Undercover Heat

Chapter 3: The Decision

POV: Joseph

"Now, what do you do with the ball?" I grin as my son, Maxwell, three years old, takes the small spongy basketball from me.

He gives it back to me and says, "this, this."

"Ball," I hand it to him. I sit on the floor in my messy studio apartment—toys and clothes all around. Maxwell stands in front of me with the tiny basketball hoop behind him. I tell him, "say 'ball.'"

"All."

"Ball."

Maxwell stares at me before he grabs it. Then, finally, he yells as if he's figured out what to do, "ball."

I watch Maxwell turn to the basketball hoop and throw it into the hoop. Then, after a laugh, I raise my arms and cheer. He does the same.

I glance at my watch, and my shoulders sag. In another hour, my weekend with Maxwell ends. When I look at Maxwell, he gives me this stern look as if he's disciplining me. Slowly, I stand, shaking my head. He smiles at me.

“Poo-poo, Dada."

"Why can't you save the dirtiest diaper for Elizabeth?"

***

For three years, the custody exchange ended the same way. Each time I hope that things go differently. I glance at Maxwell in the rearview mirror as I park my Ford. He's asleep. A lock of his dark hair falls over his forehead as his head falls forward.

It's dark—after eight o'clock, and I'm twenty minutes early, as usual, for our exchange. I don't want to give my son, but I don't want to be late. My lawyer told me that being late could ruin my custody petition.

I exhale and stare out the passenger's side window as Elizabeth's front door opens.

She stands in the doorway with her fists on her hips and a scowl on her face.

Her long, golden hair is in a ponytail. Her blue eyes narrow. Elizabeth is beautiful and stubborn as hell. Those two things attracted me to her when I arrived in Los Angeles four years ago.

Slowly, I leave the car and gather a still sleeping Maxwell. We stroll to meet Elizabeth, who stomps toward us and takes him from my arms. Maxwell stirs but doesn't awaken.

"You're late."

I shift Maxwell from one arm to another and look at my phone. I'm early.

I could let her goat me into an argument or ignore her.

I ignore her comment. "Do you want his bag in the living room?"

Elizabeth sighs, looking disappointed.

Silence.

Her face brightens.

I shake my head.

"What's this scratch? Here. Right here," Elizabeth says and raises Maxwell's tiny tanned arm.

There's nothing on his arm.

No scratch.

'Come on, Elizabeth, don't go there,' I want to tell her. But, instead, I take a step back. At least she's doing something different this time.

Elizabeth moves forward and looks worried. Finally, she asks, "where are you going?"

"Whatever you're doing, I'm not a willing participant, Liz." I lean forward and kiss Maxwell on the head.

Elizabeth places her warm palm on the back of my neck as I pull away. She stares at me, her eyes revealing a passion I'm no longer interested in pursuing.

“Elizabeth, I'll pick him up next week."

Elizabeth presses her lips together and glances away. Her shoulders slump. Then, after a moment, she tells me, "I can't make it."

"Can't make what?"

"The exchange."

Come on, Elizabeth, don't pull this s**t with me.

I shake my head.

"Elizabeth, we have set times—"

"How about Tuesday? I have nothing to do then," she suggests.

"With all due respect, Elizabeth, we're not planning a date. How about your mom or your neighbor? You don't have to be at the exchange."

"Why did you lie to me, Joey?" Elizabeth pauses as she moves Maxwell to her opposite hip.

"I told you about my hertitage–my father being biracial. I never lied to you."

“You never told me he was half black."

“I didn't know it mattered to you."

“Omission is still a lie," Elizabeth tells me.

Come on, Elizabeth, you f*cking left me the day after Maxwell's birth. I don't know about genes, Elizabeth. I had no idea we would make a baby with tanned skin and wavy hair.

“Do you know how my doctor looked at me after he was born, huh? It was like I did something wrong like cheat on you." Elizabeth pouted. “You're not the victim, I am."

“Elizabeth, I'm not doing this," I tell, "I'll ask Captain if we can do the exchange at the station."

Elizabeth kisses the top of Maxwell's head. "He'll see you two weeks from now."

"Elizabeth—"

"Now," Elizabeth turns and happily comments to Maxwell, "let's get you in the bathtub because you've gotten so dark being around my sperm donor, huh."

***

Although I'm at work, my mind is still at Elizabeth's apartment. I'm worried. What does she say to Maxwell when no one's around? I exhale and tense. Will I see my son next week?

The locker room is busy with my fellow police officers entering and leaving, depending on the shift change. As I finish buttoning my brown uniformed shirt, someone opens the door and yells over the noise, "Anderson, the Captain wants to see you."

I grab my gear and slam my locker door close. It takes me a few minutes to the Captain's office.

When I arrive, I hesitate to close the door behind me. Captain Garrison sits behind his desk. Standing a few feet away from me are two expressionless men dressed in suits staring at me.

"You wanted to talk with me, Captain Garrison?"

Captain Garrison points at the empty chair across from him. "Please, sit."

I follow my Captain's orders.

He points to his left at the man in the black suit. "This is Agent Williams."

He points to his right at the man in the dark gray suit. "This is Agent Bond. Both are from the FBI."

Agent Williams speaks first, "first of all, thank you for agreeing to go undercover. You'll be a valuable resource to our crime-fighting efforts."

I stare at Agent Williams, hoping that he'd see the confusion.

"We need you to get in quick and—"

I look at Captain Garrison. "I talked to you about becoming a detective, but I told you that was years away."

Captian Garrison's sympathetic expression has me even more confused. A long time passes before he throws up his hands and says, "There's nothing I can do."

Agent Bond sits on the desk and flashes a tense smile at me.

I lean back and return the smile. But, come on, motherf*cker, I know you're the "good cop." I've sat in on some interrogations.

"I remember my first years as a new father," Agent Bond says with a chuckle. "It takes a balancing act, but when they are young—"

"Whatever you're selling, I'm not buying," I interrupt.

"I'm a beat cop. That's what I do."

I stand.

Agent Williamson grabs a folder from the middle of the desk and opens it. Then, he shoves it in my face.

It's a photograph of my father.

The photograph is a gut punch, which causes me slowly sit.

"Do you know this man?" Agent Williamson asks.

I look at him and gruffly respond, "obviously, you know the answer since you're showing me the motherf*cker's picture."

Agent Bond interjects, "we all have problems with our parents at one time or another. So I don't blame you for fleeing the mafia family he started."

I lean back and rub my bottom lip as I study Agent Bond. What the f*ck are you talking about, man? I left because I snooped around long enough to find out that Dean Anders was fake.

"I don't know anything about a mafia. He's a furniture maker and some bigwig in Moore." I stand up and wave my hand as Captain Garrison speaks.

He speaks anyway, "Anderson, have you ever heard of the Sweet Mafia?"

I place my palms on his desk and stare him down, but all I can see is Elizabeth mistreating my son.

"I don't give a s**t about some mafia family or my lying father. I'm filing my joint custody of my son tomorrow, and I can't gamble with my chances on a sh*t job."

As I maneuver past Agent Williams, I glare at him. Then, I open the door and look back, "Get another sucker."

***

Sleep calls me as my body relaxes. I'm so tired that I stand in front of my open locker door dressed in street clothes and looking like a zombie. I've worked a double shift for one of the officers whose wife called him about labor pains.

The locker room is empty and dim. Most officers up at this hour don't care about a brightly lit locker room.

The door opens.

Captain Garrison heads towards me, looking sad.

I look away. He's been like a father to me since I arrived here.

"You didn't know he was a mafia kingpin, huh?"

I laugh. Come on, Captain, you should meet the motherf*cker. But, unfortunately, he's not bright enough to understand he's in a dark room. So, finally, I answer, "No."

"So, you lived this wealthy lifestyle in a small town because everyone like his furniture."

I stare at him. I want to tell him 'Yeah, until I found out his secret. He's not a mafia kingpin, he's a bi-racial man who was pale enough to pass as a white man and did it. The first thing he told me as a child was thank God you look like you do. That stuck with me until I to do my own investigation.'

He blinks as I slam the locker door shut.

"Did you?" I ask, "know about him?"

"No."

"I'm barely on the force for four years, and you want to fast-track me to the FBI. Isn't that a bunch of bullshit?"

"You're from that area. You can get in and get to Canyon Young and get out," Captain Garrison contends.

I shake my head. Come on, Captain, you're bullsh*tting.

"Am I supposed to reunite with my father to that?"

"Canyon Young is head of the Sweet family. He's the biggest drug dealer in that area." He punches his right fist into his left hand. He angrily continues, "The FBI knows he's about to transition from drugs to human trafficking."

I turn to him, pointing in his direction, and match his anger, "My white ex-wife yanks around visitation for fun because I was the dumb ass who trusted her enough not to ask for joint and legal custody. Now she keeps making references to his skin color because he's not pale like her. Imagine what she's saying to him—"

"Canyon Young only hires white boys to get him into the places he can't go." He hits my chest with his index finger and tells me, "Do you know how many people are trafficked each year--how many children? Those parents can't save their children from harm, but you can stop Canyon Young before he gets them in his grip."