On The Beat (Goosey Larsen Book 3)

by James Vachowski

  I couldn’t hold back a smile, and my cheeks felt as if they were about to pop. I did, however, manage to hold myself back from spilling the beans to Burgos that his law enforcement mentor was out running around the Market disguised as a distant elvish cousin from the Emerald Isle. I was definitely in need of someone to sing my praises, but I’d much prefer to have any compliments come during business hours when the Chief would be back on his meds. “I’d appreciate that, Corporal—I really would. This mess is sure to be a lot of paperwork to work through, but it’ll be worth it. It’s always nice knowing that you’ve made the city just a little bit safer.”

  I don’t think Burgos realized I was being sarcastic, because he gave me a thoughtful look. “Paperwork? Forget about that.” He snapped his fingers and the patrol kids stepped forward in unison. I swear, it was almost like watching Pavlov’s dogs in action. “Boys, run these two prisoners down to 75 for Officer Larsen here. He’ll need the booking process completed ASAP, as well as an incident report for vandalism. Go ahead and start putting the court packages together and I’ll send him along forthwith to wrap everything up.”

  Even if I’d been inclined to protest, and believe you me, I most certainly was not, the two boot rookies had already whisked Antoine and Regan off towards their cruisers. Burgos held a finger to his lips as he raised his walkie-talkie once more. “208 to Control: Go ahead and stack those pending calls until third watch checks 08. 230 and 231 will be en route to 75 to process two 39s for 714.” Once the dispatcher had processed that calculus equation, Burgos clipped his radio back onto his belt with an air of finality. “There you go, young man. This way you’ll be able to get back out on the beat even quicker.”

  The unexpected gesture was so kind that I just didn’t have the heart to tell Burgos there was no way in hell I’d be checking back in service from this one. My original master plan had called for me to sit in the break room watching cable television as I scribbled out the reports but now, thanks to his assistance, I’d be able to relax and enjoy the programming without having to worry about hand cramps. “Hey, thanks Corporal! I really appreciate it.” I thought back to the advice Big Jim had given me on how to reclaim my tarnished reputation. “And I’d really appreciate your putting in a good word to the Chief. It seems like those kinds of things really go a long way around here.”

  He nodded. “I can certainly appreciate that sentiment. Believe it or not, there was a time in my own career when I faced some dire straits, and reaching out for a helping hand really made all the difference.” I shuddered at his indirect mention of the Great Hot Tub Caper, and I did my best to block out all the indecent images which sprang to mind.

  He went right on rambling without any kind of encouragement from my end. “Take my squad as an example, Larsen. They’re all just kids, every one of them less than a year out of college. I absolutely love working with educated officers but it’s a fact, rookies simply know nothing about how the world works.” He paused for another moment before going on, and instantly my ears began to tingle. The slight hesitation was a warning signal, a dead giveaway that the Good Idea Fairy had just fluttered in to land on his shoulder. “You know…I could really use a proven, experienced officer in my squad. What would you say if I asked the Chief to bring you over to Team Two? I’ll bet I could get the transfer order cut in no time, and we could really clean house out here if I had a second wily veteran to work with.”

  It took me a second of wondering what other wily veteran Burgos meant before I realized that he must have been referring to himself. No matter how condescendingly he’d made the offer, though, it deserved some serious consideration. Sure, making the jump back to uniform patrol was a step up from walking the beat, but it was still a far cry from my cushy old detective spot. And the thought of working for a supervisor like Burgos was all it took to make up my mind. The micromanagement I’d face on a daily basis would be absolutely unbearable, even if I did get a take-home patrol car back. What really sealed the deal, though, was the fact that I’d have to go back to go back to rotating shifts after so many years of being on a set schedule. Nope, a perpetual state of jet lag just wasn’t in my best interests, no matter how badly I wanted that transfer.

  I found it a struggle to keep from laughing in Burgos’ face, but I did my best to stay professional and let him down gently. “Corporal, I’m really touched. Thank you! But as much as I appreciate the gesture, I think that Lt. Cobb’s still fighting a back room battle to pull me up into Central. Office politics and all, you know? Those kinds of moves take time. And as much as I’d love to work down here where all the action is, I just couldn’t stab my old boss in the back like that.”

  It must have been the right thing to say. Burgos bit his lip as he considered my infallible logic, then nodded in agreement. “Loyal to a fault, huh? I like that, Larsen. You just don’t see that trait much anymore.” He slapped me on the back once again with another limp-wristed blow. “Okay, I’ll leave well enough alone for now. Remember, though, you’ve always got a place down here in case your top choice doesn’t work out.” It should have made for a pretty good concession speech, but coming from the mouth of a kid nearly ten years younger than me, the whole thing just sounded pompous.

  I managed a graceful smile all the same. “Thanks, Corporal, I appreciate that…sir.”

  He snapped off a sharp salute. I managed to return it without laughing, causing Burgos to execute a precision about-face step before hiking off the short distance back to his cruiser. I took the opportunity to gather up Regan’s duffle bag and scoot away in the opposite direction, cutting through an opening in the shrubbery and making tracks towards my own set of wheels. I didn’t even bother checking back in service since I already had an arrest, and consequently there was no longer any pressure to be proactive. I took my time instead, pausing to enjoy the scenery around me. There must have been thousands of partiers out on East Bay Street by that point, all of them adorned with some amount of green clothing. Surprisingly, it cheered my heart just a little to see so many people out stumbling around, and for the briefest of moments it occurred to me that foot patrol might not actually be such a terrible job.

  Once back at my Tercel, I noticed one of the city’s bright yellow parking tickets plastered beneath the windshield wiper. On any other night that might have been all it took to send me over the edge, but even a twenty-buck fine couldn’t kill my buzz right then. I yanked the ticket free and tossed it into the glove box next to all the other violations. The empty side streets made for a short drive down to the station, and once there it only took me about fifteen minutes to scribble my name across all the paperwork. It normally doesn’t take me that long to do the bare minimum, but I got slowed down trying to beg a pen off one of the night shift rookies who was just checking in service from roll call.

  The patrol kids were still back in the holding cell babysitting Antoine and Regan, so I decided to leave the rest of the paperwork in their capable hands. I figured I was actually doing the young men a favor, since the experience would probably be good training for them. The two prisoners had opted to stay silent, which actually made the booking process run a lot smoother than normal. Since it would have probably only been a matter of minutes until both of them were released on bond, I made a leadership decision to end my shift right then and there. Technically, I still had at least an hour or three left to go, but I just couldn’t see myself heading back out on the street. I’d just get in the way if I hung around downtown, especially with all those crazy drunks out and about. It was that line of reasoning which led me to slip out the front door and tiptoe around to the employee parking lot. After one last quick peek over my shoulder, I fired up my car and steered it towards home. It had been a long but productive night, one of the busiest I’d had at work in a while. By my way of thinking, anyway I’d earned myself a couple extra hours of comp time.

  MONDAY

  9.

  I woke up to the sound of my phone beeping
wildly and for a long minute, I just couldn’t remember where I was. To tell the truth, it’s been ages since I’ve actually had to set my own alarm clock. Even back in the bad old days when I had someplace to be each and every morning, I tended to rely on my own inner chronology to get me up and going. With only an occasional exception or two, that system worked flawlessly.

  Even though my body was still firmly entrenched beneath the covers, my mind was clearly raring to go. Surprisingly enough I was able to remember my scheduled appearance in municipal court that morning, and my legs shocked me by willingly sliding out of bed without needing to be told twice. Normally I’d have called out sick or made up some other excuse to avoid driving all the way downtown, but I still had my sights set on making the necessary moves to advance my career. An occasional personal appearance at the station during daylight hours wouldn’t hurt one bit, especially now that I had such a huge vandalism case to show for my troubles. After a sixty-second rinse in the shower, I rooted around on the closet floor in search of a clean uniform. There wasn’t one, so I settled for the set I’d worn Saturday. The pants were still relatively fresh with lingering hints of creases, but I still kicked myself for not having taken the time to run another load of laundry over the weekend. I tried to remember what could have possibly been more important than the domestic responsibilities of running a household, but the past two days were kind of a blur. The pile of empty Miller Lite cans lying beside my bed may have had something to do with my forgetfulness, but at least I could safely assume I’d had my usual good time. The clock was still ticking, though, so I did my best to leave the past behind me and get a move on.

  Stopping just long enough to splash some milk into a bowl of Captain Crunch, I got myself dressed and out the door in record time. The sunlight greeted me with a direct blast of its full power, causing me to lose sight of the sidewalk as I nearly stumbled to the ground. This must be how vampires feel, I thought with disgust as I fumbled about for my keys. Moments later, I had my car fired up and reluctantly pointed in the general direction of work with the cereal bowl balanced nicely between my knees. It was a handy setup, even if the milk did go sloshing around every time the transmission jerked. It was kind of a bumpy ride, but I still managed to stay mostly in my lane while I chowed down. I got a couple angry glares as I passed other commuters, but I didn’t pay those jerks any mind. I tell you what, I’ve always been a big believer in eating a healthy breakfast. It is the most important meal of the day, after all.

  Traffic was thick out on Folly Road, and the line of cars ahead of me had slowed to a crawl. It took all of my willpower not to lean down hard on the horn and create my own lane like I might have done if I’d been driving a cruiser, but I finally came to terms with my humble place in the world as I polished off my Captain Crunch. The radio station was racing through a quick readout of the weekend’s headlines, and my ears perked up when they mentioned Duke Regan by name. It sounded like I was really playing in the big leagues now, having locked up a member of Charleston society. The segment ended much quicker than I would’ve liked, but at least they followed it up with one of my favorite songs by ZZ Top. By that point I had settled in for the long haul, so the whole experience might not have felt too unpleasant if it hadn’t been seven-thirty in the morning and I had been on my way to anywhere else besides work.

  The line of cars thinned out once we came up on the James Island connector, so I used the opportunity to stomp down on the gas and make up for lost time. Normally I didn’t make any kind of effort to get to work early, but those municipal court judges always seemed to get so particular about trivial things like punctuality. A lot of them liked to start the day by streamlining their workload and calling forward all the cases they thought they could get away with dismissing outright. I didn’t really have any vested interest in the outcome of this piddling little vandalism, but I figured that it sure wouldn’t hurt for me to make a personal appearance. Looking like I cared, no matter how indifferent I actually felt, was going to be the first step in raising my personal stock price.

  The parking lot was packed when I finally pulled up, and the only available spot was one of those nice big handicapped ones. It was directly in front of the main entrance so I claimed it for my own, and just to be on the safe side I pulled an old parking ticket from my glove box and slapped it up on the windshield. Hopefully some angry meter maid might think I’d already gotten tagged for the violation, so she’d move on to harass somebody else. I’d gotten nailed with one of those hundred dollar Handicapped Zone tickets before, so I’d learned my lesson. Once that job was done, I joined the line of dispirited cops who were straggling into the building. I’ll be honest, though, I felt my heart fall when I entered the main lobby and saw that it was completely clear of camera crews. If even Channel Five Action News wasn’t bothering to cover the misdemeanor arrest of the year, then it was entirely possible that I’d overestimated the magnitude of my case.

  Our beat up old courtoom was tucked in off the main lobby, just past where the desk sergeant runs the show from inside his plexiglas penalty box. The court was a run-down space that was badly in need of renovation, although for some reason I always found the décor calming. All the chips of plaster that hung down from the ceiling were just grainy reminders that I shouldn’t work so hard, since the entire building could literally collapse around us any minute. The room was packed with a cross-section of people from all walks of life, people who might have technically broken the law but not so badly that any real justice was called for. I think the maximum sentence that could be handed out at municipal court was something like thirty days in the hole, but I’d never personally seen anyone get the whole month. If some defendant ever spent an entire weekend in our city lockup without being able to bond himself out, the judge would usually reason that all the microwave dinners they’d had to eat was punishment enough.

  I headed straight for the two rows of benches in the back which were unofficially known as reserved seating for police officers. My buddy Chuck “Slipper” Johnson and a couple of guys from his patrol squad had already staked out a claim, so I slid in behind one of the rookies and tapped him on the shoulder. “Hey Junior, you’ve got a phone call at the front desk. Better get moving, kid—it sounded urgent.” The slick-sleeved rookie shot upright and hustled off to heed the call of duty, so I claimed his spot for my own. The bench seat was nice and warm, just the way I liked it, and the curved wooden back felt nice and firm along my spine. “Hey Slipper” I said, lowering my voice to a whisper as Judge Smallton waddled in and called the room to order. “Whatcha know good, man?”

  He tucked his head down low in order for us to carry on a discreet conversation. Judge Smallton was this fat black woman who unleashed hell on any cop foolish enough to act out of order in her courtroom, and she always came down harder on those of us with lighter skin tones. “You’re looking at it, bro, just living the good life. Her Honor was only twenty minutes late today, must be some kind of record.” He tilted his neck sideways and studied my uniform. “Hey, what are you doing here, anyway? You lost or something? Did they put in a vending machine over the weekend?”

  I snickered, but managed to bite my lip before the sound could carry all the way up to the front of the courtroom. Judge Smallton eyed the waiting defendants through her thick-framed glasses, probably trying to discern what poor sucker might have been suicidal enough to make a wisecrack inside her Hallowed Halls of Justice. I slumped a little further down in my seat, trying to duck out of sight before I answered Slipper. “I got two defendants today man, it’s getting crazy down there in the Market. Locking them up left and right, you dig?”

  Slipper looked impressed. He knew me well enough to know that if I’d actually bothered to slap the cuffs on someone, they must have done something worthwhile to deserve the ride. “Yeah, I’m just yanking your chain” he said. “I heard about ol’ Duke Regan and his black boy-toy on the news. Screw that rich bastard, he deserves everything he gets
.” Slipper shifted around in his seat to face me. “Two whole arrests, huh? Not bad, Goosey, not bad at all. I’ll bet your stats are probably through the roof right about now. How many pops does that make for you, anyway?”

  I smiled. “Do you mean how many arrests this year, or this decade? Because either way, this case brings me up to exactly…two.”

  The both of us fell into a giggle fit. Slipper did his best to cover his mouth with the palm of his hand while I bent forward to stuff my head between my legs. In front of us, the judge was droning on with no end in sight, so I tried my best to calm down and catch my breath. It looked like it was shaping up to be a long morning, and it wouldn’t do me one bit of good to get tossed for contempt of court before my case had even been called.

  Once I could finally breathe again, I raised my head up and asked, “What are you in here for, anyway? You the arresting officer or a defendant today?”

  Slipper rolled his eyes. “Just some domestic violence bullshit, man. You know how it is down in the East Side, same ol’ drama in the club. We had to pull this huge dude off his baby’s momma down there on Johnson Street early Saturday morning. For real, this guy nearly beat the black off her ass. High as hell, too, even took a couple swings at my guys once we finally showed up.” He glanced back over his shoulder to make sure that none of his officers were listening in. “That’s the problem with all these damn kids we’ve got working the streets these days, man. A hot call comes in and these idiots automatically drop what they’re doing and rush right over, and these days it seems like we have to take someone to jail if there’s even so much as a couple drops of blood on the ground. I try to tell these kids, slow it down a little on their responses, maybe clear an alarm or a barking dog complaint on the way over, you know? Give the bad guy a little more time to get himself gone. But do you think these boots listen? I’m telling you man, it’s almost as if all these nerds actually enjoy paperwork!”