On The Beat (Goosey Larsen Book 3) (10 page)

Jim laughed. “I told you, Goosey, there’s only two ways you’re getting off this beat, and just between us girls I wouldn’t count on any other cop screwing up worse than you did. The economy’s in the pits right now, so real jobs are scarce. Everyone’s minding their Ps and Qs while they coast along on the CPD gravy train.” He reached up to his forehead and flipped another greasy strand of artificial hair back into place. “Besides, that young kid who took your spot working missing persons? Old what’s-his-name…”

I clenched my fists and growled. “Samuels.”

Jim snapped his chubby fingers. “Samuels, that’s the one. Shit, the kid’s been working under me for like four months now, you’d think I’d of learned his damned name already. Anyway, that boy’s one of Captain Russell’s golden children, so you know he’s not going anywhere. The little nerd is way too enthusiastic for my tastes, but at least he knows better than to bother me with any stupid paperwork. Only took him two weeks to figure out that he needs to forge my signature on his timesheets if he wants to get paid. Yup, smart kid.”

Way back when I’d first started as a detective, it had taken me nearly three months before I caught on to the fact that Jim simply refused to sign off on anything. Vacation requests, incident reports, whatever it was, Jim simply didn’t want his name attached to it. I’m not sure whether it was because he was just plain lazy, or because he demanded complete and total deniability at all times. Whatever the reason, it was always just so much more convenient to sign his name myself.

I shrugged. “If you say so, boss. Well, I guess if I can’t count on somebody else to hand me a golden ticket out of this place, I’m going to have to take the lead and arrest my way out of here.” I reached around to the back of my duty belt, pulled my handcuffs loose and worked the ratchet a few times to shake off the rust. “How many drunk college kids do you think I’ll have to haul in before Shakey McShivers starts singing my praises to the Chief?”

Jim lifted his triple chin as he thought for another long moment. He licked his lips slowly, savoring the residual burn of the hot sauce. “My best guess is around fifty, maybe? I don’t know, maybe you should play it safe and set a personal goal of at least a hundred collars.”

My heart fell. I stuffed my handcuffs back into their case just as quickly as I’d drew them. “Screw that, Jim. Screw….that. Damn. Well, it looks like I’m just doomed to a lifetime of hoofing it.”

He laughed as he gingerly eased his huge body down into the driver’s seat, sliding behind the wheel in a series of slow, controlled movements. “Look at it this way, Goosey. You’ve only got about twelve more years until retirement and then you can pull the plug, right? Hell, I bet you could sleep for twelve years straight if you really had to.”

I nodded. “Right now, Jim, that’s sounding like a pretty good career path. But anyways, I’ll see you later on. Take care, boss.”

Jim fired up his engine and pulled away. His car careened off the curb and left behind a trail of noxious smoke as he headed south on East Bay Street. A pair of slightly drunk, slightly cute sorority chicks just managed to dart out of the crosswalk before he could clip them. I couldn’t be sure if Jim simply hadn’t seen the girls, or if he’d purposefully meant to brush them back up onto the sidewalk. Either way, the close call was all it took to send them scurrying off into the night.

Even though my spirits were pretty well crushed by that point, I somehow found the strength to complete one last circuit of the Market. The sidewalks were nearly full up, and all the lines of people waiting to get into the bars were spilling over into the streets. It pained me to be the only sober person in the area, but at least all the background noise gave me a perfect excuse for ignoring any radio calls. With all the commotion, I could easily make a legitimate claim that I just hadn’t been able to hear the dispatcher calling my number. I was generally pretty selective about when I chose to answer up anyway, but it was nice to have all my bases covered for a change.

After a while, though, boredom set it and I headed back up to the top of the parking garage. My eagle’s nest provided an extra layer of insulation from situations where I might have to take law enforcement action, and the view from above was much more relaxing than at ground level. My shift wasn’t technically over until two o’ clock, but even using all of my willpower I could only make myself stay at work through midnight. To be honest, the only reason I even made it that far was by stopping to take a power nap in my Toyota. Finally, once it was obvious that I’d given up all hope of accomplishing any of my public safety goals for the evening, I pulled out of the garage and headed for home.

The first small groups of early birds were just starting to call it a night, drifting away from the bars in groups of two or three to search for those ever-elusive taxicabs. I seriously considered packing my car full of drunk kids right then and there in order to make a couple extra bucks, but the possibility that one of them might vomit all over my backseat was enough to shut down my entrepreneurial spirit. I’d puked up in my car a time or two myself, and I still had the stained upholstery to prove it. With a sigh of disappointment, I crossed the James Island Connector and headed for the house, still plotting on a way to get paroled into a job where I could reclaim a proper police car. Nearly all of the department’s regular cruisers have these backseats which are lined with plastic, and the cushions pop right out for easy cleaning. An unmarked Ford Crown Victoria would be the perfect platform for me to launch a weekend taxi service, and that would certainly be a more lucrative hustle than picking up off-duty shifts at the Harris Teeter.

SATURDAY

From
the front steps of the Customs House, Duke looked out
over the virtual sea of young people jammed along the
narrow streets of the City Market. He studied how they
moved and interacted with one another while pondering how much
of this crowd represented his customer base. Still, despite the
thousands of dollars of potential profit he saw before him,
Duke forced himself to concentrate. He narrowed his focus, striving
to spot his partner among the crowd. After several fruitless
minutes of loitering beneath a streetlight, all the while keeping
a close eye on the two police cruisers parked across
from the Wet Willie’s nightclub, Duke finally gave up.
He reached for his coat pocket, drew his Blackberry and
quickly dialed a series of numbers from memory.

Antoine picked
up on the first ring. The anxiety in his voice
was obvious to hear, even over the roaring shouts below. “
Where are you?”

Duke exhaled a breath of deep relief
at the confirmation that their tense encounter had been nothing
more than a close call. If that clueless police officer
had actually been thinking of putting any kind of elaborate
surveillance plan in place, the movements would have certainly would
have become apparent by now. “I’m nearby. You?”

A
short pause as Antoine considered his response. “Back at my
office now.”

Duke smiled.
Smart kid
, he thought, appreciating the
subtlety that Antoine had used to convey his location over
the unsecured cell phone line. Calm once again, Regan got
down to business without any further delay. “I say we
go ahead and postpone our meeting. It’s just too
crazy out here, and I’m afraid all these people
might get in the way.”

“That sounds fine to me.
When are you thinking then? Tomorrow, maybe?”

“Absolutely. If I
hold onto this merchandise any longer, I run the risk
of… it getting stale. Same time as usual, and you
know what? Let’s plan on using the same conference
room, too.”

There was another long moment of silence on
the other end of the line as Antoine chose his
next words with care. “You don’t think that location
will be too… crowded?”

It was an unspoken reference to
police patrols, and Duke gave the concern a moment of
legitimate consideration. “I doubt it.” He thought of the slovenly
policeman who had just run them off, and reasoned that
such an obese blimp would surely be easy enough to
evade. “Something tells me there won’t be any more
unexpected interruptions.”

Antoine snickered, clearly sharing a similar opinion of
the officer’s competence. “All right. I’ll see you
then.”

Duke slid his Blackberry back into his pocket, then
took another look at the waves of drunken humanity that
were washing over East Bay Street. He smiled as he
contemplated the huge profit margins involved with his side business,
which was quickly becoming a more lucrative endeavor than his
ever-expanding real estate portfolio. Finally, with his duffel bag
stowed securely up under his shoulder, Duke sauntered down the
steps and made for his townhouse south of Broad Street.
It had been another long day at work for him,
yet by all accounts it had also been a hugely
successful one.

7.

It was almost noon when I finally broke down and rolled out of bed on that otherwise beautiful Saturday. I always hated to get up so early, but for once in my life I actually happened to recall that it was laundry day. See, whenever I slept too late on a weekend and waited too long to get moving, all of the complex’s washers and dryers would usually already be snatched up by college kids. I swear, the absolute worst part of apartment living was just trying to get the wash done. On any given day at least half of the coin-operated machines would be out of service, and those few that actually were operational always seemed to be snatched up by some young mothers who were perpetually running the family laundry. No lying, there’s been at least a couple of times when I’ve had to sneak a set of uniforms in with some stranger’s unmentionables in order to get them clean in time for roll call. That’s a desperate move, though, and it never went over too well with my neighbors. Still, I always enjoyed seeing that look of surprise when people come in to pull their clothes out of the dryer and find me rooting through their underwear. Most of the time, folks have been content with the explanation that I commandeered their dryer due to a police emergency.

It took me at least five minutes for me to round up all of my dirty clothes from their favorite hiding places, back in the darkest corners of my closet and tucked away underneath my bed. Finally, once I had my things separated into two somewhat evenly-balanced piles of lights and darks, I loaded them all up into the old Hefty trash bags which served as my laundry baskets. My plans hit a small snag when I realized that the change pile on my dresser only held three measly bucks in quarters, which was just enough to wash and dry a single load. In a frantic search for a solution, I dumped out my clothes and re-sorted them in an urgent re-prioritization of my needs. All of my whites got set to the side since I reasoned that socks, underwear and undershirts could always be re-worn a time or two. After I’d condensed everything into a single, more manageable pile, I loaded the bag up once again and made a break for the laundry center.

As I waited for the spin cycle to run its course, I flipped out my cell phone and began thumbing through the menu screen as a distraction. I could tell that Katie must have been working late the night before, because she’d shot me several text messages to check in. The increasing frequency of communication had become a little troubling, and I found myself wondering what the future of our relationship might look like. Sure, Katie and I had been seeing each other exclusively for about four or five months by that point, but that was really only because neither of us seemed to be particularly attractive to other people. And as much as I enjoyed how that girl always seemed to end up holding the bill whenever we went out to eat, enduring all the flirtatious text messages and voicemails was almost as painful as paying for a meal with my own money.

I must have sat there contemplating my love life for a good long while because before I knew it, the washer’s buzzer had sounded. As I pulled someone else’s damp clothes out of the nearest dryer and flung them onto the floor in order to make room for my own, I couldn’t help wondering if Katie might be willing to handle my laundry from that point on. It certainly wouldn’t do any harm for me to ask her, and who knows? Letting the little woman take on some additional domestic responsibilities might just help swing our relationship back into balance. After all, a lady’s rightful place is in the home, isn’t it?

It was getting a little late in the afternoon by the time my clothes had finally finished, so I trudged back to my apartment and got dressed for work just as slowly as I could manage. I remembered Jim’s well-intentioned advice about looking like a go-getter, so I made a point of running a hot iron over my trousers. Once dressed, I paused for a minute to scope myself out in the mirror, and if I can say so myself it was a pretty picture. Yeah, I might not have been anywhere near as lean and trim as I was in high school, but at least I could still pass for a marginally competent law enforcement professional. Satisfied, I headed to the kitchen, grabbed a bag of Cheetos for dinner and then strolled outside squeeze in behind the wheel of my Tercel.

The drive to work was slow and relaxing, and as a result I ended up running just a few minutes later than usual. To be on the safe side, I clicked on my walkie-talkie a little early as I cruised across the James Island Connector. I wasn’t really rushing myself, though, on account of the fact that it was Curly’s day off and that dude was bound to be holding down one of his regular security gigs somewhere. On Saturdays there was nobody on day shift for me to relieve, which meant there’d be no one to snitch me out if I showed up an hour or two behind schedule. Still, it never hurt to keep an ear out, just in case I needed to at least sound like I was already at work.

As it happened, my foresight paid off. As I passed the bend in the road where Lockwood Drive curves onto Broad Street, I heard the dispatcher calling my number. “Control to 714. 714, are you in service?” It was one of our newer hires working the switches, this Jamaican lady with an accent so thick it made her sound fresh off the banana boat. It was nearly impossible to understand what the girl was saying, but at least her words carried a relaxing island vibe with them.

With an unusually calm feeling, I keyed my radio to answer up. I visualized myself relaxing on a sandy beach somewhere, just lying back and watching the waves roll in as a steel drum soundtrack set the mood. “714, go ahead ma’am.” In an accidental slip, my “ma’am” just may have come out sounding a little more like “mon”.

My politeness must have caught the dispatcher off guard, causing her to hesitate for the briefest of seconds. Her instructions came out in rapid fire mode after that since she was struggling to catch back up, but at least her speech was set to the rhythm of a catchy reggae beat. It took all of my concentration to decipher her words as my head swayed along in time to the call: “63 at Tommy Condon’s, dat be Tommy Condon’s mon, one six zero Church Street, crosses Cumberland and South Market. 63 and disperse 42 parties involved in a verbal 18 on the sidewalk, how copy eh?”

I had to let that algebraic equation dance around in my brain for a moment before I finally deciphered the radio codes and pointed my car towards the Market. A group of drunks involved in a shouting match was not the type of call that normally merited my speediest response, but at least it would be a good opportunity to impress Shakey McShivers with an easy arrest. Besides, I figured there was no better time than the present to set my new career path in motion. That was especially true since it was just the first hour of my shift, and if I wrote slow enough, I could easily make all the post-arrest paperwork stretch out for the rest of the night. “I copy Control, I’m en route. Any description on the parties involved?”

“06 mon.”

Stopped at a red light, I drummed on the steering wheel as I hummed a Bob Marley tune. When the signal finally changed, I turned onto Cumberland Street and pulled into a metered spot, then hopped out and started hustling up the block. As much as I despised the idea of parking right out there in the open, driving up to the roof of the garage and walking all the way back down would have surely sapped what little motivation I’d been able to muster. Seconds later, just as I’d made it to the streetcorner, my radio crackled to life once more.

“Control to 714.”

I rogered up, still trying to sound relatively enthusiastic. “714, go ahead Control.”

Another pause. “714…86 on the parties involved in that 18…it’s goin’ be a black male dressed as a leprechaun, fighting a pink bunny. Copy, eh? 18 has turned physical now, leprechaun be fightin’ a bunny.”

That new description nearly stopped me in my tracks. I guess I should’ve just waited there for a moment to ask for additional details, but by that point I’d already turned the corner and could witness the spectacle for myself. Sure enough, directly in front of me stood a full-grown black man who just happened to be short, thick and dressed in a bright green leprechaun suit. He was locked in a no-holds-barred wrestling match with a much skinnier dude, who was also black but wearing a ratty-looking bunny costume.

From where I stood, the squat leprechaun looked to be at least a few points ahead in that round. He had the pink Easter Bunny doubled over in a merciless headlock, and was delivering a steady series of powerful uppercuts with his free hand. I cringed at the impact as each of the blows found their mark, sending the bunny’s long, furry ears flopping from side to side. Now on any other night I might have hung back for a few minutes just to watch the action, and maybe even flagged down a bystander to place a friendly wager. My options were severely limited, though, since there were literally dozens of witnesses milling about. To make matters worse, I didn’t even have a camera handy to document the insanity. Finally, since there was no other course of action apparent, I grudgingly stepped forward to break up the scrum.

The Easter Bunny’s eyes bulged wide as the leprechaun cinched his headlock tighter. Fibber McGee dropped his body weight in a fierce crouch as he settled into a pretty sweet holiday choke hold. With the bunny’s head snapped backwards, the perilous angle was just right for me to make an identification. When I saw that the alleged assault victim was none other than Barry Kinloch, I shook my own head in disgust. Barry was really putting in the overtime hours lately, almost as if he was bucking for a chance to become the Market’s Public Nuisance Number One. I thought about waiting just a few more moments until Barry passed out from a lack of oxygen, but I saw the look of desperation in his eyes and took pity. I jumped forward into the fray, grabbed the leprechaun’s shoulder and gave him a strong pull backwards. “Police officer! Police! Hey! Let him go, Saint Patrick!”

The wee black Irishman screeched in fury. His grip loosened as he stumbled backwards, although he still kept trying to pummel away at Kinloch. The dude managed to sneak in a few more solid kicks before Barry was finally able to roll free and sprint off down the sidewalk. That little crackhead was up and gone in a cloud of smoke in seconds, before I could even think to question him about Curly Wilds’ missing ice chest and beach chair, but if I was disappointed at seeing him make a clean getaway it was nothing compared to the leprechaun’s fury! He howled with rage, broke free of my grip and whirled round to face me, his two dark fists curled up into stout balls of fury. The lightning speed of his movements nearly caught me off guard, but I was absolutely frozen when I spotted that can of pepper spray he was holding. It looked almost exactly like the type we’d finally started issuing to our officers earlier in the year, and after almost a full second of staring into my suspect’s sweaty face I felt my heart drop down to my unshined shoes.

For once in my life, I found myself at a loss for words. The leprechaun eyed me for a long moment before recognition finally set in on his end as well. He tucked the can of pepper spray back into his knickers and began rearranging the outfit, pulling up his knee socks and smoothing out the frilled white shirt that had come untucked during the struggle. “Larsen, you idiot!” he shouted. “I should known it was you! Who else could possibly be dumb enough to pull a stunt like this?”

I swallowed hard, searching for the right words as my gaze naturally fell down towards my feet. “Sorry about that, Chief, but I couldn’t tell it was you! Control only put out the call as a couple of drunks fighting, but if I’d of known you were working…”

His chest was still heaving up and down with rage. Our police chief’s lifelong battle with high blood pressure was a well-documented medical fact, and it was a continual battle for him to maintain a professional demeanor while under stress. Sweat poured down his face, sending thin streams of briny water trickling down into his lacy shirt collar. “Do I look like a drunk to you?!”

I knew better than to speak my mind. To be perfectly honest, any bystander might have easily mistaken Chief Greene for a drunk, especially since it appeared he’d forgotten to take his medication. Even on his more lucid days, our chief was known for his unique and colorful behavior, particularly the crazy stunts like roller skating around the city in uniform or jumping out of his car to pick fights with random homeless guys. That was all part of his schtick, and he never missed an opportunity to make public appearances in holiday costume. But since that particular moment just didn’t seem like the best time to get on his bad side, I chose to keep my personal opinions to myself. “Of course not, Chief. I’m very sorry about that, sir.”

He continued to glare at me. I continued to stare down at my toes. My boots were looking slightly scuffed and worn, and I wished I’d had the foresight to have a go at them with some polish. The awkward silence continued at length until my Caribbean savior finally called to check up on me. “Control to 714, 714: Are you 04 down ‘dere at Tommy Condon’s, or should I start de’ backup?”

I fished out my radio and keyed the button to respond. “I’m 04, Control.” Glancing up, I spotted the nose of a black and white cruiser pulling up to a stop sign on Cumberland Street. “You can cancel any backup, I’m out here with Unit One.” At hearing my warning, the patrol cop revved his engine and shot through the intersection, quickly disappearing from sight. I had to nod in approval at his wise decision, since it was never a good idea to spend any more time with Chief Greene than you actually had to. Even on those rare occasions when he’d remembered to take his meds, the guy could still be a royal pain in the ass.

The Chief was still aiming his fierce stare directly at me. He was looking pretty purposefully towards my uniform, probably trying to find any little discrepancy that would give him a reason to start screaming again. After one more long, awkward moment, though, I saw most of the deep red color drain from his face. Once it became clear that he’d given up looking for excuses to make my life miserable, I exhaled quietly and thanked my lucky stars that I’d taken the initiative to actually iron my uniform.