“Soup an’ bread? Man, I wants me some a yo’ ribs, an’ slaw, an’ fries.”
“You git soup an’ bread or nothin’, Elsie. You ain’t in no kinda shape for food like ribs an’ shit. The way you is, they tear yo’ ass up.”
“Well then sell me a bottle a goddam wine.”
“I ain’t sellin’ you shit. You can have some soup an’ bread, or you can drag your narrow ass on down the fuckin’ road. I am tryin’ to do you a favor, Elsie. You lay attitude on me, you lay your feet on the street.”
L.C. reached into his left front pocket and threw several bills on the floor. “I ain’t playin’ no motherfuckin’ game wit’ your ass, Poochie. Sell me some fuckin’ ribs!”
“Fuck you.”
“Fuck me?”
“I didn’t stutter, nigger. Fuck you.”
“Fuck me?” L.C. shouted, spittle running down his chin. “Fuck you, Poochie!” he roared, and clawed the Smith and Wesson out of his right front pocket, pointing it in Poochie’s general direction as he tried to keep his balance.
Poochie shook his head. “A gun,” he said.
“You goddam right it’s a goddam gun, Muthahfuckah. Enough goddam gun to kill the shit outa your black ass. Now sell me some goddam ribs!”
Poochie grunted and began to walk away toward the front of the restaurant. “Elsie, I knowed you since you was ten-year-old,” he said. “I fed you for nothin’ many a time when you was a hungry little kid. I watched your grandma do the bes’ she could for you; I watched all kinds a folks treat you good, an’ still you a asshole. You ain’t grateful for nothin’, you ain’t responsible for nothin’, you ain’t good for nothin’.” He paused beside the bar with L.C. leaning on the frame of the kitchen door thirty feet away, the revolver still pointed loosely in Poochie’s direction.
The old man looked at L.C. and smiled. “Now you come in my place pointin’ a gun in my face, tellin’ me what the fuck I am gonna do? Lemme show you somethin’ my daddy give me, Elsie.” Poochie reached under the bar, lifted out about twenty inches of shotgun, and swung the double barreled monster level at L.C. Very quietly he continued.
“This here a ten gauge, Elsie. It hold two shells. Each shell got nine double ought lead balls strung about ten inches apart on piano wire. I pull the trigger, an’ them balls spread out with that wire tight between ‘em. It won’t just kill you, Elsie, it cut off whatever it hit. Now what the fuck you gonna do with that little pea shooter you got? You gonna keep tryin’ to threaten me? You gonna keep tellin’ me how bad you is? Or, is you gonna get the fuck outa my place before I decides to kill yo’ ass? I ain’t open for bidness; you got a gun; I here all by myself. I can dust your muthafuckin’ ass an’ still be servin’ ribs on time. What you gonna do, Elsie? Make up your mind. I got a pit ta git fired up.”
From L.C.’s point of view the shotgun looked like the end of time. “Shit,” he said, and lurched his way back to the rear door, picked up most of the money he’d dropped, and weaved out into the parking lot. He was still hungry and not nearly high enough.
Poochie built a fire in the pit, spread some partially cooked frozen ribs on the grill, then picked up the phone to call the cops.
Gary Frost was sitting in the pre-shift briefing, listening to Bunker Scott tell everybody that paper was out on L.C. Bailey for kickin’ the shit outa Minnie Ha-Ha, and that L.C. was probably armed and seriously fucked-up. Frost was eyeballing a rookie who was going to be his partner for the night. Frost’s regular partner, Roger “the Dodger” Dix, was on vacation, so Gary drew the rook. Shit. Just as the Ell-Tee was getting to the stolen cars, the shift Sergeant, Bill Miller, walked into the room.
“Frosty,” he said, “you and Thompson saddle up. Poochie just called. Needs to see the law.”
“Ah,” Frost said. “C’mon, rook. This could be your big chance to fight crime.” He grabbed his briefcase and headed for the door, Thompson trailing along behind him.
Outside, squinting in the afternoon sun, Frost looked at the rookie. “What the fuck is your name?”
“Thompson, Sir.”
“Don’t call me sir, rook. Call me Frosty. What squad we got?”
“Thirteen, S…uh, Frosty.”
“Okay. You do the walkaround. I’ll check the trunk.”
Once they had determined that there were no new dents, the required equipment was in the trunk, the siren and red lights worked, the scrambler cube was in place, the shotgun was loaded, and a dozen other things were as they should be, Frost, sitting behind the wheel, picked up the mike.
“One-three to the head shed.”
“Gourd-head, thirteen.”
“One-three enroute to Poochie’s Place on North Fourth to save the free world.”
“Ten-fa! Fifteen’ll drift that way when they get upstairs.”
“Four.”
Frost eased the 1971 Dodge Coronet through the cop shop breezeway, made a left onto Neil Street, cruised with traffic to Fourth Street, turned left again and entered the black district. Frost was a member of what was called the “Dirty Dozen”, a group of twelve officers that regularly worked that area on the three to eleven shift. The rookies referred to the three to eleven shift as The P.M. Watch, probably because it sounded more like dialogue from Adam-12. Most of the seasoned officers, even the black ones, called the black district the “Nairobi Patrol”, the hours the second shift, and the Dirty Dozen as those crazy assholes.
Frost passed the front of Poochie’s Place and beeped the horn, then continued to the rear and stopped beside the back door. Poochie walked out of the building and grinned.
“Frosty, you ain’t dead yet?”
Frost chuckled. “Rook,” he said, “this poor, tired, old man that just insulted me, is a certified genius. Open up your nostrils and catch the scent of heaven. Nobody, since God made Eve, can do as much with a rib as Poochie. Poochie, this here is just another rookie.”
Poochie leaned over to look in the window. “Glad to meetcha, Officer. You stay aroun’ long enough an’ we’ll git ta know each other.”
“Nice to meet you, sir.”
Poochie grinned. “You hear that, Frosty? That fine young man call me sir.”
“Hell, I called you a goddam genius!”
“Yeah, but the rookie meant it.” The rookie squirmed in his seat and blushed.
“What’s up, Pooch?”
“Elsie Bailey was by here ‘bout a half hour ago. All fucked up. Wanted me to feed him some ribs. I offered him soup, an’ he pulled a piece on my ass.”
“No shit.”
“Some little short revolver, pointed it at me an’ everthing. I run him off.”
Frost grinned. “With what, that ten-gauge?”
“Yeah.”
“That piece a shit is older than the two of us put together. It’s got Damascus barrels for chrissakes! You ever shoot that thing and you’ll lose your hand.”
“Couldn’t shoot it if I wanted too. It’s rusted shut. Cain’t put no shells in it.”
“L.C. don’t know that, huh?”
“Naw. He lef’.”
“Which way’d he go?”
“Didn’t see. Had to fire up the pit.”
“Okay. Thanks a lot Pooch. I’ll let ya know how it turns out.” Frost slipped the car in gear.
“For ya go, Frosty, you wanna little taste?”
“Does a fat dog fart?”
Poochie reached inside the back door and retrieved a white paper bag with grease soaking through the sack. He passed it through the window.
“Ribs an’ sauce an’ fries, Frosty. Be careful. Elsie nuts.”
“Love ya, Pooch,” Frost called, easing out the drive.
“You loves my ribs, whiteboy,” Poochie shouted. “That’s what you loves!”
CHAPTER THREE
“Thirteen one-three, fifteen one-five.”
Gary Frost keyed the mike. “One-three, go ahead, one-five.”
“You gonna share the wealth?”
“Ten-four. Lot M, south sid
e.”
“Four.”
The rookie looked puzzled. Frost grinned. “The guys in fifteen want some ribs. They were laid back someplace watching us when Poochie handed us the sack.”
“I didn’t see ‘em.”
“That is the object, Rook,” Frost said, heading south on Fifth Street to University, then across to municipal parking lot M. Waiting on the south side of the lot was another black and white squad car, this one a ’70 Chevy. Frost accelerated the Dodge through the lot, turned a sharp right and braked so the car slid to a halt, driver’s door to driver’s door, about three inches away from fifteen. The rookie, braced against the firewall, exhaled and relaxed. In the next car Stan Merle grinned.
“Hey, Frost,” he said. “Did he shit?”
“I dunno. Hey rook, did ya shit?”
“Almost.”
Riding shotgun in fifteen, Fred Baker piped up. “You got the ribs, Frost?”
“Yeah, Fred, I have the ribs.”
“Well, fuckin’ pass ‘em over.”
“Well, fuckin’ say please, shithead. Stan, I don’t know how the hell you tolerate being caged up all evening with a fuckin’ Neanderthal.”
“You can get used to anything, even Fred,” Stan said, taking one of the two boxes that had been in the bag. “What now?”
“Let’s take a few minutes to pig out, then you guys exercise your practice of omnipresence of the police, and the rook and me will see if we can find Sleepy.”
“Stay in touch,” Stan said. He accelerated away, back toward the north end of town. Frost stayed where he was.
Grabbing a French fry, the rookie spoke up. “What’s the matter with Fred?”
“Fred just ain’t real bright. Smart enough to beat me on the dick’s exam, though. He’s number one in line.”
“And you’re number two?”
“And I’m number two.” They ate in silence for a while.
“Good ribs,” Thompson said. “Who we gonna go looking for?”
“Sleepy.”
“Who’s Sleepy?”
“Sleepy Lowe. Sleepy is a businessman dealing in controlled substances. Mostly speed, Black Beauties and stuff. Sometimes mescaline, rarely reefer. If L.C. is looking to get wired, he’ll probably go to Sleepy. His nickname’s Sleepy ‘cause he’s got some sort of condition that won’t let him open his eyelids all the way. Tall, skinny black kid in his mid-twenties. Walks with his head tilted way back so he can see where he’s going. Easy to spot. Stick with me, young lad, and you’ll meet all the celebrities.” He eased the car into gear and headed north on 6th Street as he grabbed the mike. “Fifteen, thirteen is on the roll. Thought we’d see if Sleepy’s on his back porch yet.”
“We’ll be around, one-three.”
“Four.”
Things were beginning to pick up a bit on the beat. It was getting close to suppertime and foot traffic in the area was growing, a few gang members cruised in purple Super Bees and lime green Dodge Chargers, profiling for the populace. Turning from 6th onto Ash and heading west into the thick of it, the occasional cry of “pig” or “oinker” floated on the breeze, causing Thompson to look around and Frost to smile. At the corner of Ash and 4th, Frost turned right, then quickly right again into the alley. Two doors down on the left, Sleepy sat on the back stoop of his mother’s house. They stopped.
Frost smiled. “Hey, Sleepy,” he said.
Sleepy tilted his head back a little farther. “Fuck you, pig. What the fuck you want?”
“Words, Sleepy. Just words. C’mere.”
“Kiss my black ass, pig,” Sleepy said, looking around the area.
“Now don’t be getting’ all froggy, Sleepy. I got another car out front of your momma’s house with two more cops. Runnin’ ain’t gonna help. If you don’t come here and I have to get out of this car, I am gonna arrest your ass.”
“What the fuck fo’?”
“Moultry with intent to gawk.”
“What?”
“You heard me. And if you run, sitting right next to me is the human greyhound. This sumbitch can run faster than anybody you ever saw in your whole life, and he loves it. He will run you down, he will drag you down, and you will still be arrested. Now get your dog ass over here to this car before you piss me off.”
Ever so slowly Sleepy, laden with attitude, stood up, eased down the steps, and sauntered toward the car in a stylish gait that made him an obvious candidate for physical therapy, making sure Frost knew he was a “baaaad” man.
“Hey, rook,” Frost whispered out of the side of his mouth. “Real quick, open your door and stand up.” By the time Thompson was on his feet, Sleepy, abandoning his lurching stride in favor of speed, materialized beside Frost’s window.
“Whatchoo want, man.”
“Seen L.C. Bailey?”
“Elsie? Naw. I ain’t seen him.”
“Bullshit.”
“I said I ain’t seen the cat, man.”
“Here’s the deal,” Frost said. “L.C. has a gun he stole from Delight. Already today he’s aimed it at Poochie. Yesterday, he beat the shit outa Minnie Hudson. The fucker is a one-man crime wave with more on the way. If he hurts somebody and he’s speedin’, I am gonna come lookin’ for you. I do not care what you sold him or gave him, but I need to know what kinda shape he’s likely to be in. You tell me, and you are back on the steps, doin’ business. You fuck with me over this, and I will wax your ass. I absolutely guarantee you that your new ride will burn to the ground within a week. Do the right thing, Sleep. Talk to me.”
“The dude got some white cross and beauties. That’s all, honest.”
“Is it good shit?”
“Fuck yes!” Sleepy said. “I sell the shit; it’s good shit! People depend on me, motherfucker.”
“All right. Thanks, Sleepy.”
“Fuck you,” Sleepy said, backing away, “an’ fuck that fuckin’ dog you got with you.”
Frost eased off down the alley. “Well, rook,” he said, “you got a reputation.”
“Me?”
“Yep. Within three days, you be the fastest man alive. Sleepy will spread the word that you got wings on your heels. He’s scared of your speed or he wouldn’t have bad-mouthed you.”
“All I did was stand up.”
“Legends have started with less, Legs, my boy. Legends have started with less.”
They cruised for about an hour, then parked the car at the end of an alley a half-block east of the Blue Lagoon Tavern. Fifteen went rolling by and never noticed them. A few minutes later, so did the Sergeant. A mike click informed them they had been seen.
“Bill don’t miss much,” Frost said.
“Thirteen?”
“At you service, Sarge.”
“Rackjack is behind me ‘bout half a block, walkin’ this way.”
Frost sighed. “Perhaps I should interrogate the young fellow.”
“Uh-huh. Watch yourself. I’ll wait around the corner.”
“Fear not, Sarge. I have Legs to protect me.”
“Legs?”
“Officer Legs Thompson, the human greyhound. If ya see Sleepy, he’ll explain it to ya.”
“Ten-fo’.”
“Geeze, Frosty. Now you’re gonna have everybody callin’ me Legs,” the rook said.
“Beats the hell outa shithead. Now listen to me. In a minute a black upright freezer is gonna walk by the front of the car. I am going to attempt a conversation with that major appliance. If he is in a good mood, it will be no problem. If he is pissed off, it will be dicey. If he is in a bad mood, shoot him.”
“Shoot him?”
“Quick as you can, several fucking times.”
“How will I know if he’s in a bad mood?”
“He’ll be in the process of pulling my arms off.”
Leg’s eyebrows elevated. “Jesus,” he said. “Are you serious?”
“Almost. Rackjack is a fuckin’ monster. I saw him rip the door off a Mustang once. He’s been in prison about half his life, lifti
n’ weights and shit. Most likely there will not be a problem, but if he grabs me, shoot him. More than once.”
“Shit.”
“I am completely serious, Legs. This fucker scares me to death.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah. Wait’ll you see him.”
The wait was short. Almost at that moment, Rackjack, looking very much like a bald Bigfoot with stomach cramps, rumbled past the front of the car, his elbows held out from his body by the bulk of his muscles, forearms the size of water mains and solid oak biceps rippling beneath the sleeves of his hot-pink t-shirt, thighs stretching his blue jeans to the ripping point, his immense shaved head glistening ebony in the glow of the setting sun.
Legs jerked. “Holy shit!” he squeaked.
“You got that right. Stay with the car, rook,” Frost said, sliding out the door. “Hey, Rackjack!”
The apparition stopped dead in its tracks, stood stock still for a moment, then slowly rotated its bulk to face him.
“Wha?” The voice sounded like a toilet backing up.
“Need to talk to ya a minute.”
Wheels ground slowly while Sasquatch considered this new information.
“’Bou’ wha’?” Rackjack said, as Frost approached to within a respectful six feet.
“About L.C. Bailey.”
“Uh-huh. Ah goan keel dat muthuhfuckah fo’ wha’ he done ta Minnie.”
“See, Rackjack, that’s what I want to talk to ya about. I really wish you wouldn’t kill him. I’d kinda like to put him in jail, and if you kill him, I can’t. Then I’d have to put you in jail.”
“Jail ain’ so bad,” Rackjack said, flexing the muscles over his chest and slapping a closed fist into an open palm. Frost was sure he felt the concussion through the sidewalk.
“Yeah, but I’d rather put L.C. in jail than put you in jail,” he said, sweat breaking out on his upper lip. “Before you kill L.C., I need you to give me some time to find him.”
“You fine him, an’ put him in jail, Minnie jes’ goan bail him out agin. Thas how she do. Be bes’ if ah jes’ keel his ass.” Rackjack’s hands closed around an imaginary throat.
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