The Price of Secrets : Chapter One
January 15th 2013-
A few years back, I was assigned to work around the great Milwaukee area—didn’t think much of the city at first. The bustle, the clamor, the endless shuffle of feet on the sidewalk. It wasn’t my scene. But after a while, the rhythm of the place started to get under my skin. The kind of city that wears you down, but if you’re not careful, it starts to feel like home. Although I'd hate to admit it, Milwaukee was starting to grow on me. Still, I couldn’t shake the memories of the northern woods, where the only thing I had to worry about was the friendly raccoon rooting through the garbage can. It was a simpler life back then—quiet, peaceful. No horns honking or sirens wailing, just the sound of the wind in the trees and the occasional rustle of leaves underfoot. Funny how the world changes, but the past has a way of sticking with you like the scent of pine in the air.
Nonetheless, city life was growing on me. My previous assignment had been in Rotterdam Centrum, where I spent two years chasing down a gang running a fentanyl manufacturing ring. It wasn’t the kind of job you forget easily—the long hours, the close calls, the kind of work that drags you into the dirt and leaves you wondering if you’ll ever get out clean. But you do what you’ve gotta do, and when you’re chasing shadows through the maze of alleys and dim-lit streets, you can’t afford to slow down.
Admitting it wasn’t easy, but Milwaukee was starting to feel like a bit of a break compared to my last gig. Chasing down a online drug empire—now that was no walk in the park. The whole operation was brutal, and I'm still not sure how it ended up on my desk in the first place. Last year? A blur of cold nights and dead ends. As I walked past the Ambassador Hotel, the weight of it all came rushing back. The city had a way of making you feel like you were never too far from trouble. And I had a sinking feeling I wasn’t done with it yet.
I glanced at my watch and cursed under my breath—about twenty minutes behind schedule. I pulled my phone out, hoping for some good news. The screen lit up with the familiar Uber app, and there it was—3-minute ETA. Not much, but at least I wasn’t left waiting in the cold. Still, I knew time was ticking, and the clock wasn’t exactly on my side.
A few days back, I’d caught wind of a lead—an informant, running drugs down to Chicago. Trouble was, she’d gotten herself caught, and now she was flipping to save her own skin. Word on the street was she had the kind of intel that could take down the whole operation, but in this business, you never trust a rat until they prove they’re worth the risk.
Finally, my ride pulled up. The window rolled down, and a big lady leaned over, giving me a once-over. She asked, “You blackie?”
I flashed a grin, trying to throw a little charm her way, and replied, “Yuppers, that’d be me.” Not sure if it would do any good, but in this line of work, you learn to make an impression, even if it's just for a few seconds. She snorted, like she wasn’t impressed, but still gave me the nod to get in.
As I slid into the car, she glanced down at her phone, then looked back up at me. “Bay view?” she asked.
I offered a casual smile and replied, “Yes, please.” It was a simple answer, but with the kind of tension in the air, I figured it was best to keep things easy.
We got moving, the city lights flickering past as I noticed her stealing glances at me through the rearview mirror. I caught her at it, but kept quiet. Sometimes, silence works better than words.
Finally, she broke it. “So, what are you doing down in bay view at this time of night?” she asked, her voice a mix of curiosity and something else. “And on the coldest night of the year, from what the news claims."
What I found intriguing about the whole situation was that she was eating ice cream while asking me all these questions. It was freezing out, the kind of night that made your breath visible in the air, and yet here she was, digging into a cone like it was the middle of July. It didn’t add up, but then again, in this line of work, you learn not to question the oddities, They’re usually the ones that come back to bite you later.
I replied casually, “Just meeting an old friend.”
She glanced at me through the rearview, a puzzled look crossing her face. “Old friend, huh? At this time of night, in this area?" She paused, then shook her head with a small chuckle. "God help you, baby."
There was something in her tone, a mix of warning and dark humor, that made me wonder if she knew more about this city’s underbelly than she let on. Either way, I wasn’t about to dig into it.
We pulled up to the bar, the neon sign buzzing faintly in the cold night air. She glanced over at me, her voice soft but carrying a hint of caution. “Alright, baby, we’re here. Whatever you’re downing down here be safe?”
I smiled, giving her a quick nod. I didn’t feel like any words would mean much at this point. Sometimes, silence says it all, especially when you’re heading into the kind of place where words don’t help. Just a head nod, and I was out of the car before she could say anything else.
I glanced down at my watch—fifteen minutes early, but still thirty minutes behind what I’d consider comfortable. Time always has a way of slipping by faster than you'd like when you're waiting for something to go down, especially when you’re dealing with the kind of business I was. It wasn’t a great feeling, but I’d been in worse spots. I just hoped tonight wouldn’t add to that list.
Walking into the dive bar, my instincts kicked in. I started surveying the surroundings, eyes darting to the doors, the windows—anything that could give me an edge. My gaze landed on the fire exit tucked away on one side. The place wasn’t big, but I wasn’t about to take any chances. I needed options, especially if this meeting went south—because things always had a way of going sideways when you least expected it.
I wasn’t too sure what to expect. I wasn’t even sure if the informant would beat me here, but by the looks of it, I’d have arrive first. I could feel the tension settling in my gut, the kind of feeling that says you're about to step into something you might not walk out of unscathed.
I started walking over to the bar, and as I did, I couldn’t help but think to myself—this was your typical local biker dive bar. The kind of place where the air was thick with a mix of stale smoke, spilled beer, and worn leather. It had that heavy atmosphere, like it had been around long enough to have a few secrets of its own. The dim lighting, the jukebox humming in the background, and the low murmur of conversation—it all wrapped around you like a thick fog.
When I ordered my drink, the bartender chuckled and said, “You must be from north of ten, we don’t have that here, crown work for you?”
With a big laugh, I replied, “Yeah, I am. And yeh that will be fine”
The bartender mixed up my Crown and 7, then walked over and slid it across the bar. Without a word, he took the twenty I had laid down, his hand quick and efficient, like he’d done this a thousand times before. It was one of those unspoken transactions—no need for pleasantries, just business. The drink was smooth, cold, and exactly what I needed to settle into the thick atmosphere of the place.
The bartender leaned in, wiping down the counter as he shot me a glance. “So, what brings you out, buddy?” His voice had that casual, laid-back tone, but there was a hint of curiosity behind it. Like he’d seen a lot of faces come through this door, but I was something a little different.
Years ago, I came to the painful realization that I absolutely hated small talk. It drove me crazy, like nails on a chalkboard. Those meaningless exchanges, the ones that don’t really go anywhere, just fill the space with noise. I wasn’t here for that, and I sure as hell wasn’t in the mood for it now.
I finished taking a sip of my drink, set it down, and wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. Then, without much thought, I tilted my head to one side and said, "Just meeting a friend." Simple, straight to the point—no need to elaborate. Small talk wasn’t my style, and I wasn’t about to start now.
He nodded his head, acknowledging my reply, then turned and walked off to take care of another customer. The clink of glasses and the murmur of conversation filled the air, but I wasn’t paying attention to any of it. I was focused on the task at hand, waiting for the right moment, just keeping an eye on the door and the clock.
I took another sip of my drink, my eyes casually drifting around the bar. That’s when I noticed the door swing open. Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted her—a striking blonde, moving through the crowd with purpose. She was scanning the room, and when her eyes landed on me at the far end of the bar, she made a beeline straight for my seat.
As she got close, she gave me a quick look, then said in a voice just loud enough to be heard over the din, “Long time no see, my friend …? There it was—the code.
I paused for a beat, then gave a slight nod, responding simply, “Indeed.”
As she started to sat down, I couldn’t help but think to myself just how incredibly beautiful she was—poised, well put together, the kind of woman who seemed out of place in a dive bar like this. I studied her for a moment, trying to figure out how someone like her got tangled up in such a giant mess. She didn’t look like the type who’d be caught in the kind of world I dealt with, yet here she was.
The bartender noticed her sitting down and quickly scurried over, his voice smooth as he asked, "What can I get you?" She paused for a second, a flicker of hesitation crossing her face—as if she was deciding whether or not to order, or maybe just weighing her options. I leaned in slightly, catching her eye, and without missing a beat, I said, “Go ahead, get whatever you want. It’s on me.”
She looked at me for a moment, a slight smile tugging at the corners of her lips. Then, with a calm confidence, she said, “Okay, could I get a Long Island Iced Tea?”
That wasn’t your typical drink order for a place like this. It raised a few more questions in my mind. A Long Island Iced Tea? That was the kind of drink an up-class lady might order, not someone who’d blend in with the usual crowd at a dive bar. Suddenly, I was even more curious about how she got tangled up in this mess.
The bartender looked a bit annoyed, like he wasn’t used to orders like that in this joint. He rolled his eyes just slightly, but kept his cool. “Absolutely, coming right up,” he said, his tone a little sharper than before as he turned to prepare the drink.
I could tell he wasn’t thrilled about serving something fancy in a place where whiskey and beer were the usual crowd-pleasers, but he wasn’t about to lose a tip over it.
The bartender casually walked over and placed her Long Island Iced Tea in front of her, but before he could turn away, a loud crash echoed through the bar. A local had dropped a glass, and it shattered across the floor. The bartender's face twisted into an annoyed scowl, but without missing a beat, he scurried over to clean up the mess, muttering under his breath.
I glanced over at the woman, wondering if the distraction had thrown her off, but she didn’t seem fazed. She just took a slow sip of her drink, her eyes still locked on me, like she was waiting for me to make the next move.
She took a sip of her drink, and I noticed her face subtly contort, like she wasn’t exactly thrilled with what she had just tasted. But she didn’t seem to mind too much. After a beat, she set the glass down and blurted out, “So, who exactly are you, and what do you want?”
The question hit me like a splash of cold water. She wasn’t wasting time, and that wasn’t something I expected from her. She was either confident or desperate—maybe a little bit of both.
I gave a little grin, leaning back slightly, and replied, “Well, you sure don’t waste any time.”
Her bluntness hit me like a cold breeze on a hot night, unexpected and jarring. I figured she'd be the timid type, all wide eyes and soft words, but then again, that didn’t add up. In this town, you never know what’s hiding behind a smile—or a frown. The pieces started falling into place, making a little more sense than they did a minute ago.
She blinked at me, not amused, like my response wasn’t worth a second thought.
I took a slow drag of cool air, then shot her a level look. "Fair enough. You can call me Blackie. As for the case... let’s just say you’ve got something that could help me out."
She gave me a long look, brushing her hair behind her ear like she had all the time in the world. “Well,” she said, voice smooth as silk, “I suppose if I have the information, how much is it worth to you?”
I let out a low chuckle, shaking my head. "Nah, I don’t think it works that way, sweetheart," I said, my voice low and steady. "Don’t think of it like you’ve got something for me or I’ve got something for you. Think of it more like we’ve both got something that could help each other. And right now, you’re in a hell of a spot—neck deep in hot water."
I gave her a few seconds to respond, but I could see the tears starting to gather in the corner of her eye. Figured I’d lay off for a moment, give her a minute to compose herself. I wasn’t about to push too hard—didn’t want to come off too aggressive. Sometimes, silence did more work than a dozen questions.
A few minutes ticked by, and it seemed like my patience had finally paid off. She spoke, her voice shaky, like the weight of it all was getting to her. “I guess I really don’t understand," she said, eyes darting to mine. "It’s all happening so fast, and you... I don’t even know who you are, what you want, or what you are. Are you a cop? Are you working with my attorney? Hell, are you one of them, trying to trick me?"
I took a slow drink, let the burn slide down my throat, then leaned back in my chair, fingers tapping on the edge of the glass. Took a deep breath, giving myself a moment to think. The trick was finding the right words—simple, but enough to set her straight without pushing her further away. I needed her to trust me, but I had to make sure I didn’t come off like one of those guys who used words as weapons.
I took a moment, letting the words hang in the air before I answered. "I suppose the less you know, the better," I said, my voice steady. "As far as you’re concerned, I’m just a ghost, whispering through the night. Let’s say my attorney’s found your case file making its way through the wire, and it just so happened to match a certain memo we’ve been chasing. So we got a hold of your lawyer, but we’re not exactly working with 'em. We just wanted to talk to you, get your side of the story, see if we can dig up something a little more... off the books."
Without missing a beat, she shot back, her tone steady. “That’s the garbage part," she said. "I don’t have any more information to give. I was working one Friday night, just another shift. A regular comes in, asks if I want to make a little extra cash, then throws ten grand on the table like it’s nothing. Tells me all I have to do is deliver a package. Said after that, another ten grand would be waiting for me at the bar. Simple as that."
The moment she dropped the word regular, my instincts kicked in—something didn’t sit right. I leaned in a bit, keeping my tone casual, but sharp. “A regular, huh?” I said, letting the question hang in the air. “Could you tell me more about this regular? Maybe a name, or something that could help me put a face to him?”
She scratched her head, like she was trying to pull something out of thin air. “Well, it’s just some guy,” she said, shrugging. “Comes in every now and then, plays a little pinball, has a few drinks, then walks out. Doesn’t really say much to anyone. Quiet type, you know?" She paused, eyes flickering like she was hoping there was more, but that was all she had.
I raised an eyebrow, curiosity piqued. "So, a regular," I said, leaning back a bit, "but if he only comes in 'every now and then,' how do you figure he’s a regular?" My tone was even, but there was a little edge to it now—something didn’t add up.
She stiffened a little, like the question hit a nerve, but after a moment, she responded. “Well, he doesn’t come in every night, but at least once a week,” she said, her voice softer now. “So... maybe more of a frequent flyer than a regular.” She shrugged, like she was trying to shake off the discomfort, but I could tell the wheels were turning in her head.
It made some sense, but I wasn’t about to get hung up on it. I let the thought slide and pushed on. “Has he been back since?" I asked, eyes narrowing. “Actually, have you been back to the bar since? Did you get your other ten grand?” I threw the last part in, watching her carefully, seeing if something would shift.
She shook her head, a bitter edge creeping into her voice. “No, I haven’t. When I called them to let ‘em know I wasn’t coming in—seeing as I got arrested—I got fired on the spot. And honestly, I wasn’t about to go back just to shoot the shit with ‘em.” She looked away, her frustration clear, like she was more than done with the whole mess.
I nodded slowly, keeping my gaze steady. “Alright," I said, voice even. "Can you give me anything about this guy? What he looked like, how tall he was, anything that stands out? Every little bit helps.” I leaned in just a bit, letting her know I was all ears, waiting for something—anything—that might give me a clearer picture.
She rubbed her face like she was trying to dig something out of the foggy corners of her memory. “Nah, he wasn’t anything spectacular. Kinda short, brown hair, brown eyes—kinda chubby. Always wore sweatpants and an oversized hoodie. Basic Nike shoes, Honestly, he looked like the last guy you'd think would have ten grand in cash on him, let alone enough to just hand it over to someone to deliver a package.” She let out a short laugh, almost like she was trying to convince herself of the same thing.
I let out a quiet laugh to myself, shaking my head. None of this added up. This girl—she’d basically thrown her life away for some run-of-the-mill guy who looked like he couldn’t scrape together a hundred bucks, let alone ten grand to toss around like it was pocket change. It was the kind of thing that made you wonder what the hell was really going on behind the scenes.
I leaned in a little closer, studying her face. "What about that oversized hoodie?" I asked, my voice low. "Anything on it? Pictures, writing, logos—anything that might stand out?"
She blurted it out like a sudden flash of recognition. "Oh my God, yeah," she said, eyes wide. "He wore a Tom Fooligan hoodie." She paused, then added with a little more certainty, "The logo was right on the front. Big, bold letters."
I frowned, puzzled. "Tom Fooligans?" I repeated, rolling the name around in my head. "What the hell kind of brand is that?" My tone was sharp, trying to make sense of the odd detail.
She was quick to answer, almost like she’d been waiting for me to catch on. "Yeah, Tom Fooligans," she said, her eyes flickering with recognition. "It’s a bar over on the West Side. Kinda like an arcade, restaurant, slash bar. You know the place?"
I gave her a simple, one-word reply. “Nope.”
I caught her glancing at her watch, a quick flick of the wrist. She shifted in her seat, then spoke up. "Hey, I really hate to cut this short," she said, almost apologetic, "but I gotta get home to make curfew. You know, the one they gave me for the bond."
I could see it in her eyes—she was ready to bolt, and whatever this was, it had to wrap up fast.
She hesitated for a second, then threw the question out like it had been on her mind the whole time. “If I wanted to get ahold of you again... how would I do that?” Her eyes were sharp, but there was a quiet urgency in her voice. She didn’t want to leave this all unfinished—no matter how much she needed to run.
I let out a long sigh, trying to keep things as smooth as possible. "Look," I said, "if you need to get ahold of me again, just post a picture of some dinner you cooked, and caption it, 'Nothing like a home-cooked meal.” And We'll be in touch."
She looked at me, more confused than when she’d walked in, but i just flashed a smile and gave a nod. "Okay," she said, hesitation still in her voice, "I guess I can do that."
I watched her stand up and head for the door, moving as fast as she’d come in—like she had somewhere else to be, or maybe just wanted to get out of this mess as quick as she could. The door clicked shutting behind her, and I was left there, alone with more questions than answers.
The bartender walked over, wiping down the counter with a rag, eyeing the door where she’d just disappeared. “Your friend leave already? That was a short visit,” he said, giving me a half-smile.
I nodded, not looking up. “Yeah, life happens, man.”
He chuckled, shrugged, and went back to work. I sat there for a moment, feeling the weight of the conversation linger. Part of me couldn’t shake the feeling that this was all a giant waste of time. Didn’t get much from her, and she didn’t seem all that keen on talking, either. But then again, I guess you had to take your wins where you could.
I looked back at the bartender, then out the window toward the West Side. "Tom Fooligans," I muttered to myself.
