by Jed Power
* * *
Two of those pairs of eyes belonged to Lieutenant John O'Brien and Inspector Carl Bumpers of the Saugus Police Department. The partners were sitting nearby in an unmarked car. They were on stakeout, looking for some B & E suspects who were using one of the storage rooms to stash loot. They'd been there quite a while and were just about to leave when two men had pulled up to one of the nearby units in a black Lincoln. Now they watched the men transfer duffel bags from the storage room to the Lincoln's trunk.
In a real hurry about something, O'Brien mused to himself. He was nearing retirement age and contrary to the popular trend, was not looking forward to retirement. Yeah, his hair'd gone gray and was a little thin in places, he had been forced to wear glasses when he couldn't pass the firearms test, and his belly stuck out enough to shake hands with the steering wheel, but his mind was still sharp. And that mind told O'Brien that something was not quite right about the guys tossing duffle bags into their trunk.
"Shit," Bumpers said, shaking his head. "They're not ours. Might as well head in and get our paperwork finished."
O'Brien glanced at his partner sitting in the passenger seat. Bumpers was young, black, and sharply dressed, a combination that never failed to amuse O'Brien. His own plainclothes "uniform" consisted of a navy sports coat that had fit nicely but now, because of his expanding girth, was two sizes too small; a white dress shirt; the same style tie he'd worn at his wedding eons ago; and black cotton slacks. Not to forget the white socks with black tie shoes.
"Hold on for a second. I'd like to see what this guy's up to."
"Up to?" Bumpers said, the annoyance in his voice growing. "They're loading stuff from a storage room. So what? That's what these places are for, aren't they? They're not our perps, I can tell you that."
"No, they're not." O'Brien would have to handle this carefully. He and Bumpers got along well, and he wanted to keep it that way. After all, he spent as much time with his partner every day as he did with his wife. And just like with a wife, it didn't pay to start trouble with a partner. "But that character got out of the car a little too fast. He's real anxious about something. Let's just see. I have a feeling."
"A feeling?" Bumpers asked skeptically. "Or is it because the man's Hispanic?"
"No, it's not because he's Hispanic, smartass," O'Brien said. "I told you, he was a little too anxious hopping out of that car. It doesn't hurt any to check it out. We got the time."
"I just don't think it's right, us watching this man because his skin's dark." Bumpers craned his neck and sat up straighter.
O'Brien's temperature raised a notch. This was the second time today that Bumpers had accused him of being prejudiced. "Hey, am I the Lieutenant or are you?"
Bumpers turned his head to look out the passenger side window. "You are . . . Lieutenant."
"Good," O'Brien said emphatically. "And as the commanding officer of this here partnership, I say we hang around and keep an eye on these fellas a few minutes longer, and it isn't because one of them's Hispanic."
The two men threw what must've been their last load into the trunk. The guy who slammed the trunk shut was a big guy . . . period. Tough looking and definitely not Hispanic. Maybe Italian. If this guy wasn't a hood, then O’Brien would invest in a pair of those fag contact lenses his wife was always bugging him to get.
The men stood facing each other with the Hispanic chattering away.
"You think maybe that big guy had Granny's laundry stored in there?" O'Brien asked, glancing at Bumpers out of the corner of his eye.
"All right, all right." Bumpers nodded. "He does look a little shady."
"Thank you, Inspector."
They continued to watch as the two men stood there, the Hispanic still talking up a storm and moving his hands around like he was the Italian.
"What is it, John?" Bumpers asked, a bit more respect in his voice. "Pot?"
"Nah," O'Brien answered, shaking his head. "They're not the type. Either of them."
"What do you want to do then?"
"We could pull them over." O'Brien held his breath for a second, pretty certain he knew what Bumpers would say to that one.
"No probable cause."
"Yeah, yeah."
The driver got behind the wheel and the Hispanic went back, closed the storage unit door, and locked it. He returned to the car, started to reach for the front passenger door, and hesitated. Then he took a step back, opened the rear door, and hopped in.
"What the hell was that all about?" O'Brien asked incredulously.
"That is strange." Bumpers shrugged.
"A little too strange for my blood," O'Brien said. "We'll do a routine stop on them. Hell with probable cause."
"Yeah, okay," Bumpers said, his voice tight and a half an octave higher than normal. The kid was nervous–or excited. Hard to tell which with this guy. O'Brien's gut was feeling a bit queasy at the thought of making the stop–that never changed. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Bumpers touch his weapon, then pull away, reassured the weapon was still in place.
Might turn out to be nothing. Then again, his gut was usually right, especially in matters of the darker kind. O'Brien started the engine and waited for the Lincoln to pull out.