On The Beat (Goosey Larsen Book 3) (7 page)

Once that work was complete, I fished through my mailbox and grabbed my blank timesheet off the top of the stack. The rest of the papers were nothing important, just some subpoenas for old cases that I’d been involved with as a detective, so I grabbed a handful at random and threw them in the shredder before I could be tempted to actually read them. I always did my damnedest to ignore the notices for court appearances, since there was no point in me even trying to get out of bed before eight-thirty. Besides, it’s been my experience that if the police officer just doesn’t show up to testify, the judge will only continue the case two or three times before finally dismissing the charges outright. If you’ve ever sat through an entire morning session in our municipal court, you’d know that it usually made a lot more sense to simply dismiss a case than it did to actually prosecute one.

The timesheet, though, was an entirely different matter, since without that little blue slip of paper, I just wasn’t going to get paid. I’m normally averse to filling out any type of standardized form, but I’ll make an exception if it allows me to keep paying my rent. I scribbled in my time just as fast as I could, pausing only long enough to sprinkle in a few hours of overtime here and there. As I scrawled my John Hancock across the bottom of the page, however, I felt my hand freeze in horror as I spotted the actual dates. Outside the building, the loud screams of drunken revelers echoing up and down East Bay Street only served to emphasize the hollow feeling in my chest. According to my timesheet it was already the evening of March 16
th
and somehow, I’d completely forgotten to call in sick! Slumping back in that wobbly desk chair, I hung my head as I pondered which could possibly be worse: being sober on St. Patrick’s Day weekend for the first time in my adult life, or being surrounded by hordes of drunk people having a great time! I was a broken man, as close to tears as I’d ever come while at work. My sole consolation lay in knowing that since Shivers was actually expecting me to go out and make an arrest, I had an ironclad excuse for wandering the streets and mingling with all the intoxicated chicks. Judging by the sheer volume of noise coming from out there in the Market, finding a single hapless drunk to frame was going to be a simple piece of law enforcement.

5.

A few hours later, after a brief but refreshing evening nap down in the cozy basement, I set my jaw and headed out into the world. By my way of thinking, it wouldn’t hurt my career one bit if a member of our command staff just happened to drive by and see me out walking the beat. Besides, enough time had passed for my attitude to change, and I was determined to make the most of a miserable situation. If I couldn’t actually be out chugging green beer on a St. Patrick’s Day binge, the next best thing was wandering around and scoping out all the scenery. And who knows, maybe I’d even get lucky and walk up on some small bar fight in progress. That way I could put in a call for backup and pawn the actual arrest off on some patrol rookie, but still honestly report back to Shakey McShivers that I’d cleaned house.

At least it was shaping up to be a calm night, and the radio traffic was remarkably light. The partiers who were already out on the streets were an older bunch for the most part, groups of working stiffs who actually had some concept of how to behave in public. All those people were a little bit loud, but mostly harmless apart from that. I’d be willing to bet cash money that most of the college kids wouldn’t be out doing their hardcore partying until the following night, so I made a mental note to come down with a stomach bug over the next twenty-four hours. The masses of humanity were concentrated up near the corner of North Market and East Bay, down past the Level Two nightclub. After making this assessment, I weighed my options and decided to keep a respectable distance away. I didn’t feel completely at ease until I’d reached Meeting Street, though, which allowed for a three-block buffer zone from the center of the fray. Once there, the wide steps of the old Civil War Museum made for a perfect place to kick back and put my feet up. The museum’s entrance featured a covered, dimly lit porch, so it was an ideal place to hide out in plain sight. Even better, it was still technically within the confines of my assigned beat area.

Directly across Meeting Street, an unmarked police cruiser sat double parked on Meeting Street in front of The Smoking Lamp cigar shop. That baby blue Crown Victoria was taking up a full lane with its hazard lights blinking, causing all the other drivers to slow down and pull into oncoming traffic just to get around it. I had to wonder what cop might be brazen enough to park with such a complete disregard for traffic laws while on an obvious personal errand, but my question was answered as soon as the shop’s door swing open. My old boss from Central, Lieutenant Jim Cobb, waddled out onto the sidewalk wearing a threadbare uniform that looked more gray than blue. He sucked on a fat cigar as he walked, with a second stogie tucked safely behind his ear for later use. Jim’s thick legs jiggled like half-inflated beach balls as he wobbled out into the street and pulled open up his unlocked door. I could hear his groan from all the way across the street as he slumped down behind the wheel, then whipped out a comic book and began reading right there in the middle of traffic. That was Big Jim for you, though: no one was ever going to come between him and Batman, no matter where he happened to be parked.

I actually had a flashlight on my duty belt for a change, so I aimed a couple quick bursts of light in the direction of his rearview mirror. Jim startled and jumped up in his seat, probably thinking that a semi truck was bearing down on him from behind. Once fully upright, he craned that thick neck of his around and I threw him a friendly wave. Jim shot me a friendly middle finger in return and began to roll down his window, but the physical exertion quickly got the better of him and he reached for his radio microphone instead. Shouting at me from across the street would have probably worked just fine, but I got the distinct impression that Big Jim must have been feeling even less motivated than usual.

The radio on my hip crackled to life. “801 to 714.”

I reached down for my walkie-talkie, somewhat surprised that I’d actually remembered to turn the damned thing on. Still, I was being extra careful to wait a few seconds before responding. The radio channel was shared between all the cops downtown, so you never wanted to answer up quickly. It never paid off to sound overly eager, or else you ran the risk of giving off the impression that you didn’t already have enough work to do.

“714 here. Go ahead, sir.”

Jim keyed the mike to respond but got caught up in a sudden coughing fit before he had the chance to speak. I cringed in sympathy as his cruiser rocked back and forth at each of those big heaving breaths. Big Jim’s been smoking four packs of unfiltered Lucky Strikes a day for the past forty years, so his lungs aren’t quite as pink as they used to be. The last time we’d talked, Jim had confided that he was contemplating a transfer down to the identification section in order to get out of climbing an extra flight of stairs every day.

My old boss finally managed to roll down his window and spit a wad of phlegm out onto the blacktop. While Jim took his sweet time about getting back on the mike, I watched as his loogie shimmered in brilliant shades of brown and yellow beneath the soft light of the streetlamps. “714,” he barked again, “meet me at East Bay and Vendue Range for a quick follow-up.” His cruiser’s tail lights flashed red as he stomped down on the brake pedal and threw the car into gear. Without even waiting for a response, Jim gunned the engine and shot southward on Meeting Street. It looked as if he was doing his best to leave a trail of burnt rubber in his wake, but given the two blown cylinders in his creaky old cruiser all he managed to produce was this small cloud of obnoxious blue smog.

I sighed, dreading the thought of walking another four whole blocks. At least it would be one more opportunity for me to get some fresh air, which definitely wouldn’t have been the case if Jim had thought to offer me a ride. The department’s policy manual says that we’re technically not supposed to be smoking inside city vehicles but Big Jim’s eyesight has always been kind of spotty, and it’s particularly hard for him to focus on anything he doesn’t agree with.

“714 copies” I said, slipping my radio safely back into its holder. With a grunt, I eased my rear end up off the steps and used the railing to pull myself vertical. Walking directly through the Market was the most direct route, and even though it was a risky proposition with all the drunks and tourists milling around, I kind of felt like living dangerously. With any luck, some patrol supervisor might happen to drive past and catch sight of me actually doing my duty. Who knows, maybe Shaky McShivers himself might even still be lurking about, looking to check up on me. It’s been my experience that it’s best to play it safe every once in a while, especially when you know for a fact that your boss is out to get you.

As I shuffled my way through the crowds, I caught sight of a solitary frat boy ducking down behind a parked car. His sudden movements caught my attention almost as much as the preppy manner in which he’d popped up the collar of his polo shirt. I gave him a second look and realized he’d just stepped out of sight to relieve himself, albeit in a fairly discreet manner. Public urination was technically against the law, but I wasn’t sure if I could ethically arrest someone for a crime that I committed myself on a regular basis. Besides, the kid had at least done the courteous thing and stepped off the sidewalk before answering nature’s call, so I figured I was pretty much obligated to give him a pass. A number of people slid open beer bottles behind their backs as I marched past, and since I couldn’t possibly avoid seeing their clumsy attempts at concealing the evidence I just chose to issue them all a stern glare.

Once around the corner, I spotted Big Jim’s cruiser parked in another choice spot, blocking a fire hydrant at the intersection of East Bay and Queen. Jim was leaning back against the trunk of his Crown Vic and his mass caused the rear springs to sag precariously. I winced in sympathy for the poor car’s suspension as I strolled over to join him.

Jim smiled, chomping down hard on the stub of his cigar. The move sent a hot cloud of ashes flying, which seemed to clear out a little bubble of space between us and all the crowds pushing past. “Well, if it isn’t my favorite pavement pounder!” he shouted. “What’s shaking, Loosey Goosey?” Big Jim crossed his arms against his chest and leaned back even further, clearly in no particular rush to get back to his off-duty security job at the Piggly Wiggly.

I smiled again. “Laugh all you want, Jim, but I’m living the American dream! All this walking has trimmed me down by a full two pounds, man! This exercise routine is really starting to pay dividends…in fact, you might want to try it sometime.”

Jim tilted his thick neck to the side in order to admire my profile. “Yeah man, your little woman Maslow must be loving the new you, but to me it just looks like you’re wasting away. Have you had anything to eat yet? Dinner? Second dinner? Evening snack?”

I shook my head as I did my best to ignore the growing hole in my stomach. “Who has time, boss? I’ve been babysitting all these drunks since I rolled in today.” Jim pointed a hard stare in my direction, and his normally indifferent face showed a look of genuine concern for my well-being. “Goosey” he began, “I know that Shakey McShivers probably has you running around every which way, but you’ve got to at least make some time for a meal, man! Let me tell you, if you don’t take care of your body, no one else is going to do it for you.” He craned his head around nearly a hundred and eighty degrees so he could peer through the tall plate glass windows which ran around the exterior of the South End Brewery. “Come on, let’s grab something right now while you’ve still got time. My treat.” Big Jim stood upright and started waddling towards the door, so I really had no choice but to fall in behind him. A lecture on the importance of healthy eating was a little out of character coming from a man who chain-smoked his way through each shift, but I held my tongue and swallowed my pride. It certainly wasn’t my place to say anything, especially not since Jim had offered to foot the bill. With him, that kind of generosity was a true rarity.

Inside, the restaurant was just as packed as the sidewalk. All of the tables were full, and the bar was standing room only. Crowds of people were still trying to surge their way in, pushing over towards the far corner where some band of long-haired kids were setting up their instruments. I cursed myself again for not having the foresight to call in sick that weekend, but deep down I knew that it would only be the first of many regrets I was sure to have. Next to me, Big Jim stomped his boots impatiently while he searched in vain for an open table. Never one to wait, he zeroed in on a small booth near the entrance where a waitress had just dropped the check on a fresh-looking couple. The kids were a little overdressed for a night out at the bar and it seemed as if they might be out on a special occasion, maybe a first date or something. Jim stormed over just as the waitress disappeared, snatching up the check and waving a flabby finger towards the bar. “You should pay at the register” he explained with a grunt. “It’s quicker.” The young lovebirds stared at him in horror as their locked hands fell to the tabletop. “Good thing I came by when I did, or else you two kids might have ended up sitting here holding hands all night!”

I’m not sure whether it was Jim’s massive size or his noxious plume of cigar smoke which cowed the kids into submission, but I sure couldn’t argue with the results. The cute couple slid out of their booth and hustled away, so we moved in just as quickly to fill the void. Once seated, I noticed that a few of the customers nearby seemed to be sending dirty looks in our direction. Maybe it was because we’d jumped to the front of the line, or maybe it was just because Big Jim was being so blatant about violating the city’s ban on smoking indoors. Whatever the reason, Jim just didn’t seem to take any notice at all. Honestly, he probably couldn’t even see the other customers what with the dim lighting and his failing eyesight and all.

A different waitress, this cute little thing sporting a blond ponytail, finally came over to clear the table. She managed to hand us a pair of menus without saying a single word, and the chick didn’t even stick around long enough to take our drink orders. Jim leaned halfway out of the booth in order to get a better view of her backside, squinting and leering with no shame like the creepy old man that he was. I’ll admit that this girl wasn’t too hard on the eyes, but I was so preoccupied that I couldn’t even think about checking her out. My stomach was growling up a storm, and the menu in my hands had captured my full and undivided attention.

Jim couldn’t help but take notice of my single-minded behavior. “Oh, that’s right” he laughed, “I forgot, you’re in a serious relationship now.” He used his fat fingers to make these little air quotes around the word “relationship” as his way of giving me a hard time, but I knew deep down he was jealous. Jim’s girlfriends never stuck around more than a week or two before they came to their senses and got the hell out. My current streak of monogamy, five months long and counting, was simply incomprehensible to him.

I returned his smile as I used my own fingers to list out Katie’s strong points. “She cooks. She cleans. She doesn’t want kids. And on top of all that, she’s got her own job! For the love of God, Jim, she pulls in even more dough than I do! Any way you look at it, she’s sounding more and more like a keeper.”

Big Jim dropped his triple chin to stare in disbelief. “Goosey, have you lost your damn mind? That Maslow is an absolute fucking whale, man! What is she tipping the scales at now, a solid three hondo? Christ, that girl’s got a body like a Christmas ham!”

I felt my smile slowly creep wider until it had morphed into a full-on grin. “Come off it boss, that just means she’s well fed. You know, we share a lot of the same core values like that.”

Jim chuckled in spite of himself. “Can’t argue with that logic, Goosey. I’ll say this for you, son: You sure have your priorities in order. I don’t care what anyone else says about you, boy, you’re all right by me.” But before I could ask him who’d been spreading rumors behind my back, he nodded towards the menu. “Go on, kid, get what you want. For real, I’m buying.”