NYU Black Renaissance Noire Fall 2013 - Page 92

The Tattoo Killer By SADIK GRICE 1 A Monument to Morons I was mopping up the blood in the basement when two cops came down the stairs. They were plainclothes but I can spot them a block away. These two I knew by sight and by reputation. I figured they would turn up eventually. I didn’t think it would be so soon. 90 Nick Fish is a sour smelling son of a bitch in his mid-to-late forties with thinning gray hair slicked over a hard, liver-spotted head. He wore a light blue polyester suit with a starched white shirt, a mustard colored tie and clunky, black orthopedic shoes gleaming from a military shine. Word is he’s clean as a whistle. BRN-FALL-2013.indb 90 His partner, on the other hand, Oscar ‘Orca’ McCreedy is a psychopathic, drug-dealing bruiser with a badge. And that’s his good side. I’m six-two, about two fifty-five. Orca makes me feel small and vulnerable. dirty cinderblock walls with multiple gunshot wounds. A cracked, concrete floor you wouldn’t want to step on, much less eat off of. It’s the ultimate in neo-dungeon décor. Yeah right. Fat chance, I know, but hope is a hard habit to break. McCreedy was the first one down the stairs, lighter on his feet than you would expect for someone that huge. He glanced left and right, checking out the two short corridors at the top of the T, while Fish remained on the stairs staring straight ahead down the long, dark hall. A naked, twenty-five watt bulb dangled from a frayed extension cord. That was it for light. There wasn’t much to see. The basement is shaped like a capital T with dislocated elbows. Damp, I was at the end of that hall, at the bottom of the T, with no way out behind me and nowhere to hide. So I just stood there, mop in hand, like a statue of an idiot. I nearly confessed on the spot. But something told me to hold on. Wait and see what happens. You never know. Maybe they’ll keep on going. 9/13/13 12:48 AM