Prayers for the Devil

By Bruce E. Weber

This is the story of Frank Coyle, a veteran police officer who never meets his monthly quota of parking tickets, has never fired his service weapon, and who believes that putting anyone but violent criminals in jail is cruel and unusual punishment.

He has compiled the lowest arrest record of any of his fellow officers, and yet he has imposed a lasting peace on the most violent, crime ridden area of his city.

He has very unorthodox views of how the law should be upheld, and those who violate his rules are eventually cured of their lawless ways–permanently.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bruce E. Weber
• Release date: Sep 12, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311670557

Bruce E. Weber

Bruce Weber grew up in Indianapolis, in the neighborhood that is the setting for Dark Manna. He moved to Arizona in 1998. He lives in Tucson, where he is self-employed. Bruce says the writer who has influenced him most is James M. Cain, who wrote the Postman Always Rings Twice, Double Indemnity, and Mildred Pierce. Of Cain’s work, Weber says, “Cain told more story with fewer words than any writer I know of, and from reading his books, I became imbued with his own worst fear: a gnawing terror of boring the reader.”

Book preview

Prayers For The Devil

Bruce E. Weber

the Smashwords edition

A Stanfield Books publication

Copyright 2015

All Rights Reserved

**************************

Disclaimer

This is a fiction book. Any resemblance to actual persons, places or events is a coincidence.

Smashwords License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment. Please don't resell it or give it away.

If you want to share this book, please return to Smashwords and purchase an additional copy as a gift.

Credits

Formatting and cover design by Debora Lewis arenapublishing.org

Cover photo courtesy of Shutterstock.com

Prayers for the Devil

Other books by Bruce E. Weber

About the Author

To Michaela, who led me out of darkness.

"Our lives are of a mingled web, good and ill together."

William Shakespeare

Prayers for the Devil

The hours between four and six A M were Frank Coyle’s favorites. The night’s action had usually died down by then, leaving the streets and alleys quiet, and during these hours it seemed like he had his entire sector to himself.

Sometime during these hours he parked in his favorite spot. It was near the alley just past the intersection of Cambridge and North. He sat under the burned-out streetlight sipping coffee, listening to the hum of his heater fan and the occasional rasp of his police radio, and stared at the spot near the end of the alley where at the age of thirteen he had found his father’s body.

Frank Coyle came here at least once a shift. His ritual never varied. He composed himself, then let his mind recede to that January morning almost twenty years ago, a Sunday, like this one, cold, just the same amount of snow on the ground, when he’d headed home pulling a rusty metal cart after delivering Sunday papers. He’d stopped right where his patrol car sat, looking at a snow-covered, man-shaped mound. He replayed the scene as he had so many times, remembering how he’d crept forward, the only sound the squeaking of his feet on the powdery snow, the eerie fascination of finding a frozen corpse, the aloneness of that moment, the pink-tinted snow, bending over despite his terror, brushing the snow away to uncover the gray, pock-marked face of his murdered father.

Frank saw nothing morbid in his attraction to this place. After all, how many guys could point to the exact spot on the face of the earth where they had changed from boy to man? This place, and this unchanging ritual, had served to keep him focused all those years, when instead of chasing girls and smoking dope like his buddies, he’d dedicated himself to his only goals; to become a cop, to see justice done.

As he neared the end of these recollections, the lights came on in Mrs. Cochrane’s bedroom, as they always did at six o’clock. Frank decided to take a tour of the neighborhood before his shift ended. He drove through alleys and pot-holed one-way streets, past boarded up houses and ones that were burned out, their blackened windows staring at him like the empty eyes of the dead. He passed houses of former friends and enemies, but those people were all long gone. These trips through his once-prosperous neighborhood always filled him with a quiet sorrow, but with this new covering of snow it all looked pure and clean and fresh.

On Oak Street, near the corner of Tenth Avenue, he paused before a fire-damaged house surrounded with yellow police tape. The sight filled him with a sense of satisfaction—there would be no more evil done in that house—and in a few days, after forensics had finished with it, it would be scraped off, leaving another tear in the fabric of his old neighborhood. But a wound had been cauterized by that fire, and Frank preferred an open plot of grass to what had gone on in that old house.

It was six-thirty when he finished his rounds, so he drove to the parking lot behind St. Martin’s school. He parked and finished his cold coffee, watching the dim mid-winter sun spread a gray glow over the old buildings, remembering what a scene of mayhem that schoolyard had been in his childhood. He was lost in this sea of memories when his cell phone beeped; it was a text message from his supervisor, asking Frank to meet him at Hawthorne Park, behind the old Community Center.

Frank texted back and then drove up Urban Avenue, crossed over to Cambridge Street and headed north again, slowing to a crawl as he approached a large two-story brick house. A single votive candle glowed blue in the otherwise darkened house. Frank parked in the alley behind it and walked to the front door. He had no worries about being seen. As soon as he got to the door it eased open and Frank stepped in.

The woman who let him in smiled as she closed the door behind him. "Officer Francis, so good of you to stop by.

Don’t have much time, Lady Beatrice. Got something for me?

Lady Beatrice handed him a plastic bag. In it was a pearl-handled stiletto. Here’s your letter opener. Her face pruned up. Sweet Jesus, that thing’s got bad energy. Then she slid two fingers into her deep, bronze-skinned cleavage, pulled out a sandwich bag and dangled it in front of Frank. I owe you, my dear Francis, for taking good care or our boy Andre. So here is a little gift. You will recognize the voice of Hizzoner himself.

Frank laughed and took the bag, which held a micro-cassette tape. The mayor? Isn’t he a bit young to need your kind of therapy?

They gets past 40 or so, they starts to worry. They come see Lady B. She know how to get ‘em going again.

And then they start talking?

Lady Beatrice smiled wide, displaying her gleaming white teeth. Oh my! They so happy they talk on and on. She stepped close to him, looked up at him, shrugged one shoulder and let her robe fall open. Does a busy policeman have time to accept a bribe?

He had to force himself to step back. Every time you say that, you ask another favor. What do you need? As the robe slid from her shoulders, Frank thought this must be a serious request. It was hard work keeping his eyes glued to hers.

A bad man come, he police, he say his name is Stenz. He say if I don’ give him free ones he take me in to jail. You can help me with this?

I’ll take care of it.

Lady Beatrice smiled and wiggled. Her red satin robe fell to the floor. Frank gave up the fight and gazed down at a bronze-skinned beauty that took his heart on a three-beat vacation. After a long deep breath he said, I’m on duty, B. And there’s no need for that. He bent down and picked up her robe, stretched his arms around her and draped it over her shoulders. Quick now, what’s the latest on Andre?

I hear from him yesterday. He stop by to say them two Barrio Duro boys, they don’t bother him no more. He say he don’t see them around.

They’re gone and they won’t be back. I gotta go, B. Frank turned to the door but his eyes moved to the corner of the room. Hidden behind a bamboos screen was a small shrine. A wooden statue of a praying saint, weathered and gray, sat in the center of a circle of blue votive candles. In front of the statue was a yellowed, grinning skull with its front teeth missing. Across the top of the skull a rosary was draped, its beads made of human teeth.

Lady Beatrice tugged her robe to her throat. You like my shrine? It is statue of my favorite saint who is Saint Francis. He look after me even when I am a little girl in Jamaica.

What’s with the skull… and those teeth?

She pressed her hands together in prayer. I am Kamina. It is Jamaica religion. I pray for you every day, Officer Francis. And also to protect Andre from Oheah-man.

From who?

She shuddered. In Jamaica, we believe Obeah-man, he come take away boy, make him bad forever.

The candles cast dancing shadows of the statue and the skull on the wall behind. The sight of it all gave Frank the creeps, but he was grateful to be prayed for. He kissed his index finger, touched it gently to Lady Beatrice’s cheek and said, Gotta go.

* * *

Ten minutes later, Frank parked near the overgrown baseball fields in Hawthorne Park waiting for Louis Parks, his immediate superior. Louis arrived a half minute later and got out of his car, offering Frank a cup of fresh coffee.

Frank got out and took one of the paper cups. Thanks, Luis. You came up here at this hour just to bring me some coffee?

You know I like to take good care of my guys. Luis blew the steam off his coffee and said, Peaceful night though, for a Saturday.

Frank sipped and waited. He knew full well what this was about.

Parks squinted from the burn of the coffee. Too bad, about Pat Kane.

Frank nodded.

Parks said, You’ve had a tough week, my friend. First your best friend dies of cancer, then his dad, who was pretty much your second father, gets murdered with a knife in the ribs. You want some time off?

What for?

I think you need a break. You’ve got a ton of vacation time piled up. The only reason they don’t force you to take it is because we’re short-handed and nobody wants to cover George Sector. Think about it.

The pink morning sun threw enough light on Frank Coyle’s face to make his Irish good looks glow. He smiled. Do I look like a man who needs time off?

Parks slowly examined that face. You look fine. But isn’t that a bit odd, considering all that’s happened?

Maybe, but, part of my happy-face is because I hit a trifecta at the track yesterday. For thirty-two hundred bucks.

Parks stepped a little closer to Frank. He studied that dark face, the black eyes and the blue stubble and half smile, a smile of peace, a smile of satisfaction. You’re scaring the hell out of me, Frank. You oughta be a basket case. What’s up?

"Nothing’s up. I’m thinking this is just another excuse for you to try to get me to take time off. We’ve had this conversation before.

We have, off and on for years now. The most recent time being just two days ago, after two gang-bangers were found dead under that bridge, right over there. Parks pointed to the bridge that crossed the parkway. We still haven’t heard from the witness who said he saw you go down there a few minutes before he heard shots. He’s disappeared. Just like some of the others have in cases you were involved in.

Frank Coyle frowned. Luis, that witness was a soldier in the Duro gang. He’s probably back in L. A. by now. If you found him, would you trust his word over mine?

Not sure, And what about the house that burned down on Oak? And the two charred bodies they found inside? And Father Dwyer, a couple days before the fire telling you about what he suspected was going on in there? It’s been one strange coincidence after another for years, Frank.

Frank drained his coffee cup on the snow and crushed it in his oversized fist. Louis, you’re thinking too much. You got a lot on your plate right now. Can’t you find anything better to do than harass me?

Parks crushed his own cup and looked up at Frank, who was six inches taller. Look, your best friend Mickey Kane dies of cancer. And then his father, Pat Kane, the man you idolized your whole life, gets murdered. All this happens in a few days. And you still drive down to the OTB after work, play the horses, not a care in the world. You don’t think that’s grounds for concern, not to mention the other stuff?

Frank thumbed his cell phone. My shift’s over. Better let me go or I’m claiming overtime.

Parks rolled his eyes. Right, well, just to let you know, the funeral’s at ten on Wednesday. You can take that night off if you want.

No thanks. One of the first things I learned from Pat Kane was, you gotta stay on the job to stay sharp.

Parks opened his car door, then turned to Frank. You didn’t take the night off after Mickey Kane’s funeral either, and he was your best friend. But then, that was the night that house on Oak got torched, wasn’t it?

* * *

The next morning, Louis Parks sat at his computer gently tapping its keys and watching files roll on the screen. He took a manila folder from his desk drawer, scratched notes on a legal pad and was lost in his scribbles when someone tapped at his office door. Parks looked up and said, Danny, come in. Close the door.

Danny Fagan took off his tweed jacket, then his shoulder holster, folded the jacket and set the holstered gun on it. What’s up? I need to get home to mama.

Won’t take long. You worked with Frank Coyle for a long time till you got promoted. You know him better than anybody. You heard about what’s happened to the Kane Family. Did you know Pat or Mickey very well?

I didn’t know Pat at all. He was before my time. Pretty ironic, guy survives thirty years on the streets, then gets a knife in the ribs in his own back yard. He paused, then said, Anyway, I did know Mickey pretty well. Him and Frank were real close.

Best friends?

"Yeah. But Frank used to complain about Mickey always trying to do favors for him. Mickey was a decent guy…for a lawyer, I mean. But Frank said Mickey was always apologizing for things, like when he got