D.O.A.

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D.O.A. Page 2

by Charlie Thomas King


  His mind poured over the moment that drove him to where he now stood. The death he’d held in his arms. The life he’d longed to take with his own bare hands. At least he had died. The driver. One week after James signed up for the NYPD, that fool had died in his coma. James wished he could have been there to watch the life drain away from the bastard’s otherwise inert form, wished he could have personally thrown the corpse into the pits of Hell.

  James Kent stood at attention and remembered his mother, remembered his sister. He’d never forget. He’d continue the journey he was on. He’d serve to protect others, protection his family hadn’t had. He’d personally summons every bad driver on Staten Island if he had to. He’d rip every drunk driver out of every car he could find. He’d arrest every piece of shit he could bust. He swore to himself. He cursed God for having failed and swore to himself that he wouldn’t.

  A voice next to him snapped him back to the present.

  “How’d that fat fuck even get into the Academy?” Henriquez didn’t pay mind to ranks, turned his head as he continued, “This is all such a joke.”

  The short, mocha-skinned instructor in front of their company screamed the yet-to-be cop’s name, followed it with a furious curse-studded inquiry into the origins of his stupidity and lack of understanding of what it meant both to be quiet and to stay that way. Kent smirked; Henriquez rolled his eyes.

  At meal, Kent made fun of the morning’s situation, imitated their instructor to amuse his fellow recruits as they chowed down on various home brought food. The room fit ten standard sized lunch tables. Various companies sectioned off in divisions of their own choosing, the only place in the building for relaxation of any sort. Despite the cold outside on the streets of New York, plenty of chairs sat empty, many recruits instead choosing to spend their hour of quasi-freedom outside the walls of the Academy. Even a minute away was better than being locked inside, even if it was freezing out.

  Henriquez, a tall, well-built Hispanic who looked even whiter than Kent, savaged a turkey wrap that he used both hands to eat, his light brown eyes engrossed in the activity. He sat across the table from Kent. Still finishing his mouthful, he said, “I can’t wait ‘til we graduate. I need to see the streets already.”

  “You’d never know it by the way you act,” Kent commented before biting into his own food, a poorly constructed PBJ.

  “Please. Everyone at the family Christmas party is either a cop or married to one. I already know what it’s really like, and this? This is a mother-fucking joke.”

  Kent put his sandwich down on the brown paper bag in front of him. “I’m just afraid it’s all going to be a joke.”

  “How ya mean?”

  “My Dad’s a cop, too. Was. Whatever. And I get how this isn’t really the job yet, but -”

  “Nah, not at all,” the amiable Cuban interrupted. “Much better. It’s more relaxed than this.” He waved off towards the door, as if the world just beyond revealed somehow the complete veneer of foolishness that was The Department’s training program. “This is nothin’. Real life? Half the time, cops are coopin’ and just chillin’ out, waitin’ for their EOT.”

  Kent’s face turned loathsome, looked away from his friend. “That’s what I’m hoping against.”

  “How ya mean?”

  Kent sturdied himself, sat up straight in the little, blue metal chair.

  “I became a cop because, just … because I want someone to make a difference.”

  “Be all you can be?” Henriquez said with a smirk before he took another rabid go at his food.

  Kent sighed, paused a bit.

  “I dunno. I know that sounds corny, but I guess I mean it. I wasn’t just making fun of Sergeant Burke or that idiot who opened her face up on deck because I want to be able to do whatever I want, bro. I was making fun of them because I think wastes like them should be weeded out. These fake-ass cops who hide here in the building pretending the real reason is ’cause they really wanna teach? Please.”

  “House mouses,” Henriquez added.

  “I can think of better euphemisms than that,” Kent said with a scowl. “I didn’t become a cop for that shit. Anyone can do that. I signed up to fuck the bad guys. Clean up New York.”

  “That's pretty gay,” Henriquez said with a chuckle.

  “Maybe,” Kent said, no smirk in sight. “But it’s still the goal.”

  “Learn to laugh, fucker. If you don't, this job is gonna kill you.”

  Saturday

  March 24, 2012

  Temptation

  Three months into standing on a muster deck atop a Manhattan skyscraper for hours at a time, bosses belittling brand new additions to the Finest career in New York, and Probationary Police Officer James Kent knew cold. But now here he was, sitting in a tee shirt and jeans. March had suddenly become a welcome relief with record breaking warmth for the city. And yet James was just fine ignoring the beautiful weather outside. He had a different kind of beauty sitting next to him, one he jacked off to at night, imagining what her pussy looked like, what it felt like.

  On his regular day off, enjoying weekends off while he had them, he sat on a black leather love-seat in his friend Nick Russo’s Richmond Town apartment. Nick’s girlfriend, Hallie Winters, sat nestled up next to the fresh faced cop to be. A next door neighbor worked his front lawn with an overly loud mower. A chick flick playing on forty-two inches of backlit LCD tried to drown out the noise. Fiery red hair spread across James’ shoulder, its owner tilting her head and allowing it to rest there. Half covered by a small, orange blanket, the beauty played with the bright fabric, pulling at threads while transfixed by the flat screen.

  James looked at her delicate features as she looked at the TV. He couldn’t tell which he felt more strongly, lust or anger. He had known her first, but Nick had gotten at making things happen before he had. James was trying, but it just never worked out. After close to a year, Nick figured his buddy had been given enough time to figure things out. He didn’t ask permission, just chalked her up at a drunken party and made sure it stuck the next day. Four years later, they were the epitome of high school sweethearts, except for the fact that Nick incessantly cheated on her and the more compelling fact that Hallie was obviously miserable.

  Then again, maybe that was what passed for high school sweethearts these days.

  As Kutcher made his move on-screen, James debated finally doing the same thing himself. Despite the fact that he knew Nick didn’t deserve that honor, James had never crossed the line with Hallie.

  He felt his dick shift in his pants, well trained to the thought of her. Fuck it. He moved his arm around her slight shoulders, fingers traipsed down an arm draped in short-sleeved black cotton. Hallie’s gaze turned towards his.

  “James?”

  His mouth felt suddenly dry, his palms wet. There had been nothing planned when he’d first turned the key, when they had laughed their way into the empty apartment. James had never planned on moving things forward with Hallie that day. They’d been there, in identical situations, a million times or more. Nick even approved. But there James was, about to take a step the likes of which Nick would most decidedly not approve.

  Her lips, pink rose petals against milky white skin, pursed in front of him, begging to be kissed, that damn Monroe piercing glinting at him. Her eyes implored him and she let the blanket slip away completely. His eyes fell to scan the rest of her. A tight, deep V-neck tee shirt, obviously no bra by the two tells. Dark jeans painted onto voluptuous stems, she was perfection to him. He wondered how he’d managed to stay away for so long.

  God, and all His fucking laws.

  He’d broken those laws before. Not much, not with too many girls, but always with the overwhelming guilt afterwards. He could never see the girl again. That was really why he'd never made a move on Hallie. Not out of respect for God, but because James knew the religious guilt afterwards would force him into never being able to see her again.

  But really, what was the point? he wo
ndered. Here he was, with years of struggle behind him. The girl he wanted was dating another guy, and only half of James’ family was still alive, if he included himself. Not much in the way of blessings to show for a guy who’d tried to do things God’s way.

  A war waged in his mind. Something petitioned his body not to do what he might regret later, but he felt himself shift closer to the object of his desire anyway. Fuck God and his laws; they just hold people back from real, true satisfaction, James rationalized. He figured he deserved being with Hallie, especially considering all that God had let happen to him. He shouldn’t have to feel any guilt for this.

  Her hair fell to the sides of her perfect face. Framed by a river of raging scarlet, her blushing cheeks blazed brightly. Like a heedless moth to that flame, James moved closer still and touched her face. He didn’t even hear the door open. Neither of them did. But just as their lips were about to meet, Nick’s voice filled their ears, registered his shock as bold, hateful curses rained down upon them both.

  And so James’ world continued to snowball into hell, as if losing Mom and Stacey wasn’t torment enough, as if doing pushups in other recruits’ puddles of sweat and their randomly shed short, curly black hairs wasn’t vile enough. As if holding back from Hallie for as long as he had wasn’t difficult enough, and now this. A barrage of venomous outrage from Nick, the consequences for an action never made, not technically.

  James tried to placate the hostility, but Nick wasn’t blind. He flew off the handle, quickly. He screamed uncontrollably, incoherently, altogether losing touch with reality. Wagging his splayed fingers in James’ face, Nick’s curses continued to erupt. James sat frowning, letting the barrage continue while mentally reviewing Academy techniques he’d learned, specific techniques for quelling the mentally unbalanced.

  Nick then turned his rage against Hallie, bombarding her with a fusillade of curses, peppered with the words slut and whore, either of which alone would have spurred James to action. He leapt to his feet. Academy taught techniques flew out the window.

  “Leave her out of this!”

  James was a few inches taller than his friend. His lean physique had become taut and muscular from the grimy NYPD workouts. But even at five-six, Nick was a force to be reckoned with. He had been hitting the weights at Fitness for years, and wasn’t intimidated easily. Two sets of dark brown eyes glared at each other, a nor'easter brewing.

  James gritted his teeth with disdain. Gravelly words scraped their way to the surface to remind Nick of his indiscretions with their mutual friend Jessica.

  “Those in glass fucking houses, Nick!”

  Hallie went rigid; she saw it before James did, but not fast enough to warn him. Nick jabbed out a violent flash of flesh, a perfect shot drilled into the handsome face with its defined cheekbones. James hit the floor with a resounding thud. Blood filled his nostrils. He rolled over, blood spilled onto the carpet in what seemed like buckets. Beige stained red. Pain so dizzying, he lay on the floor trying to slow the spinning world around him. Hallie yelled in the background as each wave of nausea hit, six hands and arms waving from three bodies. James wondered how he was going to handle perps in three months when he couldn’t even handle his best friend.

  He shook it off, managed to stand, didn’t say a word. He looked over at Hallie; there were only two of her now. She looked down, stared at the ugly red splotch on the carpet. James reached into his pocket, blood still dripping down over his lips. He pulled out his keys, picked off the one to Nick’s apartment and threw it at his friend’s chest. Some friend. Nick glared harshly as the key bounced off his blue button up. James walked to the door. Nick threw one more jab, this one verbal.

  “Going back home already, James? Well, enjoy that big ol’ empty house.”

  James clenched his jaw, squeezed his fists, gave Hallie another glance. She still stood staring at the ruined carpet. James grabbed at the door handle and clasped it so tightly it felt as if he could easily crush it to dust. He yanked it instead, hard, walked out defiantly, and slammed the door shut on Nick Russo’s friendship forever. Maybe Hallie’s too.

  Saturday

  April 14, 2012

  Party

  James leaned in a corner, lamenting lost loved ones and ruined relationships.

  “Fuck that bitch,” he slurred.

  Just he and his buddy, Jack Daniels, standing there, juxtaposed against the hideous bright green and yellow floral wallpaper holding them up. An abundant crop of dark brown hair hid under a fitted Yankees cap. He wore a faded navy hoodie to match, a white tee and skinny jeans. Swollen eyes, a cross between a bar fight and a break up, scanned the room. Very drunk, and less than three months to go until it was official, he was already playing cop, sizing up every person he saw in the crowded basement.

  A tipsy bottle blonde by the keg complained loudly. At the couch, a blonde blowjob buried her drunken head into the crotch of an orange-skinned Staten Island clone. Enough iPhones nearby to make sure she’d never forget. An obliterated blonde teetered only a few feet from James’ own unsteady navy and white Chuck Taylor’s. He could reach out and lend a hand, help keep her from falling, but at too high a price; it could well cost his own failure at remaining vertical. He watched her stumble and crash into a brunette to his right, instead. Her nearby boyfriend was rapidly enlisted as mediator in the cat fight that ensued over spilled beer and a soaked Michael Kor’s bag.

  Carnelian colored liquid swished in circles within a square bottle. Not much left. James clutched it close, as if it were made of gold. He downed more of his treasure while glancing back over at the girl by the keg; now she was demanding pancakes. What the fuck? Eyes moved over to Chris’ room. Mike had shut himself up inside a while back, kept company by some random fuck he’d just met. A redhead. That hair. Just the thing to drag James back to thinking about Hallie. That yoga sculpted body and those bright eyes. The ones that always seemed to be squinting, piercing into things. Especially him. But he was trying to forget all that. He needed to forget all that and so much more.

  There he was in the thick of it. One shot, two, three shots more. But his sweet nectar of Nepenthe wasn’t working; painful thoughts were impossible to execute. Drinking wasn’t enough tonight. He tried anyway, swung the bottle back full tilt. A curse slid from his mouth. Now his shots had run dry, too. It wasn’t even ten-thirty and he had been betrayed by his only companion for the night. That thought brought him back to the fight, the real betrayal. His nose had healed, but his heart hadn’t. He was all kinds of messed up. And it was probably better if he vacated the premises before it got worse.

  He pushed off the wall, only a few unsteady steps taken when he collided with the already angry brunette. Daggers in blue contacts shifted in his direction and curses were hurled. He didn’t even bother to look at the boyfriend. James continued his pilgrimage to the door, never losing his grip on the medicine bottle, even if it was empty. Shit. At this point, maybe he should just call it a security blanket.

  Something that vaguely resembled standing gave way to a true accomplishment, walking. A few steps, maybe four or five, then the lamp hit him. He didn’t even know where the thing had come from, teetering on the edge of some random table like that. A table that wasn’t there just three seconds ago.

  More dagger eyes and curses, from whom, he couldn’t really tell; his vision was too blurred. The security blanket was catching up to him. He endured, followed the meandering road to the exit and tried to perform a magic trick on the way. He pulled out his cell phone while gripping the bottle, continued walking while he tried to steady his hands enough to call a cab.

  He made it as far as the keg. Google up on a tiny, blurred display. The tipsy blonde was gone. Maybe to get her pancakes. Chris’ door still shut, Mike still inside. Sounded plenty consensual as he passed by. Something resembling the word cab was finally typed into the search bar, but the bottle had vanished from his hand. Maybe he could do magic after all; even he didn’t know how it had vanished or to where it had d
isappeared.

  Amidst the crowded hallway, someone said hello. Mumbled replies fell from James’ mouth. Through the Vaseline smeared lenses that used to be his eyeballs, James was pretty sure he was looking at Chris.

  “Sure. Gimmie, I’ll help.” He took James’ phone and hit call. James didn’t even remember asking for help. The blackouts had apparently begun.

  Then he was moving again. Finally, in a weary series of movements, James had made it outside, again unsure how. His phone was back in his front pocket, his hoodie zipped up tight. April was colder than March, and the cold night air would have stung if he wasn’t already burning up from the Jack. James wanted to hibernate.

  He blinked.

  A navy, Ford four-door sedan, its sides decorated with incomprehensible yellow and white words and numbers, materialized in front of the house. Once James managed to spit out his address and hand over what was assuredly an overpriced and very unconventional up-front-payment, tires spit gravel and the cab burst up the block.

  They passed a black Civic, as much about the ride James could perceive before going black again, cognizant only for enough time to see his former best-friend’s car.

  “That’s not just Nick,” he drooled.

  “Whatever you say, kid. Just don’t hurl in my backseat,” the driver snapped.

  “To hell with Nick.”

  “Sure. Sure.”

  And to hell with Hallie, too. Fuck that bitch.

  That bridge burned down weeks ago, and it wasn’t getting rebuilt. Not ever.

  Pour gasoline on the fire.

  Eleven minutes later, the cab ride was over. A few prolonged movements more and James reached his bedroom oasis at last. His fitted hat fell onto the bed. He followed, face first. The salvation of sleep would come quickly. He hoped. A drunken mind mired in trepidation longed for sleep to save it. Honesty said that even sleep, and the dreams therein, would haunt more than help him. There was only one way to find out; he blacked out one last time for the night.

 

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