D.O.A.
Page 6
“Dude, that was like a month ago.”
“More like two weeks. And they were busy weeks, too.”
“Excuses, excuses.”
“Eh, it’s your bad influence,” James said, looking back at his cousin for a second. “I would have called her… if I wasn’t rectifying that whole Spanish-girl-hook-up-thing.”
They laughed.
“That wasn’t hooking up, dude. That was… well, hell, I still can’t believe you got her to do that shit the same night you met her!”
“She was born and raised in Staten Island, bro. That shit was all stretched out long before she ever met me, and it didn’t take more than a friendly suggestion for me to get in there, either.”
They both laughed some more.
“Still. You used to be the good one, James. Lately you’ve been making me look like a fucking saint!”
Headlights reflected off of the weeds and trees lining the lot near Chris’ Altima, someone else leaving. Seemed the only other person stupid enough to park back there. A soft yellow lit up the remainder of the lot, reflected off something just near the exit, then disappeared, just long enough for Kent to catch it. Eyes, two sets.
His body stiffened; he lost track of conversation immediately, right hand instinctively swept towards the small of his back. It amazed him how fast instincts like this had already become so deeply ingrained. A few feet from the car, Kent slipped the back of his hoodie and shirt up for easy access to the nine millimeter, semi-automatic he’d tucked in his waistband.
The perps waited until Kent and his cousin were on opposite sides of the Altima. The first, in a blue hoodie and baggy blue jeans, came up on the left towards Kent. He was now a good ten feet away from the other guy, the one with a red hoodie and jeans now approaching Chris. Faces draped in shadows, hands out of sight.
Enough distance to make it impossible to take them both down simultaneously.
Kent hadn’t even finished sizing up the situation when Blue raised his own black semi-automatic. He spoke up from behind the barrel of the gun. Similar to the Glock twenty-six Kent was carrying, this one a little bigger, already out, cocked sideways, not far from the cop’s face. Chris freaked out as a wet spot appeared in the crotch of his worn jeans. His face flushed red, an admixture of shame and fear.
“Money. Now!” Blue - six foot, buck fifty tops - demanded. Only a few feet between the gun and Kent. Red - five six and the same weight - reiterated the order from the other side of the car with a reminder that lives were at stake, just in case that fact had somehow failed to rate notice. Chris scrambled for his wallet, handed it over to Red with fumbling hands. Bony dark skinned fingers plucked it out of his grasp.
“I said, now, mutha fucka, or don’t you hear too good? You don’t hear good, huh? I put this shit in yo mutha fuckin’ mouth fo’ you gon’ get it?”
Fury burned on both sides of the firearm in play. Blue wanted money, bad. Kent raged towards scumbags like him. They ruined the entire fucking City. Drug dealers, gangsters, perps with weapons, drunk drivers. The shit that God just wouldn't deal with for some stupid fucking reason. They were all the same to James and he wished he could annihilate the entire lot of them in one fell swoop.
Someone screamed. A blonde being tickled by her boyfriend, far end of the lot, barely visible. Blue glanced over anyway, dropped the gun just a hair, a hair too much.
Stupid move, dickhead.
Kent hadn’t learned much good for off duty use during his time in the Academy, but how to flip a gun was definitely one thing he’d committed to memory.
He made his move.
The pop echoed through the parking lot, the gun’s bark louder in the streets than in the shooting range. A hot shell flew towards Kent’s face, smoke clouded the atmosphere around him. Everything went quiet for the rookie, except for a soft ringing. He caught a glance at the girl from the corner of his eye; her giggling had turned to panic. Her boyfriend stood still. The other perp in the red hoodie was in shock, as well.
Kent surmised that he had committed his training to memory all wrong, because there was a hole where Blue’s forehead used to be. That wasn’t supposed to happen. It seemed smaller somehow than he’d expected, but the blood came quickly, flowing down his forehead, into eyes, off his dark cheeks. Perp’s body hit the ground, perp’s gun fell too. All in an instant. Chris was full-on crying. Red was moving again, reaching for his front waistband. Kent knew what he was going for.
Cowboy the fuck up, get there first.
Three more barks.
Chest, chest, head - all three exploded with sprays of blood. More ejected shells, more smoke reaching heavenward, dark brown flesh painted red; now the perp’s face matched his hoodie. Kent’s senses came roaring back a second later. Screams filled his ears, the terrified kind this time. There was a thud, another bloody body against the pavement. The air reeked of gunpowder. Something warm was running down Kent’s leg. He looked down, his first thought being blood.
“Aw. Come on,” he muttered in disgust. Chris wasn’t the only one who’d pissed himself.
Before Kent could process everything that had transpired, the empty parking lot gave way to a uniformed zoo. Brass was everywhere - the 122 Precinct’s commanding officer, the Duty Captain, two Sergeants, too many cops to count. Paramedics swarmed Chris and James like bees. The Fire Department showed too. They stood by heroically doing nothing.
The first revelation leveled on the still-recovering-rookie was that the second perp had no gun, totally, completely and officially unarmed. Kent’s shoot was in question. Internal Affairs, The Rat Squad, showed up even before Kent’s representation did. Two white males, both wearing cheap suits. One with a mustache, the other with a trench coat, as if costumed for a bad movie. Mustache talked, Coat wrote obsessively on a small notepad, scribbling inscrutable hieroglyphics from what Kent could see.
“Not even a pencil, kid. He didn’t have anything, but you shot him three times?”
Too many lights convulsed through the area, two and a half traded for a disco’s worth. The lot had been near pitch black; now it flared with blue and red, reflecting off of every square inch of concrete, brick and metal.
Exiting the Home Depot parking lot opposite the movie theater’s, a black minivan’s driver cared more about the new NYPD nightclub across the street than he did the headlights headed his way. A hard screech, and Kent turned to watch the collision. Nothing too major, but the crash was enough to pull at least one cop from Kent’s fiasco to deal with the new one.
“Officer Kent, you getting this?”
He answered in apology. Mustache reminded him of the severity of the situation. Officer Kent needed to stop getting distracted. He just took two lives and the shooting still hadn’t been declared justified. Might never be. Officer Kent needed to pay attention.
Coat added more hieroglyphics to his notes, moved his head left to right methodically in disapproval of the young officer.
“I thought he was going for a gun. I already told the Captain.”
“I'm sorry, we look like the Captain to you?”
“No. Just saying.” James wanted to tell them to go screw themselves, screw what The Job said, too. They weren’t there to see it go down. If they had been, then they’d know he was justified. He started spitting jargon instead.
“Honestly, detectives, I just thank God I had the proper training. I assure you, I took the necessary force I thought the situation demanded. No more.”
“No less either, apparently,” Mustache snarked, just before being interrupted by a tall, well built, brown haired cop in a clean, pressed uniform.
In a deep, commanding voice, police officer John Geovanni introduced himself as Kent’s delegate before he excused himself and the young officer for a moment. Told the detectives they’d be back to them in just a minute. Mustache and Coat shook their heads in unison as Geovanni did what he wanted regardless of how they felt about it. He ushered Kent a yard away for a recap of what had transpired so far.
Geovanni walked stone faced behind Kent towards the ambulance. They ignored the two detectives’ obvious and angry waves.
After interviewing the witnesses, IAB went to the hospital to finish hammering out their interview of the main subject. Geovanni sat in a black plastic chair next to Kent’s bed and had a stare down contest with Mustache and Coat.
“Why’d it take you so long to come here?” Mustache asked the cop in question.
Geovanni answered for him, “That’s how distraught he was, didn’t even realize.”
Mustache and Coat scowled in unison. Then the facts came rolling in. Second perp wasn’t armed, that much they’d clarified on scene. The new development - maybe Kent had thought he was going for a gun, but no one else saw such furtive movement.
Geovanni’s voice rumbled, “That’s because everyone was focused on the other perp. In fact, detectives, that shows just how good a cop Officer Kent is. He was the only one even looking at the second perp. He could’ve saved multiple lives tonight if that perp had had a gun. Regardless of the fact that he did save multiple lives already from the first perp, who was armed.”
The delegate was good. Kent figured it was the piano he wore on his forearm, more hash marks sown onto his sleeve than he could count before now. Intently staring as he sat there listening to the delegate talk, Kent counted enough to tally at least twenty-five years. Must’ve been well into his fifties, but still could’ve passed for a hard turn at forty. He was dignified, too; everyone in the command respected him. That or feared him. Nearly six foot and two hundred pounds of very solid muscle, close set dark brown eyes that seemed to see everything, the guy was a legend in the Deuce. Even the detectives seemed to understand they weren’t dealing with a normal delegate. Geovanni knew his shit.
Next, he pointed out the excellence of Officer Kent’s career thus far. The amount of excellence a cop could fit into less than five months on Staten Island was debatable, but Kent appreciated the vote of confidence. The back and forth continued a while more; Geovanni never let Kent answer a question himself.
Kent played with his thumbs, watched the banter like an outsider. Not that Kent wasn’t thankful for such magic bullshit on his behalf, but he wondered if it’d really matter when the City’s infamous activist leader started feeding lines to the public. All the PBA wordplay in the world would do just about nothing come that time.
IAB eventually had enough information for the night and left. After almost five hours, James was released on his own recognizance. Felt more like a perp than a cop as he walked out the back doors of Staten Island University North. Geovanni told him they’d have to see where it went from there.
“How many days you got on the books?”
“About sixteen. And some loose change.”
“Good, you'll use ten. Don’t come in for at least two weeks. I’ll fill out your twenty-eights tonight. Let this cool. I’ll contact you.”
A knot turned in James’ stomach. He was getting his own personal DAT. Re-appear whenever the fuck The Job demanded it.
“Yeah. Sure. And thanks for everything, Geovanni.”
“Thank me by going home and staying out of trouble.”
With that, the old cop stormed towards the front exit. James went out the back. He gave a weary hello to the incoming EMS workers he knew, walked between the two ambulances parked there. Only official emergency vehicles were allowed to park in the back area but a robin red, vintage Mini Cooper with windows so black they looked painted ignored the rules, sat at the far end of the small lot, engine purring.
“Thanks,” James grunted, after pulling at the handle of the side door. Fluorescent lights glowed from various spaces within the small car.
“Hey, when my partner rings to tell me he dropped two scumbags, only to get reamed out by the CO and IAB, you think I’m not gonna come?”
James struggled through a smile and sunk into the cool beige leather.
“I told Chris we should’ve fuckin’ gone to Jersey instead.”
Max chuckled and swung a U-turn.
“Nice car.”
“Thanks. Was a gift. Still tweaking it though.”
“Some gift.”
“Some girl. So where to?”
“Can you just take me home? I got nothing left,” James said, before he closed his eyes and leaned his head back.
Max nodded. “Fair enough, partner. Fair enough.”
Sunday
October 28, 2012
Burden
James pulled in behind Max’s Mini on the right-hand side of a quiet, North Shore, one-way street. The sunlight was fading fast, casting long shadows across a small church on the corner. Clove Lakes Park was on his left across the street. So many trees he could barely even see the little lake down in the middle of the park. A small white stone bridge reared its start from a patchwork of different shades of green and brown.
A tall blonde in her early thirties was walking a well-groomed Yorkie. Nice looking woman, but her overly tanned face beamed from atop a two-toned grey jacket like a lighthouse shining in a bleak storm. She walked towards the bridge with an air of determination; her painted on jeans and probably surgically enhanced good figure kept James’ attention. She stopped momentarily at the approach of a short, overly muscular man in a black tee shirt and red gym shorts. His orange electric beach complexion matched her own. Kent surveyed the two, made sure it was just friendly flirting on the jogger’s part, no danger to the fake ‘n bake female who he was hitting on. Once he felt assured, Kent turned back to the old car ahead of him, just as the driver’s side door finished swinging open. Kent mirrored the same action, exiting his car as well.
Locke stood, holding his hot tea at chest level. The tall, grey thermos looked dull, staid, against his mint colored tee shirt. The man wore slim fitting camouflage chinos, a black leather jacket, and a matching black beanie.
“Only you would be drinking tea right now. It’s nearly sixty,” James said with a chuckle as they met between their cars.
“Yeah, weather’s real strange. But tea is always appropriate. This storm’s probably going to be really bad tomorrow, ya know. They said they’re denying all twenty-eights. They’ll probably even call you in.”
“Let ’em try.”
Max sipped his tea. He clicked the top closed, then open again for no apparent reason.
“You’re not gonna go in?”
“No way. Screw ‘em. They wanna paint me a bad guy? I’ll go back when I fucking feel like it. It’s still our RDO anyway.”
“If it’s as bad as they’re saying, City won’t care. We’ll all be working.”
“Did they get you to meet with me or something? What the fuck?” James asked with a disgruntled laugh.
“No. No, of course not. I just wanted to see you, see how you are. The News doesn’t let up. Goddamn.”
“Yeah, doing your job sucks in this city. But hey, I’m a fucking celebrity now,” Kent said with a sardonic grin.
It sounded strange, so casual, hearing himself say it all like that. Made him realize how downright cold he’d reacted to what he’d done. Locke’s face didn’t show the least hint of amusement.
“That color’s a little bright for you, no?” James remarked, a blatant attempt at skipping over to another subject.
Max smiled. “I’m trying to dress more stylish, like you.”
“Heh. You got miles to go for that, bro.” James wore black drop crotch sweatpants, tight in the calves, with a slim fitting black and red checkered flannel, the sleeves rolled up to just below his elbows.
“You sure as shit don
't dress blue collar, bro. That's for fucking sure.”
“When I’m done with you, partner, neither will you.”
Max smiled before raising the thermos to his lips again. After a short sip he said, “When you texted me, I was already on my way here. Figured it might help you clear your head a bit too. I like it here.”
Max shifted the tea towards the church, which was just across the way from them. It wasn’t much larger than the average home in that area, with a three foot cross topping the steeple and a large, dark circular window a few feet below that. The brick faced building was comprised of browns and reds juxtaposed randomly to no real avail. A second, smaller steeple extended outward from the church two feet or so with two ornate, walnut brown, wooden doors therein serving as the entrance. A generous lawn stretched out along the front and both sides of the church.
Locke was staring at the cross atop the steeple.
“You tend to get... philosophical,” James said, an edge of skepticism in his tone. “You sure our meeting place here doesn’t have some sort of an ulterior motive?”
Max took another sip of his tea. “Hey, you're the Christian. Just trying to make you feel at home, man.”
“Right. So you're not trying to convince me that God doesn't exist today?”
“What?” Max laughed. “You think I’m gonna bring up stuff like how in Deuteronomy, your god supposedly gives instructions for how to shit properly? And yet this anal-retentive god just decides to completely stop talking for the past two thousand years? Sure, I hope you wake up, but I didn't bring you here for that.” Max smirked and sipped at his tea.
“You're a mother fucker, Locke,” James said with a smile.
“Don’t I know it. So, you wanna walk?” Max gestured with his chin towards the thick tree lined park opposite the church.
James shrugged, “I dunno.” He turned to the church again, stuck his hands in the front pockets of his sweats. He bounced himself on the sides of his feet; black and white Adidas Superstars outsoles rubbed pavement.