He stared me down once again, and immediately I could tell that begging would be no use. The stony look on his dark face was all it took for me to know that there would be no transfer orders forthcoming, and his stern speech only served to reinforce the signal. “Larsen” he began, “do you happen to recall the reason why I transferred you to foot patrol in the first place?”
His icy demeanor seemed to suggest that some degree of humility was expected on my end, so I dutifully lowered my head in shame. “Of course I do, Chief.”
He nodded. His head moved about in a series of confusing, bobbling motions, up and down and back and forth as he stabbed a thick black finger at me to emphasize his words. “Of course you do! Damn it, do you really think I’m going to let one of my officers get back behind the wheel of a cruiser after he’s been in nineteen separate traffic accidents? God in heaven, that’d be criminal negligence! Forget about it, Larsen, you are never getting off this beat! It’s just not going to happen!”
I was shocked. I’d never had a car accident in my life, except for one time the year before when I’d accidentally run over some worthless bum and revoked his birth certificate in the process. But even with a single confirmed kill from blunt force trauma, I hadn’t been found at fault in that case since the deceased had technically been jaywalking. The Chief’s accusation was unfounded, especially since I’d received such a prestigious award for the incident, and his words left me flat-footed.
Chief Greene didn’t seem to notice my shocked silence, and he kept right on rambling. “I mean Jesus Christ, Larsen!” It was a pretty unusual thing to hear a Jew to take the Lord’s name in vain but then again, nobody from Charleston would argue the fact that our chief was an odd duck. When he pulled out his nightstick and swung it high above his head to emphasize his words, the old-school hardwood baton came dangerously close to smacking him in his bald brown scalp. “You even crashed a fucking horse! Who does that?” He paused for a second, just long enough to take another breath before rolling right on with his tirade. His voice had been rising steadily in volume, and it finally rose to a full-on scream. “I mean, have you ever… in your life… heard of any other cop… who has wrecked… a fucking horse!”
A couple of drunk kids stumbled their way past, snickering with delight at the sight of my public embarrassment. This one particularly liberal-looking kid slowed his Birkenstock-sandaled shuffles just long enough to shoot me a look of disgust. I guessed that this poor little mama’s boy must have been some kind of an animal lover, and so I probably came across as a horrifying serial killer. As for the Chief, he just stood there glaring at me. There was so much hate in his eyes you’d have thought that he paid all the department’s collision repair bills and insurance deductibles out of his own pocket.
Finally, the synapses in my brain started to connect in a sudden burst of understanding. It took me a few seconds to catch up, but I finally realized that he must have had me confused with Stefan Jones! Jones was just another burned-out foot patrol lifer who was cut from the same mold as Curly Wilds, although he’d set a department record for being our most crash-prone officer. Jones had trashed his cruiser so many times that the only wheels he was allowed to drive now were attached to a giant Segway. “Scooter” Jones was strictly limited to working the dayshift beat down in the East Side projects, where maybe one in ten of the drivers held a valid license or current insurance. Those people were much less inclined to file a complaint over a minor fender bender, so Scooter was free to play an endless game of bumper cars without the possibility of killing anyone who actually mattered.
That final fit of rage must have used up all his steam, because the Chief turned and marched off before I could correct his mistake. As he high-stepped it through the throngs of drunks lined up along South Market Street, Chief Greene bore a strong resemblance to a determined little Irish fella on the hunt for his pot of gold. It didn’t matter one bit that he was armed with a twenty-four inch polycarbonate baton instead of the more traditional wooden shillelagh: somehow, the man still made the costume work for him.
I spent a few more minutes there on the sidewalk, just wondering how I could possibly exploit this piece of new information. Thanks to the Chief’s early onset dementia, it seemed as if he no longer had any recollection of how I may or may not have slept through his dress inspection. That little fact afforded a ray of hope that maybe, just maybe, carried with it an opening for me to slip off the beat. Still, no matter how many different escape scenarios I thought my way through, they all seemed to involve doing some form of policework. Eventually, with no real alternative, I set off again at a slow walk. I wasn’t really in the mood for any kind of physical activity, but figured that a short bit of exercise just might help me think.
The sidewalk out on North Market Street was jam packed with pedestrians milling about in front of the bars, so I played it safe and stuck to the opposite side. It was much quieter over there since all the retail shops had long since closed up for the night, and the big open-air sheds helped to cut down on some of the crowd noise. I passed a few couples on their way to the Saint Patrick’s Day festivities but for the most part, my night’s work was turning out to be nothing more strenuous than a relaxing stroll. I have to admit, that is one fairly nice thing about walking a beat: you can basically just be out sightseeing and people-watching, but to everyone else it still looks like you’re doing a damn fine job.
All seemed right with the world, at least until I slowed my step to avoid a drunk vagrant. The bum was lying face down directly in front of Scarlett O’Hara’s, with his body stretched out so that he was blocking the entire sidewalk. I gave him a quick kick in the ribs to clear my path, but the dude simply rolled over and let loose with a wild snore. The store itself had a “Closed” sign hanging across the front door, so I paused for a minute to peer in through the window. The place looked absolutely spotless on the inside, with the sales floor cleaned up and the shelves now partially stocked. If you didn’t already know that the place has just been robbed, it would’ve looked just like any other cut-rate tourist trap.
Mr. Regan’s store might’ve been one of the better-heeled junk shops in the state, although I still found it hard to believe that people might actually pay good money for some of the crap he had on sale. While some of the T-shirt slogans were legitimately funny, I just couldn’t imagine dropping twenty bills on one of them, let alone something completely tacky like a ceramic Rainbow Row ashtray or a plastic bobblehead pirate. Come to think of it, I couldn’t remember ever having seen more than one or two customers in the place at once. It made me wonder how Scarlett O’Hara’s could stay in business selling junk like that, especially when I tried to imagine what the property taxes must be like in such a prime location. Maybe Regan was just keeping that little hole in the wall on his books as a tax write-off, but compared to the rest of his real estate holdings it seemed like a real dud.
Reflecting on Regan’s profit and loss statements was a pretty depressing activity, even though I guess I should’ve been thankful to still have any kind of job at all. With that in mind, I leaned back against the brick storefront to work through a strategy. Since Chief Greene was out and about that night, there was a fairly good chance that Shaky McShivers might very well be on the prowl too. I could probably dodge those old-timers easily enough, but it was more than likely that I’d be forced to hang around work right up until two o’clock. I tried my hardest to rack my brain but still couldn’t dream up any way to get out of working a full eight hour shift, so I decided to head back to the office and put my feet up. My dogs were starting to bark about all the distance they’d already logged, and even with my new and improved exercise regimen I knew enough to listen to my body. After a quick toe-touch to limber up, I stepped back over the sleeping bum and set out on a fast march towards the Customs House.
The crowds were growing deeper by the minute, so I did my best to stick to the shadows and avoid making eye contact. One of the bigge
st drawbacks to working on foot was that it was so much harder to hide, and without a car I had no way to just up and disappear like the patrol cops did. Because of that, an officer out on the beat was always the first one to spot any bar fights when they flared up. Worse still were the continual dumb questions from all the tourists. I mean seriously, if I wanted to make a living by handing out restaurant recommendations, I’d of gone to work for the Yellow Pages instead of CPD.
Up at the corner of East Bay Street, I darted my way across the stopped traffic and almost managed to jog all the way up the Customs House steps. It was an exhausting sprint, but speed was necessary in order for me to avoid getting caught up in any alcohol-fueled drama. Cars were backed up in both directions as far as the eye could see, most of them with their windows down and music blaring. There looked to be a serious need for some kind of traffic control, but I quickly decided against calling it in since some patrol supervisor might get it in their head that I was just the man for the job. I don’t know why but for some strange reason, standing out in the street and directing traffic always caused me to break out in hives.
I caught my breath, shuffled around the side of the building and lumbered my way in through the basement entrance. The deliciously cool air conditioning hit me hard as I passed through the doorway, causing my skin to tingle with pleasure. The crisp feeling was a welcome change from the heavy night air, which was already starting to feel unseasonably warm and sticky. Even though I could feel my pulse slowing back down to its normal resting rate, I couldn’t hold back a feeling of dread about the upcoming summer months. There was no way in hell that I was going to be out there pounding the pavement once the thermometer broke eighty degrees. The city of Charleston had some kind of law on the books which prevented the carriage tour companies from working their draft horses on hot days, and I was thinking hard about following their example. After all, what good would it do anyone if I were to stroke out right there on the sidewalk?
Once in the break room, I slumped down in a chair and threw my feet up over another. Somebody had left the old black and white television tuned in to college basketball, so I gave the game half my attention as I pondered a new career path. The possibility of medical retirement was certainly tempting, although a workplace injury would require a good deal of financial planning plus some really convincing acting. The best idea I came up with was to take an accidental slip and fall off a high sidewalk, possibly into the path of a slow-moving car. That move carried a whole lot of risk since I’d only be guaranteed a few months of worker’s compensation followed by a long stretch of light duty, so I reasoned that the whole project might not even be worth the effort. As much as I liked the idea of collecting a check in exchange for doing nothing more than sitting up in the dispatch office, eating fried chicken and talking on the phone, the potential payoff didn’t seem like it was worth the risk of becoming crippled for life.
All that thinking must have worn out my brain, or maybe I was just beat from all that walking. Whatever the reason for my exhaustion, I found myself unable to resist dozing in and out of consciousness. Seeing as how I actually intended to work my entire shift that night, I kicked back and let myself drift away, hoping to recharge my drained batteries. Only an hour or two had passed before I rose from my siesta, fully refreshed and grateful for the fact that the patrol rookies had kept their senseless radio chatter to a minimum. After one more quick stretch, I felt my body start to limber up once more. Finally, with a sudden burst of enthusiasm so strong that it caught me by surprise, I shuffled down the hallway towards the exit. The night was young, and a morbid sense of curiosity made me want to see what it had in store.
8.
It came as no surprise that the whole of East Bay Street was still packed, and a few of the bolder drivers had begun to double-park their cars or even claim makeshift spaces in front of fire hydrants. I couldn’t begin to imagine how much liquid courage it must have taken for these people to tempt the wrath of the Jenner Towing Company, or maybe the drivers were all just regular Market barflies who knew from experience that parking violations weren’t very high on my list of priorities. The most brazen culprit was this one particularly shady-looking hot dog vendor who’d commandeered himself a piece of prime real estate right there on the corner. His weenie wagon stuck way out into the street, attracting a line of customers which stretched around the block. My stomach rumbled with joy, at least until my brain was rude enough to bring up the unpleasant fact of my empty wallet. I considered pulling my usual scam, threatening to impound the dude’s hot dog cart in exchange for a foot-long with ketchup and sauerkraut, but quickly set that plan to the side. There were far too many witnesses around for me to get away with such blatant extortion and besides, the last thing I needed was for some civilian to file yet another bogus complaint with Internal Affairs. I decided to set off along East Bay Street instead, hoping to bag a free meal from one of the gourmet restaurants nearby. A lot of the cooks liked to duck out of the kitchen to catch a quick smoke during their shifts, and I’ve found that if you prowl around the back alleys looking all focused and serious like you’re providing some kind of protection that keeps the employees from getting robbed, those dudes will occasionally throw out a little charity.
One quick peek in through the front windows of Blossom’s restaurant showed me that the place was just as packed inside as it was out on the street. I gazed longingly at this one old man’s huge bowl of shrimp and grits, but forced myself to step back before I left a trail of drool running down the glass. As I walked past all the nice restaurants it was standing room only inside, which meant that their kitchen teams would be too busy to hook me up right. A hungry state of resignation led me to head down Church Street towards Cumberland, as I desperately considered the possibility of begging a few stale egg rolls off the night shift clerk at the Li’l Cricket. Begging for a handout could be a touchy situation, and success depended entirely upon who was manning the register. If the clerk turned out to be some burned-out hippie kid who actually expected me to pay for my roller food, I’d have to go one step further and shake down some of the bums who always loitered outside. Those useless winos were usually good for a buck or two apiece in loose change.
As I passed by narrow Unity Alley, a pair of dark figures caught my eye and drew my attention back towards the shadows. The two were huddled close together next to the back door of McCready’s, this uppity little wine bar with a reputation for tiny, overpriced appetizers. At first it looked as if I might have lucked out by catching two cooks on their break, so I rolled my shoulders back and marched towards them with my best professional posture. It was a golden opportunity for me to solicit a suitable handout, and I wasn’t about to let the moment pass by. Just as I’d decided to make my move, however, the pair began strolling off in the other direction. As they passed under the single floodlight above the kitchen door, I almost couldn’t believe my eyes as I saw Duke Regan and his teenaged lover Antoine back together again. Their pace wasn’t at all hurried so I knew they couldn’t have seen me, but just the same I decided to hang back and watch them from a distance.
A young black kid hanging around with an older white man was a red flag for any cop, and even the most inexperienced rookie could have seen from the way these two were walking that something was definitely up. I was at least fifty feet or so away from them, but I could plainly see that Regan was holding that same duffel bag in close to his body. The way that Antoine kept jerking his head around showed that he was completely nervous, and it only served to build my suspicions. The kid was definitely on the lookout for something, which could only mean he was up to no good. I made my mind up then and there to take some kind of action, if only to keep the good citizens of Charleston from having to witness one more disgusting public display of affection.
I’ve never had any kind of formal surveillance training, but I’ve watched those cop shows on the television so I knew what to do. I slowed my pace to match theirs, hanging back just
far enough to blend into the crowd. It was easy work, especially once we moved across the crowds on East Bay Street. Duke and Antoine headed straight up Cumberland, so I ducked into a parking lot and squatted down behind a pickup truck to watch. Sure enough, the two lovebirds turned once more at the corner of Concord Drive, heading directly towards Waterfront Park!
I felt my blood pressure begin to rise as I struggled to straighten back up, my old legs crying in pain from the acrobatic maneuver. It was simply inconceivable that those two queens were tempting fate in my beat, especially after I’d given them a free pass the night before! I took a couple deep breaths as I watched them ascend the sweeping concrete staircase, trying like hell to keep cool and collected. My mind was spinning through the gears by that point as I struggled to think up a plan of action. I was certain that some kind of crime against public decency was about to go down, so I had to quickly weigh my options. On the one hand, it was still early enough in my shift that I could arrest both of those fools and still have the paperwork done before dinner. On the other hand, making arrests simply wasn’t my forte. Finally, after one more long moment of thought, I settled for the next best option. Raising my walkie-talkie to my lips, I whispered, “714 to Control.”
On The Beat (Goosey Larsen Book 3) Page 12