Senile Squad: Adventures of the Old Blues

by Chris LeGrow

  The techs glanced at each other again. “I didn’t think they liked us,” said Karew.

  “Yeah, they look over a job that took us hours and all I get is,” Abinya launched into his best impersonation of the Sarge, “Is that all you got? Honestly, I don’t know why we keep you guys around.”

  The techs chuckled and Brittany couldn’t suppress a conspiratorial smile. “That’s just how cops talk. They don’t get syrupy or fawn all over people. You’ll never hear ‘Oh that was wonderful work’ or ‘We’re so lucky to have you.’ A cop will understate every time or try to make you think it was barely acceptable when the work was exceptionally well done.”

  “Brilliant,” Karew said as though they’d made a brilliant scientific discovery. “They like us.”

  “They really like you,” Brittany said.

  “Then why,” Karew said, “do they call us dweebs?”

  Oh, man, had the Blues been giving these guys the business, Brittany thought. “They probably do think you’re dweebs, but,” she raised a finger for emphasis, “you’re their dweebs and they’ll do anything to protect you.”

  The men chewed on that piece of information and nodded at one another. “We’d really better get back to work.”

  “Me too,” Brittany said. The men left and she could only shake her head. None of the techs could contain their excitement at having been accepted by the real cops upstairs; they all but fell over one another getting into the hall. Her advice had obviously made their day…or week…maybe even their year! “Where would we be without the dweebs of the world?” she asked aloud. “Losing the battle for the streets probably.”

  She arched her back and stretched before picking up the earphones for round two. She worked another three hours and took her translation to the lab. Once they worked their magic, the video was completed with her audio translation. Brittany and the techs carried the DVD to the Sarge and Smitty for review.

  Once the recording ended, the Sarge studied Smitty a moment without saying a word. His eyebrows climbed his forehead as if to say Wow! The Sarge peered at the techs and then Brittany, still saying nothing. Finally he shook his head and turned to Smitty. “I don’t know,” he drawled, “you think this stuff is worth the money we pay these guys?”

  The look on the techs’ faces went from anticipatory smiles to lower than the floor. Brittany shook her head and bit her lip.

  Smitty threw his hands into the air. “I don’t know; I’ve seen junior high kids on YouTube post better videos.”

  The techs turned their worried looks to Brittany; she winked at the group. “What these two worthless excuses of old crime fighters are saying is you guys did a great job, right?”

  The techs focused on the Sarge and Smitty. “Really?” Thane asked.

  “That’s what I said, didn’t I?” The Sarge all but yelled at them. “Go make yourselves useful and see if you can fix that hair trigger on those wireless Taser darts. I don’t want one ending up in our keisters.”

  “Thanks, Sarge,” Abinya said with a smile. “Next project,” he said and turned toward the door. His compatriots followed like ducklings in the spring.

  The Sarge turned his glower on Brittany. “You translate for everybody?”

  “Everybody who needs it,” she said in her sweetest tone.

  “Humph. I need a copy of that DVD. Gang Unit gets one too as soon as possible, so they can nail them before they realize they’ve been had.”

  His grin reminded Brittany of a crocodile.

  “They should swoop down on these punks just in time for Clubba to see his little empire start to crumble on tomorrow’s news.”

  “From your lips to God’s ear,” Smitty said.

  Jake Mitchell hadn’t had such an excellent evening in, well, he couldn’t remember when. Certainly not within the past two years. He tried to keep his walk steady and simple so his lieutenant didn’t notice anything new. A large envelope marked URGENT in red letters waited on his desk. He picked it up for closer inspection. For immediate delivery to the gang unit blazed on the front label. Jake turned it over several times. It wasn’t the usual way for a tip to come into his office. Who was he to judge though? He’d drop it to the GU’s sergeant. Let them decide what to do with it; he had better things to contemplate.

  He grabbed the package and headed out on his usual rounds. At the gang unit, he spotted Sergeant Scott. “Hey, Sarge,” Jake called to the other man. “Got an unusual package for you.”

  “Oh yeah?” The sergeant took the large manila envelope, turned it over carefully, and peered up at Jake. “What is it?”

  “Not a clue,” Jake said. “But I’m dying to know.”

  Scott took out a letter opener and slid it across the seal to access the contents. Gingerly, he slid the packet onto his desk. “A DVD?” the sergeant asked.

  “There’s a piece of paper too,” Jake said.

  More information that may help you with Te’quan Koak. From your friend who helped you with the purse snatcher case.

  The sergeant turned deadly serious.

  “What’s wrong?” Jake asked.

  The gang sergeant looked up from the note. “This is the same guy that helped us with the purse snatchers.”

  “Great,” Jake said. “So what’s the problem?”

  Sergeant Scott slid the DVD into his computer and pointed to a picture on his wall. “Te’quan Koak aka, ‘Clubba,’” he said.

  “Okay,” Jake said. “I’ll bite. What’s his deal?”

  “He’s been building some sort of gang infrastructure. We really haven’t seen anything like it. He acts like—and is treated like—a leader of his gang, but the whole thing doesn’t mesh with what we see in the gangs here in town.”

  Jake studied Clubba’s photo and turned his attention back to the sergeant. “I thought these punks were pretty straightforward. Spray paint their territory, sell drugs, rob, steal, and shoot at people.”

  “This guy is different,” the sergeant said. “Looks like the whole Sudanese population in Omaha looks to him as some sort of godfather. He also has a bunch of Sudanese guys who seem to take orders from him, but again not like anything we’ve ever dealt with. Clubba appears to be an associate with other gangs but somehow he has his own too. Really weird. I mean some gangs are cool with others, but Clubba seems to be down with all the major gangs—and I mean all. He must deal in guns or something they all want but only he can get. No clue what that is.”

  Sergeant Scott started the video.

  Jake stood behind his shoulder and watched too.

  “Busted him on a domestic violence charge; strangulation and terroristic threats, he got eighteen months in prison. At his court hearing, his thugs kept giving the woman—girl really— threatening looks.”

  “Which means ‘stay quiet,’” Jake said. “I remember a few cases like that back in Utah. Where is she? Anything happen?”

  “Not that we know of, but this dude is called Clubba because he likes to use a bat on whoever causes him any trouble.”

  Jake winced at the thought. “Ouch. Guess that’s enough to keep people in line, especially if they aren’t familiar with the language and don’t know how to get help in the community.”

  “Exactly!” Sergeant Scott said. “Just like the Italians when they migrated here. The mafia kept people in line by whatever means necessary, but this guy is a little different than those thugs were. Clubba likes to personally deliver the beatings; that way everybody fears him. From what little intelligence we’ve gathered, that’s how he likes it, wants it, and it works for him. Very well. Nobody talks about him to anyone—especially us.”

  “That bites,” Jake said. “You can’t do anything without decent intelligence.”

  “Tell me about it. Only reason we got him was because his girlfriend’s little sister videoed him threatening her big sister for seeing another man. He lost his cool, threatened and strangled her, in the middle of the street, didn’t care who saw him. Between that and the bat in his hand, we got him on a
ll three charges.”

  “Nice work,” Jake said. He admired anyone who could take a violent jerk like this Clubba off the street.

  “It wasn’t nearly enough,” Scott said. “Let’s see what’s on this.” He clicked the play button. An apartment complex unfolded. “Looks like that one up on Sixtieth Street,” Scott said and leaned in closer to his screen.

  Jake pulled up a chair beside him. “Explain what you’re seeing.”

  The sergeant pointed. “Look across the street—they look to be Sudanese.”

  Jake frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “Sudanese are pretty tall generally, very dark complexioned with the rounded foreheads you see there. Sometimes they have tribal markings scarred across their foreheads. They’re each wearing large white shirts too. That’s pretty typical of Clubba’s thugs as well.” Sergeant Scott pulled back and tilted his head. “In fact, I’d say they have the whole complex surrounded.”

  “Surrounded?” Jake echoed. “Why would they surround that?”

  A long moment passed. The sergeant turned to Jake the same moment Jake turned to him. “The girlfriend.”

  “Of course,” Jake said.

  “They’re making sure she stays put.”

  “Not to mention intimidating her,” Jake said.

  “Look at ’em.” The sergeant pointed to the group milling around outside. “They’re not even crossing the street; they’re just standing around. They’re not even trying to hide.”

  “Suppose they want her to see them?” Jake asked.

  The sergeant nodded. “Yep. They’re also letting her know that they know where she is. And warning her to keep her mouth shut.”

  Jake watched the monitor and nodded solemnly. “Makes her stay put, that’s for sure, but why not just go get her? It’s like a game of cat and mouse and they’re just—” The conclusion washed over him like a bucket of ice. Jake met the sergeant’s gaze. “Didn’t you say Clubba likes to take a bat to his enemies himself?”

  “Yea.” Sergeant Scott’s eyes widened. “Oh, holy, crap!” He pulled up the Nebraska Penitentiary page and scanned over the inmate population and their release dates. “Oh man,” Scott said. “He gets out tomorrow. Those mopes are holding her there for him. As soon as he gets out, he’s going to bash her head in!”

  “Let’s get ’em,” Jake said.

  Sergeant Scott grabbed his phone and called the gang unit secretary. “Get ahold of the entire unit; I want everyone in the conference room in two hours.” Turning back to his monitor, he smiled. “This is gold, Jake. Gold. We can grab every one of them for felony witness tampering.”

  “Awesome,” Jake said. “I love it when things come together like that.”

  “No kidding; stuff like this doesn’t fall in our lap every day. I’ll set up a sweep. That way we can nab a good chunk of his gang and put it with the other evidence we’ll get.”

  “Should be more than enough to nail Clubba,” Jake said.

  Scott smiled and turned his attention back to his monitor. “Let’s send this thug back where he belongs.”

  “SMITTY.” THE SARGE STALKED TO HIS DOORWAY AND called for his righthand man.

  “Yeah, Sarge.”

  “C’mere,” he said with a jerk of his head toward a chair inside.

  Smitty hurried in and took a seat. “What’s going on?”

  “I need you to set up a quick response team. The gang unit should be about to hit those punks and hit ’em hard.”

  “Right,” Smitty said. “What’d you have in mind?”

  “The GU should have their whole unit there, not to mention the assistance of the black-and-whites.”

  Smitty nodded his agreement. “And?”

  The Sarge reached up to the frame surrounding a photo of the President of the United States and pulled down a hidden map of the Sixtieth and Etna apartment complex. “You can bet once these punks realize what’s coming down on them, they’ll scatter throughout the whole area. Our goal is to nab ’em all—every single one.” He switched his gaze from the graphic and back to Smitty. “How many Blues do we have there right now?”

  “Ten,” Smitty said. He stood and walked over to the apartment diagram. “The Chelinis have Blues posted here.” He circled between the buildings. “Here.” He circled the walkways on the main entrance. “And here, at this maintenance path. Looks like the entire outer perimeter will be covered. What about the inner perimeters? There are so many buildings in this complex, we could have Clubba’s thugs running all over the place.”

  Nodding, the Sarge pored over the layout. “Good,” he said. “Very good. I want another ten at the choke points around the parking lot in the middle. There’s a donut shape to the entire area on the map with a playground and parking lot in the middle. Here.” He pointed at a walkway that led to the swings. “And here.” He pointed at another choke point between buildings that also led to the inner courtyard. “These are the obvious escape routes they could run through if they do and will run through this complex.”

  The Sarge rubbed his chin. “If I were that gang sergeant, I’d put some coppers right in the middle of the complex for the thugs that escape the chase.”

  “You’re figuring on a chase?” Smitty asked.

  “Wouldn’t you?”

  “Yeah,” Smitty said with a smile. “And if I was thirty years younger, I’d look forward to it.”

  “I want every single Blue with a weapon.”

  “Weapon?” Smitty asked.

  “Our weapons,” the Sarge said. “Walkers, canes, and crutches.”

  “Sorry,” Smitty said. “I must’ve stepped back in time.”

  “I know the feeling,” the Sarge said. “Let the boys at Sixtieth and Etna know.”

  “You got it, Sarge.” Smitty seated himself at his desk and pulled out his radio for the call. “Tony, you there?”

  “Yeah, Smitty,” the friendly elder Chelini brother asked. “What’s up?”

  “Sarge wants a secondary security detail set up.”

  “What?” Tony asked. “Why?”

  “He thinks the gang unit is gonna pounce on these punks any time now. And he wants everybody with walking assistance.”

  “Ah,” Tony said. “Everybody gets weapons.”

  “Yep,” Smitty replied.

  “Fun stuff.”

  “I’ll be out with the supplies as soon as I can. Once I get there, we’ll get your people set up and get the escape prevention units organized.”

  “Okay, no problem, Smitty. We’re ready to rock and roll.”

  True to his word, Smitty and the Somewhat Quick Response Unit, a term the Blues had for a bunch of old coppers who couldn’t respond very quickly, had arrived. Tony and Smitty posted extra men at all potential escape routes. The complex all but looked like a retirement center itself. Old men milled around throughout the apartment complex.

  To the casual observer there would seem to be some sort of activity planned for the senior residents of the complex. They were standing around buildings, talking to each other as if it was just a normal day. However, if one were to look closely, it would be clear that these weren’t just a bunch of old men talking about the weather. Years of experience had taught them how to carry on what looked like a normal conversation while setting up ambush positions. They may have been talking, and slowly walking, but they were taking in everything, and they were making mental notes of how to bushwhack Clubba’s thugs.

  Smitty jutted his chin across the street. “Seems to be more of his soldiers around than usual,” Smitty looked again, “Whoa! There’s way more. There’s gotta be twenty guys out there!”

  “Yeah,” Tony said with a frown. “Sure does. That doesn’t bode well.”

  Smitty was in deep thought trying to figure out how the estimates of the actual number of Clubba’s people could have been so wrong. “Definitely doesn’t. They may be changing the guard or calling out their members to make sure she doesn’t go anywhere before Clubba gets out.”

  “Good,
” Tony said. “If more of them hang around and talk, maybe the gang unit will arrest ’em all. We might get a load of those hoods off the street.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” Smitty muttered. He got on his radio with an announcement to the Blues in the complex. “Boys, this may be a bigger job than we thought, we got three times as many gang members than usual. This place will be a hornet’s nest any minute.”

  In response to Smitty’s announcement there were anonymous hoots and hollers from Ol’ Blues excited for an old-fashioned raid. “Don’t worry Smitty, we’ll get ’em!” and “They ain’t going anywhere!”

  Smitty smiled and said for all the Blues to hear, “Let’s round ’em up like the old days, boys.”

  Sergeant Scott’s briefing was quick and to the point. His team’s attention focused on the aerial photo of the Etna housing units on the front viewing screen. “We’re going to disembark in the neighborhood behind the gang members because they’re watching the apartment complex, not the neighborhood behind them. Then come up from their rear by going between the houses, as quickly and quietly as possible.” Scott directed. “I want to surprise the thugs by popping out behind them and nabbing them before they have time to react.”

  Sergeant Scott looked at the officers for understanding; heads nodded showing collective understanding. “If we do this right, we just might catch at least seven to ten of them. I want quick takedowns, and I want them secured and stuffed in a cruiser even quicker. The faster we clear the area, the less chance of any disturbances by their friends. I want them outta there and booked for witness tampering.”

  Sergeant Scott perused the maze of escape routes any of them could take. He pointed to a table where some of his undercover officers sat. “For good measure I want two cars with you, eight officers here.” He indicated directly in the parking lot in the middle of the housing units. “And nab anybody who tries to run through; it’s a huge complex so we’ll try to grab as many as we can during the initial contact.”

  “There’s bound to be a couple who run inside and away from the initial officers,” Officer Turley said.