Race

by Mobashar Qureshi

  Even now I laugh when I think about it.

  It goes to show no matter how smart you think you are, someone is always smarter.

  ***

  It was almost the end of my shift and close to rush hour. I drove to a tag-and-tow street. I stopped behind a gray Plymouth Voyager and wrote a ticket.

  “Hey, wait. Stop,” said a voice further away.

  I turned and saw a man in a robe running towards me. He stopped and caught his breath.

  How do people know I’m about to give them a ticket?

  “Hey, please. Don’t give me a ticket?” he said.

  “You’re not supposed to be parked here. Rush hour,” I said.

  “I know,” he pleaded. “I’m having a bad day. My girlfriend left me. I was up all night. I didn’t even go to work…”

  People tell me their life’s history hoping I’ll change my mind, and in certain situations I do.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” I said.

  I placed the ticket on the windshield.

  “Haven’t you ever had a bad day?”

  “Every day,” I said and moved to my cruiser.

  “Haven’t you ever been too busy to move your car?”

  That stopped me.

  He said, “Come on, can’t you give me a break?”

  “I did,” I said. “You’re lucky I didn’t have your car towed.”

  I headed back to headquarters with forty-seven tickets and two tows.

  ***

  After my shift I took the subway to Joe’s Towing. Inside the impound shed, mighty Joe Coultier sat behind the counter.

  Behind Joe was a huge sign that read: WE DID NOT DRIVE YOUR CAR, WE DID NOT PARK YOUR CAR, WE DID NOT TAG YOUR CAR, WE DID TOW YOUR CAR, SO WE DESERVE ONLY ¼ OF THE ABUSE.

  “License plate?” Joe asked a gentleman in front of me.

  The man gave him the plate number, paid, and left.

  “Next,” Joe yelled.

  There was no one else in the impound shed.

  “Jonny,” he said in a deep voice. Joe is massive; he has big hands, big chest, big feet, even a big head.

  “Hello, Joe,” I said, embarrassed.

  “License plate?” he asked

  “Come on,” I snapped. “You know my car. I’ve been here many times.”

  “Too many times,” he said, clearly enjoying this.

  “Yeah, all right,” I said and gave him my license plate number.

  He looked through his records as if it were a technicality. “The usual spot.”

  Something was different. “What happened to Marcie?” I asked.

  “She got tired of the yelling and swearing—”

  “—From you?”

  “Funny guy,” said Joe.

  “I always liked her,” I said. “She had a beautiful smile.”

  “Yeah, well,” he shrugged. “There’s a vacancy if you’re interested.”

  “Funny guy,” I said imitating him. “How much?”

  “The usual. Forty-nine dollars.”

  “Come on,” I said. “I’m your best customer. You must have a super-customer rate.”

  “Sorry, I don’t.”

  “You know what you need?” I said, getting excited. “Those coupons like in the grocery stores. After five tows the next tow is free.”

  “Not interested,” Joe said.

  “How’re you supposed to attract customers?”

  “I don’t need to.”

  I leaned closer. “You know they’ll go elsewhere.”

  “No, they won’t. I have the contract to this district for another three years. They have no choice but to come to me.”

  I stood up and waved my finger, “That’s monopolization and that’s illegal.”

  “Go fight the system.”

  “I intend to,” I said. I pulled out my chequebook, ready to pay and get out of this place.

  “No cheques from you,” Joe said, shaking his head.

  “Since when?” I asked.

  “Since the last time your cheque bounced.”

  “I had to pay my cable bill.”

  “I don’t care.” He pointed to a piece of paper, stuck on the wall, behind him. It read: DO NOT ACCEPT CHEQUES FROM THIS PERSON. Underneath was a smiling picture of me.

  “Where’d you get that?” I exploded.

  “From your driver’s license,” he said, laughing.

  “All right, you giant clown, take it down.” After paying, I said, “I’m going to be back in three years and Marcie and I are going to open our own little towing company. And we’re going to offer discounts to our loyal customers.”

  I went to the back end of the lot to where my car was, in the dark corner.

  I patted my baby. “Sorry you have to come to this awful place,” I whispered. “Daddy will be more responsible from now on.”

  For a brief moment I thought my car sighed. It had been a very long day.

  I got in my car and drove into the sunset.

  ***

  I drove to my landlady’s son’s house. He came out as he saw me ease my car into the driveway.

  “Jon,” he said. “Mom told me your car was towed.”

  “How did she know?” I was certain she was sleeping when the towing occurred.

  “She saw you standing on the street, waiting for the streetcar.”

  “Yeah, well,” I shrugged.

  “You should’ve parked it here,” he said.

  “Just too tired, I guess.”

  My landlord’s family was from the Philippines and some of the nicest people I knew.

  I walked the block to my house and with the key opened the main door. As I was walking up the stairs my landlady appeared behind her door.

  “Jonny,” she said in her native Tagalog accent. “I was so worried. You get your car back?”

  “Yes, I did,” I said. Whenever something happened to me she got worried. “It’s okay; I parked it at David’s.”

  “You should do that every day. Okay?”

  “Yes, every day,” I said in resignation.

  I unlocked my front door and entered.

  I was greeted by a life-size cut-out of Michael Jordan, wearing his No. 23 Bulls jersey, hands clasped to his sides and smiling radiantly.

  “Hi, Mike,” I said, in customary greeting.

  To this day Mike has never answered back, but his smile always reassures me that he is listening.

  I had arrived in my one-bedroom castle. The king had returned from giving parking tickets to those who chose to break the municipal parking by-laws.

  I washed up, warmed my TV dinner and placed myself in front of the television. Nothing beats coming home and watching a basketball game.

  Like most nights, I was asleep before the start of the fourth quarter.

  FOUR

  I rolled to the other side of the bed trying desperately to block a sharp noise. Every few seconds the noise emerged again and I placed a pillow over my head. I opened my eyes and looked at the time: 7:34 a.m.

  I removed the pillow and realized the noise was the ringing of the telephone. Who could be calling me this early in the morning? I don’t get up until almost eight. My voice mail should have picked it up by now. I waited, but the ringing started again. Why did this person continue calling me?

  Annoyed, I answered it. “Jon Rupret.”

  “Jon, sorry to wake you up so early…”

  “Roberta?” I said. “It’s 7:30 in the morning. I’ve just lost twenty minutes of my beauty sleep.”

  “I know…”

  “Is everything okay?”

  “The sergeant left me a note to tell you to come to headquarters early today.”

  “Early? What for? I didn’t do anything, Roberta. I swear. They always blame the black guy.”

  “Don’t get paranoid. It must be a shift change or someone called in sick. I don’t know. Just come in early.”

  “How early are we talking about?”

  “Jon, now!” she nearly yelled.

  I hung up and sat
silently.

  This wasn’t right. Not that I haven’t been called at inappropriate times to fill in for a colleague before. But I had a bad feeling.

  I changed into my uniform, ate my favourite chocolate cereal, said my morning goodbyes to Michael Jordan, and left to pick up my car, all in less then my usual time.

  I drove to the department, which took almost twenty-five minutes because of the morning rush.

  “Thank goodness,” Roberta said, seeing me come through the doors. “You’re late of course.”

  “Good morning to you, too,” I smiled.

  “The sergeant is waiting impatiently.”

  What did he say?” I inquired.

  He said, ‘Wake Jon up and tell him to come to the department right away and see me first.’”

  “Did he say that while he was smiling?”

  He seemed happy.”

  “That can’t be good,” I said to myself.

  “Jonny, go,” she said, pointing in the direction of the sergeant’s office.

  “Do you think I should buy him some roses?”

  “Go.”

  “How about dandelions?”

  “Jonny!”

  “All right.”

  ***

  The door to Sergeant Motley’s office was open and I found him reading a piece of paper.

  I tapped at the door and said, “Sir.”

  He instantly got up. “Jon, come in.” He walked over and slapped me on the back as if we were good friends. “Have a seat.”

  I sat.

  Motley went around and sat behind his desk. He smiled broadly. He was beaming, in fact. “How long have we known each other?”

  “A year and a half, I think,” I said.

  “That long, wow,” he said as if he was pondering over the date. “Jon, let me first say that I’ve always enjoyed having you work under me. Always.” He paused. “In fact, it’s been a privilege. That is why it is with great sadness that I have to see you leave.”

  “Leave?” I was shocked. “I’m being fired?” My mind suddenly jolted to our union, the Toronto Police Association.

  “Not fired,” he said waving his hands. “Transferred.”

  “Where?”

  Motley went silent. His face turned grave.

  He slid the lone piece of paper in front of me. Without touching it, as if it might bite me, I scanned it.

  “Drug squad!” I shrieked. My voice was so loud I bet the whole department heard it. “I’m being assigned to the Central Field Command Drug Squad?” I asked, still not sure if this was happening.

  He nodded.

  “You can’t do this,” I said.

  “Take it easy, Jon,” he said. “It can’t be all that bad.”

  I gave him a hard look and Motley went silent again.

  ***

  Almost a year ago, when I was in my fifth month as a PEO and new to the department, I was given the night shift. I was very naïve. One night on patrol, I saw two vehicles in a supermarket’s parking lot. There were three people in one vehicle with two sitting in front and one in the back. The other vehicle was unoccupied. I had a feeling something wasn’t right. I drove up in my marked cruiser and parked right behind the occupied vehicle. I got out.

  My radio crackled but I turned it down. It was rattling my nerves. I pulled out my flashlight and approached the driver.

  I flashed my light into the driver’s window and motioned him to roll it down. Reluctantly, he did. He was Hispanic with a heavy moustache.

  “Good evening, gentlemen,” I said as I flashed the other two passengers: one white, the other black.

  “May I ask what you gentlemen are doing here?” I said. My radio crackled again, but I ignored it.

  “Just talking, officer,” the Hispanic driver said. “That’s not illegal, is it?”

  I smiled. “Of course not, sir.”

  “Do you want to check my driver’s license?” the driver said, offering it to me.

  I flashed the passengers again.

  The other two were getting nervous. But the Hispanic driver calmly offered me his driver’s license again, “Go ahead, officer. Check it out.”

  I said, “I don’t think that’ll be necessary. Just checking to make sure you guys aren’t dealing any drugs.”

  As I finished the last sentence the two passengers bolted.

  Within seconds I was surrounded by police cruisers and unmarked cars. Two cruisers cut off the other car.

  “What the hell are you doing?” said the Hispanic driver, turning to me.

  I was confused.

  “That was a crack bust,” he said.

  “Crack…bust…?” was all I could utter.

  Detective Constable Mark Lopez had been undercover. He had arranged to buy a large amount of crack from a local dealer. He needed to make a physical purchase in order to charge the two dealers with trafficking. Prior to my arrival at the scene, he was about to gain possession of the goods, but when my cruiser pulled up behind them the one dealer became frightened. Lopez assured him that he’d take care of it and was hoping that I would check his driver’s license in order to find out who he really was.

  Across the parking lot, members of the drug squad were waiting for the exchange to take place. Detective Ronald Garnett saw my cruiser approach the lot, and had me radioed. Instead of contacting the dispatcher, I had to be the hero.

  Next day the front pages of the major newspapers read:

  Toronto Star: DRUG BUST FOULED BY PARKING ENFORCEMENT OFFICER

  Toronto Sun: TORONTO POLICE BLAME FAILED DRUG BUST ON PARKING ENFORCEMENT OFFICER

  Toronto Globe and Mail: FAILED DRUG BUST: PARKING ENFORCEMENT OFFICER AT FAULT

  I had screwed up.

  It was embarrassing for the force and especially embarrassing for me. My face was on all the papers with my name misspelled as John Rupert. It was a tough period, and I was not prepared for it.

  I was lucky that I wasn’t charged. The entire drug unit hated me. I had destroyed four month’s worth of investigation.

  ***

  I stared at the piece of paper lying in front of me. I closed my eyes and opened them, hoping that the words Central Field Command Drug Squad might morph into…the Prime Minister’s Office.

  “Sir,” I said, my eyes pleading. “Please, tell me this is a joke.”

  “Come on, Jon. It happened almost a year ago. It’s all forgotten.”

  “Forgotten?” I snapped. “These guys are professionals. They never forget.” I started talking to myself. “Maybe it’s a trick. Yes…yes…it’s a trick to get back at me. I screwed them and now they’re going to screw me.” Then it occurred to me. “I’m not qualified.”

  Motley opened a drawer and pulled out a manila folder. “According to your file, you kind of are.”

  My face said: how?

  “You worked in the Guelph Police Services?”

  “Yes.”

  “And according to this you worked in Drugs and Intelligence.”

  Uh? “Sorry, what was that you said?”

  “The file we received from Guelph Police Services said you worked in Drugs and Intelligence.”

  “It does?” I whispered.

  “Yes.”

  It must be a clerical error. Someone had made a mistake.

  Was it that assistant who had dozens of trolls on her desk? Was she getting back at me for calling her trolls miniature freaks of nature? They were tiny people who had black eyes and a permanent smile on their faces.

  “Actually, sir…” I started.

  “The information provided by them assisted greatly in your transfer over here.”

  “It did?”

  “Is something wrong?”

  “No, no, no,” I waved my finger. “That information is absolutely, positively, without a doubt…information.”

  Something occurred to me. “I can’t be in the squad. I’m not even a constable.”

  “Under certain situations, exceptions can be made. I received the letter from Detecti
ve Sergeant Andrew Aldrich and the Deputy Chief of Central Field Command backed it up. Important people, Jon.”

  “What if I wrote to the Chief,” I said. “She’ll do something.”

  “You don’t want to involve her, Jon. I don’t think she’ll override the Deputy Chief’s authority.”

  Motley stood and walked up beside me; with his voice low, soothing, fatherly, he said, “Jon, you can always come back if you screw up, you know that.”

  Tears welled up in my eyes, “Yes, I know.”

  After collecting myself, I said, “When do I leave?”

  “Now,” he said. “You’re to be briefed at eleven at the Central Command Headquarters.”

  I took a deep breath. “I won’t let you down, sir.”

  “I know,” he said. “And Jon, you better go plain.”

  Without my uniform.

  I left his office and headed out. Roberta saw me.

  “So, what happened?” she said, a worried look over her face. “I think everyone heard you scream.”

  “I’m going to be in the drug unit,” I said.

  “Oh, my…” she covered her mouth. “But…”

  I held up my hand. “There are always exceptions.”

  “When do you—”

  “Right now.”

  She got up, went around her desk, and hugged me. “Good luck. Call me if you need me.”

  ***

  Ms. Zee looked out onto the silent street. Every so often a car would drive by. She had counted three in the last ten minutes. The neighbourhood was quiet, which was why she had chosen it as their so-called base. So far they had had no trouble.

  Kong was in the room, and Joey was still in the adjacent room. They would not tell him about Armand’s death, but he was smart, and when Armand did not return…

  Joey. It had been a mistake bringing him into the operation. He was supposed to watch Armand. Instead, Armand had played them like fools.

  When they met, he had promised so much, a product that would revolutionize the drug business. It was only when he kept asking for more time that she became suspicious. She had the previous batches tested and found that each was missing a component.