Burke
[working title]
[first draft sneak peek | flash fiction]
The diner off Dixie smelled like what you’d expect at a diner. Coffee, fried food, stale air.. Noon light came through the blinds in hard stripes across the booth. Burke sat with his sport coat buttoned, badge hidden but close enough if he needed it. He stirred at an empty cup, just to have his hands busy.
Alvarez slid in across from him. Tie knotted tight, Bureau style. Hair shorter than Burke remembered. Same jaw, though. Looked like he’d been grinding it since they were kids.
Burke said, “You still drink coffee or that’s against regulations?”
Alvarez gave a nod at the waitress. “Black.” Then he looked at Burke, steady. “You been busy.”
Burke smiled a little. “Lot of guys busy in this town.”
“Not all of them take envelopes behind the dog track.”
Burke froze.. He didn’t look up right away, just let the words settle. When he did, the smile was still there, but it felt stiff on his face. “You been following me?”
“Not me. Squad. They like you for skimming off dope cash. Couple shootings, too.”
The coffee came. The waitress left two steaming mugs between them. Neither man touched theirs.
Burke picked up a sugar packet, folded it once, twice. “We go back, Manny. Long time. You think I’m dirty?”
“I think I know you better than anybody. Which is why they put me on it.”
Burke looked across the table. The stripes of sunlight cut Alvarez’s face in two. Half was the guy who used to throw punches in the gym, trusting Burke to keep score. The other half was Bureau, calm, cold, already writing him off.
He said, “They put you on it because they think you’ll nail me?”
“Because I’ll know when you’re lying.”
Burke tapped the folded sugar packet on the table, steady beat. He wanted to ask how much they had, but that sounded guilty. Instead he leaned in a little, kept his voice easy. “And what if I tell you you’re chasing smoke? Some lowlife runner using my name, trying to buy weight on credit. Happens all the time.”
Alvarez didn’t blink. “Then you better tell me fast. I’ve got a file two inches thick says otherwise.”
Burke let out a breath, looked past Alvarez at the counter, a couple of old men with eggs and toast. Cops used to come here after shift, pack the booths. Now nobody wanted to be seen with him. He turned back. “File that thick, huh?”
“Surveillance. Bank slips. Phone records. You want me to read you the page numbers?”
Burke leaned back. “You know half that stuff is junk. Paper looks good in a binder, doesn’t mean it sticks.”
“This sticks.” Alvarez shifted forward now, elbows on the table. “I’ll give you one chance, Burke. One. Tell me what the hell you’re into before it all comes down.”
Burke stared at him. Saw no give in his face. Saw something else though—hesitation. He knew Alvarez. Knew when he was bluffing in the ring, when his hands shook after a bad knockout. Same look now, buried under the suit.
“One chance,” Burke said. “That don’t sound like friendship. That sounds like leverage.”
“Call it what you want. Clock’s running.”
Burke sat still, sugar packet folded tight between his fingers. He felt the weight of the badge on his belt, the heat of the blinds cutting across his chest.
He thought: Manny’s not here to save me. He’s here to bury me. But he’s not sure he can dig that hole all the way.
Burke slid the sugar packet across the table, like it was a bet. “Clock’s always running, brother. Question is, who’s it running out on?”
Neither man touched the coffee.
