing to close the door, Vic had stuck the toe of his boot inside, grabbed the edge of the door and shoved as hard as he could. He heard the wood crack against the boys face and a dull thud as he fell back on the floor.
Vic stepped in and over the boy, who was huddled on the floor, cringing as he held his broken nose, blood slipping from between his fingers. "Let's try this again," Vic said as he bent down, pushing the boy's face against the ground. "Tell me where Connor McKay is. I hear he likes to be called Chief. You have any idea who I'm talking about, Jap?"
"Yes!" The boy cried, flailing a had towards a pair of stairs at the hallway. "Second door on the right! He's with a girl though-"
Vic pushed off the boy's head and strode towards the stairs, taking them three at a time. He burst in the door to find a girl well underage with her face in Connor's crotch, her mouth over his penis.
"Holy shit!" Connor snapped, pushing the tiny Asian girl away from him and zipping up his pants. "What the fuck, man?"
Connor was a skinny white boy who seemed to think he was black. He didn't look like much, but he had the rep of a Juan Seritaz without the fame, and he had a thing for underage Asian girls and boys.
"I think I should be asking what the fuck is this?" Vic asked, motioning towards the girl, cowering in the corner, her long, silky black hair falling over her terrified face. "Looks a little young."
"What do you want, Mackey?" Connor spat, brushing his shaggy hair from his face.
"I know a guy named Holland Wagenbach," Vic said. "He goes by the name of Dutch. He's a detective at my precinct, and I do believe he threatened me today."
"So? Why should I give a shit?"
"Because if he takes me down, he takes you down," Vic replied smoothly, with a smirk. "I don't him dead, I just want him to get and understand the message, OK?'
"Fine," Connor growled. "I'll get it done tonight."
"If he doesn't show up with bruises on his face tomorrow," Vic said a warningly friendly tone, "I know where to find you."
