On The Beat (Goosey Larsen Book 3) (8 page)

My empty wallet breathed a sigh of relief as I studied the list of entrees, racing to make up my mind before Jim had the chance to change his. “Thanks, boss. I really appreciate it, but I’ve got to ask, what’s going on with you tonight? You’re smoking four-dollar cigars instead of your usual Lucky Strikes? Buying dinner for your favorite ex-detective? What happened, did you suddenly come into some loot? Some long-lost uncle finally kicked the bucket and remembered you in his will?”

Jim didn’t even bother to look up. His greasy forehead was wrinkled with concentration as his thick pink lips sounded out the names of all the appetizers. “Nothing like that, Goosey” he finally said. “Not at all. I think I’ve just finally come to the realization that I’m a confirmed bachelor who’s done pretty well for himself. I’ve got money to burn, and I really should be living more of the good life.” He stopped reading long enough to shoot me a stern glare over the top of the menu. “And that’s just what I plan on doing, son. Life is short. Don’t miss out on the chance to do things you enjoy.”

I thought about Jim’s words of wisdom for a minute. I guess it would have been a lot easier for me to spend money as freely as him if I also had pensions coming in from both the Navy and the department on top of my regular salary, but I decided against bringing up the delicate subject of his triple income. Jim tends to get a bit touchy whenever somebody questions how much government cheese he rakes in each month and besides, there was no sense in biting the hand that was quite literally feeding me. Instead, I tried to use the moment to unload my troubles on a sympathetic ear. “I hear you, Jim, but it’s tough to enjoy life when you’re walking the beat each and every night. I mean, I’m out here on the front lines! The wind, the rain, the snow—after a while, being exposed to all that extreme weather really takes a toll on the body.” I saw Jim’s head lift ever so slightly. He looked almost as if a thought had occurred to him and he was about to start thinking it, so I kept my sob story moving right along before he could recall that it had been nearly a decade since Charleston had seen any snow. “What do you think about pulling a few strings with Chief Greene, maybe getting me transferred back up into Central?”

Jim just shook his head, and I got the distinct impression that my personal career development simply wasn’t as important as the exact combination of toppings he wanted on his half-pound cheeseburger. “No way, no how. Sorry dude, but you made the Chief’s permanent shit list when you skipped out on the inspection. I think it’s safe to say that you’re stuck in purgatory for the foreseeable future, and to be quite honest that means you’re probably going to be down here forever.”

My shoulders slumped at the news as my mind descended into a steep, dizzying spiral of despair. I couldn’t even imagine the physical suffering that would come from having to walk nearly half a mile every day for the rest of my career, and I honestly wasn’t sure if my body could take the abuse. To make matters even worse that meant it’d also probably be years before I got a cruiser to drive home again, and sneaking around the parking lot to siphon gas from my neighbors’ cars had really been getting tiresome.

The waitress reluctantly came back around to take our orders, but by that point I was far too depressed to focus on the food. Jim ordered his usual, a matching pair of half-pound burgers with double everything. Me, I just asked for a plate of buffalo hot wings without even bothering to see if they were actually on the menu. I guess they must have been, or at least the place offered some kind of acceptable substitute, because the girl quickly hustled back to the kitchen. She’d probably waited on cops like Jim and me before, and she knew from experience that her chances of getting a good tip were just about nil.

Without the menu to block his myopic vision, Jim finally took notice of the gloomy expression painted across my face. “Cheer up there, Loosey Goosey” he laughed. “You might not be living the dream right now, but at least you still have a job! What with the economy in the toilet and all, you should be grateful to work at a place where you could never possibly get fired.”

I shrugged. It was true, the department did have some lax employment standards. Also, the fact that I could get paid every two weeks without having to actually do anything besides show up was an excellent fringe benefit.

He went on. “I tell you what, a walking beat down in the Market should be the perfect gig for a young, single dog like you. No responsibilities to speak of and you still get paid the same amount, but you pass your days staring at all these pretty little girls wandering by. On those rare occasions when you actually feel like doing some policework, you know, maybe once or twice a year, you get to look like a real go-getter since no one ever expected anything from you in the first place.”

They were all good points, but I’d heard them before so I was ready with my counterattack. “That might be true, Jim. But if foot patrol is such a sweet gig, then why isn’t every cop at CPD begging to get in on the hustle? Fact is, I’ve got no police cruiser to call my own so there’s nowhere to hide when it starts raining. To make matters worse, I’m working for a bundle of nerves lieutenant who wants to see me marching back and forth between the Market and Waterfront Park every hour, on the hour. If Shivers had his way I’d be conducting field stops on random strangers, sniffing their breath for traces of booze!”

As if to emphasize my point, a crackling sound erupted from my walkie-talkie. I turned up the volume and listened as the night shift dispatcher repeated my call sign once more. “Control to 714” she said again, her voice coming across the air with a distinct snap of impatience that implied she had been trying to raise me at least a couple times.

I gave her one more good, long moment of holding the line before I finally answered up. “714” I snapped back, trying my best to match her attitude.

“714, 63 at Waterfront Park near the Pineapple Fountain.” There was another short pause, and the tone of my dispatcher’s voice softened after she’d taken a second to glance at her call notes. “Disperse two loiterers in the park after closing time. 86 from a citizen.”

I rolled my eyes and jerked my thumb at the radio. “See, boss, that’s exactly what I’m talking about! They’ve called my number over the air more in the past four months than they have in the past four years. I tell you what, I don’t know if I’m going to be able to keep up this pace ‘till retirement.”

Jim laughed so loudly that a couple diners at the nearest table stopped eating to look over at us. They seemed somewhat annoyed at having their evening interrupted by our shop talk, but quickly went back to their meals once it became apparent that Big Jim wasn’t about to adjust his volume. “Yeah, I see your point” he said. “But you know what they say, Goosey: Team Seven is kind of like the Mafia. Once you’re in, you’re in for life.” He leaned back in his chair and chewed his sausagey lip in a way that told me he was giving my predicament a good deal of careful thought. Thinking is hard work for Big Jim, and it always makes him hungry. “Apart from resigning or dying, I can only recall two other ways that cops have managed to get themselves out of that dead-end assignment.”

He had my full attention, and I leaned forward on the table. “I’m listening.”

Jim eased backward as I crowded into his personal space. It was a challenging move in the small booth, since the area was too confined for him to spread out comfortably. With his massive body jammed up against the cushy backrest, my old boss had to settle for making a series of restless twitches. The movements made me feel self-conscious since one of the worst things about working in foot patrol was the way that all the other cops acted around me. It was almost as if I’d been infected with the career plague or something, and everybody seemed scared that the virus might be contagious. Every cop at CPD knew that you couldn’t possibly get stuck walking a beat without having pissed off the Chief, and the thought was always there that they might also end up on the shit list if they were seen talking to me. As a result, all of my conversations with other cops had become somewhat brief and strained.

Big Jim reached up to flick a loose strand of greasy hair back into place. His toupee was looking a little lopsided that evening, but in all fairness Jim’s never been a man to get overly fussy about his appearance. “Well,” he said, “the easiest way to do it is just lay low for a couple years. Bide your time. Eventually, most people will forget all about whatever it was you did to earn a transfer to law enforcement hell. Give it long enough and it’s almost inevitable that some poor sap will come along and screw up worse than you did. That’s just the way it works around here, my man.”

I felt my aging knees cry out in protest, and I joined them with an audible groan of my own. “Jim, I just don’t know if I can hold out for that long! My legs have been taking a real beating, what with all the walking and running I’m forced to do down here. I mean, it feels as if I’m training for a marathon or something!”

Jim’s eyes slid down to focus on my still-too-large waistline, which betrayed just how little exercise I’d been logging from day to day. He cocked one bushy eyebrow in a thick, hairy stare, and I could almost feel my resilience crumbling away to nothing.

Under the weight of his silent interrogation, I found myself forced to backpedal. “Okay, so there hasn’t actually been any running involved…yet. But there could be, and that’s not really something I’m capable of anymore. Besides, this constant exposure to the elements is a lot harder on the body than the office work I’ve grown accustomed to. Out here on the beat, I get caught out in the rain at least once a week. Once this uniform soaks through I’m at a serious risk of catching cold, and every time that happens I’m forced to bang out sick for at least a couple days.”

Jim looked up at the ceiling. He chewed his lip again, clearly deep in thought. “I thought you used up all your sick days when you were working for me.”

It was an undeniable fact, but I didn’t want to lose any momentum by arguing over some insignificant little detail like the truth. Instead, I seized upon that little nugget of information and used it to sell my plight. “Exactly! So now, whenever I should be at home recuperating, I’m forced to drag my butt in here and work through the pain. I swear, Jim, it’s putting a lot of stress on the old ticker! I’m not exactly a spring chicken anymore, you know.”

His face softened into a flabby look of genuine concern, and I knew I’d succeeded in lining up at least one ally in my quest for professional redemption. Jim was no health nut himself, and the thought of a pneumonia-induced death must have swayed his sympathetic nature. “Have you thought about having a well-timed workplace injury?” he offered. “You slip and fall, milk it for maybe six months of short-term disability, then bang out on a medical retirement? All it would take is one wrong step on these damned cobblestone streets. I’d suggest trying to land on your shoulder or your back, though. It’s much easier to fake a chronic injury in one of those places.”

I shook my head in despair. There was no way that the state of South Carolina’s pension system was going to match my current salary, pitiful as it was. A sudden retirement would also mean a sudden financial crisis, seeing as how I was currently in arrears on both the rent and my light bill. “Can’t afford to take a pay cut right now, even if it’s only for a few months. The checkbook’s stretched a little thinner than usual.”

He nodded sagely. “Okay Goosey, I see your point. Well, it looks like we’ll just have to figure out a quicker way to spring you from this purgatory.”

My ears perked up at the sound of his encouraging words. I felt my heart give this little flutter of hope inside my chest, but I did my best to hide any optimism just below the surface. “What do you have in mind?”

Jim rubbed his chins with his fist for another long moment before going on. “A while back, maybe ten or so years ago now, there was this armed robbery at one of the Bank of America branches downtown. It was the one on upper King Street, right next to old man Goldstein’s ghetto clothing shop. And this foot patrol schmuck, Gonzales, I think his name was, just happened to be hoofing it along the sidewalk at the exact same time. Get this, the kid was actually standing right in front of the bank when the crook ran outside. Gonzalez had stooped down to tie his shoe or something, so the robber only got like three full steps in before the collision! Now I didn’t see it, but I heard that jerk did a full flip before landing face-first in the gutter! It was truly a beautiful arrest, man! Practically no effort required and the crook was knocked out cold right there in the street, still holding the gun and the bag full of money. Gonzales looked like an honest-to-God hero, even though it was probably the first arrest he’d made in months. The News and Courier’s headlines made the kid out to be some kind of supercop, so the Chief had no choice but to offer him his pick of assignments and just a few days later that lucky bastard was on the next transfer list headed upstairs! Since all of my detective positions were full at the time, the brass had to create a brand-new slot just for him. The kid ended up working a sweet eight-to-four gig as our very first computer crimes investigator.” Jim stopped for a moment to catch his breath and look me square in the eye. “You pull off some kind of all-star arrest like that, and it’ll give me all the ammunition I need to yank you back up onto the A-Team. Hell, who knows? Maybe you’ll get really lucky like Gonzales, and you’ll end up getting paid to spend your entire shift surfing the Web.”

I hung my head in despair. There was no way in hell I was going to head out and start hunting criminals, and especially not armed felons. “Thanks for nothing, Jim” I snapped. “There’s not a whole lot of that kind of action going down in the Li’l Cricket parking lot, you know? On a busy day, I might shake down a couple bums for their open bottles of Wild Irish Rose.” I shuddered at the thought of having to go through those ragpickers’ pockets, although I was instantly hit by a sudden flash of inspiration. “Say…have you ever heard of anyone getting a promotion by making a bunch of open container arrests? Or what about trespassing collars?”