by Kelly, Diane
Nothing unusual in the neighborhood. Might as well head over to the mall.
As I prepared to turn out of the neighborhood, a female dispatcher came over the line. “Got a report of a woman stealing trash on Park Hill Drive,” she said. “Who can respond?”
I was only a few blocks away. I grabbed my radio mic and pushed the talk button. I was tempted to question the report. How could someone claim their trash had been stolen? By putting an item at the curb to be hauled away by garbage collectors hadn’t the owner relinquished his or her rights? Forfeited ownership?
But rather than debating the legalities and/or ludicrousness of the report with the dispatcher, I merely said, “Officer Luz and Brigit responding.”
I slid the mic back into the holder and hooked a tire-squealing U-turn that, for civilians, would have been an illegal maneuver. Wheee! It’s fun when you can break the rules with impunity.
Two turns and twenty seconds later I pulled up behind an older green minivan parked at a curb in front of a classic Williamsburg-style home partially covered with the same ivy that filled the lush beds at its base. The van’s hatch was open. A tiny elderly woman stood at the cargo bay, her waist-long silver ponytail hanging down the back of her paint-splattered denim overalls, her child-sized feet clad in classic red Keds. She wrangled a cockeyed and scratched wooden bookcase with a broken shelf into her van.
Movement at one of the house’s front windows caught my eye. The resident, a middle-aged blond woman, had pulled back the curtains and was peering through the sheers. No doubt she’d been the one to call in the report. She might have too much time on her hands, but didn’t she realize we cops had better things to do than harass harmless scavengers? She was as bad as Mr. Cuthbert.
I slid the gearshift into park, turned off the cruiser, and climbed out. I let Brigit out, too, to stretch her legs. “Good morning, Honeysuckle.”
It wasn’t a term of endearment. It was the woman’s given name. I’d first met her a few months earlier when Derek and I had pulled her over for failing to put a red flag on a long rolled-up rug that stuck out of the back of her van. I’d had to fight a chuckle when I saw the name on her license. Honeysuckle Mae Sewell. What had her parents been thinking? Rose, Daisy, and Lily, sure. Iris, even. But Honeysuckle? The name belonged on a cat, not a human being.
The woman had been friendly and contrite, so I’d let her go with a warning, despite the Big Dick’s suggestion I stick it to her with a citation. Heartless, that guy.
Honeysuckle lived on the East Side, outside of my beat but not far from my apartment complex. To supplement her meager Social Security checks, she ran a perpetual yard sale in front of her ancient wood-frame house. I’d bought my card table and chair from her. At seven bucks they were a steal.
Honeysuckle looked up and offered me a smile. Cops don’t get many of those. Few people are happy to see us. Honeysuckle’s smile was wrinkle ringed and gap-toothed but also wide and warm.
“Hello there!” she called. “Officer Megan, right?”
I nodded and returned the smile.
Her eyes went to my head. “Your hair looks especially shiny today.”
“New shampoo.” Thank goodness she didn’t ask me for the brand. “Whatcha got here?” My words were a bit folksie, but I’d found that being congenial and casual could sometimes diffuse situations much better than being cold and formal.
“Bookcase,” she said. “It’s a little off-kilter and one of the shelves is broke, but I can glue the wood and set it straight again. Think I could get twenty bucks for it?”
“Betcha could,” I said. “I just might buy it from you myself.” I took another step closer and lowered my voice. “Listen, Ms. Sewell, I’m here because a homeowner reported someone stealing trash.”
“Stealing trash?” Honeysuckle’s brows formed a perplexed V. “That makes no sense. How can a person steal something that someone else threw it away?”
“Beats the heck out of me.” I gave her a wink to let her know I was on her side, then gestured to the woman behind the curtain to come outside.
The woman stepped out onto her porch but came no closer, as if afraid she might catch fleas from us. Then again, with Brigit along, she just might.
I shaded my eyes against the sun. “Are you the one who reported a person stealing your discards?” I’d chosen the word “discards” to make a point. The point being that her complaint was nonsensical.
The woman seemed hesitant to admit it at first but finally said, “Yes. I’m the one who called.”
I gestured to Honeysuckle. “Is this the alleged thief?”
The woman nodded.
“Did she take anything that wasn’t set out here for the g-garbagemen to haul off?”
The woman frowned. “Well, no, but we don’t like people coming into our neighborhood and making a mess.”
I failed to see how picking up a discarded bookcase was making a mess. If anything, Honeysuckle was helping to rid the neighborhood of clutter. I said as much.
Clearly, that’s not what the woman wanted to hear. “She’s trespassing.”
She wasn’t trespassing. She was just collecting castoffs she could repair and sell. She was just trying to make a living. Maybe this woman ought to give it a try sometime.
“This is a public street,” I pointed out.
Honeysuckle looked up at me. “I’m always careful not to go into anyone’s yard.”
I tilted my head to indicate the shelves. “You want the bookcase back?” I asked the woman.
She looked from me, to Honeysuckle, then back to me. “Well … no.”
Then why all the fuss, for God’s sake? Of course I couldn’t say that or I’d risk a complaint. I turned my attention to Honeysuckle. “All done here?”
She wasn’t breaking the law, but the quickest way to resolve this matter would be for her to move along. She knew it, too. This wasn’t the first time she’d been shooed.
“Sure am,” Honeysuckle said. “I’ll get on my way.”
With that, Honeysuckle pulled a lightweight plastic stepstool from her cargo bay and stood on it to grab the inside handle of the open hatch. She pulled the door down, closed it, and picked up the stool, carrying it with her to the driver’s door. She set the stool on the passenger seat and climbed in, settling on top of the pillow she’d put on the driver’s seat to help her see over the dash.
“You have a good day now!” she called before shutting her door and motoring off.
With Honeysuckle on her way, the woman said, “Looks like this is taken care of.” She offered me a nod, but no thank you before going back into her house. Hence I made no attempt to stop Brigit from tinkling in the woman’s ivy. Hell, I was tempted to tinkle in her ivy myself.
* * *
It was straight up noon when my partner and I climbed back into the car. I aimed the cruiser for the Chisholm Trail mall, where Brigit and I could scrounge up some lunch in the food court.
Today would be an especially busy day at the mall. Several years ago, the Texas legislature established a sales tax moratorium on a specified weekend in August preceding the opening day of public schools. With sales tax abated for three days, shoppers came out in droves. Although the law was purportedly enacted to help the less fortunate afford clothing and school supplies for their children, the statute was actually the result of lobbying by retailers hoping to pad their bottom lines. Rather than offer additional discounts on their merchandise, retailers were more than happy to let the government take the financial hit.
Given the sales tax holiday, shoppers had turned out in record numbers and a long line of cars waited at the signal light. Brigit and I had to sit through three light changes before we could turn into the shopping center. A lesser cop might have turned on his lights and siren to cut in line, but I patiently waited my turn with the civilians.
The parking lot was packed, every spot filled, would-be shoppers driving up and down the lanes in a futile attempt to find empty slots, eager to begin their tax-
free shopping spree. Not that anyone shopping at these exclusive stores really needed the tax break. Most drove high-end cars and could surely afford to pay full price. Still, I understood the thrill of the bargain hunt.
As I headed to my reserved parking spot, I noticed many of the usual cars in the employee lot. A midnight-blue Infiniti. A green PT Cruiser. A powder-pink ’86 Cadillac Coupe de Ville.
After allowing Brigit to sniff around in the grassy area flanking the lot, I headed into the mall with her black nylon leash in my hand, my partner trotting along beside me. Reaching down to my belt, I removed the walkie-talkie mall security had given me when I’d first been assigned the beat. The device allowed me to keep an ear on communications among the mall’s security personnel and, in the event of an emergency, would enable us to get in quick contact without having to go through police dispatch. Not that there were many real emergencies in the mall. I’d recently been summoned to break up an argument between two women tangling over the last pair of size 7 Gucci loafers on a half-price rack, but when Brigit grabbed one of the shoes and sunk her teeth through the leather, the debate ended instantly.
My partner had the wisdom of Solomon.
Or Snoopy.
I flipped the switch to turn the walkie-talkie on. “Officer Luz on-site.”
Three security guards responded with an acknowledgment.
I returned the radio to my belt.
Potted ornamental trees placed here and there along the main walkway provided only dappled shade, so Brigit and I stuck to the perimeter, walking in the shadows of the store awnings to avoid the relentless late-summer sun. How a real estate developer could think that an open-air mall in Texas was a good idea was beyond me. But mall management surely saved a fortune on their electric bills, since they didn’t have to air-condition the common areas. What’s more, the heat discouraged loitering and encouraged customers to go into the shops and spend their money. On second thought, maybe the idea of an open-air mall wasn’t so ridiculous after all.
Clang! Clang! The mall’s trackless choo-choo train inched its way down the path, the conductor having to repeatedly ring the bell to signal pedestrians to clear the way. Clang! Clang!
Brigit and I made our way slowly past the shops, weaving our way in and out among shoppers. Most were mothers with young children or groups of high school kids. Judging from their expensive couture and coiffures, they likely lived in the nearby country club neighborhood.
The organ music from the Western-themed carousel in the middle of the mall grew louder, then softer as the glass doors to the courtyard opened and closed ahead of us, letting shoppers in and out. Rather than the traditional tunes, the organ music consisted of classic country and folk songs. “Happy Trails.” “Ragtime Cowboy Joe.” The themes from Bonanza and Rawhide. And, of course, “The Old Chisholm Trail,” the classic song that had been recorded over the years by a number of musicians ranging from Woody Guthrie to Tex Ritter to the Charlie Daniels Band. I knew the lyrics by heart thanks to my second-grade music teacher.
Oh, come along, boys, and listen to my tale,
I’ll tell you all my troubles on the ol’ Chisholm Trail.
Come a-ti yi youpy youpy yea youpy yea,
Come a-ti yi youpy youpy yea.…
The songs were on a ninety-minute loop, repeating each hour and a half. If I had to hear the same hokey songs five times a day, day after day, I’d shoot myself in the head. Of course, given that I’d ranked lowest in my training class in firearms skills, I’d probably use up the entire magazine trying to off myself.
While I sucked with my gun, I’d been the most adept with my baton. The stick felt natural in my hand, right, like an extension of my body. Who knew all those years of twirling with the high school band would come in handy in my police career?
I stopped in front of the bookstore, checking out the window display for the latest releases. I made a mental note to stop back when I was off duty and pick up a thriller that caught my eye. Window-shopping was one thing, but if I made any actual personal purchases while on the clock I could find myself facing a disciplinary action.
I’d just passed the wine shop, noting the Buy One Get One Free sign posted in their window, when the unmistakable grind of skate wheels on cement came from behind me. Two shaggy-haired skater boys wearing black skinny jeans and T-shirts came zipping toward us down the middle of the walkway, narrowly missing a toddler who’d stepped away from her mother.
I knew these punks. In fact, I’d warned them once before not to skate at the mall. At least I think it was them. All of these shaggy-haired kids looked alike. C’mon, boys. Try some originality!
I raised my whistle to my lips. TWEET! Letting the whistle fall back on its cord, I hollered, “Off the boards! Now!”
I moved to the middle of the walkway, spreading my legs and stretching out my arms. Brigit followed suit, standing sideways, the two of us forming a barrier.
When the boys ground to a stop in front of us, I lowered my arms. “No skating in the mall, boys. Parking lot’s off-limits, too. I’m not g-going to tell you again. Next time I’ll take your boards.”
The boys didn’t address me directly, just stepped off their boards, tucked them under their arms, and wandered on, muttering under their breath about police oppression. Such drama queens.
Brigit and I made our way slowly past the shops. I glanced into each one, raising a hand or offering a nod to the staff, most of whom I knew by either name or sight. I’d made a point of introducing myself to the store managers and employees when I’d first begun working the beat with Derek months ago.
As I walked, the song lyrics kept running unbidden through my head:
On a ten-dollar horse and a forty-dollar saddle,
I was a-ridin’ and a-punchin’ those Texas cattle.
Come a-ti yi youpy youpy yea youpy yea,
Come a-ti yi youpy youpy yea.…
One of the mall’s maintenance team, an African-American guy in his early fifties, knelt down on the walkway next to the door of the Yankee Candle shop, a large red toolbox beside him. Dressed in blue coveralls and steel-toed work boots, he fingered through an assortment of screws and nails, trying several in the hole before finding one that fit.
I raised a hand in greeting. “Hey, Irving.”
“Hey yourself, Officer Luz.” He cupped a hand under Brigit’s furry chin and made a smoochie face. “Hello to you, too, pretty girl.”
My partner responded to his attentions by licking his cheek.
Irving released her and picked up a screwdriver to finish his work. Brigit and I continued on.
It’s bacon and beans most every day,
I’d just as soon be eatin’ prairie hay.
Come a-ti yi youpy youpy yea youpy yea,
Come a-ti yi youpy youpy yea.…
A couple stores down was Brackenburg Furriers. Given the heat, no one was shopping for fur coats this weekend. The store’s owner, Ariana Brackenburg, leaned casually against the stone wall in her doorway, an expression of equal parts condescension and boredom on her face as she sucked iced coffee through Botoxed lips. The platinum-haired, painfully thin woman wore a lightweight bloodred suit and stood nearly six feet tall in her pointy-toed red pumps.
As we approached, the store owner glanced down at Brigit, her expression morphing to one of appreciation, as if she were imagining the beautiful coat my partner would make.
Brigit emitted a soft growl at the modern-day Cruella De Vil.
Ariana gave my partner a pointed look. “Reading my mind, were you?” She chuckled and turned her kohl-lined eyes my way. “I don’t think she likes me.”
That makes two of us. I shrugged.
I continued on to the center courtyard, opening the glass door for Brigit and following her through. Inside, the carousel music filled the space, providing a carnival-like atmosphere. The ride was in full swing, smiling children moving up and down and round and round on their colorful steeds. Those prone to motion sickness sat green faced on the
stationary benches, trying not to throw up the Cinnabons they’d begged their mothers to buy them.
Randy, the carousel operator, sat on his cowhide barstool, wearing his usual gray ostrich cowboy boots, jeans, and a long-sleeved Western-style pearl-snap shirt. Completing the ridiculous getup were faux-suede fringed chaps with a matching vest. Tucked into the hatband of his straw Stetson today were a ticket stub from a 2012 One Direction concert, a business card from a plastic surgeon, and a coupon for Valtrex, the herpes medication.
The guy had thin lips and wide-set eyes, along with light-brown hair cut as short as the grass on the golf course greens. He wasn’t ugly, exactly, but he hadn’t made any effort to make himself attractive, either. Nonetheless, Randy had a few things going for him. Straight, white teeth for one. The aforementioned sense of humor, for two. And last, while he might not earn big bucks on his job, he always showed up for work on time, a testament to his reliability. His punctuality was also a testament to the reliability of his car, the pink Mary Kay Cadillac. He’d evidently snagged the car for next to nothing at a government auction. Perhaps I should add good money management skills to his list of positive attributes.
Randy unclipped his lasso from his waist. “Check out the new trick I’ve been working on.”
He took a few steps back and began to rotate his right hand, the rope loop circling in front of him. Once he’d gained some momentum, he angled the rope downward to his right so that it spun parallel to the floor, a half foot from the tile. Randy hopped into the moving rope circle, then out, then back in again.
I clapped my hands. “Bravo, Buckaroo.”
“Wait,” he said, raising the index finger of his left hand. “There’s more!”
Standing inside the circle, he slowly raised his rotating hand, the spiraling rope moving up his legs and torso and past his face until it went cockeyed and hit the brim of his cowboy hat, sending it flying off his head. He stopped spinning the rope and it went slack, hanging limply in his hands. “That wasn’t supposed to happen.”