Crystal Meth Cowboys

by John Knoerle

  Bell pinned the wheel to the right. The LTD shuddered as the corner curb shaved rubber off its blackwalls. Bell straightened the unit out and closed distance on the speeding Lincoln. "Well shit," he said, sitting tall, grinning, visions of a felony resisting pinch dancing in his head. "This is working out just fine."

  ------

  "Open the pod bay doors, Hal," said Bell. Their squad car idled in front of the rolled steel door to the sally port, a drive-in entrance to the holding cells located at the rear of the PD. Bell leaned out the car window and again punched the intercom button. "Hal? Open the pod bay doors."

  Mayor Krumrie grunted restively in the back seat. The intercom speaker crackled on. "I'm sorry, Dave," came the chilling monotone response. "I can't do that."

  The ribbed steel door clattered up as Bell positively honked with laughter. He eased the unit into the small space sealed by a matching steel door ahead. As the door rolled closed behind, Wes did have the feeling that they were inside the entry pod of some low budget space station, orbiting one of the lesser planets. A grinning mustachioed face peered dark liquid eyeballs from the other side of a bullet-proof glass booth. "Open the door or we kick it, asshole," said Bell to the tray under the window. The man rubbed his nose with his middle finger.

  Wes climbed out of the unit and trooped over to a bank of lock boxes to secure his weapon, it being a felony in the state of California to enter any detention facilty with a firearm. "Put it in here," said Bell, popping the trunk.

  Wes stopped and looked a question at Bell.

  "I'm at a major big deal call," said Bell. "Surrounded on all sides by hostile natives in all directions as far as the eye can see. I'm by myself, without backup, all alone. You with me so far? So I lean back on my right hand to feel the reassuring steely hardness of my Smith and Wesson and I almost fall over. It's gone! I left the muffah in the jail lock box and am now fucked big time six ways to Sunday. If it's in the trunk at least you can make a run for it."

  Wes removed his weapon and placed it in the trunk. Bell walked to the driver's side of the unit and opened the back door. "Back out of there," said Bell to his prisoner, ducking his long neck downward. "Turn around and back on out."

  Bell was using the departmentally approved method for dealing with violent suspects. They had dogged the Mayor's Lincoln eight blocks to his hilltop home, even pulling abreast and ordering him to pull over on the bawl-out. When Boss Hogg skidded up his front lawn and made a run for it the rookie snagged him before he reached his front door. There'd been the requisite wrestling, hysterical wife and 'don't you know who I am' threats before they got Boss Hogg hooked up and sitting on his hands in the back seat of the unit. Bell had been painstakingly polite throughout the call, as he always was when his pocket tape recorder was rolling.

  The four-inch-thick steel door to the jail sprang open with a hydraulic whoosh. The Mayor scooched himself down the backseat, still facing forward. "Turn around," repeated Bell. "I'm not gonna fuck ya."

  The bright-eyed jailer stepped through the opened door. He was a handsome Latino stranded somewhere in middle age, yet trim and moustachioed as a matador. "That's my job," he said, grinning maniacally with piano key teeth.

  The Mayor scuttled out of the squad car with his back turned. When Lester Krumrie stood up under the lights Ruben the jailer's grin got twitchy. Bell secured the prisoner by placing his right hand on the cuff chain between his wrists. Bell planted his other hand on the Mayor's shoulder and marched him up three concrete steps and into the hoosegow.

  -----

  Bell hated this problem. After recovering from the initial shock of recognition Ruben the jailer had processed and fingerprinted the Mayor like any other prisoner. When Ruben stood him up against the cinderblock for his mug shot the pie-eyed candidate responded to the photo op with a smile. Now it was time to collect the urine sample. The Chief required officer's to collect a urine sample in DUI arrests, he said, because it was more court sanctioned than a breathalyzer. But Bell believed the real reason was that the Emperor enjoyed fantasizing about his proud leather-clad centurions getting pissed on.

  Bell escorted the Mayor down the narrow hall, below skylights protected by steel bars, the opaque glass smeared with thick streaks of black. Ruben the jailer had painted tar on the newly-installed skylights after he judged that the sunlight they permitted made his jail seem entirely too cheery. Bell opened the slamlock door to a holding cell and stood the Mayor against the concrete brick back wall. The Mayor wrinkled his nose at the strong industrial disinfectant. He looked longingly at the bunk. "All right, here's the deal…" said Bell when a torrent of angry voices echoed down the narrow hall. Bell and Lydecker trotted out to see.

  Renaldo and Cyril Reese turned into the hall from the sally port, holding a shrieking handcuffed writhing and bucking suspect - white male, 6 foot, 160 lbs., 30 to 35 - under each arm. His hair was stringy with sweat and he wore a scoop neck t-shirt drenched in blood. The man was shouting so fast and hard that Wes could only discern the words "motherfucker", "son of a bitch" and what sounded like "George Bush".

  Ruben the jailer hurried to open a cell door while Reese and Renaldo locked up the suspect's shoulders, freeing him to kick up his legs like a kid on a swing. By the fact that the suspect was in the slam and not the hospital Bell knew that the blood on the t-shirt wasn't his. Neither of the arresting officers appeared wounded. Renaldo glanced at the out-of-control suspect, then looked a pointed look at Bell.

  Bell held up a hand. He indicated the drooping Mayor to Wes Lyedecker with a nod. Wes ducked back into the cell. Bell curled his index finger. Wes led the Mayor out into the hall. Bell returned Renaldo's look and gestured toward his prisoner. Reese and Renaldo looked suitably impressed.

  "Who's the victim?" said Bell.

  "Victim-s," said Renaldo.

  Reese drew a finger across his throat. Bell blanched.

  "His two pet guinea pigs," said Renaldo. The bloody suspect gained his feet and said, "Eeeeaauuurrggghhhh!"

  Renaldo uncuffed the suspect, Reese shoved him into a cell and Ruben the jailer slammed the slamlock door.

  Bell led Boss Hogg back into the cell and stood him up against the concrete brick. Bell removed his arm and the Mayor melted halfway down the wall. Bell pulled him up and yanked down his zipper. He waved Wes over. "Pee in the cup, Mr. Mayor," said Bell in a patient voice. "Pee in the cup."

  Wes held out the plastic cup hopefully. The Mayor blinked, drifting in and out like an FM signal on a mountain road. Bell pushed Boss Hogg's hand down to his crotch. The hand found the open tent flap and slipped inside. The Mayor's face slackened into a dopey grin. "Mr. Mayor," said Bell. "Sir!"

  Hizzoner looked up.

  "You can flog the dolphin right after we're done, I promise, but first we need you to pull out your penis and pee into the cup."

  The Mayor fumbled inside his plaid pants and pulled out a tumescent uncircumsized cock. Wes Lyedecker stepped back. Bell twirled his arm at Wes as he purred, "That's it, attaboy," to Boss Hogg.

  Wes extended his arms as far as they would go, presenting his cup to the Mayor's penis. He watched the purplish helmet shrink inside the foreskin like a mole backing into its burrow. "Give, Queenie, give!" said Bell in a W.C. Fields’ rasp.

  Wes looked up just as the hoped-for urination commenced. He wished for his surgical gloves. The Mayor was peeing everywhere but in the cup. Bell slipped behind the Mayor and placed a hand on either shoulder. He attempted to aim him in the right direction, but every twist of the Mayor's body resulted in an equal and opposite oscillation. For approximately one ten-billionth of a second Wes Lyedecker considered grabbing the obdurate organ and directing the stream. He glanced down at the plastic cup. Still empty. There certainly seemed to be a lot of bodily fluids involved in police work.

  "Yo Braintree," barked Bell. "Get in the game!"

  As a linebacker Wes Lyedecker's greatest talent had been his ability to anticipate. He didn't run to the ball, he ran to where the ball was
going to be. This skill helped him now as he arched his back, extended his arm gingerly and collected the three fluid ounces of urine required by the State of California to accurately determine the level of alcohol intoxication for a DUI conviction.

  Wes backed away and shook his free hand dry. He raised the shimmering cup. Bell was pleased. The liquid was crystal clear, a sure .10 or better. Mayor Krumrie emptied his bladder on the concrete floor and the bloody suspect next door howled as if he were being disemboweled with a screwdriver.

  Officer Bell smiled at his rookie and said, "Welcome to the glamorous world of law enforcement."

  Chapter 15

  "You ever hear the story of Peapicker the dog?" asked Bell, arching his eyebrows innocently.

  "Oh, Jesus," groaned Sherri, lowering her head. She and Bell were sitting at one end of a long table of twenty people in the cozy banquet room of Mario's Italian Village in Conklin, a tiny traveler's stop of a town on the 101 freeway fifteen miles east of Wislow. The police contingent were clustered around them. Wes Lyedecker was there in coat and tie, as were Cyril Reese and Sgt. Carruth. But, as Bell had noted happily, no top brass were in attendance. Florence Jillison sat at the head of the table, resplendent in a forest green off the shoulder satin sheath accented with ruby drop earrings and matching choker. She was flanked by Larry Tenace, a well-respected public defender who was also her husband; Jackie Dilyay, the current director of the Rape Crisis Center, looking slightly electrocuted in a recent perm; Lester Van Duyn, the tiny, silver-maned chairman of the Wislow Senior Citizen's Council; and Yolanda Baldwin Jones, the buxom matron who presided over the Battered Women's Shelter with a baleful eye. Other Wislow dignitaries and campaign volunteers filled the middle of the table. They were celebrating Florence Jillison's stunning victory over Boss Hogg.

  "This is a true story, happened down in Texas," said Bell to the smiling cops at his end of the table. "O'ccers respond to a multiple-victim shooting out in the boonies. They roll up and find two good ole boys a-bleedin' all over the farmhouse and this old hound dog a-whimperin' in the corner."

  Bell paused and leaned forward on his elbows. The other cops inclined their heads. "Turns out," said Bell in a voice just loud enough for the dignataries further up the table to overhear, "That this dog, Peapicker, was the subject of their dispute." Bell raised his head and chuckled to himself at what he was about to say. Sherri sat back and watched the inevitable unfold.

  "It seems that Farmer A had trained ol' Peapicker in a very particular way. And Farmer B, well, he came by to borrow a back hoe one evening when he caught him a glimpse of ol' Peapicker in action, orally copulating ol' Farmer A and doin' a mighty fine job of it at that. Well…ol' Farmer B, he sez to himself, he sez, 'It shore is mighty lonesome out here on the lone prarie. I thank I jes better best steal me that dog!' So Farmer B, he gets him a nice big juicy Porterhouse and he lures ol' Peapicker away from his master's house in the dead o' night."

  Bell tweaked his volume up another notch, aware that he now had the full attention of the table. Wes was mortified, sure that Bell had finally crossed Florence Jillison's threshold of tolerance. And had selected a supremely inappropriate time and place to do so.

  "Wellll now, Farmer A he trudged on home from the fields at sundown the next evening, looking forward to a little, you know, relaxation. And he was one very distressed peckerwood to discover that ol' Peapicker was gone! He searched high and low, then rushed next door to ask Farmer B if'n he'd seen ol' Peapicker anywheres around. And whut do you think he saw?"

  Bell xylophoned his eyeballs up one side of the table and down the other. There was no conversation, no chewing, no coughing. And several people had postponed breathing. "Damned if ol' Peapicker, the hound dog he had raised from a pup, wasn't ministering to ol' Farmer B."

  In less than a second Bell sat back, spread his long hands skyward in a gesture of surprise, leaned forward and made his hand into a gun. "Boom. Boom, boom, boom, boom, boom, boom, boom, boom. Boom!" Bell stopped to sip his beer. "Both men survived. Ol' Peapicker was incarcerated in the local pound till a suitable home could be found. And doncha know…" Bell paused again to set up the punch line, and to draw every last ounce of focus onto himself. "That dog pound was a-flooded with calls from concerned male citizens eager to give ol' Peapicker a happy home."

  Only a few nervous titters escaped from the crowd. Bell recognized the problem instantly. Sometimes a secondary punch line was needed to unlock a laugh that had been building for a long time. It didn't even have to be funny, so long as it gave the audience time to fit all the pieces together and respond as one.

  "Turns out, the local Sheriff had to adopt ol' Peapicker just to keep the peace!" added Bell, releasing a wave of uproarious laughter from the cops that surged nervously through the dignitaries and rolled toward Florence Jillison at the head of the table. Wes could hardly bring himself to look. But Florence Jillison laughed along with the rest of them, even tapping the table once or twice. Her husband Larry Tenace raised his upper lip and exposed his teeth.

  Bell planted his feet, stood up and hoisted his beer. "Ladies and germs, I give you, the new…Mayor of Wislow!" The dignitaries toasted and clinked and cheered, relieved that they could now return their focus to its proper place. Florence arose and waved playfully, as if riding a float in a parade. The group settled back as she cleared her throat.

  Wes looked around. In Boston the room would have been choked with reporters. But here the only outside witness to the Mayor-elect's acceptance speech was a Salvadoran busboy holding a pitcher of water. And he didn't seem the least bit interested.

  "I don't know when I've had such an…unusual introduction," said Florence, eliciting more nervous laughter from the crowd. "But truly…" Florence took a beat to dignify her features. "I do consider this a new beginning for Wislow. A very much needed changing of the guard. No more business as usual. No more government to the people, but government by the people. This will truly mark a new year for Wislow. And you know what they say on New Years Eve." Florence hoisted her wine glass. "Out with the old, and in with the new!"

  Everyone at the table stood and applauded. Florence spread her bare freckled arms and funneled the adoration into her bosom. Wes sneaked a peak at Bell, who clapped vigorously, a trembling smile on his lips and even, could it be, a fat drop of moisture at the corner of his eye.

  -----

  The bar in Mario's Italian Village was decorated in cowboy chic. Bell, Sherri, Florence, Larry Tenace and Wes Lyedecker sat around a rough-hewn table covered in polyurethane. They were all that remained of the victory celebration. Florence was answering the question that Bell had posed. How in the hell did you pull it off?

  "Dumb luck I guess. Sounding the right note at the right time. Riding the tide of change. I don't really know."

  Wes waited to see if Florence would mention the TV commercial that had saturated the airwaves the last few days. Bell was obviously angling for a public pat on the head. Wes hoped she wouldn't bring it up. Florence caressed the stem of her wine glass absently. The blonde streaks in her hair shown pale white in the flickering gas light of the wagon wheel fixture hanging by a chain above their heads. Wes thought she looked exhausted. Then she raised her chin and her face came alive.

  "But I do know that these two gentlemen provided the initial breakthrough with their very powerful radio commercial on my behalf," said Florence. Though seated, she seemed to beam down upon them from above. Bell patted his shaggy mane. The group muttered their approval. Wes, embarrassed, turned away to find Florence's husband staring at him.

  Larry Tenace had the square-jawed pale-browed face of America in the 1930's. Clean shaven, every hair in place, but befuddled by the deepening depression that was dragging his nation down. This befuddlement was captured in enormous corneas of the most heartbreaking robin's egg blue. Wes had not been aware that Florence was a married woman. He hadn't done anything to feel guilty about in any event. So why did he feel Larry's oversized eyeballs boring a hole in his forehe
ad?

  "What do we call you now?" asked Wes, just to be saying something.

  "Excuse me?" said Larry Tenace, blinking his eyes back into focus. He had been looking at Wes but not seeing him.

  "What do we call you now? Now that your wife is Mayor?" Larry retained his puzzled look. Wes continued. "In Boston they call Hillary the 'Presidential Partner'."

  Larry nodded at this. "I hadn't given it much thought," he said. "I guess 'First Lady' will be good enough for me."

  Larry Tenace said this without a trace of bitterness or irony, a simple declarative sentence. Either this man has the dryest sense of humor in America, thought Wes, or he's a 51-50.

  "OK," said Bell to Florence. "Here is my list of ninety-four non-negotiable demands. Chaffeur driven squad cars…"

  "Of course," said Florence.

  "A drop-dead gorgeous masseuse in the men's locker room for those tense neck muscles after shift…"

  "Absolutely!"

  "And…" Bell leaned forward. "…the day you're sworn in I want Chief Frank Sunomoka's head on a pike in the center of the town square."

  Florence scolded Bell with a look but he nodded and leaned forward, the intent of the demand quite clear beneath the joke. Florence sat back and appeared to consider the proposition. At last she shook her head. "We don't have a town square."

  Bell said "Doooooohhh" as Sherri and Wes laughed and Larry Tenace looked befuddled. Wes looked around for the waitress with the pony skirt and petticoats. He stood up. "Can I get anyone anything?" he asked.

  Sherri ordered another Brandy Alexander, then grabbed his sleeve and inspected him critically. "You look thin. Are you feeding yourself?"

  Wes shrugged, reclaiming his arm. "Best I know how."

  Sherri turned to Florence. "Doesn't he look thin to you?" Florence braced her hand on the laminated table and craned her neck upwards. "Thinner than he was," she concluded after a long moment of appraisal that, for Wes, unspooled outward into the expanding universe for eon upon eon of skull-cracking self-consciousness.