Time's Up

by Janey Mack

  “Can you give me the lowdown on my new partner?”

  Obi smiled sadly and shook his head. “The Force is strong within you, my young friend, but even I cannot reveal your destiny.”

  Gee, thanks.

  I swiped my key card at the TEB entrance, stopped in front of the time clock, and punched in.

  “Told you I’d set you up, McGrane,” Leticia Jackson crowed from the hallway. She marched into the break room, black shoes squeaking on the waxy gray linoleum floor. “Get me a Cherry Coke and some Cheetos and come sit your scrawny ass down.” She sat down at one of the stained Formica tables while I pulled out a couple bucks and fed them into the vending machines.

  Today was not the day to skimp on a bribe. I threw in a Snickers, as well.

  I brought the snacks over and sat down. Leticia wiped the sweat from her neck with an orange bandanna. “There’s a couple things we need to get straight, McGrane.”

  “Should I be taking notes?”

  Leticia squinted at me to see if I was kidding, decided I wasn’t, and opened the chips. “Hell, no! This is James Bond, CIA kinda shit.” She leaned across the table, eyes wide. “This is one hundred percent under-the-table radio silence.”

  Unable to help myself, I faked a look of intense interest. “Wow.”

  Leticia cocked her head and eyed me suspiciously. “You ain’t wearing a wire, is you, McGrane?”

  “No.”

  “Okay.” She shook out a couple Cheetos and popped them in her mouth.

  “Of course, as a civilian, I’m under no obligation to tell you the truth,” I said helpfully. “Nor would I have to tell you if I was a police officer.”

  Leticia stopped mid-chew and gave me the look one of those hippos on the Discovery Channel does just before it charges the cameraman and rips his leg off. “You’re blathering.” She finished chewing. “Cops can’t lie. That’s entrapment.”

  “Nope. The law does not prohibit officers from lying in the course of performing their duties.” She raised a skeptical brow and I continued, “Entrapment’s when someone’s persuaded by police to commit a crime that they had no previous intention of committing.”

  Leticia shook her head and thrust her stubby fingers back into the bag. “You sure do know a lot of useless shit.”

  She was attractive in that cute-potential chubby-faced way. I wondered what she’d look like sixty pounds lighter. Smoking hot, or would that aura of would-be attractiveness evaporate into the ether with the lost weight?

  “We’re going to talk about your new partner, Eunice Peat,” Leticia said. “And before you ask, it’s Niecy, never Eunice.” She raised her palms ceiling-ward. “Lordy, what kind of back-country hillbilly gives their baby girl a homely-ass name like Eunice?”

  I shrugged. Maisie McGrane was not exactly the moniker of a cosmopolitan sophisticate.

  “Anyhow,” Leticia said, “I got a warm spot in my heart for Niecy. She brought me up through the ranks, when the TEB was still owned by peeps who actually lived in this goddamn country.”

  “Um, I don’t really see—”

  “Niecy’s got a touch of the Parkinson’s,” she said.

  “How bad?”

  “Bad enough that Dhu West has the Ice Bi-otch Lince looking for every way to Sunday to throw her ass out.”

  “Why?”

  “Bottom line, why you think?” Leticia rolled her eyes. “Niecy hits thirty-five years in three months. If she can hang in, it’s another ten thousand a year in pension. She can’t quit. On account of she’s too young to get Medicare and she don’t qualify for the Medicaid with her pension.”

  I had the distinct sensation of needing a double scotch and I don’t drink scotch.

  Hank’s Law Number Ten: Keep your mouth shut.

  “Naturally, after you and me kicked Marcus-Mohammed in the balls at the House of fuckin’ Burka Oppression, I thought of your skinny-ass hopping in and out of the cart, booting like nothing I’ve ever seen.”

  I folded my hands on the Formica table, ignoring the need to pull at my shirt collar. When trying to befriend a suspect, show them you’re on the same team. I couldn’t remember if it was a cop-ism or a lawyer-ism, but it meant I was screwed. Totally.

  “I wrote you up aces so Lince would have to choose you.” She took a swig of Cherry Coke. “Are you hearing what I’m saying to you, McGrane?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Well, you just sitting there. Not nodding. Not moving. Nothing.”

  “I’m waiting,” I said.

  “For what?”

  “The other shoe to drop.”

  Leticia sat back and grinned at me. “Other shoe . . . That’s a good one. You make that up?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  She nodded and slit open the Snickers with a baby-blue airbrushed thumbnail. “Look. She ain’t that bad. Only a couple times Chen—the gate dude—and me had to load her into the trike.”

  I didn’t say a word.

  Leticia sucked in a breath through her teeth and set the Snickers down untouched. “What you’re gonna do is hop in and out writing tickets like you’re supposed to, only sometimes you might pick up the wrong AutoCITE. And by the time you get all the way to the meter, you just ask Niecy for her number, on account of you want to do your best for Dhu West and don’t wanna waste any time.”

  Not only against company policy, but actually illegal. “Jesus. I can’t—”

  “Like hell you can’t. You’re my little marine.” She gave me a fist pump. “Boo-Yah!”

  Ooh-Rah.

  “How many tickets a week?” I asked.

  Leticia’s chin came up, all trace of good humor gone from her eyes. “That sounds real close to you asking me about a quota.”

  “Hell, no.” I sighed. Complete and total FUBAR. I slid over the route card Jennifer had given me. “Any tips?”

  It was the closest I’ve ever seen to someone going apoplectic. Leticia ate the entire Snickers in two bites. “Oh no, she di-n’t, oh no, she di-n’t.”

  Huffing in fury, she finished the Cheetos next, gnawing each chip down to nothing with the tiny mincing bites of a maniacal chipmunk. “The Ice Bi-otch thinks she can run me, she got another think coming.”

  Food gone, Leticia took a cleansing breath. “That’s a dead route, McGrane. You couldn’t lay twenty tickets a day between the two of you.”

  “Now what?” I said.

  “You drive your route once a day. Then you free.” She smiled grimly. “I’m givin’ you license to poach.”

  “Huh?”

  “You and Niecy write and boot on any route, whenever and wherever. I guarantee ain’t no one gonna complain.”

  To our face, maybe.

  “That’s what I thought.” She smiled at me. “Don’t worry ’bout a thing. I’m gonna set you up cherry. You’re my baby white elephant, McGrane. I’ll keep you on board. No matter what.” Leticia spit in her hand and held it out.

  Oh gross.

  I did the same and we shook on it.

  I went out on the lot to meet my new partner. Eunice “Niecy” Peat was a tiny, early sixty-something with a sparse halo of violent orange hair and skin as white as school chalk. She blew a plume of smoke out the open passenger window of Interceptor 13248.

  “So you’re the effing cavalry,” Niecy said in a voice forged of whiskey sours and three packs a day. Her small face screwed up in displeasure as she waved a shaking hand at me. “Back up. Let me get a gander at ya.”

  I stepped away.

  “You a God-fearing gal?”

  I shrugged. “Lapsed Catholic.”

  She nodded. “Fair enough. It’s those with no religion at all who got no charity in their hearts. No loyalty, neither.”

  No longer surprised why Leticia idolized her, I scrounged up one of Ernesto’s kung fu quotes. “All can know good as good only because there is evil.”

  Niecy took another drag, considered my fortune cookie wisdom, and nodded in agreement. “Get in.”

  I cli
mbed into the driver’s side of the Interceptor. It reeked of smoke and Aqua Net. I fastened my seat belt and glanced at my new partner.

  She was tiny. Minute. What is it about the TEB that attracts the vertically challenged?

  “Leticia explain the way things work?” she said. “I hold the keys, but you’re driving.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” I handed her the route card.

  Niecy looked at it and scratched the back of her neck. “Piss for lemonade. This ain’t good.”

  “Leticia also gave us a license to poach.”

  “Jiminy Christmas, of course she did.” She reached out a trembling hand and snapped on the radio. Sean Hannity. “I used to hate this shizzle.” Niecy nodded at the radio. “But Leticia, danged if she didn’t wear me down till now I’m used to it. She says the only way to stick it to the man is to become the man. Not take anything from anyone and make decisions for your own self.” Niecy gave a derisive snort and took another drag on her cigarette. “So you tell me. What kinda decisions does a meter maid make?”

  I thought about it for a second. “To ticket or not to ticket.”

  Niecy flicked the cigarette butt out the window. “Are we gonna sit here all day or what?”

  She back-seat drove us through the first half of our route, where the ticketing was nonexistent. “We’re tied to the stake while the Ice Bitch is out looking for a blowtorch.”

  We left our route to hit up Agent Lucero’s office park sweet spot.

  “Stop. A twofer.” Gripping her gun, Niecy eased out next to a red Nissan Maxima. “Eyeball the other side and meet me at the end of the block.”

  Midway up the street, a black armored Lincoln limo was illegally parked in front of a cinder-block office building. A huge black guy, wearing the fabled chauffeur’s uniform including silver-buttoned jacket, knee-high boots, and jodhpurs as seen only in the movies, wiped something off the windshield and got back into the vehicle. So tragically ridiculous, I felt nothing but sympathy for the driver. Needing a little angelic interference myself, I decided to pay it forward.

  I pulled over, left the Interceptor, and went and rapped on the limo’s window. It slid smoothly down. Halfway.

  The chauffeur tipped down his mirrored shades and gave me the once-over. “A hundred. Go ’round back and wait for me to unlock it.”

  Yeah, that’s me. Your friendly neighborhood meter maid hooker.

  “I don’t think so.” I smiled politely. “You’re in a No Standing Zone.”

  “A what?”

  “Look, I don’t want to bust your chops, but you’re in a No Loading, No Standing Zone among other things. With a Class D license, you know and I know that you sure as hell know what a No Standing Zone is.”

  Unimpressed, he pushed the mirrored sunglasses up. “And what’s that?”

  “A sixty-dollar fine if I’m feeling generous enough to disregard your other violations.”

  “Damn, you’re a cold piece of work.” He rolled the window down all the way and squared his immense shoulders to me. “Do you know whose car you be messin’ with?”

  “No.”

  “The mayor’s.”

  “Okay,” I said. “As I don’t see any flashing service lights, no city service vehicle permit stickers, and no diplomatic plates, you’ll have to move if you don’t want to be ticketed.”

  He laughed, exposing teeth rode hard by Camels. “Oh yeah?” He pulled ahead, filling the two empty handicapped parking spaces. “Is this better?”

  That’s what I get for trying to be nice. “Actually, you were better off before. No Standing Zone plus a disabled curb cut plus a fire lane blockage had you at $285. Now you’re in two handicapped spaces and still blocking the disabled curb cut. $575.”

  “Go on and write it then, bitch.” He closed the window.

  As a member of the Traffic Enforcement Bureau, a parking enforcement agent is always willing to aid and assist members of the public.

  I stepped up onto the curb, typed the ticket into the AutoCITE, printed it out, tucked it into its Agent-Orange envelope, and went back to the car.

  The window opened a sliver. I popped the ticket in. “Have a nice day,” I said, already moving toward the Interceptor.

  “Yo!” The driver’s window rolled all the way down. I stopped and returned to the Lincoln.

  The crumpled-up ticket hit me square in the chest. “Go fuck yourself.”

  I left the ticket in the street and concentrated on walking slowly back to the Interceptor. I climbed in, a little trembly and kind of freaked.

  The traitorous thought that perhaps I was, indeed, “too thin-skinned to be a cop” turned over and over in my mind.

  I put my head down on the steering wheel.

  “Eegh.” Niecy grunted and turned down the volume on Mark Steyn. “Whassa’ matter, kid?”

  Only fifty-one weeks to go, God help me. “I need a minute.”

  “You’ll get used to it.” Her thin orange hair quivered as she shook her head. “The times when someone ain’t just pissed to heck to get a ticket—they actually want to cut your danged guts out.”

  Please. Stop helping.

  “Take all the time you need.” Niecy turned the volume back up and snuggled into her seat.

  I sat staring at the armored Lincoln limo, wondering what I would have done if he’d been a perp.

  Hank’s Law Number Six: Don’t fear fear.

  As I reached forward to start the Interceptor, a black Benz S class limo pulled into the handicapped spaces behind the Lincoln limo and flashed its headlights.

  The black chauffeur got out and walked to the rear of the Benz. The window lowered. The chauffeur twitched. The window went up. The chauffeur walked stiff-legged mechanically back to the Lincoln. Whatever he’d been told, it wasn’t good. He got into the limo and drove away, mouth stretched in a mirthless grimace.

  Niecy pointed at the Mercedes. “You gonna ticket that whale, too?”

  “Maybe.”

  The driver of the Benz got out and opened the door for his passenger. An olive-skinned, masculine-looking woman with a swath of expensive blond hair stepped into the street. She raised a cell phone to her ear, said a single word, and disconnected.

  “Are we gonna sit here all day or what, McGrane?”

  A white Ford van emblazoned with the words Allied Meat Packing screeched to a stop next to the Benz. “Shhh. Something’s happening.”

  The blonde nodded to the two men in the van and got back in the Benz. As the limo pulled away, the men in the van pulled on surgical masks and got out. They wore stained white coveralls, caps, and work gloves and went around to the back of the van. Three more men in identical clothing jumped out. Together they unloaded ten five-gallon pails and pried off the tops, flipping the lids onto the sidewalk.

  The van driver opened the office door and held it while the four-man crew, each lugging two pails apiece, disappeared inside the building. I rummaged around in the center console for a pen and wrote the van’s plate number on my wrist.

  “What is this place?” I said.

  “How the eff should I know?” Niecy pressed her nose against the window. “Why are they taking those buckets inside?”

  Alone on the sidewalk, the van driver picked up one of the two remaining pails and splashed its contents high onto the plate-glass window. A grayish-whitish liquid splattered and dripped down the window.

  The noxious stink of putrefied ammonia permeated the air vents of our cart.

  “Jeebus crispies on a cracker!” Niecy gagged.

  I covered my nose and mouth with one hand, snapped off the AC, and flipped the vents closed. My eyes watered. The driver picked up his second pail and hurled its contents onto the building. He dropped the empty pails on the sidewalk, got behind the wheel, and gunned the engine.

  “Holy criminey.” Niecy bounced up and down in her seat. “This is Mob shizzle.”

  “Shizzle is right.” I’d smelled that stink once before. The time I’d visited a henhouse. “Chicken shizzle.�
�

  The coveralled crew, now pail-free, hustled out of the building, got into the van, and took off.

  The office door burst open. Men and women, heads and shoulders coated in dripping white liquid, ran out of the building, coughing and gagging, trying to wipe the guano sludge off their faces. A woman shrugged off her sweater and scrubbed her face against the inside. The T-shirt she wore underneath was emblazoned with Talbott Cottle Coles’s campaign logo.

  “Get us outta here!” Niecy barked.

  I called Flynn as soon as my shift was over. The chicken shitting wasn’t exactly something I could just call in. Nor did I want to report it to some no-load beat cop like Narkinney.

  He answered on the first ring. “What’s up, Snap?”

  “I just watched a crew of men from an Allied Meat Packing van cover one of Coles’s campaign offices in chicken shit. Literally.”

  Flynn was silent for a moment. “Did you get the plates?”

  I gave him the number.

  “Nice work.” He hung up.

  I skip-walked the remaining six blocks to my gold Honda, equal parts ecstatic—Flynn, and depressed—Hank, wanting to go to Joe’s and clear my head, but I just . . . couldn’t. Ten miles on the basement treadmill watching Callan DVDs, however, sounded like a decent alternative.

  My phone vibrated. I scrabbled it out of my leg pants pocket. Unknown Caller.

  Hank? I leaned against the car. It took two more rings before I felt calm enough to answer. “Hello?”

  “Maisie? Lee Sharpe,” said a terse staccato.

  “What’s up?” I asked, not bothering to mask the disappointment in my voice.

  “I was wondering if you’d reconsidered.”

  “What?”

  “Dinner. With me.”

  Lee may be SWAT cool, but he was a hotshot all the same. The fact I hadn’t fainted at his feet Saturday must’ve grated like a sandpaper shirt.

  I rubbed the back of my neck. “Look, Lee. That’s not such a good idea.”

  “Why not? Cash said you aren’t seeing anyone.”

  Ouch. I tried to formulate a response, but all I could think of was ways to maim my brother.