Smoke and Mirrors (Goosey Larsen Book 2), page 9
I turned my attention back to the Captain just in time to hear him say, “Actually, yes.” He waited for the kid to sit back down before continuing. Everyone’s undivided attention was upon him now, including Slipper, Big Jim, and myself. “Sergeant Johnson, exactly how many field interview cards were submitted last night?”
Slipper chirped up happily. “Almost a hundred and fifty, Cap.”
Big Jim shot me an incredulous look. He mouthed the words “One-fifty?”, and I just shrugged my shoulders. There may have been that many people out downtown on Saturday night if you counted all the cops, taxi drivers, and convenience store clerks.
The Captain rubbed his hands together, giving off the impression that there was probably no happier thought for him than hordes of street cops ganging up to harass the good people of Charleston, particularly if those good people were young, male, and black. “Excellent work, team, simply excellent. Detective Rothschild, have you been able to discern any suspects from that data?”
I’d been thrown for a serious loop. It was the first time I’ve ever heard someone refer to a stack of hastily-scribbled field interview cards as data, but the new terminology sure didn’t faze Abbie Rothschild. Really, I’m not sure that deaf old Abbie heard anything other than his name. That guy really needs to invest in some hearing aids, but they’re not covered by the city’s health insurance so I doubt he ever will. Abbie stood up and shuffled across the room to the podium, his penniless loafers scuffing along the linoleum with every step. “I think we’ve finally got a coupla good leads, Cap.” He slapped a thick file folder down on the podium. “Awright. Based on all the field interview cahds you guys completed last night, we’ve been able to identify a couple of persons of interest who were hanging around in the target area for no clear purpose. Copy these names down, willya?”
Everyone who didn’t already have a notebook handy whipped one out. Pens appeared out of thin air as if by magic.
“The first guy’s name is Huger. Donald Lawrence. Date of birth, Ten-Fifteen-Sixty-one.” I scribbled a couple of doodles onto the back of my flier to make it look like I was actually copying the name, but instead I used the time to steal a quick glance around the room. Most of the officers were dutifully taking down the information, except for that punk Samuels and another young kid seated next to him, and it took me a second to remember our encounter in the Magnolia Cemetery. Samuels had his hand clutched over his mouth as the other kid held on to his sides, shaking with laughter and trying his damnedest not to fall off the chair. I had no idea what might have kicked off those two fairies’ chucklefest, but reasoned that they’d probably just noticed the layers of wiggling fat rolls behind Big Jim’s neck.
Abbie paid them no mind, although I’m not sure he could even see them. That bastard wore a thick pair of glasses but he’d had the same prescription for years, and he’d probably gotten them secondhand from the Goodwill store to begin with. He pulled those Coke bottle lenses off and held them up to the light, and even from the back of the room I could see that they were smeared with layers of filth. Abbie wiped them against one of his short shirtsleeves, then readjusted them once most of the officers had looked back up. The lenses seemed even foggier than before, as if he had only succeeded in spreading the grease around.
“Next is Legare. Thomas Tradd. Five-Twelve-Sixty-One.” He mangled the name, saying it as “Lee-Gayre” instead of the French pronunciation, “Le-Gree”. I put away my pen and notepaper in protest. Fricking Yankees, I swear.
While everyone but me was scribbling down that suspect’s name, Abbie squinted to read the next FI card. He sneered as he held it up, somehow managing to make his face seem even uglier than usual. “Jesus Kee-rist, guys! How about you take some time to fill out these cards the right way, willya? I mean, this one doesn’t even list the suspect’s race!” He peered down at the card again, searching for the reporting officer. “Samuels, you’re getting sloppy! How hard is it to include an address or a phone number, huh? And does this guy have a job, is he unemployed, or what? Seriously, what am I supposed to do with this garbage?”
Samuels’ face turned bright red as he struggled to hold back a laugh. “Sorry about that, Detective” he choked out. “Won’t happen again.”
Rothschild grumbled, flipping to the next card in his stack. His eyes shot wide open, the pupils bugging out so far that they nearly bumped against his glasses. “Dammit, here’s another one!” he screamed. “Larsen! Aren’t you supposed to be a detective? You of all people should know better than to submit an incomplete FI card like this! Who the hell is Michael John Huger, anyway? People, I need more to work with than just a name and date of birth!”
Abbie had managed to mangle the pronunciation once again, saying the name as “Hugger” instead of “Hyoo-gee,” so it took me a second to catch on. Once I realized what was happening, though, I had to lock my jaw to keep from laughing. I forced myself not to look over at Samuels, because I knew I’d lose it completely if I saw that kid snickering. It was pretty obvious that Abbie Rothschild and Captain Russell still had absolutely no leads, seeing as how their prime arson suspects were currently pushing up daisies in the Magnolia Cemetery.
Abbie glared at me through those greasy bifocals. His pen was poised above the FI card, ready to fill in all the blank spaces I’d left. “So, Goosey, was this guy white or black?”
I rubbed my chin and threw out a Hail Mary. “Hard to say, really. His skin was pretty dark, so I guess he could’ve been of mixed race.” Most of those old crackers buried up in Magnolia were Southern aristocracy, the plantation owning kind, so it wasn’t much of a stretch to imagine the occasional interbreeding with house negroes.
He jotted that down. “And his height?”
“About six feet.” I glanced over at Samuels and mouthed the word “under”.
Abbie scribbled some more. “Okay, well that’s something at least. But listen up everyone, if we’re going to catch this guy then we’ve got to start doing some better policework. Who’s supervising this detail, anyway? I tell you what, this kind of crap would never have flown back when I was a rookie.”
I rolled my eyes and stole a glance over at Big Jim, who was busy probing his ear with the eraser end of a pencil. He pulled it out, gave the orange wax a quick study, then popped it in his mouth to destroy the evidence. Except for Captain Russell, who’d probably been with the Department since they laid the building’s foundation, Jim was the only person present who’d been working when Abbie was a rookie. Seeing as how Big Jim Cobb had somehow managed to rise through the ranks to become a lieutenant, my guess was that there’d been a whole lot more crap back in the day than some incomplete field interview cards.
Thankfully, Captain Russell stood up and set his little feet slapping back towards the podium before Abbie’s stroll down Memory Lane could gain any momentum. Usually the Captain’s sandpapery rasp never failed to make me cringe, but this time it sure beat the alternative. He did his best to act all business like he was trying to bring the briefing back on track, but I’ll bet he was just trying to cut off Rothschild before that guy could dish any dirt. I’ve been known to criticize our command staff but I’ll give credit where credit is due, CPD is second-to-none when it comes to brushing dirt under the carpet. I mean, there’s so many skeletons buried around this place that the closets ought to be sealed off with crime scene tape.
“Thank you very much, Detective Rothschild.” The Captain had obviously learned not to ask for any questions, and he drove on before anyone could raise a hand. “Since there’s nothing else to cover, let’s get out there and hit the streets. Remember, I want people stopped tonight, and the more the merrier. Keep up the good work, gentlemen.”
Cops started pushing back their chairs, shoving to get out of the Squad Room. I saw Samuels heading my way through the crowd, so I was forced to make a beeline for the door myself as Slipper craned his neck to catch my eye. He rubbed his stomach as he made the thumb and pinky ‘telephone’ gesture, his way of signaling to call him whenever I was ready for dinner. I gave him a nod, then disappeared out into the parking lot.
Scooter Jones had very considerately parked his car much closer to the building, although both tires on the driver’s side were almost completely flat. That turd had probably let some of the air out on purpose just to spite me. On any ordinary night I’d take my sweet time about filling them up, but the leisurely approach just wasn’t an option. The clouds were starting to look pretty thick overhead, and even though I’d remembered to pack my raincoat I still wasn’t about to get wet without a damned good reason. Clearly, time was of the essence.
As I flopped down inside I cranked the engine up, making certain to cut off the stereo this time, then eased the Caprice through the minefield of potholes and over to the gas pumps. The fuel needle was hovering just above “E”, surely another attempt at sabotage. For a moment I thought about getting back at Scooter by bringing in a drunk college kid in the hopes that he’d puke or pee all over the back seat, but thought better of it once I remembered all the paperwork involved.
Finally, with the gas tank full and a respectable amount of air in all four tires, I pulled out of the lot and banked around the corner onto Lockwood Boulevard. Looking over the dashboard, I saw a short black piece of electrical tape placed over the lit “Check Engine” light and deduced that our fleet mechanics had done their work for the week. A wave of calm feelings washed over me at that point, at least until that first fat drop of rain smacked down on the windshield that I’d just squeegeed clean. My positive attitude disappeared just as quickly as it’d come, and I could tell it was going to be one of those nights.
8.
You’d think that not working would be an easy thing, but killing time during a shift is actually a lot harder than it sounds. I mean, you can only drive around in circles for so long before you run the risk of falling asleep at the wheel. It’s even worse in downtown Charleston, where you’ve got so many one-way streets that you’re bound to end up turning the wrong way down one of them. Plus, no shock absorbers in the world will be able to save your back once your wheels roll over those old cobblestone alleys. What’s worse, all the sidewalks are so narrow that the crowds of college kids and lost tourists can almost seem to step right out in front of you sometimes. I kept it under twenty miles an hour out of caution, fighting the urge to brush a couple pedestrians back up onto the curb.
I managed to kill the first few hours of my shift by driving around in big circles, taking lap after lap around lower King Street, the Battery and the Market. All three locations were great spots for people watching, and I was relatively certain that I wouldn’t see any crimes in progress at any of them. The dark stormclouds were still hanging thick overhead, but only the occasional spatter had actually come down. I let out a sigh and headed uptown, planning to make at least one celebrity guest appearance in the detail’s target area before the weather turned sour. That way, I could disappear somewhere quiet just as soon as the rain rolled in.
I kept circling the side streets of Elliotborough and Cannonborough, hoping that someone who mattered would notice my hard work, but it was no use. The only cops in sight were all patrol rookies and the Foot Patrol beat walkers, two groups who were pretty much equally matched in their worthlessness. Even the change of scenery couldn’t quell my boredom, and my thoughts gradually shifted to dinner. That’s one of my biggest complaints about working night shifts, how all the businesses close up tight at five o’clock and you quickly run out of places to eat. For the third time that shift, I pulled open the flap of my shirt pocket to check on the Blimpie’s coupon I’d clipped from Mrs. Ferguson’s newspaper. It was my golden ticket to dinner even though the fine print said that I’d have to buy chips and a drink in order to get the free six-inch sub, but I had the math all worked out. Cops got free drinks everywhere downtown and as for the chips, I’d just tell the cashier I was on a low-salt diet.
I’d been ignoring the police radio all the while out of habit, but the Channel One dispatcher happened to catch my ear. “Any unit in the area, 63 and disperse a panhandler from inside Goldstein’s Men’s Wear. Corner of King and Mary.”
I grumbled, and my stomach did too. Ordinarily, there was no way I’d stoop to picking up a bum call, not a chance in hell, but that’s the problem with driving around in these marked units. You’re almost stuck answering every last call for service just because it’s impossible to hide that big black and white boat. And as much as you might feel tempted to roll up the windows and stomp down hard on the gas, you just can’t choose to ignore the call either. If some concerned citizen happens to see you drive past a call for service without stopping, I guarantee there’ll be a voicemail from Internal Affairs waiting the next morning.
Even with all that in mind, my arms acted out of reflex and jerked the steering wheel in an evasive maneuver. I’d almost made it to the safety of the Bank of America parking lot when I saw Myron White shambling out of Goldstein’s clothing store, arms crossed and looking sore. He threw the middle finger backwards over his shoulder to someone inside the store, but the important thing was that he was walking away peacefully. Since he’d already left the store he wasn’t breaking the law anymore, so there wasn’t any conceivable reason why I might have to arrest him. I eased my foot back up on the gas pedal, pulled up behind him and gave a long but friendly blast of the air horn. The store’s manager, this short little Jew named Ricky Goldstein, leaned out of his shop to give me a thumbs-up that everything was Kosher.
I swear, that Ricky Goldstein was a real pain in the ass. He was the kind of shopkeeper who watched his customers like a hawk, with 911 on speed dial just in case some person of color came in and looked like a candidate for the old five finger discount. But even though he was a true nut, cops pretty much had to respond every time he called seeing as how Goldstein went to the same synagogue as Chief Greene. Still, I wasn’t about to bust my ass for the guy no matter who he kibbutzed with, since Ricky had probably been deserving of whatever grief Myron had just dished out. Let’s face it, if you’re a tiny white Jew and who opens an urban clothing shop on the outskirts of the ghetto, you’re basically asking for trouble. I gave Goldstein a curt wave and picked up the microphone, determined to put on a good show for the man. “812, Control, I’ll be out with a black male.” I paused to look up at the nearest street sign. “Upper King Street, just south of Ann.”
The dispatcher barked an acknowledgement through her mouthful of chicken biscuit, so I threw the cruiser into park and slid out. Myron had already come to a stop himself, with his palms planted flat on the hood and his feet spread-eagled. Clearly, he knew the drill. “Whassup, Offisuh? Need some mo’ FI cards?”
“You got that right” I said. “Gotta fill my harassment quota.” I moved forward to pat him down for show, but caught myself when I spotted all those crusty scabs running up his arms. Myron waited patiently as I gingerly pulled a pair of dry latex gloves from my duty belt, then eased the brittle material onto my hands. Ricky Goldstein was still watching from the safety of his shop, so I dove in to give the appearance of a full search.
Myron sneered and let a load of spit fly, although I didn’t let the show of disrespect bother me. A little back talk was to be expected from any street thug, and at least Myron had the courtesy to talk his trash in a respectful tone of voice. “How many brothas they makin’ y’all haul in ever’ month now, Offisuh? Fufteen? Twen’ny?”
I laughed. “Those Jim Crow days are done, Myron, but I ought to take you in for spitting on the sidewalk like that. Don’t you know that’s illegal?”
He smiled a shaky grin, showing off all his chipped and decaying teeth. “Sheeit, this the United States a-Charleston. Ever’thins illegal here.”
“Save it, Myron.” I finished patting down his legs, then pulled out a notebook I’d stolen from Scooter’s duffle bag. “Put your arms down, you look like you’re about to fly away. You got any warrants?”
“Not unless y’all done put papers on me in the last thirty minutes. Them Team One boys jus’ stopped me up by the Piggly Wiggly, first time today. Y’all mus’ be busy.”
I yawned. “Yeah, let me tell you man, they’re breaking my back. Hey, how about you go ahead and empty those pockets for me?”
Myron twisted his face up into a hard, indignant stare. Well, as indignant as a homeless crackhead could look, anyway. “Min’ if I ask why?”
I smiled and gave a little nod back towards Ricky Goldstein, who was still observing from the safety of his shop window. “How about because I said so? Come on, Myron, help me out here. Make me look good.”
He sighed and tried to act put out by the whole business, but in all honesty Myron probably knew the routine better than I did. After expressing his displeasure by waiting a long moment, he began digging through his pockets and tossing wads of loose crap down onto the hood of the Caprice. Balled-up tissues, napkins and at least three cigarette lighters had all been stuffed inside a single pants pocket. As he turned out the liner to show that the pocket was completely empty, I had a horrifying vision of him pulling out a crackpipe or some other kind of contraband, and if he did it in plain view of that rat Goldstein then I’d be almost forced to make an arrest. “Myron, you’re not holding anything I need to know about, are you? No needles? Crackpipes?” I asked, crossing my fingers.
He fished out his faded and bent identification card, handed it over and went back to digging through those grease-stained pockets. “You know I don’t get down like that, Offisuh.”
I rolled my eyes. “Whatever you say.” Myron’s personal information had probably been recorded no less than a hundred times before, but I copied it down once more for good measure. Six foot four, two hundred and twenty pounds, black male, dreadlocks, scruffy beard. I filled out the FI card in big block letters so even that nearsighted bastard Abbie Rothschild would be able to read it. “Where you stay at, Myron?”
