Benny & Ray 139

Buzzed

Daniel Briggs stumbled out of Thomas Dewey’s sleek black, bull-nosed Chrysler 300C.  He briefly landed on the curb on his hands and knees, dropping the box of Cubans he was carrying, but quickly climbed to his feet again, retrieving the gift box.

“You okay, sir?”  Donald Pato asked through the rolled-down window of the passenger seat.  “Want me to see you to the door?”

Briggs waved him on. “I got it.”

“Okay.  See ya!”  Pato said. 

Dewey half-saluted from the driver’s seat.  “Happy Birthday once again, sir!” he called through the open window.

“Yeah, thanks,” he called.

The car accelerated so quickly that the tires spun out before finally gripping the city street and speeding off. The squeal was loud in the otherwise quiet residential neighborhood. 

Briggs unsteadily weaved his way up his front sidewalk.  It took him several attempts to get his key in the lock, and let himself in.

One a.m.  It had been a hell of a birthday.  Sure, his birthday technically wasn’t until Saturday, but the guys had insisted that they take him out to Dugan’s tonight to celebrate.  He’d gotten shit-faced.  He headed right to the commode, took himself out, and pissed into the toilet what felt like gallons.  He sighed with relief. 

Briggs had actually had a nice time tonight.  It was about time his detectives came around and gave him the respect and attention and loyalty he deserved.  He knew that deep down, none of them really liked him, but hey, part of being an underling was that you had to do a little ass-kissing every once in a while.  That was just how the game was played.

They really weren’t so bad.  Doyle and Franklin had come out with Dewey and Pato, too.  The five of them got to Dugan’s at six o’clock.  They had a decent meal of burritos and burgers, washed it all down with plenty of beer and ale, and damn-near closed the place. 

Welsh hadn’t made it, but he didn’t care.  Welsh made no secret of the fact he didn’t care for him.  The feeling was mutual.  Welsh was just a short-timer at this point anyway, a lame-duck, counting off the days until he retired.

Detective Fraser hadn’t made it out, either; he had school.  It was just as well.  He didn’t want him there, anyway.  And Kowalski didn’t make it either.  Again, no big loss. God only knew what that creepy little weasel was up to, anyway.

At Dugan’s his detectives had fawned all over him.  He kept them in stitches as he told them stories about some of the idiots that used to work for him.  And the drunker they got, the louder they got.  In fact, Sully the bartender came over a couple of times and told them to keep it down. They blew him off.  Briggs chuckled to himself, remembering some of the jokes he had whipped off the cuff.  Yeah, he was a pretty hot shit when he wanted to be.  Life of the party, just like back in the day.  When he’d first come to Chicago at the age of twenty-four, he was a party animal. 

Briggs finished up in the bathroom, flushed and took his cigars to his study.  He stumbled over a box that partly sat in the doorway.  Odd.  He didn’t remember leaving that there.  Annoyed, he kicked it to the side, stubbing his toe. Shit! He swore, grimacing in pain. He looked crossly at the box.   What the hell was there?  He peered down.  Oh.  It was the box of some of Ray Vecchio’s old cases that he pulled from County Records and some of Fraser’s, too, along with their personnel records.  It was all the shit he needed to take those two fags out.  He wondered what was taking IA so long to move on the case.  If Hill didn’t make an arrest by the end of this week, he was gonna take it over his head.

He collapsed into his old La-Z-Boy, and pulled out one of the cigars.  He held it up to his nose and inhaled it appreciatively.  He then unwrapped it, nipped the end with his new sterling silver cigar cutter, and lit one of the stogies up. 

He sat in the dark, watching the tip of his cigar burn as he smoked it down.  He inhaled, exhaled, and unwound, finally coming down a little from his buzz.  A short while later, he snubbed the cigar out, sighed, and stumbled off to bed to get a little shut-eye.  He was gonna be wrecked tomorrow.