He snorted, adding another stack of papers to the steadily-growing pile of crap. “Wherever the hell I feel like, Offisuh. You know I’m homeless.” A quick gust of wind blew a couple pieces of trash onto the ground, so I stooped to pick them up in a gesture of goodwill. I regretted the move instantly, as my back cried out in pain at the from the awkward angle. I had to ease up slowly, one hand on the cruiser and the other braced against my spine. Yeah, I thought to myself, this uniform patrol nonsense was for the birds.

  “Watch your mouth, Myron” I said, “or I’ll tack a littering rap on top of all your other charges.” I flipped through the sheaf of papers I’d picked up, mostly old newspaper clippings, but one glossy sheet happened to catch my eye. “Hey, what gives with this city map, man? You’ve been skulking around so long, I’d of thought you’d know every back alley urinal and charity soup kitchen by heart.”

  He laughed, but it was a false one. The poor bastard was probably worried that I’d actually put charges on him, but quite frankly that was the last thing either of us wanted. After an awkward pause, he finally stuttered out, “I been thinking about studying up, becomin’ a tour guide. Like you jus’ said, I been downtown so long I oughta know my way ‘round. Mebbe it’s time I started mah own lu’l business.”

  I looked down at the map once again. Myron had marked off some points of interest with a black magic marker, all of them grouped together between Spring Street and the Crosstown Expressway. “Take my advice, Myron, or else you’re not going to be in business very long. Everywhere you’ve got marked on this map is down in the ‘hood! Tourists come to Charleston to see the Market and the Battery, not the open-air pharmaceutical markets! Come on, do you really think anyone in their right mind would pay to take a tour of the ghetto with you?”

  Myron rolled his shoulders back like his feelings had been hurt. “My tours gon’ be a real-life look at Gullah culture, Offisuh. You cain’t see these kinda things from the back of a horse carriage.” He thumped his chest with pride, although if National Geographic had been filming it would have looked more like a dominant male ape declaring his authority over the rest of the herd. “I wan’ to show people how things be down in Team One. My tours’ll the real Cha’leston.”

  I rolled my eyes, but folded the map back up neatly. I had to hand it to Myron, the dude had a point. People were into that diversity crap in a big way, and if anyone could make that wacky concept fly it was him. Sure, Myron was a drug dealer, but that only meant he was a crackhead with entrepreneurial skills. And Myron did know Team One pretty well, probably a lot better than most of the patrol cops. Come to think of it, I’ll bet Myron had more time on the street than most squads did put together. “Well, good luck with that” I said, as I handed back the map and his ID card. “You’re free to go, now get up the street.”

  Myron cocked his head. “Wha’d I do?”

  I had to smile. “You’re breathing, ain’t you? If that ain’t a crime, it sure ought to be. Now go on, beat it. Get lost.”

  He took half a step before having second thoughts and turning back to face me. “Ya know, Offisuh, I’d actually rather not go anywhere. I’m s’posed ta meet up with a colleague a little later on.”

  I cackled at that one. “Since when did you get colleagues, man? What are you guys doing, starting up some kind of crackhead union? The International Brotherhood of Ragpickers, Local 843?” I laughed again. He didn’t.

  Myron still hadn’t budged, and at that point I was starting to lose my patience. I was just about to really let him have it when the radio on my hip crackled with a burst of static, catching me by surprise because I hadn’t realized I’d turned the damned thing on. A crackery twang came across the airwaves, and I couldn’t hold back a shudder. “Unit 6 to Control. I’ll be out with that unit at King and Ann.”

  Myron gave a friendly wave up the street, and I stole a glance back over my shoulder to confirm my worst fears. A shiny black unmarked Crown Victoria was creeping south down King Street, with a sunburned nose and forehead peeking up over the steering wheel. Captain Russell must’ve found himself a telephone book lying around somewhere to sit on.

  His car was just about a block away, so I only had a few seconds of opportunity before I’d be stuck making a jail run. I turned back to Myron, moving much quicker now. “Come on man, for real. Beat it!”

  Myron just smiled, craning his neck to catch a better look at the unmarked car. “Now who dat be there? Russell? That fuckin’ cracker. I ‘member when he was jus’ a worthless ol’ rookie. Crooked as hell, too, even back then.”

  “Yeah, yeah, right. Fill me in on the history lesson some other time, but right now your ass has got to go! You know damn well he’ll want you locked up on some bullshit charge.”

  I tried to give Myron a gentle shove in order to get his momentum going, but the bastard stood firm. For the first time in his life he was holding all the cards, and he was getting a lot of satisfaction from making me sweat. His smile had grown into a grin as he held out his arms, almost daring me to slap the cuffs on. “Come to think of it, Offisuh, ah cain’t really ‘member the last time I ate. A coupla’ nights up in County might jus’ do me some good. They still give three hots and a cot, right?”

  A sudden surge pulsed through my veins as my blood pressure shot up to dangerous levels. I truly believe that dirty old bum might’ve actually gone ahead and made me arrest him out of spite, if only I hadn’t come through with a stroke of genius. Moving in a flash, I snatched the Blimpie’s coupon from my shirt pocket and thrust it at Myron, trying to drop it in his jacket pocket.

  “Aw, hell no!” he shouted. “Don’t be tryin’a plant no shit on me!”

  I rolled my eyes in disbelief. With no time to waste, I stuck to a bare-bones explanation. “It’s a coupon you moron, get down to Blimpie’s and fix yourself up a free sub. It’s all on me, just so long as you get the hell out of here!”

  Myron grinned again, as he flipped me a salute. “Why thanks, Offisuh Larsen. That’s mighty white of ‘ya.” He snatched the coupon, turned on his heel and marched off towards Marion Square. His speed was carefully calculated, just quick enough to relocate before Captain Russell could pull his car to the curb, but still slow enough to show off that cocky swagger.

  As the Captain stopped his cruiser in the road, I gave Myron one last theatrical glare. He craned his short red neck out of the cruiser window, struggling to get a better look. “Was that old Myron White again? What’s he done this time, Bubba?”

  I always got the impression that the Captain was talking down to me, even though at five feet four he had to look up to meet my eyes. “The usual, Cap. Mainly he’s just guilty of taking up space.”

  He laughed, showing off his own evil cackle. “I don’t care what anyone says about you, Larsen, you’re all right.” He said it with a straight face, and I couldn’t tell if he was serious. “Did you get a good field interview card on him?”

  I held the card up, proudly displaying my 3-by-5 ticket to law enforcement glory. “It didn’t seem like there was any need to mention the half-dozen other FI cards which had been written up on Myron in the past two days alone.

  “Good job, son. Now how about you go run that FI down to Abbie Rothschild, have him add Myron White to his list of suspects? Hustle up now, and get right back to the target area as soon as you clear the station.”

  I gave the Captain a cheerful salute, faking a level of pep that I rarely felt. “Your wish is my command, Captain.”

  That last bit might have been overkill, because he cast a suspicious eye my way. “Are you mocking me, Larsen?”

  I was about to answer, but was mercifully interrupted by the police scanner. Captain Russell kept his radio cranked up so loud that you could’ve heard the calls for service from a block away. “Control to 212, also 223. Respond to Blimpie’s Sub Shop, 145 Calhoun Street. Disperse a black male vagrant refusing to leave.”

  It sounded as if Myron had taken my advice to heart, so it was definitely in my best interests to get the hell out of there. “Well Cap, I’ve got to be going. Sounds like Team Two is really blowing up tonight, huh? Those jerks have had a total of two calls for service in the past four hours. That’s got to be a new record!”

  The Captain had given the radio his full attention, but he looked back up at me as I finished speaking. “You know I got my start in Team Two, don’t you boy? Five years in patrol, then three more as a Sergeant.”

  I gulped. “Um. Well, it’s like I always say, Cap. The best officers, they all come out of Two. Hard workers every one, and well-rounded too. That’s the key to success.”

  He held his glare for another second as he shifted the cruiser into drive, eased off the brake and pulled back into traffic. “I’ll deal with you later, Larsen.” A little further down King Street, two black and whites whipped around the corner with tires squealing and blue lights flashing. Those Team Two jerks were actually taking the call seriously, probably looking to pad their weekly arrest statistics. That was my cue to hustle off in the other direction, so I dove into my own car, whipped a U-turn and stomped down on the gas.

  I was waiting at the next traffic light, about to make a cautious left turn onto Spring Street, when a set of high beams flashed twice from in between a pair of trailers parked at the U-Haul rental lot. An interior dome light cut on behind them, and I could see that another unmarked cruiser had managed to wedge itself into a snug little hiding hole. The car pulled forward onto the street and up alongside me, with none other than Big Jim Cobb at the wheel. “Look at you go, Goosey!” he shouted. “Exactly when did you transform into a one-man wrecking crew? I ought to talk to the Chief, see if we can get you transferred down to Team One where you belong. You’re an animal, man!”

  He was grinning, clearly enjoying the sheer absurdity of an assignment which was nothing more than a dog and pony show. I shuddered at the thought of working down in the slums, and covering regular night shifts on top of that. “Don’t put yourself out on my account, boss. Just make sure all this stellar performance is reflected in my next evaluation.”

  Jim let out a roar. “Yeah, we’ll see if we can get your rating back up to ‘Below Average’! Hey, did you eat yet?”

  My stomach cried out at the mere mention of food. “Change of plans, boss. I’m going to have to skip dinner tonight.”

  Big Jim gave me a look of true concern, with his lazy eye resting shakily on me. For him, skipping a meal was practically a matter of life and death. “You feeling okay, Goosey?” The traffic light had cycled through, and cars were beginning to back up behind us. One driver was actually bold enough to offer a half-hearted toot on the horn. Jim tossed back a half-hearted middle finger.

  “Yeah, I’m fine, boss. But I’m still flat busted, and my backup meal plan just fell through.”

  He grunted in sympathy. “Well, it’ll have to be my treat once again. Can’t have one of my ace detectives working on an empty stomach, now can I?”

  Now it was my turn to wonder who was feeling all right. Usually, trying to touch Big Jim for a couple bucks is a bigger challenge than finding a licensed driver in a car full of Mexicans. You might ask once, if you don’t know any better, but the process quickly becomes such a hassle that you never bother again. It was certainly strange behavior but still, I wasn’t one to look a gift horse in the mouth. “Thanks, boss. Where you headed?”

  He smiled. “Up to Dave’s. Your little brother Johnson is on the way over there right now.” He popped his car into gear and switched into his best Geechee Gullah voice, echoing the low-rent black folks who live downtown. “Come on, bwah. Les’ go getchoo some fush.”

  I was laughing as he pulled away, leading at least a half-dozen cars full of heated passengers. The driver on his tail gave me a stern glare, like he had somehow been inconvenienced by the whole minute he’d had to wait. I gave the guy a broad smile as he passed, then whipped around to join in at the end of the line. The thought of hot fried fish put me into a much more relaxed state, and I wasn’t even going to let myself be bothered by an inconsiderate driver like that.

  9.

  To call Dave’s Seafood a hole in the wall would be a gross understatement, since it’s more like a sinkhole. The clientele was strictly black folks, and the only Caucasian customers were the handful of cops brave enough to set foot enough in the place. I’d only been in a time or two before, always while armed and never alone. Dave’s was the kind of restaurant that sold beer by the can, a dollar for twenty-two ounces, and the drink list began and ended with Schlitz Malt Liquor. I’d never been brave enough to make a run at the jar full of pickled eggs they kept up there on the bar but man, did I love that fish. They cooked it just the way I liked it: hot, fried, and greasy.

  Dave’s was over on Morris Street, which was just around the corner and two blocks over, but it took me a couple minutes to circle around through the mess of narrow one-way streets. When I pulled up Jim was sitting on the hood of his cruiser, which was blatantly parked in front of a fire hydrant. The car’s frame was sagging from the added weight, brushing against the front wheels.

  Even from a distance, I could make out the thick waves of nappy black hair through the restaurant’s streaked windows. The place was packed, and parking was tight what with all those big boaty Lincolns and Cadillacs lining the street. Normally the thought of doing traffic enforcement never enters my mind, but I couldn’t help wondering if any of those cars’ drivers actually held valid licenses. I briefly considered digging through Scooter Jones’ duffel bag for his book of parking tickets, but any thought of work disappeared once I caught a whiff of that crispy fried batter. There was an open parking spot in front of someone’s driveway, so I wasted no time in claiming it for my own.

  Big Jim straightened up and headed towards the door, eyes fixed straight ahead with no small talk. A little further down Morris Street, I spotted Slipper Johnson walking towards us. He gave a friendly but tired little wave as he led along a young rookie, which probably explained why they were bothering to walk the beat in the first place. One of the worst parts about training the new kids is that you always have to be on your Ps and Qs and do stupid things like get out of the cruiser. Catching a quick catnap is completely out of the question, since you can never be sure that the trainee isn’t some little snitch.

  A few years back, an entire squad of patrol cops got hemmed up when this new rookie ratted them out for dereliction of duty. This sappy little kid complained to the lieutenant over the training division, claiming that he wasn’t learning anything about policework because his field training officer and their squad would get together every night to play touch football in Marion Square. Now the kid was a stoolie, no question, but in my opinion those dumb young cops had it coming. After all, they were playing ball out in the open for the whole world to see, when they should’ve just done like everyone else and gone to someone’s apartment to play Nintendo behind closed doors.

  Slipper jerked his thumb back at the kid. “Goosey, this is Benny Ontivieros.” He rolled his eyes. “My rookie.”

  The kid lunged forward like he was fixing to shake my hand, but pulled up short. He was holding a brand-new flashlight in his left hand and a notepad in his right, and the kid looked heartbroken at the realization that shaking hands would force him to put away some of his gear. Eventually he settled on holstering the flashlight, although he only took off one of his gloves. “Benjamin Ontivieros, good to meet you sir! But my friends call me…”

  Slipper cut him off. “Beano. His name’s Beano.” The kid looked horrified, but wisely kept his lips zipped. Slipper must have already covered the unwritten CPD policy which says rookies should be seen but not heard. While Beano went about the process of refitting his glove, Slipper leaned in close and hissed, “I swear, Goosey, this kid fucking stinks! We’ve only been riding around a couple of hours but no lie, he must have passed gas a dozen times already. He actually stunk me out of the car, man! I had to check us out on a foot patrol just to get some fresh air.”

  I smiled as the gentle fall breeze treated me to a hint of the lingering stench. “Next time he busts ass” I said, “Lock all the doors and windows and set the heater on high, just let that baby cook for a few minutes. I guarantee that’ll motivate the kid to control his sphincter.” I gave Beano a long look. He only seemed to be in his mid-to-late twenties, but he was pretty far down the road to baldness already. His face was soft and round, layered in rolls of baby fat, and his body looked the same way. The overall impression was that of a Hispanic Pillsbury dough boy stuffed into a blue suit. “Hey, what did he want you to call him, anyway?”

  “Benji.” Slipper snickered. “You believe that shit?”

  I shook my head. “Unreal, man.”

  Big Jim let out a roar to catch our attention. He was holding the front door open with one meaty paw, and waving us forward with the other. “Let’s go! Move it, move it!”

  We shuffled in his direction. “What’s with your boss?” Slipper muttered.

  “Take it easy on him, he’s a growing boy. He needs nourishment.”

  Big Jim turned and stormed inside the restaurant, while Slipper leveled a finger at the seat of Jim’s pants. The seams were stretched to capacity, stitches close to bursting as the fabric curved around his backside. The sight was similar to a faded blue tarpaulin pressed down over a huge mound of Jello, and I was forced to amend my last statement. “Well, he’s growing out, anyway.”

  The place was packed tight with every shade of dark skin, and every last body was scurrying to get out of our way. Most of them looked nervous, probably for good reason. A couple were patting their pockets, checking if they’d remembered to leave their dope stashes back in the car. Dave’s bathroom was a tiny affair, just a single stall for both genders that was so cramped you had to stand up in order to wipe your behind, but that didn’t stop three customers from shoving in at the same time once they saw us walk in. It occurred to me that all those dudes must have thought we were making some kind of drug raid, what with Jim’s shouting and all. Slipper must have been thinking along those same lines, because he walked over to the bar and hissed, “Dave, tell these boys we’re just here to eat.”

 

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