On The Beat (Goosey Larsen Book 3) (6 page)

He actually gave my argument some consideration, or at least whatever part of it he could actually hear, before letting out a single grunt of acknowledgement. “Eh? Well, be sure to shine them up again before you go back out on the streets.”

I nodded. A wordless gesture was the only way for me to be certain that the boss would understand my subservience.

Shivers lifted his gaze a little higher. The man stood at least a full head taller than me, and as a result he had to tilt his chin almost straight down to his chest in order to make eye contact. “Were you on duty last night?”

I felt my legs go weak. As I reached out to steady myself against the desk, my mind raced into overdrive. There was no way of knowing if Shivers had found out just how early I’d ducked out of work, so I had to use an extreme amount of caution when choosing my answers. “Yes, sir” I admitted, deciding to go with the truth but not necessarily all of it. “I was working the Market beat as usual last night.”

I tried my hardest to gauge his reaction by following his dark brown eyes closely. They shifted high and to the left, so I just knew that the old codger must have been conjuring up a mental map of all the foot patrol beats. I tried to do the same thing myself but couldn’t concentrate after spotting the unusually high concentration of curly hairs which were wildly sprouting from my boss’ nostrils. They were all uniform in both thickness and color, this silvery-grey shade that was an exact match with the few remaining ones atop his head. “The Market beat! Oh, really!” he screamed. “Would you care to tell me exactly why, then, you weren’t patrolling the Waterfont Park area like you were supposed to?”

I hadn’t been expecting a geography quiz, so the question left me stumped. “I don’t know, sir.” I racked my brain, trying to imagine where his unexpected interrogation could possibly be headed. “It seemed like there were a lot more drunks down in the Market, and a much higher possibility that one of these people could be targeted for a crime of opportunity. With that in mind, it seemed only natural that I should concentrate the bulk of my patrols in the area.” My fish story sounded like a plausible enough defense, at least to my own fully-functioning ears, so I doubled down on my bet and let it ride. “Also, there was a burglary which occurred on South Market Street sometime during the afternoon hours, so I was hoping to maintain a strong law enforcement presence in the area.” I decided against mentioning that the crime had technically occurred during the night shift, and quite possibly at the same time I’d been maintaining close surveillance on the backs of my eyelids.

The lieutenant’s chest rose as he sucked in a deep breath. I could tell by the manner in which he pulled his frame fully upright that he didn’t agree with my reasoning, so I braced for the inevitable tirade. Shivers’ face flushed deep red, which is almost an impossible shade for a black man to achieve unless he’s fully engulfed in a state of rage. It looked as if my boss might be flashing back to his glory days as a Parris Island drill instructor, and I cringed in fear of the full impact. Finally, once he’d succeeded in sucking all the air out of the room, Shivers let loose with a hot roar which shook our office walls. “So while you were out having a good time, laughing it up with all the other barflies down in the Market, you completely abandoned the single most crucial post in the entire city of Charleston!”

Somehow I managed to hold myself back from scratching my head in confusion. I bit my lip as a reflex, trying my damndest to keep my mind from asking any dumb questions. Waterfront Park was nothing more than a hundred square yards or so of manicured grass, with a pier and some bench swings and two water fountains dropped right in the middle of it all. It was a nice quiet spot in the heart of the city, sure, but hardly any kind of strategic outpost. I couldn’t for the life of me imagine why a police officer might be needed to walk a beat there, unless it was to roust the occasional bum who simply had no place else to go. Still, I considered it a small personal victory that I managed to avoid saying anything other than a simple, “Sir?”

Shivers fumed up again. Those wide nostrils of his were really flaring by that point, and his big brown hands had curled up into two tight yellow fists. “Do you really mean to tell me that you didn’t even make one patrol through there? Because maybe, just maybe, if you had been doing your damn job for once in your life, you might have noticed that the Waterfront Park got hit again last night!”

I was hopelessly puzzled by that point, but Shivers cleared up the mystery while letting his fury roll on unchecked. “It happened again! Someone poured soap powder into the Pineapple Fountain last night, which YOU…” He jabbed a long, auburn finger at me for emphasis. “…should have stopped! And you know good and damned well that Mayor O’Reilly likes to go for a walk through that park every morning! Every! God! Damned! Morning!”

I actually hadn’t known that useless piece of trivia about our octogenarian mayor-for-life, but I still kept quiet and nodded. Honestly, by that point, silence just seemed like the best card I had to play.

“DO YOU KNOW WHAT THE MAYOR SAW ON HIS WALK THIS MORNING???”

I shook my head from side to side. The sudden swaying movement, combined with the relentless verbal assault, was enough to make me seasick. From the base of my skull, I could feel a dizzy spell coming on. “No, sir.”

Shivers took one more deep breath, although the pause wasn’t nearly long enough for me to regain my balance. He let out with a furious scream, one that was absolutely primal in nature. “BUBBLES!!”

In an instant, all of my worries disappeared. My body jolted upright as I clenched my teeth once again, fighting to hold in the laughter. The mental picture of a giant wave of soap suds rolling slowly down the sidewalk was almost more than I could take, especially when I visualized all those thousands of soft pink bubbles gently piling up around the Mayor’s wrinkled old legs and chunky orthopedic walking shoes. The Pineapple Fountain is supposed to be the city’s big symbol of hospitality, and I found it absolutely hilarious that some pack of drunk fraternity boys could turn it into a public dishwasher.

Thankfully, Shivers didn’t seem to pick up on the shift in my facial expression, although his tirade continued unabated. “So why didn’t you stop it!” The way he phrased the sentence made it sound more like an impossible demand, rather than an actual question.

I’ll be honest, I was completely thrown for a loop by that point. Shivers’ line of questioning, though straightforward, had caught me completely off guard. I mean, I could probably understand it if some supervisor wanted to tear me a new one for sleeping through a robbery call or something, especially if it happened in an area that I was actually responsible for patrolling. Yeah, I would’ve had reason to own up and take the ass-chewing like a man, and out of simple courtesy I’d even try not to yawn too much during the lecture. But for someone to hold me accountable for a minor act of vandalism that had almost certainly happened long after my shift had ended? No, that was just pushing the boundaries of common sense. I thought for a moment about trying to make that same argument to my lieutenant, but quickly decided it’d be no use. No matter how eloquently I might have been able to plead my case, Shivers just wouldn’t have been able to hear most of it. Instead, I chose to slump my shoulders and hang a look of contrition across my face. “I’m sorry, sir. It was probably some drunk college kids out for a few laughs.”

It was the best unnecessary apology I could muster on short notice, but apparently even that wasn’t good enough for Shivers. His thick pink lips puckered into a scowl as he jabbed a callused index finger around wildly. The pointer finger wasn’t aimed directly at me like any kind of threat, but rather into the air in a series of quick stabbing gestures. It almost looked as if my boss was trying to dial an imaginary pay phone or something. “Some drunk college kids!” he roared. I could feel the heat coming off his breath, so I eased my feet backwards ever so slightly just in case I had to make a sudden break for the door. “Hot damn, son, you think I don’t already know that? Oh thank you Lord Jesus, for blessing me with the gift of Sherlock Holmes here! Oh, my! I sure am glad that the Chief decided to grace my unit by transferring in an ex-detective with a tarnished badge! Larsen, you fat slob! Where would I ever be without you?”

Try as I might, I just couldn’t come up with a good answer for that one. I finally chose the coward’s way out, which was zipping my lips and focusing my stare straight down at the carpet. I couldn’t help but notice there was a well-worn footpath leading directly from the door to the rows of mailboxes, while the rest of the carpeting looked to be almost brand new. The distinct traffic pattern created the impression that all the other Team Seven cops used an identical strategy of entering the office at a run, grabbing whatever paperwork they had waiting, then dashing straight back out again before Shakey McShivers could corner them.

My boss raged on, showing no signs of tiring. “Listen to me, Larsen! You’re working the night shift this entire weekend, am I right?”

I nodded again. My head was still down, since I knew better than to make any attempt at eye contact. I’d been working night shifts since I arrived in foot patrol, but that particular moment didn’t seem like the best time to inquire about the possibility of a schedule change. “Yes, sir.”

Shakey leaned back to his full height. The man towered high above me, and he cast down a long black shadow. After a long moment of hesitation during which I could almost see the heated debate taking place in his mind, he finally spoke back up. “Well” he said, “I want you to go and send a message to all the drunks out there. Lock ‘em up! All of them! If you see anyone carrying an open container, arrest him! If you spot some drunk staggering his way down the sidewalk, take him in! If you even so much as smell a hint of liquor on some kid’s breath, slap the cuffs on him! Call the paddy wagon if you need to, but I want all these damn drunk college kids taken off the street!”

I managed to bite back my own rising anger as I willed myself to stay calm. Even making a simple misdemeanor collar would mean having to write out an honest-to-goodness arrest report, not to mention make an early morning appearance in municipal court. But even though I hadn’t done either of those things in years, and even considering the fact that my hand was sure to cramp up from scribbling out all that useless paperwork, I still couldn’t complain too loudly. Finding some poor patsy and hauling him in for public drunkenness was a much lighter punishment than getting booked yet again for sleeping on duty in the middle of a sudsy crime wave. Napping on the clock rated an automatic week of unpaid leave, and I already had enough suspension letters in my personnel file to last the rest of my career.

The most painless strategy was for me to simply agree with Shivers, so I let loose with one more round of earnest head nods. The odds were good that Shakey’s days as an artilleryman had left him with a few concussions in addition to the hearing loss, so there was a strong chance that he might not even remember what he’d ordered me to do. If worse came to worst and it turned out that Shivers seriously did expect me to go out and haul some poor sap in, at least I wouldn’t have much trouble finding a suitable scapegoat. On any given weekend in Charleston, every third kid down in the Market is either drinking underage, in possession of a fake ID or urinating in a back alley. Also, since my victim would probably only get sentenced to a few hours of community service, I wouldn’t have to put a whole lot effort into their paperwork. And what’s more, if my timing just happened to be off and I made the arrest a little too close to the end of my shift, I could always just kick the kid loose while waiting for the paddy wagon and claim that he had managed to “escape” on foot.

“Absolutely” I said in agreement. “Those kids won’t know what hit them.” I said a silent prayer of thanks that I’d had the foresight not to lock up Curly’s beach chair and cooler, then reached behind my back to draw my handcuffs. The hinges were so rusty that I needed both hands to work the ratchets, but the noisy visual aid was a way of showing Shakey that I meant business. “All these kids today need to learn some respect, anyway.”

When I finally risked another upward glance, I noticed that some of the color had drained from the lieutenant’s otherwise dark face. His chin dipped slightly in an almost imperceptible nod of agreement, and I knew I was in the clear. You know, a transfer down to foot patrol was normally supposed to be some kind of a punishment for officers who’d screwed up, but at times the arrangement seemed almost like a blessing in disguise. After all, it’s not very hard to look like a go-getter when you’re surrounded by mental midgets. And even on those times when you legitimately mess something up, there’s really no way for your boss to punish you. I mean, it’s not like anyone can transfer you to foot patrol once you’re already there.

Shivers looked me up and down for one more long minute before he finally broke away and headed out of the office. Without even bothering to look back, he called out, “Just slide copies of your reports under my door, Larsen. And don’t forget that your timesheet is due today as well. And for the love of God, shine those boots!”

I shot him a subtle middle finger as the office door swung closed. Once my heart rate had dropped back to normal I paused to take a thoughtful, if not overly critical look down at my shoes. In all fairness they actually were looking a little scuffed, although I’d seen them in much worse shape before. Besides, I liked to think of a little dirt and mud as a way of showing the world that I was out there doing my job every day, walking the beat and striking fear into the hearts of criminals. It’d have been ridiculous for anyone to expect a spit-shined appearance when I was out pounding the pavement with such intensity, but I still chose to take the high road. Snatching up one of the bike patrol officers’ spare polo shirts, I used it to wipe away some of the excess mud. Even without any polish, my boots looked much more presentable after just a few quick swipes. When I’d finished, I tossed the dirty shirt back into the uniform bin for it to be washed by the next cop who needed it. I figured that those things probably ran a size or two large anyways, so putting it through a spin cycle was probably a necessity.