Artie grinned, then wrenched the plastic bread sack from Big Jim’s paws. “Here, Mike. You’re going to need this.” He craned his neck to the rear, sneaking a covert peek down the pitch-black marshfront street. “Look, you see that last house down there, all the way at the back of the cul-de-sac? The big white one, got a blackface jockey holding a lantern down at the end of the driveway?”
I squinted out into the darkness. “Yeah, why? Who lives there?”
“That’s Chief Greene’s house.”
It was right about then that I finally realized it was a set up. Still, I tried my best to keep my composure, coolly twirling Artie’s ignition key around my index finger in a series of slow, casual loops. But even without looking up, I just knew the three of those clowns must have been grinning like fools. After one last deep, calming breath, I planted my hands on my gun belt and resumed eye contact. “Is that right? Huh.”
Artie rolled up the top of the bread sack and held it at arm’s length, leaving me with no choice but to take it. Big Jim looked absolutely despondent without his midnight snack, too depressed to to even think about brushing the crumbs off his uniform.
I gave the loaf of bread a long, thoughtful look, rotating the bag around in my hands. “So what the hell am I supposed to do with all this? Make the Chief a damn sandwich?”
Artie chuckled, reaching up to his ear and twisting a small bundle of overgrown hairs in between his thumb and index finger. “Listen up, rookie. Look down there past the house. See where that irrigation culvert runs along the road?”
I turned my neck just far enough to humor my FTO, then nodded.
“Every year about this time, see, these big flocks of Canada geese always fly in from up north. They nest up all over West Ashley for a couple months at a time, especially here in the suburbs where they’ve figured out nobody’s going to shoot at them. Those things wander everywhere, making an absolute mess of wherever they go. Tearing up peoples’ lawns, shitting all over the sidewalk— they’re an absolute curse. And just last week, I spent a couple minutes listening in while the Chief was bitching about them to his secretary.”
I shrugged, trying my best to come across as wholly indifferent to this strange situation I’d found myself in. “Serves him right, you know? Owning a big-ass house like that. Who the hell’s he trying to impress, anyway?”
Slipper jumped in, that weaselly grin still plastered across his lips. “Well, now. It’d be an absolute shame if someone was to give those geese a little more encouragement, you know? Maybe... do something to make them feel more at home? And right there at the Chief’s house, too?”
No matter what sort of random thoughts might have been running through my mind at that very moment, I actually found myself at a complete and utter loss for words. I looked down at the half-eaten loaf of bread, then back up at my squadmates.
“Well, what are you waiting for, rookie?” Artie sneered. “Hurry up, get a move on.”
I bit my tongue, stuffing down my natural urge to snap back with a smart reply. It would’ve taken me several minutes to come up with one anyway, so the simpler option was just to grit my teeth, lower my shoulders and march down the quiet street. All those slimebags, Artie and Slipper and Big Jim, had ducked back out of sight behind their cruisers, but thankfully the job sounded easy enough. Once I’d tiptoed up the driveway and made certain there were no lights on inside the Chief’s place, all I really had to do was walk back and forth spreading breadcrumbs about the lawn. Within seconds I’d attracted a long string of birds, all of them nipping at my heels as I waddled along at the head of the flock, like some sort of polyester-clad pied piper. Eventually, I settled into a comfortable rhythm and took my time about the work, meticulously spreading chunks of white bread across every corner of that half-acre. By the time I’d finished, I must’ve enticed at least fifty of those monstrous birds to come join us from the neighboring lots.
As I stood there admiring my handiwork with a certain amount of pride, I closed my eyes and tried to imagine what the yard might look like in the morning. In my mind, at least, the entire area was covered by a colorful blanket of grey goose feathers and pea-green turds, save for a single bare spot in the driveway where the Chief’s cruiser was parked. It seemed a shame to leave the job unfinished, so I kicked a couple birds aside and strode over to correct the shortcoming. And then, in a flash of inspiration, I held my breath, unlocked the driver’s side door and reached up to click off the dome light. A few of the braver geese shot me curious glances as I circled the Caprice, pulling open the doors in sequence, but the entire flock went on the wing when I chucked the remaining bread slices into the backseat. Empty-handed at last, I hightailed it back to my own cruiser where Artie, Jim and Slipper gave me a few hearty pats on the back. The group broke up quickly, and our three cruisers slipped back over to James Island under cover of darkness. Once there, I spent the rest of the evening keeping a watchful eye out while Artie dozed, although I did somehow find time to catch a couple quick winks myself.
It had started raining after midnight, the downpour making it a perfect evening for sleeping on duty, so I didn’t give our prank a second thought. And even the next morning, after dropping Artie off at his house a few hours before our shift ended, I simply turned in the cruiser and headed straight home to the warmth of my own bed. Of course that was back in the day before the Internet and cell phones, so I didn’t catch wind of the aftermath until Slipper called the next afternoon.
To hear that guy tell it, the heavy rains had driven away all the birds and nearly washed the driveway clear, to the point where it almost seemed like all my hard work had been for naught. So when Chief Greene went to head in to the station, the guy didn’t realize anything was up until the moment he climbed into his cruiser, flopping down over a thick, goopy puddle of bird shit. Now while I might have been willing to take responsibility for the cost of his dry cleaning bill, the way I see it, what happened next was nobody’s fault but his own. If the Chief had only stayed quiet instead of squealing like a little girl, he might not’ve woken up the flock sleeping comfortably in his backseat, all warm and dry and happy. But when those birds came to, they were understandably terrified by the squat, dark-skinned intruder. A scary creature had invaded their upholstered nesting ground with high-pitched screams of terror— what else would you expect a wild animal might do? Of course they started in on the Chief, nipping my boss about the ears, and beating at his neck and shoulders with their powerful wings. According to Slipper, the assault went on for nearly a full minute before Chief Greene managed to escape from his car. And even though the responding paramedics said that the injuries were mostly superficial, just cuts and bruises and a dislocated shoulder, in my opinion it was only the Chief’s pride that kept him out of the emergency room. As for the cruiser, it had to be totaled. That foul avian odor simply wasn’t coming out of the upholstery, but even that wasn’t all bad. The city issued old Rufus a slick new unmarked ride, the first in a series of jet black Mercurys he’d come to drive over the years. So the way I saw it, at least, the man really should have been thanking me for giving him the hook-up through such a hilarious prank.
As usual, though, the dicks in Internal Affairs just didn’t see it that way. In the end, I took the high road and kept my mouth shut about the whole thing. A heated investigation kicked off the next day, with Team Four cops being interviewed in secret as whispered rumors flew in the hallways. The gossip lasted for weeks, and of course Artie Mistle was the number-one suspect, but thankfully the rains had washed away any forensic evidence. But the furor died down after about five or six months, and eventually I began to think that I just might’ve gotten away with the perfect crime. Still, Artie made a point to hold that gag over my head right up until the day he retired. That jerk never went so far as to throw me under the bus completely, but he did start dropping carefully veiled hints to the other cops, claiming that I’d gone missing for half an hour on that fateful night. And even though there was absolutely no proof of m
y involvement, not even any circumstantial evidence save for that empty bread bag stuffed beneath the driver’s seat of my cruiser, that certainly didn’t stop anybody from calling me ‘Goosey’... at least, whenever the command staff officers weren’t around. I actually didn’t mind the nickname all that much— for the most part, it was just friendly teasing. All things considered, it made for a pretty cool story, and it was definitely the greatest accomplishment of my law enforcement career.
Back in the moment, Mr. Larssen steered his attention towards the subdivision’s upper-middle-class signage. I followed his angry glare, automatically resuming my line of inquiry while hoping that our patrol rookies wouldn’t be long in coming. Seeing as how I wasn’t going to be the one who got stuck writing the report, I felt comfortable enough to whip through the usual line of questioning. “But anyway, what can I do you for, sir? Our dispatchers mentioned something about a vandalism? They said it may have just occurred?”
He nodded towards the sign, then hocked up a loogie and spit it down on the grass. “Yup. Just happened, all right. Sometime in the last couple days, I reckon.”
I clenched my teeth and balled up my fists, struggling to keep my rage in check. So much for this being an urgent call.
He went on, seemingly unconcerned by the inconvenience he’d caused me. “Take a look at that right there, would you? Sons of bitches up and went plumb damn crazy on our signage! There’s no telling how this kind of mischief might affect our property values, but let me tell you something, the Shadowmoss Homeowners’ Association is not going to take this lying down! No sir, something has to be done!”
My attention came into focus just long enough for me to discern what he was raving about. When I finally saw it, I had to bite down hard on my lip to keep from laughing. It seemed as if some pack of juvenile vandals had gone out and had a field day in the neighborhood, ripping down the oversized letters which had once spelled out “Shadowmoss Plantation.” A handful of them had been picked out of the pile, rearranged, then hastily re-hung to spell the crude phrase “ass nation.” After managing to hold my tongue for a respectably long moment, I drew a pen from my shirt pocket and held it at the ready. The gesture was purely symbolic: I had absolutely no intention of jotting down any facts, especially not since I’d left my notebook back in the cruiser. “Who do you think could have done such a thing?” I prompted.
“Got me” he shrugged. “Probably some of them good-for-nothing teenagers we’ve got running around here. Half-grown beasts, every last one of them.”
I nodded again, putting the pen to good use as I scratched an itch on my forehead. “Yeah, this sure looks like the work of kids, all right. Got to be. Probably some of the same ones who’ve been running wild around all these subdivisions lately, knocking over mailboxes and stealing out of people’s cars and what not. I can’t tell you how many cases I’ve seen just like this one.” That last statement was actually true— I had absolutely no idea how many new case files might have been laying on top of my desk, unread and untouched.
Mr. Larssen grunted in appreciation of my empathy. “Them’s the ones. Nothing but trouble, all them little bastards. Let me tell you something, when I was their age I’d be home by dark, you can bet on that. Anytime I got caught out after the streetlights came on, my daddy would be standing right there on the front porch waiting for me, belt in hand for a good whupping.”
I laughed. “That was my old man too! Say, with our last names and all, now you’ve got me thinking we really might be long-lost cousins!” I waited patiently for the man’s chuckles to subside, satisfied that I’d finally built up enough rapport to blow him off without any consequences. “Well sir, I certainly don’t intend to hold you up any longer. If we don’t have anything else to go on, then I’ll just ask one of our patrol officers to stop by and file a complete report as soon as possible. That should be all the documentation we need, although I’m sure our crime scene technicians will want to stop by later to take some photographs.”
He put his hands on his waist, apparently satisfied by such a thorough, professional law enforcement response. There was absolutely no way in hell that I’d ever actually put pen to paper over such a piddling little incident, but in all honesty, it was the thought that counted. “Thank you, Michael...” he began, before quickly correcting himself. “I mean, Goosey. I truly appreciate your assistance.” He thought for a moment, then gave his head a quick shake. “I swear, this might just be the straw that breaks the camel’s back, at least for a few of us old-timers. Lately some of the original residents have been talking more and more about selling out, just packing up and heading off to one of those Florida retirement communities. But you know, I could actually understand all the break-ins we’ve been having... with theft, the criminals actually have something to gain. But this?” He waved an arm back at the sign. “This destruction, it just defies all logic. It all stems from a lack of respect, if you ask me. A complete and utter disregard for the neighborhood as a whole. Absolutely no concern for our property values.”
I shook my own head in a non-committal response, mirroring his gestures as I recited my tried-and-true monologue. “Yup. Damn kids, all right. They must have done it.”
Mr. Larssen exhaled deeply, and it appeared that he was finally coming to terms with the hopelessness of his situation. “Well now, it sounds as if you’ve got this matter well in hand. Let me go on and get out of your hair, then. I’m headed down to to the neighborhood association next, got to report the damage there as well. Bad news doesn’t get better with time, you know?”
I flashed him a grim, yet understanding smile. “Read you loud and clear, sir. Duty calls for both of us, it seems.”
He snapped off a quick salute, then turned sharply on his heel and strode over to a spanking new electric golf cart. A practiced flip of the wrist turned the ignition key, and Mr. Larssen slid the Clubman away from the curb in a silent, dignified departure. As for me, I stood there holding a hand to my chin, striking a pose of fierce investigative concentration. It probably made a strange picture for all the motorists passing by on Highway 61, but I held my ground just long enough for the man to round the corner. Once he was safely out of sight, I drew my new smartphone from its fake leather holster and took a series of snaps from arms’ length, praying that the low-megapixel camera might be able to capture both my face and the vandalized sign.
2.
Back home on James Island, in the relative comfort of my one-bedroom shoebox apartment, all seemed right with the world. After departing Shadowmoss Plantation I’d been able to dodge rush hour traffic by taking the back way home, cutting across Johns Island with a brief stopover to grab groceries from the Piggly Wiggly on Maybank Highway. There, a flirtatious wink at the redneck queen manning the registers convinced her to look the other way as I whisked my groceries down the conveyor belt, using my finely-honed interpersonal skills in place of hard currency. The tune I hummed as I cooked dinner that night was a song of contentment, with a bowl full of tasty Ramen noodles warming in the microwave oven and a handful of bills still left in my wallet. For once in my life, there was an above-average chance that I might actually be able to make ends meet until payday.
The microwave’s peaceful hum was interrupted by a high-pitched ping, so I stepped back into the hallway to grab my phone and scroll through the text messages. The newest was from Slipper Johnson, who’d stayed my closest friend at the Department since our rookie days. He’d somehow managed to claw his way up the ranks to Sergeant, and was currently posted downtown as a shift supervisor in Team One. Slipper had a well-earned reputation for being the man in the know when it came to CPD gossip, although the guy also enjoyed launching baseless rumors just for the sake of entertainment.
Still, whenever that dude called, the news was bound to be juicy. After reading his brief, cryptic message aloud— “Live 5 News @ 6 - tune in!” — I dashed off my own quick, yet equally eloquent reply: “OK.” My fingers still weren’t fully accustomed to the ease of using those
slick new smartphones, and the ease of dashing off long-winded messages with just a few quick swipes. It was a huge contrast from my old flip-phone, and the endless button-mashing that model had required. One of the biggest benefits of working a predictable, dayshift routine again was that my alcohol and entertainment bills had both dropped off sharply, so even after shelling out big bucks for an upgrade, I was still able to cover my phone bills more often than not.
The clock on the microwave showed 5:58, so I snatched up the bowl of steaming noodles and headed for the living room, pausing only to lean into the fridge and grab a can of Bud Light and a half-empty bottle of barbecue sauce. I took that first cool swig of brew while using my free hand to pour the sauce over my Ramen, watching in fascination as the dark brown goo worked its way down the sides of the bowl. It was a true test of agility, juggling the hearty and nutritious meal with the beer tucked up in the crook of my elbow, simultaneously twisting a fairly-clean fork around in the bowl to work that magical Sweet Baby Ray’s flavor over every last noodle. Once I’d gotten comfortably situated in my old recliner, kicked back with both feet raised high in the air and that plastic Tupperware serving dish balanced neatly along my midsection, I reached for the remote and began clicking through the channels. I hadn’t caught wind of any brewing crises, but I cranked up the volume on Channel 5 News just the same. The way I saw it, Slipper wouldn’t have bothered to flag the broadcast if it wasn’t going to be good.
Sure enough, the newscast didn’t disappoint. Even before they’d rolled the theme music, the show caught my full attention with their blaring leader: “CHARLESTON POLICE CHIEF INVOLVED IN TRAFFIC ACCIDENT DOWNTOWN! GREENE FOUND AT FAULT?” Let me tell you what, that bowl of tasty noodles lay there on my stomach, ignored and forgotten, as I craned my neck upright and slapped at the armrest in search of the remote control. I boosted the volume up as high as the tiny set could go, not sparing a thought for the thin walls separating me from my geriatric neighbors. The newscasters’ voices echoed throughout the small space, almost as if I was standing right there in the studio with them.
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