Free Dead Weight by Steven F. Havill

cigarette and took his time putting the butt in the trash can by the door. Dressed in his usual khaki trousers and short-sleeved sport shirt, he thrust his hands in his pockets and ambled out to my car. This was not the ballistic Frank Dayan that I knew, rushing from merchant to merchant, pushing those column inches of advertising space for every penny he could squeeze.
    “This meeting of Insomniacs Anonymous is hereby called to order,” I said, and he grinned, looking Irish as hell, more like a Frankie O’Rourke than a Dayan. He leaned both hands against the car door and regarded me with what I took for melancholy. “What’s up? You about ready for breakfast?”
    He freed one hand and looked at his watch.
    “You’ve got time,” I chided. “Don’t give me this ‘I’m busy’ nonsense. The world’s asleep.” I nodded toward the passenger side. “Get in.”
    He did so, settling into the seat with a sigh. He regarded the stack of radios and other junk with interest. “I’ve never ridden with any of you folks before,” he said.
    “Well, then,” I replied. “Let’s lift your level of boredom to new levels. Put on your seat belt.”
    He struggled trying to find the buckle under all the crap in the middle of the seat but finally managed.
    I jotted the time and Dayan’s presence in my log, clicked the mike, and said, “Three ten is ten eight.” Before Sutherland had completed half of his canned response, I had turned the volume down to a murmur.
    “So,” I said, heading 310 out of the parking lot. “Is there anywhere in particular you wanted to go, or are you just cruising?”
    Dayan shrugged. “I just wanted to chat with you about a couple of things, if you’re not too busy. Maybe get an update on the Sisson deal.”
    No one asks for an update on anything at 4:26 in the morning, and I laughed. I was willing to bet what he wanted, and so I said, “Oh…busy. As you can see, I am awesomely busy, Frank. Tell you what. I was going down toward Regal for a bit. Maybe bust some illegals.” I glanced around toward the backseat, as if someone might be back there listening. “Maybe put the screws on some of them for a quick buck. Know what I mean?”
    Frank Dayan’s reaction was just as I had expected. His jaw dropped a fraction and his head jerked. Before he could answer, I added, “You got a note, too, eh?”
    My stomach churned again, and not from early-morning hunger, when he didn’t say, “What note?”

Chapter Nine
    Dayan reached into his pocket and pulled out a white envelope. From it he removed the now familiar piece of white typing paper, folded neatly in thirds, just like the other two.
    “This came to my office today. Plain envelope, just my name typed on it.” He held it up as if I could read it in the darkness. I glanced his way, trying to work out in my mind how much I could trust him. “I gather you’re familiar with the contents?” he asked.
    “‘Commissioner, you need to know that Tom Pasquale is a slimeball and is hitting up on nationals and tourists and God only knows who else, blah, blah, blah.’ Is that the gist of it?”
    “Yes.” He folded the note, slipped it in the envelope, and extended it toward me. I took it and snapped it under the clip on my log. It lay there, on top of the junk pile, if Dayan wanted it back. “Except it was addressed to me, not a commissioner. You’re saying that they all got one, too?”
    “No.” I paused as I cleared the intersection beyond the interstate and turned onto 56, heading toward Regal. “Sam Carter made a point of telling me that he got one. So did Arnold Gray. I haven’t heard from the others yet.”
    “But you probably will.”
    “No doubt.”
    “Did you talk to the deputy yet?”
    “No.”
    Dayan paused. He reached out and beat a short tattoo on the dashboard with his index fingers. Maybe it helped him think.
    “I guess it’s not anyone’s business but yours how you handle it, but are you going to talk to