Remembering August (Triple C Ranch Saga)

by Rodney V. Earle

  “I can’t see,” said Sheila.

  “Jesus Christ,” Jarvis muttered under his breath. “You don’t need to see this part,” he said loudly. He inched his way between Sheila and Schmidt without touching them. He spread the handles of the bolt cutters as wide as he could and moved the jaws closer to the keychain. “Gimme some slack, Schmitty,” he said.

  “Copy,” replied the officer.

  “What do I need to do?” asked Sheila.

  “Just let Schmitty do the work,” replied Jarvis. “I’m gonna cut the chain, and all you need to do is keep still.”

  “Copy,” said Sheila, emulating Schmidt again.

  Jarvis held the heavy tool in place and Schmidt nodded, signaling his readiness. Slowly Jarvis squeezed the bolt cutter’s handles together. The links of the keychain separated with a dull click. The other part of the keychain dropped to the towel at their feet. “Good,” he said and then stood up.

  “My back is killing me,” said Sheila.

  “We’re almost there, Mrs. Jones,” said Jarvis as he dropped the bolt cutters to the floor and shuffled back to his original position to Sheila’s right. “Schmitty, let’s get B.D.U. in here.”

  “Copy,” said Schmidt.

  †

  The parking lot in front of Colony Day Spa buzzed with activity. Makeshift barricades of yellow POLICE LINE tape held back nearly a hundred shoppers from evacuated stores and shops nearby. Frantic cell phone conversations filled the warm morning air with speculation about what was going on inside.

  Scores of uniformed L.A.P.D. officers stood with their backs to the complex as more shoppers and employees from the clothing and wicker basket stores were herded behind the tape. Red and blue lights flashed everywhere and more officers re-routed traffic away from the Pacific Coast Highway, preventing further access to the parking lot.

  A black, square-shaped truck about the size of a UPS delivery van made its way through the far entrance. The initials L.A.P.D.B.D.U. were arranged in a semicircle of white letters on both sides. The diesel engine roared as the truck made its way down the fire lane and came to a stop directly in front of the spa.

  The rear double doors flew open and five or six men dressed in heavy black pads and helmets hurriedly jumped out onto the asphalt. The men checked each other’s equipment and readied themselves for action.

  “Gimme an audio check, gentlemen!” one of the men shouted.

  “Unit one, audio check,” said one.

  “Copy, unit one,” replied the man.

  “Unit two, audio check,” said another.

  “Copy, unit two,” said the first man.

  Each of them called out their own audio checks, and the man who appeared to be the team leader verified two others, making the count one leader and four support members. Each of them had L.A.P.D. imprinted on the back of their body armor in yellow letters, and B.D.U. imprinted on the front in the same font, only smaller. The dull black helmets were devoid of lettering, and each had clear plastic face shields on top in the open position.

  The passenger door of the black truck slid open and a woman in her mid-forties stepped out. She was wearing black slacks with a matching long-sleeved blouse that buttoned up the front, and sensible shoes.

  “Who we got inside?” the woman asked as she spoke into a hidden microphone in her closed fist.

  “We got Jarvis, but our contact is an Officer Schmidt,” replied the team leader, who was still standing with the rest of the team at the back of the truck.

  “God help us,” said the woman into her fist. She headed for the back of the truck. “Schmidt,” she said. “Another cowboy?”

  “Negative,” replied the team leader. “This guy’s a pro.”

  “About fuckin’ time we get a good one,” the woman said as she rounded the left rear corner and joined the rest of the team.

  “Ten-four,” the team leader replied as he grabbed a thick, shiny canvas-like vest with a large red “X” on front and back.

  Without saying another word, the woman approached the team leader, turned her back to him and held her arms out like a giant letter T. The leader ripped at the Velcro strips that held the vest together and carefully guided the woman’s head through the hole in the top.

  “Watch the hair,” she said with a chuckle.

  “Ten-four,” he repeated. He hurriedly pulled the Velcro strips tight under the woman’s arms.

  The woman checked her equipment and made an adjustment or two. “Helmet,” she said.

  The leader fumbled around the back of the truck and produced a helmet similar to the ones worn by the rest of the team. The woman grabbed the helmet, placed it on her head, and checked the chinstrap.

  “Jesus Christ,” she said as she held the sides with both hands. “Whose helmet is this? Carpenter’s?”

  “Sorry, Chief,” said the leader. “Take mine.”

  The team leader and the woman exchanged helmets and made adjustments so that each had a helmet that fit properly.

  “All set?” asked the woman referred to as “Chief.”

  “Ten-four.”

  “I want a direct line to this Officer Schmidt on channel two. Copy?” barked the Chief.

  “Copy,” said the leader, and then mumbled a few words into the microphone that rested against his cheek. The Chief lowered her face shield, and the rest followed suit.

  “Channel two clear, Chief,” said the leader.

  “Copy,” said the Chief. “I want a clean dispersal, people, and mind the furniture. I got point,” she instructed. “Max, you’re with me. Bring my tool bag. Tell your flunkies that I want the place padded with everything we got.”

  “Copy,” said Max. He grabbed a large black bag from the back of the truck. A large red X was taped on both sides. “All right, people, you heard the lady!” Max barked. “Clean dispersal, heavy on the pads, and mind the furniture.”

  “Let’s go,” instructed the Chief.

  †

  “B.D.U.’s on the way,” said Officer Schmidt calmly to Detective Jarvis.

  “Copy,” said Jarvis. “Mrs. Jones, in a few seconds—”

  “In a few seconds I’m gonna kick your ass if you keep calling me Mrs. Jones,” Sheila interrupted with a bite to her tone.

  “What?” asked Jarvis. He stood with his mouth open and blinked exaggeratedly, taken by surprise at Sheila’s sudden demeaning tone.

  “My name… is Sheila! Mrs. Jones… is my mother!”

  “You—”

  “SHUT UP!” Sheila screamed. “Just fucking listen!”

  “I’m listening,” Jarvis said cautiously.

  “I think… that… in the situation we’re in,” Sheila continued loudly, “I would feel a little less tense if you called me by my name, which is… what? Say it with me… Shee-luh. Shee-luh. Got it?”

  “Copy that, Sheila,” Jarvis replied with the same cautious tone. “What else can I do that would make you more comfortable?”

  “You know what would make me more comfortable?” she asked with a suddenly calm tone.

  “I’m listening… Sheila,” said Jarvis.

  “Stop fucking around with movie quotes and all of that bullshit, because it is really pissing me off!” she shouted. “You know… I’m not stupid!”

  “I—” Jarvis started with a stutter.

  “You guys may deal with shit like this every Goddamned day, but this little venture is a new one for me, you asshole!” Sheila continued, nearly losing control.

  †

  “Hold it, Max,” said the B.D.U Chief as she led her team toward the front door.

  Without saying a word, Max held his right hand in the air and clenched his fist tightly. The rest of his well-trained team stopped in their tracks, awaiting further instructions.

  “Sounds like trouble in there,” said the Chief. “Officer Schmidt, this is B.D.U. Chief Alice Ripley, do you copy?” she said into the tiny microphone in her helmet.

  †

  “Now look what you did!” Sheila continued h
er shouting at Jarvis. “You made me blaspheme, and that’s somethin’ I never do!”

  “Please stand by,” Officer Schmidt said quietly into his radio, answering Chief Ripley’s call.

  †

  “Ten-four,” replied Ripley as she turned her head slightly to the left to address her team leader. “Max, I thought you said we weren’t getting another damn cowboy.”

  “I didn’t think we were,” replied Max with a whisper.

  “I’m givin’ this… Officer Schmidt… about thirty seconds to get the situation under control, and then we’re goin’ in, like it or not,” said Ripley, looking for a sign of support.

  “Copy that, Chief,” said Max.

  †

  Sheila took a deep breath and slowly wiped her forehead with her left hand as Schmidt tightened his grip on her right thumb and index finger. “That’s a little tight,” she said with a wince.

  “Sorry, Sheila,” Schmidt said and then relaxed his grip slightly.

  “Thank you,” said Sheila, calming down a bit. “Now… will you please get the Bomb Disposal Unit people in here so I can live another day or two?”

  Schmidt looked up at Jarvis, who was still blinking exaggeratedly.

  “Like I said,” Sheila continued, “I’m not stupid. That’s what B.D.U. stands for. Am I correct?”

  “Copy that, Sheila,” Schmidt said as he reached for the microphone on his left shoulder. “Chief Ripley, do you copy?”

  †

  “This is Ripley. Go ahead.”

  “Proceed at your discretion,” said Schmidt.

  “Ten-four,” said Ripley, who then turned her attention back to her team leader. “Max, we’re on again.”

  “Affirmative,” said Max, who readied his team for a second time.

  “Let’s go,” said Ripley. She stepped cautiously inside the spa’s open doorway, followed closely by Max and the rest of the team. She cautiously scanned the lobby, noting the plush white leather furniture and the bronze, glass-top coffee tables. Several neatly-arranged fashion and glamour magazines were displayed strategically on them. Max stood slightly to her left and behind her. His right hand rested flatly between her shoulder blades. B.D.U. team members referred to the position as “standard cover formation, man two.”

  “Damn it.” Ripley said under her breath, but with an urgency that her team knew well.

  “Come again, Chief?” asked Max.

  “See that glass door?”

  “Affirmative.”

  “That’s a fuckin’ Bob Ross.”

  “Copy,” said Max, who saw that Ripley was referring to the etched seascape on the door. “You want it extracted?”

  “Get somebody to check the hinges,” said Ripley. “If it’s gonna take more than two minutes, we gotta leave it.”

  “Ten-four,” replied Max. Without leaving cover formation, he snapped his fingers and made a series of hand signals. Another team member moved swiftly out the front door. Other team members scurried out, only to return a few seconds later with armloads of thick, gray, loosely-folded blankets, which they then piled in the middle of the floor.

  As Ripley and Max approached the ornately-decorated glass door, they saw the blurry outlines of Sheila, Officer Schmidt, and Jarvis on the other side.

  “We’re at the hall door,” said Ripley into the microphone in her helmet.

  “Copy, Chief,” said Officer Schmidt. “Come ahead.”

  Ripley pulled at the door. She was surprised at how effortlessly it swung open, and she thought that whoever designed the well-balanced, brushed nickel hinges was a genius, considering the door weighed a good two hundred pounds or more.

  “Don’t let the door slam shut… fuckerhead!” Jarvis barked condescendingly without turning around.

  Schmidt was surprised at Jarvis’s tone, as well as his choice of curse words. He thought that perhaps the sting of Sheila’s tirade went much deeper than originally thought. He felt Sheila’s body tense up.

  “Copy… Detective Jarvis,” said Ripley, ignoring Jarvis’ condescension for the sake of keeping the situation calm.

  A shiver worked its way up Jarvis’s quickly-jellying spine. He knew he had made a rather large mistake. Calling Chief Alice Ripley a fuckerhead was not exactly the best way to assure advancement in the workplace. She was a notoriously rigid, high-ranking LAPD officer.

  Ripley approached with her cover man in tow and surmised that Jarvis had lost control due to his “inability to resolve and diffuse tense situations when confronted with increased civilian stresses.” This comment she specifically remembered. It came directly from the last performance evaluation of one Detective Clayton Jarvis.

  Ripley glanced over her shoulder and made eye contact with Max, who shook his head and rolled his eyes. He dropped his hand from between Ripley’s shoulders and set the black bag on the floor.

  “Let’s see what we have here… Detective,” said Ripley, this time with a little bite in her tone.

  Sheila took in a deep breath and sighed choppily.

  “Easy, Sheila,” Schmidt whispered. “Stay with me here.”

  “I’m with ya,” Sheila said. “I can’t see who he’s talking to.”

  “You’ll see soon enough. It’s a little crowded in here at the moment.”

  †

  Ripley assessed the situation; the door handle was immobilized with duct tape, Officer Schmidt was sharing beads of sweat with the pretty owner of Colony Day Spa who had consumed much coffee, and a detective with far too much confidence was making the situation untenable. “We’ll take it from here, Detective Jarvis,” she said in an overtly professional tone. “Can you help the guys with crowd control, please? We need them back another ten meters.”

  “That’s fine,” snapped Jarvis as he headed for the glass door without making eye contact with Ripley. “I gotta piss anyway, and it already reeks of urine in here.”

  Before anyone in the room could say a word, Jarvis disappeared through the heavy door and gave it a hard shove. The glass door made a deep, ringing CLANG as it made contact with the door frame.

  Jarvis’s comment hit its intended mark, dead center. Tears leapt from the depths of Sheila’s eyes.

  “I am so sorry,” said Ripley as she moved to Sheila’s right.

  “Just get me the fuck out of here.” said Sheila.

  “You got it,” said Ripley as she knelt to one knee and removed her helmet. “Name’s Alice. What’s yours?”

  Sheila was a mess. She sobbed and fought for composure. She took a choppy breath and finally said, “Sheila.”

  “Nice place,” said Ripley.

  “Thanks,” said Sheila with a hard sniffle. “I’d like to keep it that way if we can.”

  Ripley snapped her fingers. Max appeared to Sheila’s right with the black bag, placed it on the floor, and then disappeared again. “We’ll see what we can do,” said Ripley. “First things first.”

  Ripley unzipped the bag and reached inside with both hands. Sheila could see shiny metal and dull black rubber, but couldn’t identify the apparatus that Alice freed from the bag.

  “What is that thing?” asked Sheila.

  “It’s like a clamp,” said Ripley. “I’ll use it to hold the key so you can let go once it’s in place.”

  “Will it take long?” Sheila asked with a sniffle, calming at the confident tone of the heavily-armored woman with sensible shoes.

  “About thirty seconds,” replied Ripley.

  “Hal-le-fucking-lu-yah! Then I can get the hell out of here?”

  “We’re gonna put some body armor on you before we let you go,” said Ripley as she unfolded the apparatus.

  “Shit,” said Sheila. She shook her head and closed her eyes.

  “It won’t take long,” said Ripley.

  “You’re the boss, Alice,” said Sheila in a suddenly distant monotone.

  Ripley speculated that Sheila was losing her patience, and she knew she needed to move fast. The apparatus was a mass of metal and rubber with suctio
n cups.

  “I take it you’ve used one of those before,” said Sheila.

  “Once or twice,” said Ripley. “I ’spect that Officer Schmidt has seen one before. Am I right, officer?”

  “Never this close before, ma’am,” Schmidt added with a light chuckle.

  “Hold the key real still for a sec,” said Ripley.

  Before they had a chance to respond, Ripley already had the spider-like apparatus in place. “That’s got it,” Ripley said. She stood and snapped her fingers a second time.

  Max appeared again at Sheila’s right, this time with the body armor that Jarvis had brought in. “This is my friend Maximilian Turnbull,” said Ripley.

  “Nice to meet you, ma’am,” said Max.

  “Likewise,” said Sheila. “I can’t see you very well. You’ll have to forgive me for not shaking your hand.”

  Max smiled and said nothing. He held the vest high, and then turned it around for Ripley’s inspection. Ripley nodded her approval. “Max here is gonna put this on you. That sound like an okay deal to you? I ask because it’s a bit of a violation of… personal space… if you know what I mean.”

  “I know what you mean,” said Sheila. “As long as he’s cute, I don’t mind, but I didn’t get a good look at him.”

  “I promise he’s cute,” said Alice.

  “Then let’s get it on,” said Sheila. “I take it I need to hold the key still?”

  “Well… not so much hold it still as just hold it,” said Alice. “Officer Schmidt can remove his hand because this… thing is already doing his part,” she said, motioning to the contraption on the door.

  “Copy that,” said Schmidt. He slowly removed his hand from Sheila’s fingers and stood up straight.

  “Max, you’re on,” instructed Ripley.

  Sheila heard the ripping of Velcro straps. Max opened the sides of the thick, vest-like garment that resembled a life preserver. “I’m gonna slip this over your head, so you won’t see anything for a minute other than the inside of the vest,” said Turnbull in a no-nonsense tone.