At the head of the group, Sergeant Dookie Wilson slammed his big black arms down hard on the tabletop. The rest of us jumped in surprise, probably because it was the most energy we’d seen out of that guy in years. All police departments had at least a couple of lazy, overweight cops, but that fat slob was in a class all by himself. Dookie Wilson wasn’t so much of a man as he was a presence, a huge brown pile of flesh, capable of expanding his mass to fill up an entire restaurant booth on his own. His thick neck ballooned out the top of his uniform collar, the rolls of flesh concealing any trace of the fact that he’d once been an all-American college sprinter. Of course that was long ago, way before he’d gone and packed on all the poundage.
“Fo’ real!” he shouted. “Tha’s wha’ I been on about for years, Larsen. Man! This damn place need some mo’ dee-versity, plain and simple. Ain’t none of y’all see no brothers up in this piece ‘sides me, do you now? Shee-it, not a damn one. ‘Kay, sure, maybe tha’s ‘cause there ain’t no brothers ‘sides me stupid enough to work a job in the rain, but it’s still a damn shame. We had two, maybe three mo’ colored folks, I jus’ bet we could get some of that good ol’ soul food goin’. One of these places gotta have a grill we can borrow, you know? Fire up some ribs on the smoker.” Dookie stuck out his pink tongue and ran it slowly across his wide lips. “Damn it, boy. I love me some ribs, now.”
Slipper Johnson arched an eyebrow at the comment, casting a suspicious glance in Dookie’s direction. “You crazy, son. You know that, don’t you? You realize we’re gonna be eating dinner in a mall food court tonight, right? Not out in your nana’s backyard? You ever seen these people selling fried chicken and collard greens up in here? No? Then I damn sure bet there ain’t gonna be no old man sitting out in the parking lot selling watermelons from the back of his truck, not in this kind of weather.”
Dookie leaned in, resting the bulk of his weight on two scabby elbows. Even though the man was grossly out of shape, tipping the scales at well over three hundred pounds, his sheer size could still intimidate. He reached down into his shirt pocket and withdrew a thin wooden toothpick, placed it between his lips, and rolled it back and forth slowly. The gesture was unmistakably menacing. “So wha’ you tryin’ to say, cracker?”
Slipper tilted his head and shrugged. “I ain’t tryin’ to say nothing, Wilson— I am saying it. You really want some of that ghetto grub, all you got to do is ring up one of them bad little cousins of yours, get them to come out here and deliver it. How many illegitimate children are you up to now, anyway? Surely one of them bastards can help us out by grabbing a screwdriver and busting into the Food Lion.”
Big Jim raised a wrinkled, spotted hand. Even though that dude had strong convictions against getting involved in any kind of dispute, his calming presence kept the situation from deteriorating. “Now just cool your heels, ladies.” He paused to plug an index finger into his ear, digging around in the canal and then pulling it back out, inspecting the thin layer of brown wax on the tip of his fingernail. “For starters, we’re not going to starve. There’s plenty of grub to go around, soul food or no. Whenever possible, we’ll do our level best to accommodate everybody’s individual tastes.” Jim stuck the finger in his mouth and gave it a lick, savoring the saltiness. Pulling the digit free, he inspected it carefully, finally judging that it was clean save for the usual nicotine stains. Tapping the side of his temple, he said, “This ain’t my first rodeo, fellas. Uncle Jim’s thought of pretty much everything.” He nodded at Sal, who’d been sitting quietly. “Sergeant Brown over here’s in charge of the vittles... so whattya got lined up, bub?”
Sal gave the man a single perfunctory nod, then whipped a slim blue notebook from his shirt pocket. He licked the tip of his thumb, then flipped through the pages in an efficient manner. The dude hadn’t even done anything yet, but I was already impressed. He was all business, and it seemed a damn shame that Sal never managed to replicate that appearance while on duty. “Right, so... looks like the pizza will cover us for dinner, and I’ve already got these patrol kids organizing a working party for this evening. Any cop who showed up driving an SUV or a 4x4 has automatically volunteered themselves for a run out to the Dodge Store in Red Top. I’ve got the group scheduled to leave out of here at eleven o’clock, come hell or high water.”
I scratched my head in confusion. “Sal, are you for real right now? A gas station trip in the middle of the night?”
He looked up at me, not at all pleased by the interruption. I watched in fascination as his scowl twisted that bushy mustache up into an awkward, almost painful-looking knot. “That’s right, Larsen. Shoot, I keep forgetting you’re new over here in Team Four. The Dodge Store is our little secret this side of the river, and I’d certainly like to keep it that way. That shack never closes, no matter the weather. If we get enough guys together, we should be able to clean them out of their famous chicken and biscuits.”
Dookie nodded eagerly, sending rolls of fat jiggling in jerky waves around his big neck. “Damn! Now tha’ right they’s what I’m talking ‘bout!”
Enjoying his moment in the spotlight, Sal waited patiently for the chatter to settle down. “So that ought to set us up pretty nicely for a midnight snack. Now assuming nobody around here does anything stupid afterwards, like say, leave the mall to go out on patrol...”
Jim Cobb jumped in. “I’ve already put out the order. All the troops are on lockdown until further notice.” He turned his head from side to side, making eye contact with each of us in turn. “No sense going out in the wind and rain unless we really have to. Am I right?”
Sal nodded once again. “Right you are. So like I was saying, after we load up at the Dodge Store, unless one of you guys has a tapeworm or something, we should be good to go until morning. From there...” He paused, flipping ahead to the next page in his notebook. “We’re going to have the same group of runners head back out. This time, though, they’ll be breaking off into groups. I’ll need at least two cars— scratch that, two trucks— to hit up the Piggly Wiggly supermarket, the one right there across Skylark Drive. I haven’t managed to scrounge up a key for that place yet, but if we can’t jimmy the lock, the guys can just smash a window or something. Simple grocery run is all: load up on bacon, eggs, sausage, milk, and anything else that looks good. Maybe some of them hash brown potatoes, toaster waffles and Aunt Jemima syrup, stuff like that. Once that’s done, Group A will head straight back over here and start scraping these griddles clean.”
I smiled, nodding my approval. “Good plan, Sal. Good plan.”
Dookie scratched at his massive, sloping forehead. “But wha’ about th’ other group? Where those cops gon’ go?”
Sal smiled. “Let’s keep this part just between us girls for now, okay? Security reasons. But as for those guys, I’m going to have Group B rally up at the Waffle House on Savannah Highway.”
I cocked my head. “Whoa, wait a minute, Sal. What exactly do you have up your sleeve? Why in the world would you go to all the trouble of having guys pick up groceries if you’re just sending another team out on a restaurant run?”
Sal set his notebook on the table and reached up to pull the ends of his mustache, using his thick fingers to fashion the bristly hairs into sharp points. “Listen here, Goosey. I know you’re not a supervisor yet...”
“And by the Good Lord’s grace, I never will be.”
“Believe you me” he shot back, “every other cop at CPD is probably saying the same damn prayer.” Sal took a deep breath, sighed, and unfolded his hands to show me the open palms in a gesture of peace. “But think for a second, just one second now, about how it might look if a dozen uniformed cops were to flood into that greasy spoon at the same damn time, and right in the middle of a natural disaster. No way, bud! If we want to make this hustle last, we’ve got to keep up appearances. That’s why I’ve got this operation planned out like a black bag mission, you dig? The way I see it, if we send a couple cops to swarm up in that Waffle House, give the cook staff a l
ittle reminder about the mandatory evacuation order, we’ll have a solid excuse to escort all of them burger jockeys back over here. For their own safety, of course. This way, we’ll be adding a handful of expert chefs to our all-star team, just in time for a hearty lumberjack breakfast.” Sal took a slow, purposeful look around the table. “Anyone who doesn’t feel like getting a little damp is welcome to stay back here, maybe start gathering up all the pots and pants we’re going to need. Sears should have all the spatulas and utensils and what not, and then we can hit up Target for the paper towels and cooking spray.”
I leaned back in my seat, unable to contain a smile of admiration. My partner had laid out a flawless kidnapping plan, almost as if we were some kind of CIA special operations unit rather than just a bunch of tired old cops. At that point, I couldn’t help wondering if old Sal Brown didn’t have some kind of first-hand experience with this stuff back in his home country— wherever that was, I mean. But honestly, the most impressive part of the whole scheme was how he’d managed to make it sound as if we were on some kind of mission of mercy.
“Absolute genius, Sal” I whispered. “Your finest work yet. Really, man, I mean that.”
He nodded once more, receiving the compliment with just a single dip of his fleshy, dimpled chin. I hadn’t ever been one to casually throw out praise, and he knew it. “I’m still working on a plan for tomorrow’s lunch and dinner” Sal went on, “but if all goes well, we’ll be able to hold out for the next sixteen hours at least. And I’m still working this part through, but if we can somehow manage to break into the Total Wine store— uh, I mean, if we’re out making rounds and we happen to find a door left open— then we might even be able to snag a few bottles of vodka, maybe serve up some Bloody Marys for brunch.” His briefing over, Sal sat back and savored the spontaneous round of applause. In my humble opinion, at least, the man’s accolades were well deserved.
Once the clamor began to die down, it seemed like my turn to chime in. “Now all we’ve got to do is keep our fingers crossed, huh? Hopefully none of the command staff will get a wild hair and come around checking on us.”
Jim scowled. “You’re kidding me, right? There’s no way Captain Russell is going to set foot outside of 75, not unless it’s to get better reception on his handheld radio. And even then, he’ll probably only be spinning up some kind of bullshit, like calling a rookie over to empty his trash can.” He snorted in disgust. “Listen, dude, all those command staff douchebags have it made with their accomodations downtown. They’re all shacking up in hotels, did you know that?”
I gasped. “No way!”
“It’s true, man! Russell conveniently left that little fact out of his pep talk yesterday. No three hots and a cot for them— it’s the five-star treatment at the Charleston Place hotel and resort, living in luxury until the rain stops. All those asswipes have to do is pipe up on the radio once an hour, say something, anything that sounds important, even though we all know better.” He reached down and clicked off his walkie-talkie in a show of protest. “I’ll be damned if I need to know which intersections are flooded over, you heard me? My old ass ain’t going nowhere.”
Slipper smiled, leaning forward to rest his elbows on the table in a clear breach of dining etiquette. “So, you think our leadership’s got it made right now, do you Jim? Well, man, I’m not going to call you a liar or anything, but that’s not the way I heard it.”
The rest of us crowded in close, eagerly anticipating the latest gossip. “Come on, spill it!” I demanded, slamming my first down to emphasize the point. “Things are too quiet around here, now that the Chief’s been banished to the rubber gun squad. If there’s any dirt floating around with the command staff, you better dish it!”
Slipper stole a quick glance back over his shoulder to ensure none of the rookies were listening in. At the moment all those kids seemed to be otherwise occupied, however— anyone who wasn’t tied up cooking dinner was crowded inside the Foot Locker, trying on the latest styles of hightop sneakers. “Well, okay” Slipper finally relented. “You’ve all heard by now about how Lieutenant Colonel Hedleyson is supposedly running the show, right? How he’s going to be ‘the man’ until Chief Greene can get his meds back in balance?”
The small group of cops nodded in unison. The effect was visually hypnotic, our heads bobbing up and down as if we were all riding the waves of some constant, invisible tide.
“Well, that’s it right there” he went on. “Have any of you guys seen Hedleyson, or even heard from that guy at all, since he took charge of CPD?”
The collected heads swiveled from side to side now. The question was valid; our leadership had seemed unusually silent over the past twenty-four hours. Normally the brass would have used this impending hurricane to make a grand show of their managerial incompetence, but instead, we’d been treated to a rare block of radio silence.
Jim Cobb was the first to speak up. He licked his thick, sausagey lips with a savage hunger, muttering, “Damn it all, Johnson. You’re right! I haven’t heard the first word out of that old clown yet.”
Slipper tapped a finger against the side of his nose. “Exactly. Hey Jim, let me use you as an example. You probably think you’re riding a gravy train with biscuit wheels, yeah? Collecting a fat paycheck every two weeks on top of your pension, and that’s not even counting whatever you’ve got coming in from the federal government. But let me tell you something, man, old Hedleyson’s got you beat. Hands-down, bro, it’s not even a contest. I never had that old duffer pegged for a scam artist, but he’s practically robbing this city blind.”
Jim narrowed his eyes, full of interest now that the conversation had turned towards money. “Explain.”
“So we all know that Colonel Hedleyson’s another one of those double-dippers, right? He hit the twenty-five year mark, oh, about ten years ago now. And on top of all his retirement cheddar, the man’s still pulling in a six-figure salary from his regular job. He’s literally rolling in cash.”
Jim growled defensively, almost as if Slipper’s comments were aimed directly at him. “Yeah, yeah, bub. We already knew that.” He puffed out his sunken chest. “Listen, that whole retire-and-come-back to work program isn’t just a CPD hustle. It was something the state came up with to keep enough cops on the streets. Trust me bro, if South Carolina says it’s legal then it’s got to be on the up-and-up.”
Slipper raised his palms, trying his best to deflect Jim’s venom. “I’m not criticizing you, Bubba. Far from it! Man, you do you. Get that money! But check this out, I bet even you never knew that Hedleyson went and got hired on for a whole ‘nother city job. The man’s been taking his scam to a new level. He’s not just double-dipping... he’s triple-dipping!”
I felt my jaw drop in surprise. “No way!”
Slipper shook his head. “If I’m lyin’, I’m dyin’.” He turned his attention back towards Big Jim. “You’d think that running a police department, especially one as screwed-up as ours, would be a full-time job, right? But let me ask you something. Even before anything that happened this past week, how often have you actually seen Hedleyson sitting behind his desk?”
Jim scratched his temple with a thick, nicotine-stained finger. “Come of think of it, never. That old fella spends even less time at 75 than I do. What’s his deal, then?”
Slipper’s mouth spread into a wicked grin. “Listen, man. Whenever that dude’s not fighting crime, which is basically every day, he’s over on James Island, holed up at the municipal golf course. Hedleyson’s worked his way up the ladder to become the general manager of that place, if you can believe it.”
I had a flashback to my patrol days in Team 3, where the long, uneventful day shifts were interrupted only by an occasional call for a stray golf ball striking a car along Maybank Highway. In retrospect I guess it did seem kind of odd, how Lieutenant Colonel Hedleyson always demanded that we write out incident reports for such petty complaints, but back then I simply hadn’t thought to question the man. Our squad had
always written the behavior off as one more worthless command staff officer trying to justify his existence. Apparently, we weren’t too far off the mark.
Jim growled. “Motherfucker! I’ve shot a few rounds with Hedleyson myself, whenever I needed to kill time during a shift. But hell, I always just thought that dude was blowing off work too.”
Dookie cast him a sideways glance. “Yo, boss. Since when you start playin’ golf, huh? Or any kind of sport, fo’ that matter?”
Jim raised his hands in the air, backpedaling. “Stow that last, Wilson. I misspoke. What I meant to say was, I’ve ridden shotgun on Hedleyson’s golf cart more than a couple times. And before any of you slobs dare to judge me, you should know that guy always packs a full cooler when he hits the links. He turned back to Slipper, who’d been waiting patiently with his arms crossed over his chest and a smug smile of satisfaction on his face. “How long d’ya think he’s been running that hustle for?”
I jumped in, recalling all the paperwork I’d had to file for shanked drives. “At least a decade, I’d say. Longer, probably.”
Slipper nodded and tapped his nose. “That’s my guess. When that whole road rage incident went down and Hedleyson found himself in charge, man, I bet he was just as surprised as the rest of us. The way I heard it, when he got the tap, Hedleyson actually had the balls to tell Mayor O’Reilly that he’d only be available three days a week! What’s more, he came right out and said that he’s only sticking around CPD until Chief Greene’s replacement comes on board. Dude ain’t stupid, now. He ain’t never lifted a finger around this place, and he ain’t about to start doing any kind of work now.”
Dookie nodded sagely. “Them’s the keys to negotiation, son. Get them motherfuckers sitting over a barrel, so’s they got no choice but to ‘cept your terms. Hold them boys hostage, yo. But fo’ real, you think this gon’ be the last straw for ol’ Rufus?”
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