Sally's Story (1.5-3): A Cry For Help

	“Pretty forthcoming of you Brian.” Sally clicked her pen as she turned over another page on her pad. “We appreciate the cooperation.”
	“*Very* forthcoming,” Vince sniffed, “even with things still a bit heated.”
	“Hey, no hard feelings, huh?” The young man swirled his cigarette calmly, nursing himself on its nicotine nipple. Another drag widened his half-lidded eyes, the gentle tide in his head, his lungs, washing away the previous offense. He tapped its ashen end on a ceramic tray. “I think we could come to a very beneficial- and mutual, of course- arrangement.”
	“Well that’s certainly reassuring Brian,” the lead detective continued. “But that leads us to this- obviously you recognize it.” Vince emphatically tapped the wrinkled cardboard matchbook. A miniscule facsimile of neon lights spelled out what the one already knew, the other was digging at.
	“Yeah, it’s a bar.”
	“Popular one?”
	“All bars are popular if you’re desperate enough.”
“Amen to that! *This* one has to be special though,” Vince snorted, replacing his ward’s stubbed out cigarette. Striking up his own he continued. “Surely you can tell us what’s special about this little old bar, eh?”
	“It was a summer job,” the boy fronted, brow straightening. He thickened the blue-grey haze filling the room with a breath. Sally fanned the obnoxious cloud from her eyes, mind jumping to the tar and ash inevitably collecting in her hair, staining her skin. “So I’ve kept that as a souvenir of… *better times*.”
	“Better times?”
	“Times not spent in interrogation rooms,” he spat. “It was good work.”
	“So what made you leave?” He straightened up a bit in his seat, head turning to the robot who split between them with her question. Hefting himself up by the arms of his chair he fixed his face.
	“Same reason any kid leaves a job,” he coughed, “I found a better one.”
	“Running dope?” Brian’s brow wrinkled at Vince’s insinuation.
	“I worked the docks for a year or two.”
	“The docks huh,” Vince continued. “And that was until now, todayish?”
	“Sure,” he nodded.
	“Hard work that, being on the river and going from ship to ship. Must meet a lotta people.”
	“Nobody that would interest you.”
	“Brian, you’re telling me you spent two *years* working the biggest inland port this side of the Mississippi,” Vince grumbled, pointing again at the young man. “And never met *anyone* that’d get you running felony amounts of methaqualone?”
	“Yes.”
	“Brian you can’t expect us to believe that,” Sally chided, “we’re just trying to work out who’s on top.”
	“You’re obviously not afraid to sell *someone* out, what gives Brian?”
	“Nothing gives, shithead,” he shot, “there’s no one there to sell out.” He shivered briefly in his seat, reclining.
	“You’re flipping your story Brian. Is there or is there not someone else? Kid your age doesn’t get that much garbage in his hands like nothing, *from no one*.”
	“Brian we’re really trying to help you,” Sally joined, still waveringly unsure of the young man and herself. “There’s no good cop-bad cop here.”
	The boy shrunk beneath his age, no longer the grown twenty-two on his confiscated ID, slinking backwards into the tacky upholstery. He nervously whittled the cigarette down under Vincent’s withering gaze, turning his head to the now unsympathetic robot. Flipped like a coin the softly glowing cheeks and calm voice were gone, face coldly noting the panicked retreat of his roasting cigarette as he stamped the second out.
	“Can I g-get another?” He cleared his throat, a last sputter of smoke escaping.
	“What’s the deal big guy,” Vince pounced, “afraid of hurting someone’s feelings? Someone important?” He’d miscalculated their incompetence, the pointed line of questioning nothing like the typical fumbling interrogations he’d gotten out and away from, the kind that even the dullest public defender could pick apart to send him on his way, community service or, when he was younger, some time in divergence being his only punishment. These weren’t just cops, *pigs*, but detectives. He was going toe-to-toe with the real deal here, his tired eyes squeezing at them repeatedly.
	“F-F*ck you,” he fumbled, leg bouncing again. “I don’t give a *shit* what you’re trying to do. I’m done talking.”
	“Alright Brian, that’s your decision.” Sally sighed, her two faces nervously mixed as she addressed him directly. The legal pad was laid flat, no more nitpicking notes to write down. “But if there’s someone you’re looking out for, someone here,” she said, tapping the matchbook, “you’re better off telling us who and what so we can help them. We can’t help people we don’t know.” His lip wormed in place, pursed shut in raw, abject fear. The punishment looming over his head ached in his tightening jaw, the pit he’d dug himself into for a pair of cigarettes deepening by the second. The echoing tick of the clock opposite him meted out the beat of his heart. Sally’s eyes narrowed and fixed on his sweating brow, his deep, deliberate breathing. Textbook definitions and tells spilled around in her head, the nandroid weighing the bits and bobs he’d given them against her pleading, gentle call for his innocence. Instinct and training came together, the boy even younger in her eyes.
	“We done here Sal,” Vince whispered, the boy jumping slightly at their silent exchange. The little robot was in command now, a tide of confidence rising and flowing in her. When she was sure, she was *sure*. Vince nodded in understanding, leaning out of the conversation.
	“Brian. Are you still working at that bar?” He licked his dry lips, clammy hands trying to rub his gooseflesh warm under the table. “Are you trying to keep us away from that place for a reason?”
	“N-No-”
	“Then tell *me* Brian, not us, *me*,” Sally pleaded, cocking her head to Vincent. The detective nodded again at the direction and surrendered the room to her. “Are you still working there or at the docks? Which place has someone waiting for you, Brian?”

	Vince breathed deep and hard, holding back a tired yawn. A long, languid pull at his cigarette perked him up as he stalked through the beige hallways for a phone and its address book. He’d hammered the name into the back of his head- unabashedly slavic and pronounced like a sneeze it wasn’t familiar to him like most bars had become through his Vice squad flirts and flings. It was a family establishment, more a pub- a *tavern* if one wanted to be artsy. Nestled safely in the city’s Polish quarter it was far removed from most of the organized crime that chose bars and more to be their fronts and laundering operations- certainly not a pastry factory like before. Hefting the dense, yellow book into his off arm Vince slipped a handful of quarters into the waiting telephone, flipping through for the number. Tapping away at the silvery keys it rang, slow and low before a hoarse, older voice picked it up.
	“Kościuszko’s,” it sleepily hacked, “we’re not open.”
	“Apologies… sir,” Vince guessed through the phone’s crackle. “Detective Vincent la Fontaine, BCPD Vice. I’m calling to see if you wouldn’t mind us paying you a visit this morning.” His eyes bugged a bit at the liquid-crystal display blinking at him, bemoaning the sleep he wouldn't be catching up on. Were he not buried in the precinct’s innards the sun would be peeping up proper now, just kissing the orangening sky.
	“What,” the voice spat again, angry. “What are you, you *getting at*? There’s no crime going on here you-”
	“Sir,” Vince breathed, fingering the bridge of his nose. “We’re not accusing you of any crime. We just want to talk with you, in connection with a case. You’re not being implicated in anything.” The harsh, accented voice was hardly satisfied with the answer, reading out their opening hours, cutting Vincent off.
	“No early arrivals,” it muttered. Agreeing Vince thanked him for his time, snipping the line shut. Sally was probably done with their perp too- cool, mechanical lines of questioning picking him apart on the spot. Tapping the door with his knuckle he waited for his partner to give him the quick rundown before another skip across the city to nail down their next lead.