Smoke and Mirrors (Goosey Larsen Book 2), page 12
He slapped each of them down on the table, one tray apiece for us Caucasians and three lined side by side for Dookie. A waitress appeared out of nowhere, sporting a mop of dark frizzy hair and a huge bottom jammed into a pair of cutoff denim shorts. She hustled in behind Dave, carrying a pitcher of sweet tea that she sloshed out equally into five styrofoam cups, no ice in sight. I guess she must have been hoping that we’d all get the hint and take our food to go, but she obviously hadn’t served many cops before. Big Jim loosened his duty belt and worked his rump around in his seat, making his best effort to get as comfortable as possible. It was a signal for all of us to settle in for a good long meal, so we followed suit. The dumpy ghetto bird scattered a handful of plastic forks on the table, then hightailed it before we could ask for anything else. We popped the steam trays open with simultaneous precision, sending a wave of hot mist up over the table.
“Man! Tha’s wha’ I’m talking about!” Dookie opened all three of his trays, then dumped the contents into one. The result was an overflowing pile of deep-fried batter that was thoroughly mixed in with layers of red beans and rice. He lovingly stirred the mess together, almost losing sight of his tiny plastic fork in the process.
Slipper grinned. “I’ll say this for your people, Dook: you boys sure can cook.” He stabbed a piece of fried okra and held it up for inspection, watching as a drop of sizzling grease oozed onto the pile of rice below. “Hell, I would have stayed in the Navy if they’d of kept you colored boys in the galley where you belong. Know whose fault that is?” He popped the okra into his mouth as he shook his head. “It was those damn Tuskegee Airmen. My granddaddy said that once the military learned you Negros could actually fight, the military’s chow just up and went to shit.”
Dookie grinned through a mouthful of whiting. “Glad we’s good fo’ something, suh.”
Just then, the emergency alert tone sounded from our walkie-talkies. Jim had been in the process of lifting a giant forkful of collard greens to his lips, and he lowered them back down with a quiet groan. Whenever that long, high-pitched beep sounded, it meant that a serious call for service was going out and that everything else in the city got put on hold. Without fail, that kind of call will only happen right after you’ve sat down to eat.
Beano had his speaker cranked way up, so the dispatcher’s voice screeched through the dining room. “Control to 106, 112, 115 and any available units, respond to 188 Saint Philip Street in reference to a 67 party! Complainant states there’s a mental patient in the street wielding a machete, waving it around and threatening passersby. He’s described as a naked white male…uh, stand by for more 86.”
I looked down at the beautiful slab of catfish that was staring back up at me from the steam tray, seemingly mocking me through the layer of batter like it hadn’t been able to evade the fishhook but still saw one last chance for escape. I crossed my fingers as I asked, “Where’s that, Dook? Anywhere near here?”
Dookie didn’t appear too concerned as he loaded his jaw with another heaping forkful of rice. “Yeah, 188 Saint Philip Street.” He looked up at me. “You know, dat ol’ nuthouse. Round th’ corner, two blocks up.” It took me a second to remember that Dookie’s call sign was 106, and also that he was the regular supervisor on duty downtown.
Two blocks away was just enough distance for Slipper to relax. He pulled down hard on Beano’s sleeve since the kid was already standing up and ready for action, flashlight in one hand and car keys in the other. “Sit back down, Junior. We’re on a special assignment here.”
Relieved, I passionately dug into my own supper. It made for a nice change of pace, sitting back and listening to the madness without actually having to get involved. I’d never really had any managerial aspirations before that moment, but it occurred to me then that the life of a Sergeant must be pretty sweet. You just hang back and give a few orders, then step aside and let the young troops do all the heavy lifting.
“One-fifteen, C-C-Control! I’m on scene!” Even through all the static coming across the air waves, you could clearly make out the panic in the patrol cop’s voice. It sounded as if the kid was about to toss his cookies, yammering away in a high-pitched voice that modulated between a stutter and an all-out scream. “He’s got a weapon! Control, clear the channel!”
I took a glance around our table. Dookie was still chewing on his cod, but slower than before. He was looking down at the tabletop, shaking his head with embarrassment. Slipper had covered his head with his arms, practically shaking in fits of laughter while Beano twitched in his seat, raring to get into the action.
Out of all of us in the group, only Big Jim managed to hold his bearing during the debacle. He went right on shoveling collard greens down his gullet, talking his way through each bite. “That’s some good shit right there” he said. “See, most places you go, the greens are messed up. They’re either overdone, boiled too long so they’re stiff, or else you get them raw and they’re so crunchy you just about lose your teeth on them.” He swallowed, letting out a moan of contentment. “These are just perfect.”
Dookie shot Jim an inquiring look. “You like dem’ greens, boss man?”
“Like ‘em?” Jim perked up, looking more enthusiastic than I’d ever seen him at work. “Hell, I love ‘em! Check this out, Wilson, this is how country I am, I got me a little patch of collards growing in the treeline behind my condo. There’s absolutely nothing like fresh greens, you know? It just ain’t a meal without them.”
Slipper rolled his eyes, but Dookie nodded his wide head up and down in furious agreement, clearly thrilled about having found a new friend. “Hell yeah! Ain’ nothing like some fresh collahds. I don’ care what anyone says about you, Loo-Tennan’, you an all right fella.”
Jim smiled. “Thanks, Wilson. But my daddy’s name was Lieutenant. You can call me Big Jim, same as everyone else.”
I’d almost forgotten that Jim’s father used to be a big shot at CPD way back in the day, which is probably the only reason why his illiterate son landed a job. CPD still runs on the Good Ol’ Boy system, and nepotism is a surefire recipe for advancement.
One-Fifteen’s voice came across the air again, still shouting. “He’s r-r-r-running around to the st-st-st-aircase! One-Twenty, stay where you are!”
Slipper slapped his hands down on the table, sending grains of red rice flying in every direction. “What the hell is wrong with your people, Dookie? That k-k-kid sounds like absolute g-g-garbage. Who is that, anyway?”
Dookie shook his head in shame. He chewed his mouthful of fish thoughtfully, then took a deep slug of sweet tea before swallowing. “One-Fufteen? That be Douchet, who else?”
“Ahhhh.” We all let out a collective sigh of understanding. Douchet’s last name was French I guess, but he had a set of first and middle names which ran together, John Carter or James Christopher or something like that, and he tried to get people to call him by his initials. That whole “JC” business only lasted through his first week on the job, when he got into a foot chase after seeing Anthony “Fat Rat” Collins passing a dime bag of weed to some college boy. Fat Rat was the chubbiest drug dealer on the East Side, and it looked certain that he was in for one more ride up to the county jail when Douchet slipped on a dirty sewer grate and went down in a heap. Fat Rat puffed off and out of sight, all three hundred and fifty pounds of him, making a clean escape for the first time in his life. After that, Douchet’s squad spread the word that the initials “JC” must have stood for “Just Can’t”, as in “Just Can’t Do Shit”.
Now I’m all for giving someone a second chance, I mean, everyone makes a mistake once in a while, right? But Douchet had stuck with the department for nearly a year and he still hadn’t learned the ropes. Honestly, he was just another of those college boys who came on the job thinking they’re hot stuff because they spent the last four years earning a fancy piece of paper. That type of kid is always going to be hell-bent on changing the world, convinced they can make a difference by making arrests on every little violation.
Whenever Douchet was on the prowl, every bum in the city had to look back over their shoulder before they snuck into an alley to go pee. Even holding an open bottle of Mad Dog 20/20 wine would get them jacked up, no matter if the ragpicker had paid for their booze honestly. If a person was homeless and weighed less than 150 pounds, chances were good that Officer Just Can’t Do-Shit had hauled them in at least once. His lieutenant had no choice but to pat his prodigy on the back, seeing as how Douchet led the department in arrests every month, but all the real cops were wise to his game. I said a silent prayer of thanks that I’d turned out to be such a modest guy, without any ego to trip over. Personally, I’d just never felt the need to prove myself by doing something stupid like making arrests.
Beano broke the silence. “Sarge, shouldn’t we ought to head that way? Douchet wouldn’t be asking for help if he didn’t need it.”
Slipper managed to keep his disgusted look in check, but only just. He took a deep, calming breath, obviously recalling his sworn duties as a Field Training Officer. It was his sacred responsibility to school the kid on the facts of life, and he did so with uncharacteristic patience. “Listen, Beano, I know this is only our first night together, but let’s go over one of the cornerstones of policework. Son, you need to keep in mind that you’re just one man, and you’re never going to be able to wipe out crime by yourself, no matter how much overtime you work.”
The kid nodded, his forehead wrinkled in concentration. It looked as if he was trying to commit Slipper’s every word to memory.
Slipper went on. “That’s why you’ve got to choose your battles. Over time you’ll learn to let some things go, and focus your efforts where you’re more likely to make a difference. Take right now, for example. I know for damn certain that if I don’t eat this fish before it gets cold, I’m going to be out eight and a half bucks. And since that loony sonofabitch…” Slipper emphasized his point by jamming a plastic fork towards the radio. “…just happens to be naked, it don’t sound very likely that he’s got a ten spot in his pants pocket to reimburse me. You copy, son?”
Beano looked sincerely disappointed, but none of us could hold his poor judgment against him. He was a rookie after all, still learning. The kid made a half-hearted stab at his fish. “Yes, Sergeant.”
“Good man.”
Everyone went back to eating quietly, just waiting for the next update from Douchet, except of course for Big Jim. He got lost in his thoughts for a minute before finally piping back up. “J.C. Douchet? You mean that skinny little white kid with the flattop and the acne?”
Dookie grunted through another jawful of red beans and rice. “Ayuh. Face look like a dam’ pizza pie.”
Jim flashed a nasty smile and lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Any of you guys hear about how Can’t Do-Shit messed up the vice raid last week?”
We hadn’t. All of us leaned forward to listen in, even Slipper. I was surprised to see that since Slipper usually keeps two fingers firmly planted on the pulse of CPD’s gossip mill, and it was a rare moment when he missed a beat.
“This is just what I heard,” Jim began, but we all knew better. If Big Jim was passing the dirt along then it had to be true, or at least reasonably close to the truth. That guy had the inside track with the command staff, so he usually got the straight scoop. Jim licked his lips, sucking crumbs of deep-fried batter into the veiny purple mass of his tongue. He leaned forward like he was concerned about anybody overhearing us, even though the only way the crowd at Dave’s Seafood would ever try to listen in is if we were discussing an upcoming drug raid. Given the crew at our table, there was absolutely no danger of that.
“So apparently, over in West Ashley, there’s this massage parlor that gives happy endings” Jim began. “They work out of a tanning salon on Highway 61, right where it meets Carriage Lane. A real whack shack, they say. Got this little blonde looker working there, maybe nineteen or twenty years old, selling rubdowns for a hundred a pop.”
Everyone looked interested now, particularly Slipper. Knowing that dude, he was probably trying to commit the location to memory.
Big Jim went on. “So somehow an upright citizen finds out about it, and she gets her panties tied up in a knot and calls the Crime Stoppers line, right? Leaves an anonymous tip, complete with a perfect description of the little whore who runs the joint. The information lands on Captain Russell’s desk, and of course he goes absolutely ballistic since the place is only a couple blocks down the road from his house. He went and raised all kinds of hell with the Vice unit, and it still took them the better part of a week to put together an Ops plan.”
Beano appeared completely enthralled with Jim’s third-hand account of Charleston’s finest in action, but Dookie was much more skeptical. He spat out, “Ops plan? Wha’ you need an ops plan fo’? Jus’ put a wire on som’body and send ‘em in, then five minutes later you rush in an’ bust the hooka.”
We all nodded in agreement. It sounded like a simple task, but if anyone could botch a simple half day’s work it was our vice unit.
Jim flashed a wicked smile. “Well that’s just it, Wilson. Most of those jerks have been working in that unit for so long that everyone in town knows them. They needed a fresh face for this operation, but the only face available was covered in acne. Guess which patrol cop got tapped to play the john?”
I let out a groan. “Not Douchet.”
Jim smiled again, clearly enjoying the attention. “Exactly, good ol’ Just Can’t Do-Shit. Now get this: they wired the kid for sound, dropped him off in front of the strip mall, then set up that surveillance van a block away. And so Douchet goes walking up to the tanning salon, and he’s almost at the front door when all of a sudden this guy sticks his head out of the low-rent law firm next door, and he hollers out, ‘Hey man! Are you going in there?’”
Slipper looked astounded. “Holy shit, Douchet got made as an undercover cop, and by a lawyer? Who was it, some ambulance chaser who’d gotten roped into defending one of Douchet’s open container cases?”
“Not even close, Johnson” Jim said. “To hear those guys tell it, the kid was just about half a second away from turning tail and bolting straight back for the van, but as it happened he just froze up. And it turns out that this lawyer hadn’t recognized Douchet at all. He just gave him a thumbs-up and shouted, ‘Make sure to ask for the works!’”
We all cracked up, and only managed to quiet down when Douchet’s voice came back across the radio. His high-pitched scream had settled down some, resulting in a mere shriek. “One-fifteen, Control! We’ve got him c-c-c-cornered in the apartment stairway. All units, h-hold your positions! I’ll try to talk to him and gain his trust!”
Man, it was horrible. The whole thing sounded like a script from one of those prime-time police dramas, and it was all I could do to pray that none of the hardcore gangbangers were listening in on portable scanners. All it takes is one bad cop like Douchet to make everyone in uniform look like a ninny.
Slipper finally caught his breath. “So what happened?”
Jim leaned back, causing the entire booth to sway. “What happened? Well, those guys said Douchet just stood there frozen in the parking lot for at least two minutes before he finally grew a set of balls and walked on up to the tanning salon. That little blond must have seen him coming, because she met him at the door. And get this, this is how easy she made it! That girl actually smiled and said, ‘How can I help you?’”
Beano was perched on the edge of his seat. “So did Douchet bust her?!?”
Big Jim let out a roar. “He didn’t bust a damn thing, boy! There’s a reason he’s named Can’t Do-Shit. That pock-faced rookie broke down into his stuttering routine, and I mean even before he set one foot inside the place! He practically asked for a happy ending while he was still standing on the front steps!”
Dookie slapped his head in disgust. “Soun’s like dat was the endin’ right about ‘dere.”
Jim nodded sagely, and I got the impression that his service in Vietnam might have helped him become an expert on prostitution. “Pretty much. If the st-st-st-stuttering didn’t clue the broad in, she definitely caught on when Douchet’s voice kept cracking. The vice guys caught the whole thing on tape, and when they played it back for me it almost sounded as if Douchet was going into puberty on the spot. But I’ll say this for the whore, she kept her cool. That little split tail just told Douchet she was leaving on her lunch break and slammed the door in his face!”
In his excitement to tell the story, Jim’s low whisper had gradually risen in volume. By the time he hit that last sentence he was practically howling, and even through my tears of laughter I could clearly see several other customers shooting dirty looks our way. I wasn’t too troubled, though, since most everyone who’d been sitting near us had already paid their bills and left.
Slipper was the first to regain his composure. Through deep, gasping breaths, he managed to spurt out, “Dookie, you’ve got to educate your squad, man. Take that kid aside and clue him in on how the world works!”
“ONE-FIFTEEN TO CONTROL! We’ve got the suspect in c-c-custody! Start EMS to this location for a 67 party! I repeat, THE SUSPECT HAS BEEN D-D-DETAINED!”
Dookie just shook his head in disgrace as he began the long, slow process of standing up. Now that his star performer had achieved a singular moment of glory, it was up to Dook to make sure the kid kept himself out of trouble for the rest of the night. I followed Dookie’s lead and headed over to the bathroom, hoping to lighten my load a little. Thankfully, the drug pushers had vacated the stall so I had a couple of quiet moments to think.
As I waited for my swollen prostrate to subside, I found myself considering the impressive amount of raw energy that rookies possess. I swear, all those kids are so fired up to save the world that they run out there and lock up every last thing moving, but never stop to think about the paperwork that follows. If you ever visit a police station at night and see some sucker cop filling out arrest reports three hours after his shift ended, chances are he’s a rookie. In law enforcement, even the most dedicated street cops give up after a couple of years and start shopping around for a cushy federal gig. Even the lifers who get stuck at CPD become fairly accomplished at skating out of work, so most of them are simply marking off the days until retirement. Those rare few that still have some sort of interest in law enforcement just start showing up for the scheduled promotion exams, so that eventually they’ll be the ones telling other cops to make arrests without getting their own hands dirty.
