On The Beat (Goosey Larsen Book 3) (11 page)

“Larsen” the Chief began. I could tell by his softer tone of voice that I’d made it most of the way off the hook, even though some kind of fatherly lecture was clearly in the works. “How long have you been with CPD now?”

I cocked my chin towards the sky as if deep in thought, even though I knew the answer by heart. Every time I got dressed for work I was one day closer to the freedom of retirement, and I tracked the progression of each day with a passion. “Wow, sir…I’d guess it’s been over twelve years now! Time sure does fly, don’t it?”

The Chief shot me a glower. “You should be a sergeant by now, Larsen! Shouldn’t you? But no instead you choose to remain a private first class, nothing but a damned peon! And quite frankly, from where I stand it looks as if that’s all you’re ever going to amount to!”

I guess he must have been trying to stir up some kind of emotional response from me, but all I felt was a wave of cool relief. Trust me, I was under absolutely no illusions that I’d ever be racing up the career ladder, and that was just fine in my opinion. Getting promoted would only mean having to take responsibility for other people besides myself, along with all the dumb shit they did. It’d suit me perfectly fine if I stayed at my current rank for the rest of my career, just so long as I could keep my nose clean and avoid getting demoted again. But even though speaking up was a pretty risky move at that point, I couldn’t resist the urge to toss in my two cents and test the waters. “You know what, Chief? You’re absolutely right. Lately, I have been feeling as if my career’s gotten stalled. It’s like I’ve hit some kind of a plateau, and I’d actually welcome the chance to take on a little more responsibility. I don’t know, maybe in an investigative position?”

He stared me down once again, and immediately I could tell that begging would be no use. The stony look on his dark face was all it took for me to know that there would be no transfer orders forthcoming, and his stern speech only served to reinforce the signal. “Larsen” he began, “do you happen to recall the reason why I transferred you to foot patrol in the first place?”

His icy demeanor seemed to suggest that some degree of humility was expected on my end, so I dutifully lowered my head in shame. “Of course I do, Chief.”

He nodded. His head moved about in a series of confusing, bobbling motions, up and down and back and forth as he stabbed a thick black finger at me to emphasize his words. “Of course you do! Damn it, do you really think I’m going to let one of my officers get back behind the wheel of a cruiser after he’s been in nineteen separate traffic accidents? God in heaven, that’d be criminal negligence! Forget about it, Larsen, you are never getting off this beat! It’s just not going to happen!”

I was shocked. I’d never had a car accident in my life, except for one time the year before when I’d accidentally run over some worthless bum and revoked his birth certificate in the process. But even with a single confirmed kill from blunt force trauma, I hadn’t been found at fault in that case since the deceased had technically been jaywalking. The Chief’s accusation was unfounded, especially since I’d received such a prestigious award for the incident, and his words left me flat-footed.

Chief Greene didn’t seem to notice my shocked silence, and he kept right on rambling. “I mean Jesus Christ, Larsen!” It was a pretty unusual thing to hear a Jew to take the Lord’s name in vain but then again, nobody from Charleston would argue the fact that our chief was an odd duck. When he pulled out his nightstick and swung it high above his head to emphasize his words, the old-school hardwood baton came dangerously close to smacking him in his bald brown scalp. “You even crashed a fucking horse! Who does that?” He paused for a second, just long enough to take another breath before rolling right on with his tirade. His voice had been rising steadily in volume, and it finally rose to a full-on scream. “I mean, have you ever… in your life… heard of any other cop… who has wrecked… a fucking horse!”

A couple of drunk kids stumbled their way past, snickering with delight at the sight of my public embarrassment. This one particularly liberal-looking kid slowed his Birkenstock-sandaled shuffles just long enough to shoot me a look of disgust. I guessed that this poor little mama’s boy must have been some kind of an animal lover, and so I probably came across as a horrifying serial killer. As for the Chief, he just stood there glaring at me. There was so much hate in his eyes you’d have thought that he paid all the department’s collision repair bills and insurance deductibles out of his own pocket.

Finally, the synapses in my brain started to connect in a sudden burst of understanding. It took me a few seconds to catch up, but I finally realized that he must have had me confused with Stefan Jones! Jones was just another burned-out foot patrol lifer who was cut from the same mold as Curly Wilds, although he’d set a department record for being our most crash-prone officer. Jones had trashed his cruiser so many times that the only wheels he was allowed to drive now were attached to a giant Segway. “Scooter” Jones was strictly limited to working the dayshift beat down in the East Side projects, where maybe one in ten of the drivers held a valid license or current insurance. Those people were much less inclined to file a complaint over a minor fender bender, so Scooter was free to play an endless game of bumper cars without the possibility of killing anyone who actually mattered.

That final fit of rage must have used up all his steam, because the Chief turned and marched off before I could correct his mistake. As he high-stepped it through the throngs of drunks lined up along South Market Street, Chief Greene bore a strong resemblance to a determined little Irish fella on the hunt for his pot of gold. It didn’t matter one bit that he was armed with a twenty-four inch polycarbonate baton instead of the more traditional wooden shillelagh: somehow, the man still made the costume work for him.

I spent a few more minutes there on the sidewalk, just wondering how I could possibly exploit this piece of new information. Thanks to the Chief’s early onset dementia, it seemed as if he no longer had any recollection of how I may or may not have slept through his dress inspection. That little fact afforded a ray of hope that maybe, just maybe, carried with it an opening for me to slip off the beat. Still, no matter how many different escape scenarios I thought my way through, they all seemed to involve doing some form of policework. Eventually, with no real alternative, I set off again at a slow walk. I wasn’t really in the mood for any kind of physical activity, but figured that a short bit of exercise just might help me think.

The sidewalk out on North Market Street was jam packed with pedestrians milling about in front of the bars, so I played it safe and stuck to the opposite side. It was much quieter over there since all the retail shops had long since closed up for the night, and the big open-air sheds helped to cut down on some of the crowd noise. I passed a few couples on their way to the Saint Patrick’s Day festivities but for the most part, my night’s work was turning out to be nothing more strenuous than a relaxing stroll. I have to admit, that is one fairly nice thing about walking a beat: you can basically just be out sightseeing and people-watching, but to everyone else it still looks like you’re doing a damn fine job.

All seemed right with the world, at least until I slowed my step to avoid a drunk vagrant. The bum was lying face down directly in front of Scarlett O’Hara’s, with his body stretched out so that he was blocking the entire sidewalk. I gave him a quick kick in the ribs to clear my path, but the dude simply rolled over and let loose with a wild snore. The store itself had a “Closed” sign hanging across the front door, so I paused for a minute to peer in through the window. The place looked absolutely spotless on the inside, with the sales floor cleaned up and the shelves now partially stocked. If you didn’t already know that the place has just been robbed, it would’ve looked just like any other cut-rate tourist trap.

Mr. Regan’s store might’ve been one of the better-heeled junk shops in the state, although I still found it hard to believe that people might actually pay good money for some of the crap he had on sale. While some of the T-shirt slogans were legitimately funny, I just couldn’t imagine dropping twenty bills on one of them, let alone something completely tacky like a ceramic Rainbow Row ashtray or a plastic bobblehead pirate. Come to think of it, I couldn’t remember ever having seen more than one or two customers in the place at once. It made me wonder how Scarlett O’Hara’s could stay in business selling junk like that, especially when I tried to imagine what the property taxes must be like in such a prime location. Maybe Regan was just keeping that little hole in the wall on his books as a tax write-off, but compared to the rest of his real estate holdings it seemed like a real dud.

Reflecting on Regan’s profit and loss statements was a pretty depressing activity, even though I guess I should’ve been thankful to still have any kind of job at all. With that in mind, I leaned back against the brick storefront to work through a strategy. Since Chief Greene was out and about that night, there was a fairly good chance that Shaky McShivers might very well be on the prowl too. I could probably dodge those old-timers easily enough, but it was more than likely that I’d be forced to hang around work right up until two o’clock. I tried my hardest to rack my brain but still couldn’t dream up any way to get out of working a full eight hour shift, so I decided to head back to the office and put my feet up. My dogs were starting to bark about all the distance they’d already logged, and even with my new and improved exercise regimen I knew enough to listen to my body. After a quick toe-touch to limber up, I stepped back over the sleeping bum and set out on a fast march towards the Customs House.

The crowds were growing deeper by the minute, so I did my best to stick to the shadows and avoid making eye contact. One of the biggest drawbacks to working on foot was that it was so much harder to hide, and without a car I had no way to just up and disappear like the patrol cops did. Because of that, an officer out on the beat was always the first one to spot any bar fights when they flared up. Worse still were the continual dumb questions from all the tourists. I mean seriously, if I wanted to make a living by handing out restaurant recommendations, I’d of gone to work for the Yellow Pages instead of CPD.

Up at the corner of East Bay Street, I darted my way across the stopped traffic and almost managed to jog all the way up the Customs House steps. It was an exhausting sprint, but speed was necessary in order for me to avoid getting caught up in any alcohol-fueled drama. Cars were backed up in both directions as far as the eye could see, most of them with their windows down and music blaring. There looked to be a serious need for some kind of traffic control, but I quickly decided against calling it in since some patrol supervisor might get it in their head that I was just the man for the job. I don’t know why but for some strange reason, standing out in the street and directing traffic always caused me to break out in hives.

I caught my breath, shuffled around the side of the building and lumbered my way in through the basement entrance. The deliciously cool air conditioning hit me hard as I passed through the doorway, causing my skin to tingle with pleasure. The crisp feeling was a welcome change from the heavy night air, which was already starting to feel unseasonably warm and sticky. Even though I could feel my pulse slowing back down to its normal resting rate, I couldn’t hold back a feeling of dread about the upcoming summer months. There was no way in hell that I was going to be out there pounding the pavement once the thermometer broke eighty degrees. The city of Charleston had some kind of law on the books which prevented the carriage tour companies from working their draft horses on hot days, and I was thinking hard about following their example. After all, what good would it do anyone if I were to stroke out right there on the sidewalk?

Once in the break room, I slumped down in a chair and threw my feet up over another. Somebody had left the old black and white television tuned in to college basketball, so I gave the game half my attention as I pondered a new career path. The possibility of medical retirement was certainly tempting, although a workplace injury would require a good deal of financial planning plus some really convincing acting. The best idea I came up with was to take an accidental slip and fall off a high sidewalk, possibly into the path of a slow-moving car. That move carried a whole lot of risk since I’d only be guaranteed a few months of worker’s compensation followed by a long stretch of light duty, so I reasoned that the whole project might not even be worth the effort. As much as I liked the idea of collecting a check in exchange for doing nothing more than sitting up in the dispatch office, eating fried chicken and talking on the phone, the potential payoff didn’t seem like it was worth the risk of becoming crippled for life.

All that thinking must have worn out my brain, or maybe I was just beat from all that walking. Whatever the reason for my exhaustion, I found myself unable to resist dozing in and out of consciousness. Seeing as how I actually intended to work my entire shift that night, I kicked back and let myself drift away, hoping to recharge my drained batteries. Only an hour or two had passed before I rose from my siesta, fully refreshed and grateful for the fact that the patrol rookies had kept their senseless radio chatter to a minimum. After one more quick stretch, I felt my body start to limber up once more. Finally, with a sudden burst of enthusiasm so strong that it caught me by surprise, I shuffled down the hallway towards the exit. The night was young, and a morbid sense of curiosity made me want to see what it had in store.

8.

It came as no surprise that the whole of East Bay Street was still packed, and a few of the bolder drivers had begun to double-park their cars or even claim makeshift spaces in front of fire hydrants. I couldn’t begin to imagine how much liquid courage it must have taken for these people to tempt the wrath of the Jenner Towing Company, or maybe the drivers were all just regular Market barflies who knew from experience that parking violations weren’t very high on my list of priorities. The most brazen culprit was this one particularly shady-looking hot dog vendor who’d commandeered himself a piece of prime real estate right there on the corner. His weenie wagon stuck way out into the street, attracting a line of customers which stretched around the block. My stomach rumbled with joy, at least until my brain was rude enough to bring up the unpleasant fact of my empty wallet. I considered pulling my usual scam, threatening to impound the dude’s hot dog cart in exchange for a foot-long with ketchup and sauerkraut, but quickly set that plan to the side. There were far too many witnesses around for me to get away with such blatant extortion and besides, the last thing I needed was for some civilian to file yet another bogus complaint with Internal Affairs. I decided to set off along East Bay Street instead, hoping to bag a free meal from one of the gourmet restaurants nearby. A lot of the cooks liked to duck out of the kitchen to catch a quick smoke during their shifts, and I’ve found that if you prowl around the back alleys looking all focused and serious like you’re providing some kind of protection that keeps the employees from getting robbed, those dudes will occasionally throw out a little charity.

One quick peek in through the front windows of Blossom’s restaurant showed me that the place was just as packed inside as it was out on the street. I gazed longingly at this one old man’s huge bowl of shrimp and grits, but forced myself to step back before I left a trail of drool running down the glass. As I walked past all the nice restaurants it was standing room only inside, which meant that their kitchen teams would be too busy to hook me up right. A hungry state of resignation led me to head down Church Street towards Cumberland, as I desperately considered the possibility of begging a few stale egg rolls off the night shift clerk at the Li’l Cricket. Begging for a handout could be a touchy situation, and success depended entirely upon who was manning the register. If the clerk turned out to be some burned-out hippie kid who actually expected me to pay for my roller food, I’d have to go one step further and shake down some of the bums who always loitered outside. Those useless winos were usually good for a buck or two apiece in loose change.

As I passed by narrow Unity Alley, a pair of dark figures caught my eye and drew my attention back towards the shadows. The two were huddled close together next to the back door of McCready’s, this uppity little wine bar with a reputation for tiny, overpriced appetizers. At first it looked as if I might have lucked out by catching two cooks on their break, so I rolled my shoulders back and marched towards them with my best professional posture. It was a golden opportunity for me to solicit a suitable handout, and I wasn’t about to let the moment pass by. Just as I’d decided to make my move, however, the pair began strolling off in the other direction. As they passed under the single floodlight above the kitchen door, I almost couldn’t believe my eyes as I saw Duke Regan and his teenaged lover Antoine back together again. Their pace wasn’t at all hurried so I knew they couldn’t have seen me, but just the same I decided to hang back and watch them from a distance.

A young black kid hanging around with an older white man was a red flag for any cop, and even the most inexperienced rookie could have seen from the way these two were walking that something was definitely up. I was at least fifty feet or so away from them, but I could plainly see that Regan was holding that same duffel bag in close to his body. The way that Antoine kept jerking his head around showed that he was completely nervous, and it only served to build my suspicions. The kid was definitely on the lookout for something, which could only mean he was up to no good. I made my mind up then and there to take some kind of action, if only to keep the good citizens of Charleston from having to witness one more disgusting public display of affection.

I’ve never had any kind of formal surveillance training, but I’ve watched those cop shows on the television so I knew what to do. I slowed my pace to match theirs, hanging back just far enough to blend into the crowd. It was easy work, especially once we moved across the crowds on East Bay Street. Duke and Antoine headed straight up Cumberland, so I ducked into a parking lot and squatted down behind a pickup truck to watch. Sure enough, the two lovebirds turned once more at the corner of Concord Drive, heading directly towards Waterfront Park!

I felt my blood pressure begin to rise as I struggled to straighten back up, my old legs crying in pain from the acrobatic maneuver. It was simply inconceivable that those two queens were tempting fate in my beat, especially after I’d given them a free pass the night before! I took a couple deep breaths as I watched them ascend the sweeping concrete staircase, trying like hell to keep cool and collected. My mind was spinning through the gears by that point as I struggled to think up a plan of action. I was certain that some kind of crime against public decency was about to go down, so I had to quickly weigh my options. On the one hand, it was still early enough in my shift that I could arrest both of those fools and still have the paperwork done before dinner. On the other hand, making arrests simply wasn’t my forte. Finally, after one more long moment of thought, I settled for the next best option. Raising my walkie-talkie to my lips, I whispered, “714 to Control.”

There was a long pause before I finally got a response back. It seemed as if those ladies upstairs must have changed shifts, because I got the usual bored voice of the ghetto coming back to me instead of my cool Caribbean goddess. “714” the new dispatcher said, seemingly unimpressed by my call sign. “Go ahead.”

I cleared my throat. “Control, I’m going to be getting out with two parties in Waterfront Park. Can you start another unit my way?” I crossed my fingers. Requesting a backup unit was a prudent move for safety, but there was also a good chance that it’d be some clueless patrol rookie heading my way. If that was the case, I could easily con the unsuspecting kid into transporting my prisoners as well as tackling most of the booking paperwork.

There was a pause while my hefty antagonist took a moment to look over the duty roster. “Control to 208…208, Corporal Burgos? Could you please 63 with 714 at Waterfront Park? He’ll be getting out with two parties there.”

Almost before she could finish speaking, that overeager cheesedick Burgos piped up on the air. “Copy that, I’ll be en route myself. 714, who is that?”

From the length of her silence, I knew she must have had to go back to the duty roster once more. It was kind of humbling for me to realize that even after all the hours I’d logged downtown, I still wasn’t on a first-name basis with the girls on the switches. “714…that’s Officer Larsen, Michael.”

There was one last pause before Burgos finally responded. “I read. I’ll be sending 233 and 234 instead.”

I exhaled, thankful that Burgos chose to have a couple minions take his place. Knowing that jerk, he probably figured that the call wasn’t worth his time since I didn’t outrank him. Still, his absence was probably for the best. It’s been my experience that having a supervisor around will only make things harder than they have to be, and with a guy like Corporal Snorkel that rule was doubly true. A few years ago, Burgos had been enjoying a relaxing clothes-free dip in the hot tub with a half-dozen of his closest male friends. He barely dodged an arrest, although most cops still found it difficult to make eye contact with the dude after the Great Skinny-Dipping Incident of Planters West Apartments. But even with all the potential for entertaining drama, I was surprised to find my mind fully engaged with my work. After clipping the radio back to my belt, I jogged in place for a few seconds to limber up before hustling over towards the park. Just as soon as I’d strolled up to the top of the wheelchair ramp, I spotted my two suspects cuddled together on a bench. The lovebirds were tucked even further back into the shadows this time, in a set-back garden at the exact midpoint of the park.

Just seeing the two of them sitting there so brazenly was all it took to set my blood boiling, and as much as it went against my better judgment I made up my mind to bring them both in. I figured I had a solid trespassing charge for sure, and I was hoping to swoop in there before those two had the opportunity to commit any type of indecent exposure. From behind me, I caught a glimpse of a couple patrol kids coasting along with their headlights cut off, a sure sign they were ready to do business. Before they had a chance to stop, I waved a signal for them to loop around and come up from the south side of the park. That done, I tiptoed forward, staying close to the dimly lit hedges around the perimeter. This wasn’t exactly the case of the century or anything, but I could still feel the adrenaline surging through my veins. My heart was pumping so hard that I swore I could feel could hear each and every single beat outside my body. Inching slowly forward, I managed to get to within ten feet of their bench without being spotted. I could even hear the pair whispering back and forth, although I couldn’t quite make out their sweet nothings. When I glanced up once again I saw the two rookies crouching in place at the far end of the footpath, and I knew it was time for action. I sucked in a lungful of air, then let out a ferocious roar: “POLICE! DON’T MOVE!”

Antoine was the first to react. The kid jumped several feet straight into the air with a burst of pure athleticism, a feat that I attributed to his superior Negro genetics. He took off sprinting towards the exit on the south side of the park, literally flying to get away from me. I would have instantly written him off as gone, if it wasn’t for this beautiful high-low gang tackle that came half a second later. Unfortunately for Antoine, it turns out that the only thing more determined than a fleeing criminal is a couple of rookie cops who’re desperate to prove themselves. In a matter of seconds, those two kids had my suspect face down on the cobblestones with his arms trussed up behind his back. One of the kids whipped out a set of handcuffs so shiny that I couldn’t help wondering if they’d ever seen action before. Once the work was done, the kids began giving each other a series of intricate high-fives, interrupting their celebrations just long enough to dish out a few gratuitous kicks to the ribs. Catching a beatdown was the standard punishment if copes had to chase you, and it was a universally accepted practice out on the streets. Since it looked as if neither one of those kids was of a mind to come arrest Regan for me, I very reluctantly found myself doing the job. There was a convenient opening between the seat of the bench and the wooden slats that ran along the back, so all I had to do was lean over and slip the cuffs onto his wrists. It didn’t hurt one bit that Regan just sat there the entire time, too shocked to stand up.

It’d been ages since my last arrest, so I actually had to stop for a second and think back to my training from the criminal justice academy. I couldn’t recall what was supposed to happen next, but that moment seemed like a good time as any to start searching my prisoner. I went to work with a reluctant sigh, turning out his pockets one at a time and using the opportunity to deliver a stern lecture. “I thought I told you two not to come back to the park! Was I unclear about that, Mr. Regan? Now look what you’ve done! You’ve pretty much forced me to take the both of you in!”

Regan looked away, refusing to meet my eyes. His jaw clenched, and he was working hard to keep that blank stare of his focused off into the distance. “I have nothing more to say to you, Officer Larsen. I’d like to speak with my lawyer.”

It was a pretty unusual reaction for a simple trespassing arrest, so his words caught me by surprise. But then again, rich white people have been known to do some pretty stupid things for no particular reason. Hooking up with their young black boyfriends in a dimly lit public park, just to give one example.

My handcuffs were rusty and tight from years of neglect, so I checked that they fit securely around Regan’s wrists before double-locking them with a key I’d stolen from Shivers’ desk drawer. White prisoners tend to get all bent out of shape when the cuffs fit too tightly, and the last thing I needed was for some pillar of society like Regan to start whining about police brutality. The patrol rookies were taking their sweet time about walking Antoine back over to us, so I reached for my radio once more. “714 to Control” I called in, projecting a forceful air of authority. “Have the transport unit 63 down here at Waterfront Park. We’ve got two detained, going to be 39s for trespassing.”

As the dispatcher rogered up, I tried to remember just how long it’d been since I’d called in an arrest. At least five years, but probably more seeing as how I’d never actually made a collar as a detective. With these two miscreants already in custody, though, it looked as if my work for the month was just about wrapped up. I still wasn’t particularly excited about having to visit our jail or show up for municipal court at the crack of dawn, but I did my best to look on the bright side. Bringing someone in so early in the shift meant that I could disappear completely for the rest of the night, meaning that I wouldn’t get caught up dealing with any serious crimes as the St. Patty’s celebrations descended into chaos. Evan as much as I hate making arrests, I’ll take two simple trespassing collars over a drunken bar brawl any day of the week. I swear, the paperwork that comes with any arrest just gets way too cumbersome when there are actual human victims involved.

The patrol rookies were still laughing among themselves, trying to come down from the emotional high that their three whole seconds of action had brought on, so I used the time to take a good long look at my suspects. Regan’s face was still set in stone, although he seemed to be more put out at the inconvenience than he was worried about the possibility of doing any jail time. To be perfectly honest, I wasn’t really worried myself. If Regan kept any kind of lawyer on retainer, he’d probably be able to get the charges dismissed outright. Either that or the case would be deferred for a period of six months, enough time for all of us to forget the whole thing ever happened. The young project dweller, though– Antoine– he looked much more nervous than his boyfriend. The kid’s buggy eyes were bulging wide and his torso was literally shaking with fear. His reaction seemed genuine, even though based on his age and skin tone it didn’t seem possible that this was his first time in handcuffs.