Smoke and Mirrors (Goosey Larsen Book 2), page 6
I thought back to my rookie days, trying to recall what my own Field Training Officer had taught me. “I’d take my sweet time getting there to make sure the suspect would be gone by the time I arrived. That way, I wouldn’t get stuck with all the arrest paperwork.”
Jim smiled. “Correct. But let’s suppose that when you finally do arrive, you learn that the woman is a prostitute. She says it was just her pimp slapping her around, and she starts to walk away. As the only officer on scene, would you still take a report?”
“Of course not.” I was pretty certain of the correct answer, but I looked to Slipper for a supervisor’s confirmation. He gave a single nod of agreement, which is exactly why he makes the big bucks.
Big Jim flexed his chubby fingers together. He reflected an aura of patient wisdom, almost like a morbidly obese Shaolin monk. Some of his new girl’s Asian mysticism had probably rubbed off on him already. “And why is that?”
I let out a sigh, but managed to make it a quiet one. “Because the hooker shouldn’t have been out walking the street in the first place. From a legal perspective, there’s no real victim.”
Jim tried to snap his fingers to emphasize the point, but he couldn’t manage to get enough friction due to decades of built-up nicotine stains on his fingertips. His middle finger just made this little whooshing sound as it rubbed against his thumb. “Exactly” he said. “There’s no real victim, and it was the same way with most of these house fires. All but one or two of them were boarded up, dilapidated or completely abandoned. Have you actually been down Spring Street lately?”
I shook my head. I tried to avoid the rougher parts of town whenever I could.
He went on. “Well, that’s every third or fourth house down there, Goosey. The few burnt houses that were actually occupied were some shabby looking jobs, in need of serious renovation, so the firebug must have thought that no one lived there. Those ones were all short-term rentals occupied by out-of-town college kids too, but the damage wasn’t real bad so no one cared. And when you think about it, those kids had no one but themselves to blame. I mean, they’re only in class for like fifteen or twenty hours a week, right? How long does it take to mow a damn lawn, anyway?”
Slipper chewed on his lip. “So you’re saying that over the past four or five years or so, the same one person could have set as many as fifty-three separate fires downtown?”
Jim nodded, a gesture that sent all the loose rolls of wrinkled skin hanging down from his neck into waves of motion. “Looks that way.”
“And all this time, Team One patrol cops have been going to these fires and blocking off streets and writing their little reports, thinking that each one is just another case of a homeless bum trying to stay warm?”
Jim nodded again, with even more enthusiasm this time. “Apparently so, but you know how things go around here. It’s all fun and games until white people get hurt. Captain Russell’s managed to keep a tight lid on the story behind these fires, but he’s still got to be able to cover his ass by proving that he actually did something just in case the truth ever does get out. I mean sure, it’d be great if we caught this arsonist, but the way I see it there’s only two chances of that: slim and none. It wouldn’t matter one bit if we were actually looking for the guy like all these damned rookies are doing right now, you know? What are the chances that a patrol car will be able to turn the corner at the exact same moment this guy is touching a lit match to one of these houses?”
Slipper snorted. I had to agree with him.
Jim nodded viciously, to the point where his hairpiece slid off-center. His hands instinctively shot up to adjust it, and both Slipper and I politely looked away. Once his follicles were fully under control, Jim went on. “Fellas, the only thing that matters is that a couple extra cops show their faces for a few hours. All Russell needs to tell the Chief is that he tried his best, and life will go on from there.”
5.
Big Jim had his mouth open like he was about to say something else, but our conversation was interrupted by the rude sound of screeching tires further up King Street. We all turned to look as a black and white CPD cruiser pulled all the way up onto the curb. Two patrol cops jumped out and rushed towards this wet mess of a bum who’d been minding his own business, just shambling down the sidewalk. “Aw, jeez, would you look at that!” Big Jim shook his burly neck in disgust at the bleak future of law enforcement. Miraculously, his toupee held fast this time. “You guys get over there and make sure those kids don’t kill that soul brother! Christ, that’d be the last thing we need tonight.”
Slipper and I dutifully trudged over. Those two rookies had this poor bum pressed up hard against a brick wall, his arms jacked high in the air and his hands folded back behind his head. One of the kids was patting the dude down and pulling endless amounts of crap from his pockets, while the other was pacing back and forth on the sidewalk. Rookie Number Two was wearing a pair of black leather gloves with the fingertips cut off, and he kept rubbing his fist into his palm like there was nothing he’d love more than an excuse to beat up on some soggy ragpicker. Slipper eased up alongside and said, “Take a walk, Junior.”
The kid looked heartbroken at the missed opportunity, but he didn’t dare question a direct order from a Sergeant. He retreated back to the safety of his cruiser, where he was free to glower at all the drunks who were giving us a wide berth.
Rookie Number One was still going strong, though. He was taking his sweet time, acting as if the chilly drizzle didn’t bother him one bit. The kid emptied the bum’s pockets slowly, meticulously holding each piece of trash up to the streetlight for a better look. He was really making the most of the two-bit interrogation, grilling the deadbeat about his every last possession. “Got a pack of matches, do ya? What’s that for, Myron? Huh?”
The bum looked back over his shoulder to grin at the rookie with all seven of his blue teeth. “Ah smoke.”
“Not cigarettes” Slipper muttered. He aimed a weak kick at the loose pile of trash that had accumulated on the damp sidewalk. It was nothing more than a half-hearted attempt at being a mean-spirited street cop, but the effort fell flat since Slipper’s just not the type who gets excited about jacking people up. His expression changed, though, the second he spotted the bum’s stash of loose change lying on the sidewalk. “Hey Myron, lemme hold a quarter.”
Myron held up his hands in resignation. “Whas’ mine is yours, Sarn’t Johnson.”
The bum’s name was Myron White. Like all homeless people he was a public nuisance, but that’s about all he was good for. Don’t get me wrong, the guy smoked crack cocaine and sold weed to college kids and harassed tourists by begging for spare change and infuriated the downtown business owners by shoplifting stuff every once in a while, but that’s typical behavior for any sidewalk surfer. On the whole, Myron was pretty well-behaved, and unlike most bums he actually spent more time out of jail than in. On a sunny day he could usually be found holding down the street corner at King and Calhoun, trying his best to act as if he had some kind of legitimate reason for being there. I couldn’t really blame him, though, because if I didn’t have a job myself and wasn’t of a mind to go get one, I’d probably be doing nothing more than hanging out and watching all the pretty college girls pass by too.
Slipper snatched a wet quarter up off the concrete. He used his fingertips to hold it by the ridges so as not to touch any more of the coin than he really had to as he crossed King Street to use an open payphone. I watched him go and wondered who he might be calling at that time of night, but the rookie’s pimply voice brought me back to reality. “What are all these rags for, Myron?”
“People pay me to wash they cars” the bum said haughtily, as if the rookie had somehow insulted his honor. “Ah work. Ah got a job.”
I let out a loud sigh of impatience. The kid glanced back over his shoulder, annoyed, but he got the hint and began wrapping up the interrogation. “It’ll just take a minute to check you for warrants, Mister White, then you’ll be free to go. Would you like a business card with my name and badge number so have a record of who stopped you?”
Myron took his hands off the wall, then slowly reached down to pull a thin stack of CPD business cards from his trash pile. He rolled off the rubber band which held them together and fanned them all out in a row like a Vegas dealer. “Might as well, since ah got all y’all cards. You the sixth po-lice done stop me tonight.”
I couldn’t help laughing out loud at the sight of all those freshly printed business cards. Each officer’s name was hand-printed next to a bright CPD emblem, a sure indication that all of them had been delivered by overzealous young cops. “Jesus, Myron, you got so many rookie cards there you could start your own ball team!”
He laughed. “Too bad these here cards ain’ worth shee-it!”
I smiled, nodding in silent agreement at his spot-on assessment of Team One’s performance.
Rookie Number One shot me another dirty look as he added his own card to the deck. “Sorry to inconvenience you, Mr. White,” he said, “but we’re got a special assignment this weekend. You might want to make it easier on yourself and go somewhere to hide out for a few days.”
Myron cocked a dirty brown eyeball down at the kid as he raised his hands helplessly in the air. “The hell you think I’m-a go to? I be homeless!”
Slipper came back across King Street to rejoin us. He flipped the quarter up into the air and said, “Thanks anyway bro, but you can keep your money. Phone’s out of order.”
Myron whipped out a palm to catch the coin in mid-air. The guy had pretty sharp reflexes for a crackhead, but maybe that was just the natural result of all those years spent begging for loose change. “Now why the hell ain’t you tell me you needed to make a call, Sergeant Johnson? That there phone always be broken.” He stuck his hand down into the crotch of his pants and started fishing around, causing Rookie Number One to reach for his holster in a panic. As for me, I turned away in disgust at the thought of all the infectious diseases which could be living down in the depths of Myron’s drawers.
“Here it be.” Myron came back up with a cell phone. He held it out to Slipper, who cocked a suspicious eyebrow. It was a shiny silver Nokia flip-phone, a model that looked almost new. After a long moment of hesitation, Slipper pulled a pair of medical gloves from the pouch on his duty belt. He snapped them on both hands, making certain to pull the latex material well up over his wrists before accepting the handout.
Slipper held the phone up to the streetlight and let out a low whistle. “Damn, man, this thing’s nicer than the one I got, and mine’s new.” He gave Myron a stern glare. “Be honest now, who’d you swipe this from? Don’t make me run the serial number, because you know damn well I don’t want to have to lock you up.”
Myron launched into the act of pleading his innocence. After spending so much time in municipal court over the years, he must’ve gotten pretty good at it. “Now come on, Sergeant Johnson. I’ve been living on these streets forever, since before you was a rookie. In all that time, when ha’ you ever known me to steal?”
Slipper thought about it. “No, you’re right. You’re a drunk, a crackhead, and a beggar, but I’ve never personally caught you stealing. Not yet, anyway. You sure this is your phone, though? How do you pay the bill?”
Myron sighed, all loud and exaggerated like. “Now I’m almos’ sorry I let you hold it. I thought we’s friends, Sergeant Johnson, I mean you allus’ treated me right. But since you don’ believe me, look at them pictures I got on there. They’s my evuhdence.”
Slipper flipped open the phone, mashed a few buttons and pulled up the file of saved digital photos. Sure enough, there were a couple dozen snapshots of Myron White posing with his homeless buddies, and even a few fuzzy pictures of him with some good-looking college chicks who had undoubtedly been trying to buy weed. But still, the dates and times stamped on each photo stretched back over the past six months, which was as much proof of ownership as any of us could ask for. In truth, though, I guess it didn’t really matter. It’s not as if any of us, with the possible exception of the two rookies, really gave a damn about stolen property anyway.
“I’ll be right back” Slipper said. He walked off a short distance for privacy, almost down to the street corner, and dialed in a series of numbers from memory. While standing out in the rain, he was careful to hold the phone away from his ear to avoid physical contact with any of the microbes which might have been living in Myron’s pelvic region. I tried my best to eavesdrop, but couldn’t make out what he was saying. It looked like Slipper was having an important conversation, though, since he pulled out his notebook and flipped through the pages while he talked.
I turned back towards our cozy little threesome: Myron, Rookie Number One and me. “I got to ask the question, Myron” I said. “How can you be homeless if you got a cell phone? I mean, who do you think is gonna call you, anyway?”
He just laughed. “You know how it is, Offisuh. I got people.”
I thought of all those photos he had stored on the phone, and imagined how tough it would have been for Myron to deal dope if the college kids had to drive around hunting him down every time they wanted to score some pot. “Yeah,” I said. “I’ll bet you do. Ain’t nobody calling to offer you a job, though, that’s for sure.”
It took a couple more minutes before the rookie finally cleared Myron’s warrant check through dispatch. Honestly, I don’t know why the kid even bothered at all, unless he was hoping that some ridiculously dedicated cop had sworn out a warrant in the twenty minutes since Myron had last been stopped. But finally, once the dispatcher had given notice that the bum was all clear, the rookies cut him loose and hustled back to their cruiser. The kids sped off, hungry to pounce on some other unsuspecting Negro in the name of justice.
Slipper finished his call at the same time, and he walked back over to rejoin us. He lobbed the cell phone over towards Myron, who used a set of chipped and yellowing fingernails to catch it behind his back. “Thanks, Myron. Gotta check in with the old lady every so often, keeps her happy. You know how it is.”
“Ayuh. You know what they say, Sergeant Johnson: Happy wife, happy life. But hey, how’s all them naughty little kids of yours? They still giving you hell?”
Slipper peeled off his rubber gloves. He balled them up and tossed them into a storm drain, where they floated on the grate above a puddle of backed-up rainwater. He ran his bare hands through his thinning black hair and said, “They’re some real badasses, Myron. I can’t never catch any sleep when I’m home, I got to come to work to relax! Let me tell you, those kids give me more headaches than you do.”
We all laughed at that one as Myron waved goodbye and bopped off down King Street. The rain was still holding steady, although it didn’t seem to bother him one bit. The dude’s shoulders bounced from side to side as he walked along in a stooped-over, hunchbacky kind of way, bearing an uncanny resemblance to a silverback gorilla as he faded off into the foggy mist. Slipper and I walked back over to Big Jim, who’d been holding up the wall and doing his best to not get involved. I hit Slipper in the ribs with a mean elbow. “Had to check in with the little woman, huh? Bro, you’re so whipped. She can’t even let you go for one weekend without keeping tabs?”
He just gave me a sly wink. “You sure you want to start talking about women, Goosey?”
Jim raised his bushy eyebrows in a look of curiosity. I had to change the subject, so I spat out the first thing that came to mind. “Yeah, whatever man. But seriously, how could you bring yourself to use that bum’s germ-infested phone? Why didn’t you just use your own?”
Slipper’s face flushed. “My minutes are low.” He raised up both arms in a huge stretch, glancing around in all directions as if there could possibly be anything going on at that time of night. “Man, I’m bushed. I’ve got to catch a couple winks if I’m going to survive until the end of the shift. See you guys later.” He practically jogged over to his cruiser, then piled in and pulled off in a rush.
I looked over to Big Jim. “What do you suppose that was all about, boss?”
Jim raised his lip in a sneer. “Hell if I know. That Johnson’s probably gone loopy from working too many midnight shifts. Goosey, I don’t know what your career ambitions are and to be honest I really don’t give a damn, but as your supervisor I feel it’s my duty to give you one piece of free advice: Whatever you do in this job, don’t ever get suckered into going back to patrol.”
I nodded in agreement. Chief Greene would have to hold a gun to my head to make that transfer happen. “I hear you, boss. This uniform business is for the birds.”
Big Jim began shifting his weight, which was a long and complicated process. He had this peculiar method of starting all the way down at the ground and then working up from there. Jim lifted up off of his toes and then spread his legs apart, scratched his crotch, pulled up his gun belt and began rolling his neck around in circles. He moved it in a clockwise direction first, then back counter. “But you know… sometimes that Johnson’s got the right idea. Let’s get out of here, Goosey, this place is dead. You hungry?”
I was, but thanks to that young jerk Powers I didn’t even have a nickel to my name. “I’m always hungry, boss, but I’m broke as a joke until Friday.”
“No problem, I’m buying. Follow me.” Jim began shuffling towards his cruiser. He was careful to pick his way through the puddles as he walked, which is why his polished boots happened to catch my eye. They weren’t quite spit-shined, but it was obvious that he’d made some sort of effort on them, probably using my own top-secret ingredient, Lemon Pledge. Shining boots definitely wasn’t Jim’s style, though, and him offering to pay for dinner was even more out of character. Clearly, bring in love changes a man.
I fired up the Caprice, whipped it around in a U-turn and pulled in behind Jim, who hadn’t bothered to switch out his own unmarked cruiser for a black and white. We inched north on King Street, traffic snaked up behind us, slowing down to a crawl as we passed by every bar. By the way he was craning his neck out the driver’s side window to catch peeks at all the drunk girls hiding inside, I could tell that he also hadn’t bothered to pack his bifocals.
