Rage: The Reckoning

by Christopher C. Page

  John deflected the compliment, unsure how to take it. “Been on the job long?” he asked.

  “Eight years. Ratcliff wasn’t exactly what I had in mind when I took the job but, hey, what can you do?”

  “You’re telling me brother,” John smiled. “So tell me, what kind of calls you get around here?”

  “Most of our calls are either traffic offenses or domestic disturbances,” Doug explained. “We get the drunks, naturally, and they’re our main concern. Guys stop off at the bar for a few beers after work and wind up getting too plastered to drive. We only get service from one Cab Company so some of these guys end up behind the wheel after last call. When they get home, assuming they make it, they wind up slapping their wives around and having it out on the front lawn. Second to the drunks, is the old high school. The place closed back in 86’ but they never got around to tearing the damned place down and the kids like to hang out in there.”

  “Closed in 86?” John said, vaguely recalling seeing the place that morning. “The place is probably full of asbestos, why don’t they just tear it down?”

  “It’s been brought up at every town council meeting since I can remember. Half the town wants it gone, the other half say it’s a landmark and want it restored. At least a few times a year some kid gets high and falls into the swimming pool. Probably not a kid in town that hasn’t been in there, adults too for that matter. Shit, even I used to hang out in there as a kid. Aside from that, we get kids getting pinched shop lifting, cat in a friggin tree and somebody dented my garbage can.”

  “Sounds like a regular crime spree.”

  “You ain’t kidding. Most days, the hardest part of the job is trying not to shoot yourself in the leg out of boredom."

  John listened and observed while Doug took him through the IN’s and OUT’s of Ratcliff. From what he could gather, it was the kind of place where everybody knew everybody’s business. Which housewife was a prescription pill junkie or was boffing the FedEx man, and who was behind on their mortgage was often made public knowledge within hours. Sometimes people actually got updates on their own affairs through idle chat with the store clerks and residents who occupied the benches around town. And, why not? Other than the upcoming church social and the occasional cocktail party, what else was there to talk about?

  Main Street (Ratcliff’s bread and butter) ran north and south, curving out to the east in a semi-circle. Six streets ran off of Main to the west: Cherry, Birch, Maple, Pine, Spruce, and Elm where John now resided. A horseshoe shaped avenue named Commerce Way connected them all to the Main artery via a service road that ran behind all the businesses on the west side of Main. This provided ample parking for shoppers and kept the main street clear of unsightly garbage dumpsters and recycling bins. Thus, Main Street was kept clean and pleasing to the eye as well as the nose. Signage was kept to a bare minimum, there were no buses coughing out black smoke and slowing traffic with every stop and no tractor-trailers or commercial vehicles any bigger than vans were permitted to use the route. The benches, ornately designed iron, were bolted to the boulevards facing the businesses and bore no advertising.

  The buildings themselves were of early 1900’s architecture, two story units with a storefront. Several of them even had old awnings that had to be cranked out in the morning and rolled back in at closing time and reminded John of a Norman Rockwell calendar which Audrey’s mother used to give them every year at Christmas time. Everywhere he turned he found himself surrounded by beauty that was normally reserved for a Hollywood movie set. Baskets of colorful perennials were hung in pairs from old fashioned looking lamps. Main Street was only two kilometers long and could be crossed in five minutes, yet it was home to all the town’s essential businesses. Doug explained that the town’s motto was; ‘If you can’t get it here, then you probably don’t need it’.

  Naturally, there wasn’t much competition between businesses as there was one of everything. The diner served good coffee and sandwiches (as John could now personally attest to), Joe Vitteli owned the Lion of Ratcliff which served great Italian food, and Jack and Kim Gray owned the roadhouse whose specialty was greasy burgers and pub fare. Outside of those three, no other businesses were permitted to carry the same merchandise or serve from the same menu. Businesses in Ratcliff were carefully scrutinized for their product and/or services provided and proprietors who failed to meet the town standard had quickly found themselves out of business. Once word got out that a business was too pricey or that the employees had an attitude, residents would simply boycott the business. After a month or two without customers, they’d have no choice but close their doors, freeing up the space for a more ‘Community Oriented’ proprietor.

  Fred Johnston was the fourth generation to run the hardware store and Akmar Patel was the second to run the service station. The town also had its own movie theatre. It was a single screen affair that only ran two shows a night but the town’s only openly gay couple had spent a fortune converting the vacant bank into a beautiful movie house and on Friday nights the lineup for the second show often exceeded the theatre’s one hundred and twenty seat capacity. Ratcliff had its own grocery store, fill-station, Laundromat, cemetery and funeral parlor. There was a boutique, salon and a jewelry store for the female residents, the roadhouse and sporting goods store for the men.

  The ten streets that branched off from Main Street housed eighty percent of Ratcliff’s population, leaving about two hundred families living on the surrounding farms and country homes.

  The town’s real prize properties were scattered around the outskirts and the crown jewel was Foster Harrington’s massive fifteen thousand square foot palace. Set in the center of ten acres of perfectly manicured grass that rivaled the world’s best golf courses, the secluded property was surrounded by a seven foot high wrought iron fence and further protected by a set of twin, electronically controlled gates which bore the letter H, in the center.

  “That’s the house that God would have built,” Doug Green informed him as they passed by, calling out the sights like a tour guide, “if he had the money.”

  John listened attentively while Doug explained how Foster Harrington had lost his wife in an accident, apparently having fallen down a flight of stairs leading the basement of their Edmonton home. The tragedy was worsened by the fact that she was pregnant at the time. After her death, Foster had moved to Ratcliff with his teenaged son and started a new life. The accidental death clause paid out triple on Mrs. Harrington’s life, a total of three million dollars, which he used to start his empire.

  John liked Doug Green, both as a person, and a cop. He seemed to John as someone who took pleasure in small things in life. He had an honest, almost simple way of communicating that made him approachable and easy to talk to, valuable tools to have in their profession.

  “Are you married, Doug?” John asked. “Kids?”

  “Sure,” he replied proudly. “First one’s on the way. I hear you have a son?”

  “I do. Mark, he’s fifteen.”

  “Ahh, fifteen,” Doug said, wistfully. “To be fifteen again, what I wouldn’t give, huh?”

  John thought back to what his life was like at that age. On his fifteenth birthday, His own father probably got loaded, pissed on himself in his favorite chair, woke up and gave John’s mother the back of his hand. “Yeah, those were the days. Did you grow up here?”

  He nodded. “I always thought I’d get out of here one day, next thing you know, you meet someone and get married . . . you blink and ten years have gone by. How about you?”

  “Etobicoke. Moved to Toronto once I got my shield. Did Captain McLeary tell you why I’m here?”

  “Actually, he did,” Doug acknowledged easily. “He said you were a hot shot from Metro and that we were lucky to get you. He also told me about your partner. Sorry.”

  John couldn’t think of what to say to that, he settled for, “Thanks.”

  “One thing,” Doug said hesitantly. “I think you should know that there’s been s
ome talk.”

  “There usually is. The topic?”

  “Different things. Mostly the Bryan Walsh thing.”

  “Can’t say I’m surprised,” John admitted, adding nothing else.

  “Well, I realize we just met but if we’re going to be partners . . .”

  John had been expecting this. Ever since the shooting, people had been asking him for the gory details. He understood why members of the press would want to know, even other cops would naturally be curious as well, but several times he’d had complete strangers, plumbers and bartenders, asking him about it. But Doug was right, if they were going to be partners then he had the right to know what kind of man he was working with. It would be counter-productive to slight him on their first shift together, some people harbored that kind of thing.

  “What do you want to know?”

  “Just what actually happened. I mean, there are so many different versions, I don’t even know which one to believe.”

  “Fair enough. My partner and I were attempting to arrest a very dangerous individual. We would have waited for backup except we had reason to believe he might be assaulting someone at the time and we were right about that. We went in, and there was an accident."

  “An accident,” Doug repeated, listening intently.

  John nodded. “My partner and I had to bust our way in there, when the door gave away we got tangled up somehow and I fell. When I fell, I lost my gun. The suspect got hold of it and started shooting.”

  “Jesus,” Doug said with a sigh.

  “When my partner was hit, he fell right on top of me, I had his blood pumping right into my eyes, couldn’t see a thing. I remembered the back-up piece on my partner’s ankle and made a grab for it. Walsh got off another couple rounds and I unloaded on him. I was firing with my eyes full of blood at a big blur, and I kept firing until the big blur went down. So the rumors that I intentionally blew the guy’s dick and balls off are gossip, nothing more. But the press sure liked it, bet your ass they did.”

  “Sounds to me like one of those . . . what-cha-ma-call-ims? Happy accidents?”

  John couldn’t help but laugh. He tried to imagine explaining to the Civil Liberties Board that causing another man’s castration was not intentional, just a happy accident. “Anything else?” John inquired.

  “Nah, just the typical bullshit. You know how cops like to talk,” he replied.

  John didn’t sense any sarcasm in his voice. He seemed genuinely impressed with him, taking into account they had just met each other.

  Doug climbed out of the cruiser so that he could relieve his bladder in some nearby bushes when their first call flashed up on the floor-mounted laptop. It was an older system than what John had used at Metro but with a few keystrokes he was able to bring up the address.

  “Disturbance call,” John called out to Green. “2950 Main Street.”

  Green let out a groan, “Already?”

  “You know the place?”

  “Of course,” he chuckled, struggling with his zipper. “We just drove by there about fifteen minutes ago.”

  Jack’s Roadhouse was located at the far southern end of Main Street, set far back in a dirt lot that was usually filled by motorcycles and pick up trucks. One could see at a glance that the place was blue collar ONLY. People who worked desk jobs and drove Toyotas and were looking to grab a fast cold one on their way home didn’t come to Jack’s, not more than once anyway. The roadhouse ‘regulars’ laid asphalt, poured concrete and framed houses for a living. Denim and leather was common attire and you didn’t belong unless you worked a ‘fuck’ or ‘cocksucker’ into every other sentence. According to Green, as much as sixty percent of every call 62 Division received was for this location. The only reason the place was allowed to stay open was that none of the residents wanted their clientele frequenting Joe Vitelli’s ‘Lion of Ratcliff’, or the Diner.

  Doug Green fired up the cruiser and made the short trip over to the roadhouse in less than five minutes. As they pulled up to the front doors, he called Janet on the radio to let her know that they were on scene. As he and John were climbing out of the patrol car, the CB radio crackled to life.

  “Who’s on that disturbance call?” a male voice asked.

  Green’s demeanor clearly darkened. “I’m on it,” he replied curtly.

  “Who’s that, Green?” the male voice came back quickly.

  “Yes,” Doug shot back, growing more annoyed by the second.

  “I’ll be there in five minutes, just wait until I get there.”

  “Negative on that, it’s under control.” Then he added, “Go screw, prick” after he had lifted his thumb from the button that opened the channel.

  “Problem?” John asked.

  “Pete Andrews,” he replied, shaking his head. “Half of the dirt bags we pick up are friends of his from high school. There are plenty of people who say he’s hooked up with some local bikers, I don’t trust him any farther than I could throw him.”

  “Sounds like a conflict of interest if you ask me,” John said as they mounted the wooden steps and approached the entrance. “Does McLeary know?”

  “Yeah well, Pete makes just enough arrests to prove he’s on the payroll. Personally, if you ask me, every bust he makes is a little fishy. Plus, he has his nose buried so far up Foster Harrington’s ass he’d have to loosen his tie to piss and McLeary isn’t about to rock the boat. Word around the campfire is that Foster is going to run for mayor, and he’ll probably win. Pete thinks he’s in line for the captain’s chair and if Foster wins in November, he just might get it. I’ll tell you one thing, if that happens, I’d roll around in broken glass before I’d work for him.”

  “I know the type.”

  “You bought the old Miller place, right?” he asked.

  “Oh yeah,” John chuckled. “Sure did.”

  “Then you met his wife, she works over at the Realty.”

  John though back to the woman who had delivered the keys, the woman who he’d blasted when he saw the condition of the house. “Remind me to send her flowers.”

  John found himself smiling as they entered the roadhouse. He liked Doug. His sardonic sense of humor and straightforward manner would compliment John’s own personality, now the only question left was how the young cop handled himself on the job. As the doors swung shut behind them, John decided to find out and let him take the lead.

  John followed him into the bar. Most of the staggered round tables were unoccupied save for a few men that vaguely resembled his father, taking in a liquid breakfast so their hands wouldn’t shake. The man behind the bar, a balding and wiry looking man in his forties wearing a stained apron tied around his waist, pointed to another man sitting on a stool at the end. Doug nodded casually, as if he had known all along, and shuffled towards the man.

  “How ya doing, Briar?” Doug asked the man amiably.

  In response, the man didn’t move from his stool. Cigarette smoke drifted from a half-smoked butt in his left hand, he was hunched over an empty stein glass that was knocked over on the bar.

  “I opened the doors, he comes in here, drunk off his ass already,” the bartender said timidly. “He still owes me from last night’s tab, and then I find out he’s got no money for today’s tab! I ask him to leave, real nice like, ‘Come back when you got some money’ I says. I’m not looking for any trouble.”

  Doug nodded sympathetically. “What do you say Briar?” he asked, placing a hand on the man’s shoulder.

  “Fuck off!” he spat, grinding his cigarette out on the bar.

  John moved around behind the man opposite Green. His only thought was to provide support (if necessary) but he suddenly felt his chest tighten. Something didn’t feel right. Maybe it was the lump underneath the stained apron around the bartender’s waistline. Or maybe it was the way the man was sitting on the stool and that he hadn’t showed his right hand, either way, the last straw was the buck knife case on the guy’s belt. It was unsnapped and appeared to be empty.
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br />   “That’s not very nice,” Green remarked. “Nobody’s trying to mess with you, so why don’t you just do like Jack says and come back when you have some money.”

  “Not till he gives me another beer,” he replied firmly.

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea, Briar. I think maybe you’ve had enough already.”

  John watched as Green gently tried to guide the man from the stool. As he did, he turned away from the man, exposing his service weapon and leaving himself vulnerable. John had locked his attention onto the man’s right hand on the bar, noticing how he kept his hand cupped slightly, palm down. The instant Green turned away to lead him out, the man slid his hand off of the bar. John was in motion before he had a chance to warn his either of them. He yanked the man backwards off of the stool by his collar, then reversed himself, shoving the man forward before he had a chance to regain his balance. The man’s gut struck the bar, winding him, and his arms swept the toppled beer glass and a bowl of salted nuts off the other side with a crash, a locking blade Buck knife clattered away from his grasp. John felt the man tense up beneath him and quickly twisted the man’s arm behind his back to pin him down.

  “Cuffs,” John said.

  “J-Jesus John!” Green stuttered, momentarily stunned.

  “I got him, get your cuffs on him.” John held his grip on the back of the man’s neck until his hands were cuffed safely behind his back before patting him down. “Any other weapons or sharp objects on you?” John asked calmly.

  “You know who you’re fucking with?” the man hissed.

  John slipped the wallet from the man’s back pocket and yanked the chain free from his belt. “Sure,” John said cheerily as he opened the wallet. “You’re Briar Boyd.”

  “Fuck you,” he replied, hanging his head.

  “Well Mr. Boyd, you’re under arrest for creating a disturbance, public intoxication and carrying a concealed weapon.”

  “Where’s Petey?” he demanded.

  “Never heard of him.” John turned to his partner who was still recovering from shock, “Doug, take him out to the car, I’ll be right along.”