How you doin, boss?”
Charlie wasn’t much for being excessively formal when he was on the force. Now that he was retired he was even less inclined to be so.
For those who called him on it, he eloquently explained, “Asses are made for sittin’, not for kissin’. You want somebody to kiss ass go find some snot-nosed rookie fresh out of the Academy.”
It was a position John very much agreed with, and the pair were good friends.
“Doing well, Charlie. How are things around here? You get in your morning nap?”
“Just gettin’ ready to.” He cocked an eyebrow and said, “You wasn’t about to give me any work to do, were ya?”
“Me? Oh, no. I figure the best thing I can do for the people of San Antonio is to let you get as much beauty sleep as possible.”
“Why? Am I scaring the little kids again?”
“The kids, their parents, everybody else you come into contact with. I understand the horses are starting to run off again too.”
“Ah, to hell with them. They’re dirty, stinkin' animals anyway.”
“Yeah, maybe. But they say the same about you.”
“You bring in any donuts?”
Charlie was old school, a stereotype of a traditional flat-footed beat cop. He smoked like a chimney, cursed like a sailor and roughed up suspects every chance he got.
And he loved Hannah’s home-made sugar donuts.
“I’m sorry, Charlie. I would have, but I wasn’t expecting to stop by.”
“Damn it. Then what the hell are you buggin’ me for?”
“I need a couple patrol officers for a special duty assignment. You seen any around?”
Charlie rubbed his chin and said, “Maybe.”
“Can you be just a little bit clearer?”
“Well here’s the thing, boss. I could tell you that McMillan and Thomas have been in the break room playin’ poker for the last two hours. But that would make me a snitch, and I ain’t no damn snitch. So instead I’ll just tell ya I saw McMillan and Thomas around here earlier. They’re probably still here, I reckon, if you wanna look around for ‘em.”
“Thanks, Charlie,” John said as he headed down the corridor.
“Don’t mention it boss. Hey, would ya do me a favor before ya leave?”
John stopped and faced him. He wasn’t one to turn down a favor for a friend.
“Sure. What do you need?”
“Take a look at my rear end, would ya?”
“Excuse me?”
“Oh, don’t worry. I ain’t tryin’ to make a pass at ya or nothing. You ain’t my type to be honest…”
“Nice to know.”
Somethin’ bit me on my backside when I was sittin’ on my front porch a couple a days ago…”
“You better not be sitting on your front porch naked. Darn it, Charlie we talked about that.”
“Oh, hell no I wasn’t naked. That would be disrespectful to the ladies walkin’ by. I had some semi-clean boxer shorts on…”
“You’ve got a world of class, Charlie.”
“Oh, geez, John. You gonna let me finish my story or ain’t ya?”
“Sorry. Go ahead.”
“I don’t know what it was. The little booger got away. But it hurt like hell. Now it itches like hell, and I’m sweatin’ like a pig. I think it went and got infected and I think I got a fever. I think I might be dyin’ or something.”
John rolled his eyes. He’d rather be thrown head-first from his pony into a barrel cactus. But he had to keep his men healthy. And as rough and unpolished as Charlie was, he was a friend.
“Okay, let’s do this quick.”
Charlie undid his duty belt and his uniform trousers fell to his ankles. He reached behind him and lifted up one side of his boxers.
John went to one knee and examined the wound, hoping against everything holy that no one chose that particular moment to walk through the door.
He arose quickly and made his diagnosis.
“Charlie, you’re a big sissy. It’s an ant bite and it’s not infected.”
-46-
A very skeptical Charlie pulled up his trousers and said, “Are you sure?”
“I’m positive.”
“But how come it itches so much, then?”
“Probably because you won’t stop scratching it. Stop scratching it and it’ll stop itching and heal.”
“Then what about my fever? How come I’m sweatin’ like a turkey on Thanksgiving mornin’? I think maybe I need a second opinion.”
John was reminded of an old adage: Some boys never really grow up. They just get bigger and start shaving.
“Look, Charlie. It’s not infected. If it were it would be swollen and have red streaks around it. It isn’t. It’s just raw because you won’t stop scratching it.”
“Then why do I have a damned fever?”
“You don’t have a fever. If you did, your high temperature would make you feel cold by comparison. You be looking for a sweater and shivering.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.”
“Then what does it mean that I’m sweatin’ so much?”
“Oh gee whiz. You’re inside on a warm day, in a building which no longer has a working air conditioning system. All the windows are closed. That’s why you’re sweating.”
“And you’re positive?”
“I’m positive. Look at my forehead. I’m sweating too.”
Charlie paused for dramatic affect and then said, “Oh, you can’t fool me, John Castro. I know you’re sweating for a totally different reason.”
“Oh?”
If John had been on his game he’d have walked away. He wouldn’t have gone there. But he was a curious soul by nature and just had to know.
“What in the world are you talking about?”
Charlie stood straight and smiled the sweet smile of victory.
He said, “I figured you’re sweatin’ not ‘cause it’s hot, but ‘cause you got all flustered from havin’ the privilege of seeing my big old hairy butt up close and personal.”
There wasn’t much John could do but laugh out loud.
He’d gotten got. He’d become Charlie’s stooge; his patsy. He’d been played by the best of them.
But it was his own fault. He should have remembered Charlie’s reputation for being the best practical joker in the long proud history of the SAPD.
“You slime ball. I’ll get you back, even if I have to live to be three hundred years old to do it.”
“No you won’t John. I’m too good. ”
John shook his head and continued his journey down the corridor.
Charlie chuckled and scratched his butt.
John walked into the break room to find it virtually deserted, except for the building’s only custodian emptying garbage cans and McMillan and Thomas sitting at a table in the far corner.
McMillan looked up at the sound of the door closing.
John could clearly see the “oh, crap” expression on McMillan’s face all the way across the cavernous room.
As John walked toward the officers McMillan used an arm to sweep their playing cards off the table and onto the floor behind them.
Thomas, who was holding one of his best hands of the game, was understandably peeved.
“What in hell are you doing?”
“Shut up. The Deputy Chief’s walking up behind you.”
Now there was absolutely nothing which prohibited officers from playing poker on their breaks. No money was present. They were playing for points and would square up later.
But any time the Deputy Chief of Police shows up out of the blue to talk to a rank and file officer it’s incumbent upon that officer to try to appear as much like a boy scout as possible.
A choir boy would be better.
Thomas could hear John’s footsteps as he closed the gap between them. At a loss for what to do with the cards in his hand, he pulled open his shirt collar and dumped them inside his t-shirt.
&nbs
p; “Hello, fellas. How are y’all doing?”
“Fine, sir. Just finishing up a short break before we get back on the streets.”
“Yeah… about that…”
A bead of sweat broke out onto McMillan’s brow. He thought their goose was cooked. That John had seen the cards and somehow knew they’d been playing for a couple of hours when they should have been on patrol.
He thought the days were numbered for the single yellow chevron on his uniform sleeve.
Thomas was just a bit more relaxed. He had no such chevron to lose. He just saw an ass-chewing on the horizon.
But John kept his cool.
He had something else in mind.
“Actually, I’m glad I caught you on your way out. It so happens I need a couple of volunteers for a special duty assignment.
“Thank you both for volunteering.”
McMillan swallowed hard and blurted, “H…Happy to help, sir. What did we just volunteer for?”
“Meet me in Alamo Plaza in twenty minutes and I’ll lay it all out for you.”
“Yes sir,” the pair said in perfect harmony.
As John walked away, he said over his shoulder, “Don’t forget to pick up your cards, fellas.”
He walked to a table near the doorway and rooted through two cardboard boxes which had been opened up and placed upon the table to provide snacks for the officers.
One was a case of assorted flavors of Lay’s potato chips. They had been John’s favorites since he was a boy.
The other was an assortment of Tom’s snacks. Cookies, candy bars, snack cakes.
Both had come from a supply closet in the back of the building. Once upon a time they were used to refill vending machines which lined the wall at the back of the break room, and other such machines at various places around the building.
Two years after the blackout they were no longer as fresh as they once were.
But stale cookies and chips were better than no cookies and chips any day.
He took a handful of each and stuffed them into the backpack which was his constant companion these days.
They weren’t for him.
Their eventual destination was the Castro house, where they’d be rare treats for his wife Hannah and his daughters.
It was an even bet whether they’d make it that far, though.
John Castro was a soft-hearted soul anyway.
He’d always been the type of person who’d slip a ten to a panhandler, even knowing full well that most of the panhandlers on the streets of San Antonio were con artists.
He never passed by a Salvation Army kettle without slipping a bill into it. He never failed to stop and help someone change a flat tire. He carried a gallon of gas in his trunk, even though he hadn’t run out of gas in years.
It was to help stranded motorists who weren’t quite so careful.
John was the type who helped little old ladies carry in their groceries or cross the street. The year before the power went out he spent a whole summer doing double yard duty. His next door neighbor had hurt his back, and John mowed the neighbor’s yard as well as his own.
He especially loved children.
And they loved him.
They sought him out. And he was always searching for some small gesture to make their day a little bit brighter.
Sometimes he’d play hopscotch or jump rope with the girls.
Sometimes he’d toss a football or a Frisbee to the boys.
And more often than not, if he had chips and cookies in his backpack, he’d let loose of them.
Hannah and his daughters never knew how many times he “almost” made it home with goodies.
It was just how he was.
-47-
McMillan and Thomas weren’t sure whether they were in trouble.
Deputy Chief Castro hadn’t appeared angry.
But they both knew that didn’t necessarily mean anything.
They walked briskly down Bonham Street toward the Alamo, figuring under the circumstances it was probably best not to waste any time.
“My old man was like that,” Thomas said. “He seldom raised his voice, even when he was upset. I learned to always assume he was mad at me, whether he showed it or not. Because otherwise I paid a heavy price.”
“How?” McMillan countered. “If he never got angry, then what did you have to worry about?”
“I never said he didn’t get angry. I just said he made it hard for me to tell. He was a great poker player. You couldn’t read his face, and he never tipped his hand. Sometimes I never knew I was in trouble until he put his arm around me and smiled and said, ‘Give me your car keys, son. You’re grounded for a week.’
“Then I’d scramble trying to figure out what I did.
“I have to say, though, when you grow up like that, you tend to behave yourself most of the time. I was the best behaved of any of my circle of friends, so it didn’t really happen very often.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t know if Castro is the same way, but I’d rather not chance it. Pick up the pace a little, will ya?”
When they arrived at the plaza in front of the Alamo, John Castro was waiting for them. Standing next to him was a priest.
“Officers Mike McMillan and Robert Thomas, this is Father Benedict. The good Father runs the food distribution center here.”
The three shook hands.
The priest looked hard at Officer Thomas.
“I haven’t seen you at mass lately, Robert.”
John wasn’t aware Thomas was one of Father Benedict’s parishioners.
“Yes, Father. I’m afraid I’ve been a bit lax in attending of late. I’ve just been so busy…”
“Too busy for the Lord, Robert?”
“Yes, Father… I mean no, Father… I mean, I’ll try to do better…”
“We’re all busy these days, Robert. Try to find the time, will you?”
“Yes, Father. I will.”
McMillan stifled a chuckle. There was something a bit humorous about watching a grown man being chewed out by his priest for not attending services.
John patiently waited until the old priest finished his admonition, then proceeded.
“I’ve just explained to Father Benedict that you’ll be assigned to him for the next few days to conduct an investigation.”
Thomas half-opened his mouth and came very close to saying, “But sir, we’re not detectives. We’re beat cops.”
But he held his tongue. John would have just reminded him that times had changed. Officers were being asked to perform a variety of roles they weren’t experienced or necessarily qualified in.
But which somebody had to do.
Instead of objecting he merely said, “Yes, sir.”
McMillan, for his part, was just curious. What good would a couple of uniformed cops do for a Catholic priest? What kind of investigation could they possibly perform for him?
Still, working at a food service operation might not be a bad thing. At least they’d surely eat well.
“Yes, sir,” he added.
“Some of the hungry people who come here every day have been taking extra meals to go. Meals for people who are too weak or sick to come themselves.
“We’ve found at least one instance where a man was collecting extra meals for innocent women he murdered, either to provide food for his friends or extra food for himself.
“I want to make sure he was the only one, and that his tactic isn’t being copied by others. If he got the idea from someone else who was doing it, I want to find out who and bring them to justice.
“Any questions?”
The pair of patrolmen looked at one another. Thomas turned back to John and said, “No, sir.”
“Good. Go with Father Benedict. He’ll introduce you to his people and get you started. I’ll check back in a few days and see how you’re coming.”
- 48-
It was Tuesday morning and there wasn’t an unhappy face in all of the San Antonio Police Department.
The
second wave of electromagnetic pulses had done a great deal of damage.
Most of the equipment which had been saved from the first blackout was severely damaged or destroyed, because very few preppers imagined the sun would throw the earth a one-two punch. Most had stopped protecting their equipment after the first blackout.
But there were some bright spots.
The first blackout sent every survivor a chilling message: either reconnect with your past or perish.
In other words, learn to do the things your ancestors did to survive. If one wasn’t skilled in hunting and fishing and trapping, he should develop such skills.
He should also develop agricultural skills. How to plant, grow and harvest crops. How to protect extra seeds in case of a lost crop. And how to preserve another batch of seeds for the following year’s planting.
Survivors had to learn to get to know their neighbors. To band together for mutual protection.
There were very few loners in the new world.
And most of them wouldn’t last long.
Another skill making a comeback: innovation.
It seemed that modern man had forgotten how to innovate. They’d gotten so used to walking into a big box store and grabbing exactly what they needed from a shelf they forgot how to make do without.
They’d forgotten how to modify things. How to make adjustments.
How to take something which was intended to fit on Item A and change it so it would fit on Item B instead.
They called them Mike and Mike, the two mechanics who ran the SAPD Motor Pool in the new world.
They could have called them magicians.
For months, Mike and Mike scoured the streets of San Antonio, searching for working Ford Crown Victoria parts. It didn’t matter much whether the parts came from other police cars or their civilian counterparts. Not anymore. These days they were all fair game.
They’d been given a task which had seemed impossible just months before: get forty patrol cars running. Two for each of the twenty districts.
When the tasking came down the Mikes had looked at one another in awe. They cursed. They objected. They said it couldn’t be done.
And then they got to work.
Now, the first Tuesday in May, they’d finally achieved their mission.
An Acquired Taste Page 16