On The Beat (Goosey Larsen Book 3) (5 page)

4.

Sometimes I even surprise myself with my initiative. There I was, on a gorgeous Friday afternoon, and for some reason I was actually heading into work as scheduled instead of calling out sick! I still couldn’t believe it, but somehow my car had made it onto the James Island Connector and pointed itself towards downtown Charleston, and the only resistance I could feel was this slight twitching sensation in my hands. On any given work day there was a fair chance of my veering off course and heading for the beach, but that night felt just a little bit different than normal. Maybe I was still feeling the warm afterglow from all that late-night Chinese food, or maybe it was the fact that showing up at work gave me a solid excuse for not having to see Katie two nights in a row. Whatever the reason, I honestly felt like doing my job for a change! That’s an unusually rare sensation for me, since I normally like to burn my excess sick time on Friday nights or Monday mornings.

I should have known that feeling wouldn’t last, though. The promising thought of enjoying a relaxing evening in the city came to a screeching halt just as soon as I pulled up through the garage and into my usual parking space. Curly Wilds was there as always, but something was definitely amiss. He had this dirty little ragpicker backed against the wall in a modified chokehold, using all his strength to bend the poor stiff’s body backwards over the ledge. If the bright red shade of his ashy brown face was any indication, Curly was mere seconds away from flinging the bum off the roof in a fit of rage. “Where is it, Barry? Damn it, I know you know something!” His furious shouts echoed out across the concrete structure as he shook the bum without mercy.

The street gypsy was unable to muster more than a wheeze. He gasped for air as he squirmed, struggling to pull his skinny black neck loose from Curly’s death grip. “Ah don’t know, Offisuh! I al’ready done tol’ you!”

I threw my car into park and dashed out, leaving the door wide open and the engine still clanking away behind me. My hope was that if I could only stop Curly from killing the poor bastard, I could save what was left of his career while keeping myself from having to write a witness statement. “Curly!” I screamed. “Let him go, man! What’s gotten a hold of you?” I pried his flabby arms off the bum’s neck and wrestled him back a few steps. Even with the hundred or so pounds that Curly had over me, it was easy enough to move him around since he was so winded. The bum seized his golden opportunity, taking a precious second to catch his own breath before dashing off towards the stairwell. The little crackhead moved so fast that I swear, all I saw was this dark-skinned blur. That dude was gone in an instant, only leaving behind a sweet, lingering odor of Wild Irish Rose wine.

Curly pulled hard against my grip, so I let him go free before I strained a muscle. “Kinloch!” he shouted out across the city’s rooftops. The only response was the clatter of footsteps as they echoed up from the stairwell. “I know you know something!” Curly threw one hammy fist into the air, shaking it in a show of violent impotence. “I swear, if I ever catch up to you!” His words hung there for a moment while the color began to drain from his face. He turned to me with murder in his eyes, clearly searching for his next victim. “And you, Larsen! Damn it, Goosey, what the hell is your problem?”

My face scrunched up in confusion. Curly seemed seriously pissed off, but I knew there was no possible way I could be in hot water since my shift had only begun thirty minutes earlier. I held my look of bewilderment just long enough to let Curly simmer down, then did my best to act casual. “What’s shaking, Wilds? Everything okay in your world, big fella? You look kind of upset about something.”

Curly shot me one of his fiercest glares but I was ready, squaring my shoulders and meeting his gaze without fear. I suppose he must have intended the stare to show how upset he was or something, but I simply didn’t take any notice. To tell the truth, I could really only concentrate on the unique way that both his eyebrows seemed to join together directly above the bridge of his nose. Whenever his dark forehead wrinkled with creases of anger, it almost seemed as if a huge black caterpillar was trying to wriggle a horizontal path across his dome.

“Look around, Larsen!” he finally shouted. “You see anything different about this here parking garage tonight?”

I humored him by taking a quick sideways glance at my surroundings. The roof level seemed just as quiet and empty as always, with my car and his truck being the only things in sight. “Nope” I said, with a shrug of my shoulders. “Why? Should I?”

He let out a deep, huffing breath of frustration as he swung a hairy arm down at the empty parking space next to my little Tercel. “You want to maybe explain where my cooler and beach chair might have wandered off to? Huh? Damn it, Goosey, I trusted you with those! And didn’t I even remind you to lock them to the railing before you went home last night?”

My heart sunk in my chest, and now it was my turn to feel deflated as I reached behind my back to confirm my mistake. Sure enough, my handcuffs were nestled securely in the beat-up leather pouch on my duty belt, which was exactly where they didn’t belong. I guess I’d been in so much of a hurry to make it to The Great Wall that I’d completely forgotten to secure Curly’s portable office before leaving. Christmas must have come early for some lucky bum, and all because of my stupidity. That Coleman cooler and reclining beach chair were probably already serving as a living room suite for some urban camper’s cardboard box.

“Damn it, Curly. I’m so sorry, man.” It was a sincere apology, one that I offered partly out of sympathy for his loss but mostly because I now had one less place to hide out during my shift. I’d spent many a chilly evening just laying back in that chair and staring out at the night sky, while sipping on a cold store-brand soda and listening to the sound of drunk college kids down below me on Church Street as they stumbled their way through harmless, inebriated fistfights. To make matters worse, the damage done by the theft was even greater seeing as how summertime was just around the corner. I’ll bet I could’ve gotten away with spending an entire week straight up there on the roof if I were to pick up a barbecue grill, a transistor radio and a six-pack.

Curly took in another deep breath of fresh air and the rest of the tension finally lifted from his face. “You know what, Larsen? Just forget about it. It’s cool. I can always pick me up another patio set for free at the Harris Teeter tonight, you dig? Just try to be more careful, would you?”

I nodded, relieved that the thought of making me pay restitution hadn’t occurred to him. “Will do, Curly. I don’t know what I was thinking last night, leaving out of here in a rush like that. Serves me right for being in a hurry to get anywhere.”

Curly nodded back at me to signal his understanding. His was a slow gesture since his head moved just as reluctantly as every other part of his body. As I watched his chins bob all the way down to his chest I held my breath in anticipation, unsure whether they were going to bounce right back up again or if he’d simply fallen asleep standing up. Finally, and without so much as another word, Curly shuffled over to his truck at the same glacial pace. Strangely enough, the chronic gout in his legs never seemed to slow him down any once he’d checked off-duty. Curly was the true picture of a dedicated employee at all of his moonlighting gigs, a loyal and devoted servant who worked through the pain. I’ll bet that even with his checkered past, Curly could have easily endeared himself to the command staff at CPD if he ever chose to exert some token level of effort at his day job. Finally, after a painfully slow climb up into the driver’s seat, he settled in behind the wheel and cranked the engine. Curly backed the truck out of its parking space without bothering to look back, since he simply lacked the mobility to crane his neck around.

As I shot Curly a half-hearted wave goodbye, he surprised me by coasting to a stop. After rolling the window open and lighting up a fresh menthol cigarette, he called out, “Say, Larsen. What time did you take off last night, anyway?”

I could feel my stomach flutter. I gulped once, trying to hide my fear, but quickly regained my composure. I knew better than to come right out and cop to skipping out of work early, especially to a blabbermouth like Curly Wilds. Just as innocently as I could manage, I did my best to pump him for information. “Why do you ask?”

A thin smile of amusement drifted across Curly’s face. It was the only thing about him that was thing, just this skinny little glimpse of white teeth wedged in there between two pulpy lips. “You mean you didn’t hear the news yet? Shakey McShivers has been cursing your name all day long, brah. He might even still be hanging around here somewhere. Dude seem’ like he really wanted to talk to you about someth…”

Curly’s words of warning were cut off as his radio squawked to life, and I took it as a reminder to click on my own walkie-talkie as well. “701 to 714!” A series of quick bursts of static and feedback served to amplify the omnipresent tone of anger in my boss’ voice. “714! What’s your 20?”

My body always reacted poorly to Lieutenant Shivers, and my ears tingled with pain at the overly loud sound of his voice. Before joining CPD Shivers had served as an artillery officer during the Vietnam War, and apparently he must have never used earplugs when firing off those big guns because the guy was almost completely deaf now. His handicap was a huge plus if you wanted to talk shit about him behind his back, but a major disadvantage whenever you had to listen to him shout across the radio. That dude was so tone deaf that it was literally impossible for him to speak softly and to make matters worse, Shivers had such chronically high blood pressure that his body always broke out in nervous twitches during his legendary moments of indecision. Naturally, all the cops at CPD took to calling the guy Shakey McShivers, and it didn’t help one bit that the poor old dude always got so nervous and bent out of shape over the most trivial issues. Let’s say, just for example, that there were one or two bar fights which just happened to break out down in the Market, right? If any of those brawls went down during my shift, he’d be all over my case as if I should’ve been out there checking IDs or something. I swear, even an issue as minor as being a couple hours late for my shift could send that guy over the edge.

I was technically obligated to respond to his radio call, although that didn’t mean I was required to disclose the exact location of my secret hideaway. “714’s here. Go right ahead, sir.”

My boss kept right on shouting. “714! Come in!” There was a short break in the transmission, and I could almost picture old Shakey McShivers breaking down into a fit of epileptic rage before he finally made up his mind and came back. “701 to Control, can you raise 714 for me?”

The dispatcher piped up in a tone of voice that sounded suspiciously more cheerful than normal, and I figured that the old witch was probably just happy to hear somebody other than her getting chewed out over the airwaves. “Control to 714” she purred sweetly.

I shook my head in disgust before keying the microphone to answer up all over again. “714.” It wasn’t hard for me to imagine that all the other cops listening in on channel one were having a real good laugh at my expense.

As my dispatcher came back on, I caught the distinct and unmistakable sound of cackling laughter in the background. “701, go ahead for 714.”

“714!” My boss shouted. “63 me at the Customs House!”

I rolled my eyes in disgust at the senseless back and forth conversation, but still forced myself to count to five before rogering up. Taking a short time-out is one of the most effective ways I’ve found to scrape some of the natural insolence from my voice. “714 copies, sir. I’m en route now.”

Curly Wilds cranked his window back up and gunned the engine. He made sure to peel his tires as he skidded his big green truck towards the exit ramp, laughing like a maniac the entire way. I swear, every other boss I’ve had at CPD knew enough to just call my cell phone whenever they needed to get a hold of me, but for some reason Shakey McShivers never got that memo. And as much as it pained me to jump at all of his barking commands, I figured that the smart move would be to simply put on my game face and begin shuffling over towards the office. My name was still mud around the department, after all, and I just couldn’t afford to take the pay cut that always came with a demotion. I even waddled along at a slightly faster pace than normal, making a concentrated effort to cover the two blocks as quickly as I could. Even though the night air was finally starting to cool off once again, after just five minutes of exertion I could already feel a light layer of sweat beginning to work its way over my skin.

From across East Bay Street, I spotted Shivers keeping watch beside the back door. At six-foot-four, the man looked more like an aging NBA star than an actual commander of police. His thick grey hair grew out of his head at awkward, sideways angles, ringing a nearly complete circle of grey around a wide patch of his bald brown scalp. In the fading light, Shakey bore a strong resemblance to a terrifying circus clown made up in blackface. With a shudder, I summoned all my energy and jogged around the side of the building, trying to create the impression that I’d really hustled on the way over. “Good evening, sir!” I shouted, coming to a sharp position of attention directly in front of him. Those old military guys really appreciate that sort of crap.

Shivers silently held the door open and gestured down the hallway towards our office, so I took that as an invitation to lead the way inside. He peered down at my shoes as I marched past, acting as if he hadn’t even heard my respectful greeting, but come to think of it he might not have been acting at all. “Larsen”, he finally said, in a voice he probably meant to be soft and gentle but which still boomed down the narrow hall, “Those shoes of yours look a disgrace.”

I knew good and well that my boots were pretty salty but I still took a quick look down south, if only just to humor the boss. I felt another stirring of pride when I caught a glimpse of my toes peeking out from underneath my gut, without even having to crane me neck too far around to see them. “I know, sir, and I apologize.” I had to scramble fast, searching for an excuse that would justify my appearance. “I actually had to cut through Philadelphia Alley in order to get over here in a timely fashion. I added that little street to my usual patrol route since it was becoming a hangout for the homeless and other undesirables, but unfortunately those dusty cobblestone sidewalks really do a number on my shoes. But I guess a little dirt is just my cross to bear, the price I pay for doing my job each day.”