by Lou Reiter
When you get into a group of guys, especially guys who sweat, it seems everyone sinks to the lowest common denominator. At Vinny’s, conversation was right in the gutter, always. Vinny’s was also a candy store for anyone interested in growth enhancement drugs. Steroids led the parade with new junk varieties popping up weekly, all promising excessive bulk. Testing can’t keep up with the rapid development of these drugs. During the Olympics, nearly 250 different types of performance enhancing drugs are routinely checked for use. Most police departments don’t test for even the most common form of anabolic steroid. It’s estimated ten percent of law enforcement officers are abusing these drugs. Some contend the numbers are higher. Cops feel they have to strengthen and bulk up to compete with the thugs, tats, and assholes they meet roaming the roads. Some cops simply like the look of buff. They don’t mind spending personal money on specially tailored uniforms. They claim the side effects of ‘roid rage’ or other health issues won’t affect them.
Just after Don and Ricky’s one-year anniversary on the force, they reached the end of their probationary period. Chief Thompson asked them to come into his office one morning after their graveyard shift. When they got the chief’s memo, they looked at each other, wondering if they were going to be fired or simply congratulated for passing probation.
“Officer Edwards and Sanchez, thanks for coming in,” the chief said as they entered his office. “Proud to have you guys as regular members of our little family now. I’ve heard good things about you from Lieutenant Morgan. Hey, meet Jim Johnson.”
Jim Johnson looked like a retired football player. He was a large man whose bulk had slipped to his waist, but he still seemed to have some muscle tone left. His hand enveloped Ricky’s, a feat in itself. He was introduced as the owner of three businesses in the newly developed commercial area of Playa Diablo called The Gathering. The Gathering featured a new design for community complexes with businesses on the ground floor and condos on the two floors above. In the center of the development was an open square surrounding a large fountain; it was meant to replicate a famous square in Europe. Johnson owned a sports bar, sports memorabilia shop, and a day spa on the square. He was also the president of the development’s business and property owners’ associations.
“Men, the chief and I have a problem we hope you can help us solve,” Johnson said. Don and Ricky quickly glanced at each other, wondering where the hell this conversation was going.
“The folks at The Gathering, that’s what we call our little development, are getting worried and nervous and have been complaining to management. They don’t like the sudden increase in the number of homeless people massing in the courtyard. The aggressive panhandling. The trash. Hell, some of the bums just take a dump alongside a building! And then there’s the skateboarders. Those kids don’t respect anybody. About run over some folks. We’ve had a couple boarders crash into restaurant tables out in the square.”
“Chief, what’s that got to do with us?” Don asked.
“I’d like to reassign you guys to a special unit. You’d only patrol in The Gathering. Oh, you’d still have to back up units when the call goes out and maybe respond to hot calls from time to time, but you’d primarily be working to clean up the problems Jim has with his development. You’d be able to make your own hours and set your own schedule. You’ll need to get to know the business people, shop owners, and the condo board folks first off. I’ve seen your stats. You guys make a lot of busts and write more tickets than most others in the department. I told my own daughter to be careful when you guys are out there.”
The chief laughed at what he thought was a funny joke. “We just welcomed a new Chevy Tahoe into the motor pool. I’ll have it assigned to you guys exclusively. What you think? Can you handle this assignment?”
Don and Ricky didn’t have to wait to answer. “We’re proud you picked us, Chief. We won’t let you down.”
“Now, you still got to be responsible to the shift commanders, but they’ll know you work directly for me. I’d like you to start this Thursday. Maybe spend a week or so talking with the people in The Gathering. I want you to give me a report laying out what strategy you’ll be using to clean the place up. After that, you can give me a weekly activity report.”
So Don and Ricky became their own special ops unit. They found bat stickers and plastered them on the sides of their mint Tahoe. They bought a new set of BDUs, Battle Dress Uniforms, which were coal black and worn bloused over steel-toed combat boots. Some police chiefs referred to the outfits as “pajamas,” but street cops liked wearing them. The self-declared dynamic duo also bought new equipment belts. Their holsters were now slung low and secured just above the knee, Miami-Dade SWAT style. The two-man team bought black baseball caps to complete their bad boy look. Their names were sewn onto the BDUs with Batman and Robin stitched in parenthesis under each official name. They were now genuine bad asses. Don and Ricky had arrived. They were the official marshals of The Gathering. The place was now declared theirs.
*****
Within a month of being assigned, development management offered Don and Ricky a furnished condo unit for half-price. Don got the chief to allow them to keep their Tahoe police unit at The Gatherings. There was even a designated parking space for them. On weekends when restaurants and clubs were jumping, parking was at a premium but no one ever dared park in the cops’ reserved spot.
It had been six months since Don and Ricky were assigned to The Gatherings. They had become the sanctioned Gatherings Police Department to the business owners and residents. There was no way the chief could move them, even if he wanted to. They were loved and respected by those they served. Chief Thompson was happy with their efforts and results. No more complaints. Well, that would be complaints from the people living and working at The Gathering, that is.
But outsiders coming in contact with Batman and Robin seemed to be filing complaints every time they were questioned or arrested by the duo.
One morning around ten, a lone skateboarder stopped when he saw the two cops approaching. “I didn’t think you guys worked this early in the day. Thought you guys only worked nights.”
“Wrong, weren’t you?” Don sneered. He was wearing jeans and a Jam tee shirt, real casual style. Ricky was dressed in cargo shorts and a red Under Armour tank top. There was no dress code while policing The Gathering.
“Kid, you see the signs all over the place? NO SKATEBOARDS by Order of the Management. You can read, can’t you?”
“Hey, I’m really sorry. I heard how you clothes-lined Jimmy. You know he ended up with a broken collarbone and arm?”
“I’m really broken up ‘bout that. You know, you probably should get the prize for this here citation I’m giving you,” Don told the kid.
“What you mean?”
Don handed him the citation and added, “You’re our 100th ticket for skateboarding! The prize, should you want it, is an ass kicking. You want to claim your prize? How come you don’t use the skateboard park the city built anyways?”
“Too much bossing. They bust your chops if you don’t wear this or that protective gear. Shit, that inhibits spontaneity. We’re artists, you know. Like performance art! Know what I mean? Crap, maybe you guys don’t.”
The skateboarder picked up his ride and sauntered off. Don and Ricky convinced the management to post signs specifically designating skateboarding as a form of trespassing. Enforcement of this misdemeanor had resulted in several skateboarders being injured. The first injury happened when Don jumped out from a corner and clothes-lined a kid, sending him ass over head into a planter wall. This was followed by pulling the Tahoe in front of three skateboarders practicing jumps off the stairway railing. The kids were injured, but the Tahoe survived. Within a month there were very few skateboarders buzzing The Gathering. Several parents complained to the chief, but the IA investigations were exonerated. The Department essentially backed Don and Ricky and determined their enforcement methods were “legal, proper, and consistent with a
gency policy.”
“Don, how you doing today?” asked the pretty assistant manager of the Gap. Got her BA from Florida State in fashion marketing and here she was working the Gap in management.
“Heather, hey, couldn’t be better. We’re having a party next Saturday at our condo, you should try to make it. Let me give you a card. It’s got our address and cell. Also my g-mail number. What’s up in LOL land?”
“Weirdos. You know, the vagrants. We come to work and they’ve dumped all over our loading dock in the back. A college degree and I’m scraping up shit! And, we’re not the only ones here in The Gathering getting shit upon.”
“Yeah, I hear ya. We’ve been getting complaints from everyone. Seems Metro-Dade has been running the street people out of their territory and into ours. Why not, we’ve got better pickins’ for them.”
Don and Ricky knew they had to get a handle on the situation fast. Most of the business owners were complaining daily. The duo saw the terrified looks on customers’ faces when a bum jumped in front of them with his palms out looking for a handout.
They saw telltale shopping carts loaded with trash skirting the parking lots. Total trash, at least that’s what anyone other than homeless guys saw. To a homeless guy, the cart was his house, belongings, and his life. Cardboard neatly folded on one side was his bedding. Scraps of clothing, bundles of newspapers, and plastic sheeting added to the mound and were used for cover and warmth. Aluminum cans to sell at the recycling center were the sole source of legitimate income. A strange assortment of open cans and rotting garbage caused the cart to emit odors strong enough to choke a horse. Homeless guys wore most of their clothing on their backs, layering or unlayering as the temperature required.
Rounding a corner on one night patrol, Batman and Robin encountered a male specimen of the ragged species. He smelled like all the others, with stale breath and body odor maturing over days. The old man was dressed in dirty clothing, topped with even dirtier hair. He was an older bum. His face was cratered from too much sun and too little hygiene. It was obvious the guy was a smoker, whenever he could get his hands on a cig or a butt tossed in the gutter. His teeth were yellowed and a few were missing. His fingertips were stained with brown cigarette residue.
“Hey, old man, come here!”
The homeless man raised his eyes to answer the cops. He was sitting next to the dumpster as if waiting for a handout.
“Yeah, I mean you, old man. No one else back here.”
“You’se the duo, ain’t ya? You and Robin, there. I’s been hearing about Batman and Robin on the circuit.”
“Oh, you mean that circuit you and Celine Dion are on?” The homeless guy flipped a finger at the duo.
“Now, you don’t live here, so you’re gonna’ have to leave. And this here shopping cart don’t belong to you, either. Do it?”
“Hey, man, don’t be fuckin’ with my truck. It ain’t from around here anyways.”
Don began pulling the cart’s contents and tossing the stash into the dumpster. He put the food scraps and food cans in a plastic bag and handed them back to the homeless guy.
“You can’t do that! They’s my shit! I live with that shit! You can’t be fuckin’ around with my personal belongings.”
“We can, and we did,” Don announced with a satisfied smirk. “Now get your ass out of here. Next time you go to jail for trespass, and aggravated ugly. That ugly get you six months in the slammer or $5,000. That’s a big one here in Playa Diablo.”
Don and Ricky laughed. The homeless guy didn’t.
They watched the old man get up and attempt to clutch his shopping cart. Ricky grabbed it away from him and pointed to the main highway in front of The Gathering. The homeless guy turned to leave, but then looked back as Don lit his newspapers with his Bic and threw them into the dumpster.
“You can’t do that, you motherfuckers!”
“We can, and we did. We’ll get an extinguisher from the store to put out the embers. Don’t want a trace of you or the fire left behind. Now get your ass out of here and tell your buddies on the circuit that this’ll happen to them if they come around here. Now get the shit outta here!”
Of course, these actions were not proper or legal. Even claimed junk is personal property. If a cop comes into possession of questionable materials, they should be booked into Property and Evidence as personal property or placed in a secure area for safekeeping.
Don and Ricky knew the Property and Evidence Room cop would shit if they brought this smelly stuff into his small office. They knew the department would never take a complaint from a random homeless guy. They were covered.
A few days later, Ricky observed another homeless guy jump in front of three women leaving the Coach boutique; they were clutching merchandise bags from the entire block of stores.
“You ladies sure do look fine! You spare some loose change for me? I’m just trying to get gas money to get my car and two dogs back to Daytona. Help me out, please?”
The women couldn’t get around the beggar without stepping into the occupied parking spaces along the curb. They clutched their bags tight, probably expecting the man to grab them and run. One woman was trembling as she opened her purse and rummaged inside.
Ricky suddenly appeared by her side. “Ma’am, please don’t do that. Feeding the bums money only encourages them.”
Don swept behind the homeless guy and grabbed him by his biceps. He swung him into the side of the store wall.
“Ma’am, please go on your way with your friends. We’ll handle this guy. Hope you don’t think badly about this. We’re going to get rid of all of these homeless vagrants hanging around The Gathering. Don’t you worry.”
“Let’s move it, buddy,” Don ordered as Ricky grabbed the homeless guy tighter. They manhandled him to the end of the block where the Tahoe was parked. They pushed him against the truck’s side door and searched him. Finding nothing that might hurt them, they cuffed the guy with his hands behind his back. “Now inside, buddy.”
“But my stuff’s in the alley back by the loading dock!”
“Funny, I don’t see nothin’. You seen anything, Batman?” Ricky shook his head. “Guess you was traveling light. Must just be a carefree kind of guy, huh?”
As the Tahoe pulled out, the homeless guy careened through the small opening of the prisoner cage and asked, “You booking me? What for? Being poor? Being homeless? Wasn’t what I asked for, you know. By the way, you know I’m a vet?”
“Really now? What kind of animals you treat?”
“Not that kind of vet. Veteran. You know, I was in Desert Storm. The old man’s war, not W’s war.”
“Funny thing, so are we. We’re both veterans. And, you know what, we’re not homeless. We’re not hitting up rich bitches for a handout. We’re working our asses off,” Don barked back at him.
Forty minutes later the Tahoe pulled into a dirt stretch alongside the two-lane road they had been traveling. They hadn’t passed another car for at least ten minutes. Palmetto plants and an occasional palm reached to the star-filled sky, seeming to search for fresh air.
“Where the shit is we?”
“Well, you’re still in Dade County. Isn’t that your place of residency?”
“Thought we was goin’ to your jail.”
“Why would we want to dirty up our jail with your sorry, smelly ass?”
“You can’t leave me out here. Shit, I don’t even know where I am.”
“Dade County. I already told you that.”
“Shit, man, it’s dark out here. What’m I supposed to do now?”
“You might think about walking. But I wouldn’t be venturing off the road too far. This is the Glades, here. I bet there’s a shitpot full of gators hunkering out there.”
Don and Ricky drove into the darkness, leaving the guy standing alone in the dark of Nowhere-land. It wasn’t the first time they had executed this dump. The Glades were the last stop for the Batman and Robin Transportation Company carrying “guests” fr
om The Gathering. It was a one-way trip to the bowels of Dade County.
A week passed without any skateboard or homeless hassles. Don and Ricky felt good, but were getting itchy for a little action. Don’s cell phone played a lively tune, signaling one of the sales girls in The Gathering was calling.
“Heather, what’s happening at the Gap?” He listened intently while nodding his head. “We’ll take care of it. Don’t go out back until we tell you it’s clear.”
Don turned to Ricky, “Heather says there’s a creepy guy out back hanging by the dumpsters. Wouldn’t even answer when she asked if she could help him. He just ducked back into the corner between two shit cans.”
Don pulled out his new pair of gloves identified as “Security Gloves.” He had seen them advertised in Galls, a police equipment catalog. In the old days they would have been called “Sap Gloves.” They were made of tough leather with extra layers lining the palm and metal fragments sewn into the fingers above the finger joints and across the back of the hand. The advertisement boasted they would protect an officer from stray needles and blood borne pathogens. Don had other ideas for their use.
Saps, and other bludgeoning devices, have stocked police equipment arsenals throughout history, along with a variety of clubs. The small billy was about 12-inches long and sometimes had a steel rod inserted down its length. The wooden police baton normally was 26-inches long, and the riot model ran 36-inches. In the 1970s, the baton was fitted with a side handle and usually was referred to as a PR24, named after the principle manufacturer.
A few police departments experimented with nunchuks, two pieces of wood or hard plastic joined by a length of cord. In the 1980s the baton was redesigned in metal that could be expanded from eight or 12-inches into a full-length baton. After city riots in the late 1960s, police flashlights became lead pipes, sometimes long enough to fit six D-cell batteries. Too often officers used them instead of batons. The usual strike target zone was the head. Head wounds are more often messier than injurious or fatal, and often made the suspect “badder.” Very few police agencies now allow officers to carry these huge flashlights.