by Thom Whalen
* * *
On Friday morning, a police cruiser followed Randal into Elsa’s parking lot.
The Wemsley Police Department consisted of a handful of officers under the direction of Wemsley’s intrepid Chief of Police, Mike Albertson. I’d never had a run in with the man but everyone at high school said that he hated kids, whether they had done anything or not.
One story in particular had circulated to everyone. A kid had been working late at the Handy Hardware. They’d been doing inventory until almost midnight and he was beat. He was so tired that he couldn’t walk all the way home without sitting down on a bench in the Community Park for a few minutes to rest. Albertson drove by and saw the kid sitting there so he stopped and started hassling him over nothing. Said that he knew that the kid had been painting graffiti on the back wall of the A&P. The kid said that he didn’t do it – that he’d been working all night; that he didn’t even have any paint on him – but Albertson was having none of that. He said that he was going to send the kid to juvey over in Syracuse for six months. Said that the judge always believed cops and automatically convicted any kid on the cop’s word alone. Then, Albertson said that he’d give the kid a break. If he liked painting so much, he could spend the rest of the night painting the fence at Albertson’s house and he wouldn’t arrest him. So the kid had to spend all night painting Albertson’s fences. The next morning, he had to go straight to school with his clothes all covered in paint. The final slap in the face was that Albertson made the kid pay for the paint that he used.
Everyone swore it was true. No one could tell me who the kid was, but they all had a good friend who knew the kid.
I wasn’t so sure. I figured that the guys who told stories about Albertson weren’t all innocent little lambs. But I still made it a policy to have nothing to do with Albertson or his cops.
So far, that had been easy. The cops and I traveled in different social circles.
I waited by the Elsa’s back door as Randal’s chopper rolled to a halt.
The cop car trailing him had its lights flashing but its siren was silent.
Randal killed the engine and kicked the stand down but remained sitting astride his bike, his hands draped across the handlebars, as though he didn’t have a care in the world. The hard look in his eyes said that if anything transpired that didn’t meet his approval, he was going to kick the engine back to life and head for the open road.
The officer stayed in his car for a couple of minutes, talking on his radio. When he finally got out, he swaggered slowly over to Randal, one hand resting casually on the butt of his pistol, his other thumb hooked into his belt.
“What’s your name, son?” The cop couldn’t have been more than a couple of years older than Randal. Maybe not even as old.
“Randal,” Randal said. “Yours?”
The cop ignored his question. “You got ID?”
“I do.” Randal made no move to get it out.
“Let’s see it.”
“It’s in my left hip pocket.”
“Get it out.”
Randal stood astride the bike and used his left hand to slowly draw his wallet from his pants. He sat down again before offering it to the officer.
“Take you license out of your wallet,” the officer said.
Randal did.
The officer examined the document carefully and then said, “Registration for the bike.”
Randal shook his head. “I ain’t done all the paperwork yet. It’s in the mail.”
“Is it your bike?”
“Yup.”
“Nice bike.”
“Yup.”
“You build it?”
“I bought it. About a week ago.”
“I see. From who?”
“A guy named Billy.”
“Billy who?”
“Billy Paul.”
The cop looked at Randal for a minute, assessing his situation, then said, “You better get off the bike.”
“I’m comfortable here.”
The cop shifted his weight. Now his hand wasn’t resting on his gun butt; his fingers were wrapped around it as though ready to draw. “Off the bike, son. Now.”
“Yes, sir, officer,” Randal said and swung his leg over the gas tank. When he stood erect, his body was balanced forward on the balls of his feet, looking like he was ready to spring at the cop.
“Stand easy, son,” the cop said.
“I’m at ease,” Randal replied, raising his hands slightly and turning his palms out. But he looked like he was a coiled steel spring – taut and dangerous.
I wondered if Randal were crazy enough to attack a policeman.
“We’re going to wait for the chief to get here. He’s got some questions for you.”
“I got time.” Randal returned his hands to his side. His posture relaxed in some way that was too subtle for me to explain, but he looked like he was no longer cocked with a hair trigger set. No less dangerous, just less volatile.
The cop didn’t return to his radio. He must have called the chief before he got out of his car.
The two men faced each other silently for a long time. Neither felt any need to speak. They communicated perfectly on a base animal level. Maybe it was chemical, like pheromones.
I wanted to leave, but I was afraid to draw attention to myself by moving. Besides, I had to start the prep for lunch. I would have gone inside but Randal had the key.
An unmarked car pulled into the lot and a man climbed out. I recognized him from the stories that were told around the school. Chief Albertson was a homely man. Middle-aged, squat and heavy, with a badly-scarred complexion and a mean scowl permanently chiseled on his face.
Randal didn’t move but his attention expanded to encompass both policemen.
“Name?” the chief asked.
“Randal,” Randal said.
The officer handed Randal’s license to the chief.
The chief ignored the document and kept his eyes on Randal. “You armed?”
“No.”
“Knife? Razor? Anything?”
“No.”
“Where’d you get this motorcycle?”
“I bought it from Billy Paul.”
“When?”
“Last week.”
“You got a bill of sale?”
“No. It was a gentleman’s agreement.”
The chief snorted. “Proof of payment?”
“Paid cash.”
“You get a receipt?”
“I got a handshake.”
The chief snorted again. “Do you know where Billy Paul is now?”
“Around somewhere, I guess. Unless he left town.”
“He couldn’t get too far. You have his bike.”
“He knows how to catch a bus. He could be in California for all I know.”
“You know where he was staying?”
Randal paused. “I never asked. I figured he had a friend here. Or rented a room. His accommodations didn’t concern me.”
“He had a tent set up in the Smoke Pond campground.”
“If you say so.”
“He hasn’t been there since last week.”
“Maybe he’s out hiking.”
“He left his tent.”
“Warm weather this time of year,” Randal said. “It hasn’t rained for a while. It’s no hardship to sleep under the stars.”
“He hasn’t paid the fees for his campsite since last Friday.”
“Who would have guessed that Billy Paul would be a deadbeat?” Randal said.
I had never heard a voice so deadpan dry.
The chief stared at Randal hard. “He’s gone and you have his bike.”
Randal shrugged. “Did he report it stolen?”
The chief stared hard at Randal.
Randal waited impassively.
Finally, the chief said, “Don’t leave town.”
“You know where to find me,” Randal replied. “We start prep at ten every morning and the doors open at eleven. Excep
t Wednesdays. That’s my day off.”
“Don’t leave town,” the chief repeated. “And if you run into Billy Paul, you tell him to come see me. I’ve got his stuff in storage. He’ll want it back.”
Randal snorted.
The chief climbed back into his car and drove off.
The other officer handed Randal’s license back to him and said, “Like the chief says.”
When the officer left, Randal unlocked the door. Inside, he said, “Glad you were here, kid. The cops are more courteous when there’s a witness around. A word of advice. Don’t let the cops get you alone.”
That was another of Randal’s rules: Don’t let the cops get you alone.
I suspected that, despite the chief’s warning, Randal would have another rule about getting out of town when the going got tough. I wondered if I would get to the restaurant one morning soon and have to wait for an hour and a half until Mrs. Everett showed up to let me in.