Senile Squad: Adventures of the Old Blues (34 page)

Thirty yards in front of them, Abrahim spotted an elderly man on crutches. By the way the aged one walked, it appeared as if he wanted to intercept Abrahim. “Stupid old goat, out of the way, old man,” Abrahim shouted. Pulling closer, Abrahim realized that he recognized him, but from where?

As he approached to pass, Abrahim watched the geezer lift the bottom part of his left crutch and point it at him like a gun. He met Abrahim’s gaze and smiled.

Boom!
Whatever was inside that crutch hit Abrahim in his right shoulder and spun him around. He’d been hit with a police bean bag round, a lead pellet cloth container shot from a 12-gauge cartridge at 300 to 400 feet per second. Though officially deemed nonlethal, anyone hit would well wish they were dead. It’s brought full-grown men to the ground in agonizing pain.

Boom! Boom!
Abrahim’s companion toppled to the ground, beside him.

Boom!
Something knocked the air of him; Abrahim grabbed his abdomen and sank to the ground beside his soldier.

Bean Bag Charlie, one of only a few of the retired officers who could still shoot a shotgun and not land flat on his back, stood over Abrahim and smiled. “Nothing stops a moving mass like two of those babies straight to the gut.”

Abrahim and his companion lay on the ground moaning and struggling to breathe. Abrahim gazed up at him. “I…I know you,” he said through gasps of air. “At—” he struggled to gulp a breath, “at the police home.”

Bean Bag shrugged his shoulders. “You sure, son?” he asked. “Cuz all us old guys look alike.”

Bending over, he plucked up the bean bags and left the scene. Passing Officer Turley who’d just caught up to them, Bean Bag Charlie turned and pointed back at the two young men writhing on the ground. “Make sure your sergeant knows,” he jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “The tallest one,” He indicated Abrahim, “that’s Clubba’s cousin.”

CLUBBA KICKED BACK IN FRONT OF THE COMMON ROOM television set. Tomorrow…tomorrow,” he sang happily.

“Don’t rub it in,” Earnest said with a sidelong glare at his partner. Honestly, the fact that Clubba was so ready and willing to work with Earnest still amazed him. Clubba would network his accomplices on the outside; Earnest would handle them on the inside. “News is on,” he said with a lift of his chin toward the screen.

“Yeah,” Clubba said with a knowing grin. “My last day watching from this place.” Clubba said loud enough for all to hear and envy him.

Earnest eyed the younger man. Without realizing it, Clubba had given all his hot-button issues to Earnest who made it a point to fan the flames of anger in Clubba. The mere mention of the old man with the whistling teeth sent the youngster into tornadic wrath. Earnest took the opportunity to goad the boy at every opportunity. Earnest wanted Tiny dead; Clubba wanted to kill him. The way Earnest figured, if his plan worked out the way he wanted, Clubba would be the pawn that helped him get the last laugh. Earnest wanted nothing more than to dance on Tiny’s grave—literally.

“We have breaking news on a major police operation in the area of Sixtieth and Etna Streets,” the anchor said to the prompter. “We go there live when we return.”

Clubba turned away from a conversation with a handful of other prisoners in his vicinity. “Sixtieth and Etna,” he said with a sudden serious tone. “That’s where my soldiers are.”

“Something going on up there?” Earnest asked.

A prisoner at the table behind him tossed a wad of paper into the wastebasket. “Heard something’s goin’ down in North O. Sounds like somethin’ big to me.”

“You have no idea,” Clubba whispered.

Earnest watched him closely; the television held his rapt attention. “What’s up?”

Clubba shushed him.

The anchor’s handsome face grew somber. “We go now to the scene.”

“Shut up!” Clubba growled at the chatting prisoners surrounding him. Nobody disputed him although he drew frowns, questioning looks, and shoulder shrugs in return.

“I’m at this group of apartments at Sixtieth and Etna Street,” said the young female reporter. “As you can see behind me, there are numerous police cars. Officers are still swarming the area collecting stragglers.”

The camera panned the area zeroing in on both uniformed officers and vested undercover detectives. “About fifteen minutes ago, a call went out for more officers, and as you can see,” she said swallowing a chuckle, “respond they did.”

The reporter stepped to her right; the camera obligingly zoomed in on the dwindling action. Ten marked cruisers filled the street; officers escorted handcuffed perpetrators to waiting police vehicles. About fifteen to twenty young men cursed and shrieked at police. “We still don’t know what brought about the initial altercation,” the reporter said, “but—”

A uniformed officer put his hand on the head of one young man to ease him into the back of a patrol car. The boy jerked away and raised his mouth to the sky.
“Sudanese soldiers!”

Clubba sat rooted in place; he couldn’t believe his eyes. The entire police department swarmed through Shanese’s neighborhood. Caught up in the dragnet, he recognized his own men handcuffed and under arrest. “No,” he whispered. “Nooooo.”

Every prisoner within earshot turned toward Clubba.

“What’s wrong?” Earnest asked.

“When we first arrived on scene we noticed a lot of senior citizens,” the reporter said, once again facing the camera, “but this entire complex of apartment buildings are single-family dwellings. Still, it appears that a great many older residents live here. Most have headed inside now but there were a great many outside. This,” she said, indicating the ongoing cleanup,“would send me back to the safety of my home too— even on this otherwise gorgeous day. Back to you guys in the studio,” she said with a bright smile.

Before the camera stopped rolling, it caught four elderly men in the background moving toward a nondescript van. Another, obviously younger man, brought up the rear as though shepherding them along. As though sensing the media, he turned and spotted the broadcasting duo. Immediately ushering the older men into the vehicle, he slammed the door closed, hopped into the driver’s seat, and sped off.

“Totally weird day,” the camera operator said to his companion.

“You’re telling me,” she said. “Looks like the showdown at the O.K. Corral—without bullets.”

Clubba stalked back to his cell; he punched his white-knuckled fist against his thigh with every step. “This can’t be,” he muttered. “Fifteen to twenty of my soldiers…they’ve got almost all of them.” The realization of all his networking, all of his planning, all of his currying favor with people he thought below him—gone in minutes. His warlord empire collapsed on the grass at Sixtieth and Etna.

Clubba fell onto his bunk and stared at the ceiling with unseeing eyes. Stunned, he struggled to make sense of his crumbling world. Bewildered and disbelieving at what he’d just witnessed, he sucked in a deep breath of air. Never had he considered his plan wouldn’t be successful. Everything he’d ever attempted had succeeded. There was no reason to think his latest venture would be anything less. Now it was gone—all of it—in an insignificant corner of North Omaha. What now? He only had a handful of soldiers left—if that. Everything he’d built or hoped to build rested on his Sudanese soldiers. With them behind bars, he had nothing. “Nothing!” he screamed to the solid walls.

Clubba lay quietly for a long time, willing away the panic that threatened to consume him; deep, steady breaths steadied him and calmed his rage. Nothing good ever came from an angry decision. He continued his rhythmic breathing until a long while later, a slow but ever widening smile crept across his face. There was one thing worth reaping: revenge. “First the old man, then that stupid woman and her sister.”

Yes, revenge would be oh, so very sweet. Hearing the sound of his bat against each head would bring him stature again. He wouldn’t be down for long.

Outside Clubba’s cell, Earnest leaned against the cool cinder-block wall. Ah, Clubba, he thought, you’re such a perfect little pawn. Tiny’s days were numbered.

“Everybody okay?” the tech asked the occupants of the van.

“Get us back to the precinct—and fast!” Smitty ordered. The Chelini brothers, Kim and Paul, sucked in gulps of air through wide smiles. Each man nodded. “We’re good,” Paul said.

“That dang camera caught us for sure; somebody’s bound to have seen us.” Smitty said. “Floor it!”

The driver followed the order. Three blocks away Smitty turned to the rest of the Blues. “Once we get back to our rooms, you can’t be puffing and panting. We all need to act like we’ve been there the entire time.”

The van screeched into the special maintenance garage, and the Ol’ Blues piled out and into the entrance under the hydraulic hoist. Specially made golf carts awaited them. The shuttles zipped through the tunnels and the supply room. Each Blue entered his individual quarters.

The doors to the precinct burst open. Boss Nurse Betsy followed by three apprehensive student nurses marched straight in and headed toward the back doors, gateway to the Blues’ private living quarters.

“Are you sure about this, ma’am?” the student behind her asked timidly.

“Sure? Oh yeah, I’m sure.” She huffed and scuttled around a corner. “I saw that Smitty bold as polished brass. On television no less. I’ve always known something funny was going on around here. I can feel it in my gut,” Betsy said. “Got ’em dead to rights now.”

In his room, Smitty closed his eyes and willed his galloping heart to slow to a calmer beat. Luckily he’d prepared for this type of scenario and had worn his indignity robe under his street clothes; moments earlier he’d stuffed his outer garments in the bottom of his closet.

From the hall, sounds of a small commotion made its presence known. With every passing second the sounds grew nearer and louder…and headed straight for his room. Breathe, he told himself, just breathe. In…out…in…out. The clamor outside drew closer and Smitty hopped up, a brilliant idea blossoming in his head.

His door thudded open. “Smitty!” Boss Nurse Betsy exclaimed, her eyebrows hiking higher on her forehead. “What the—”

Smitty, holding the colostomy bag he’d just detached, jumped like he’d been shocked. “Oh—” he whirled around in phony surprise and flung the bag in question toward the door.

Nurse Betsy’s arms flew out to her side as though she could protect her students from the inevitable. “Noooo!” The plea hit the air just as the bag landed directly in front of her, the contents splattering onto her legs and several of the students in her wake.

Nurse Betsy squeezed her eyes closed, her hands still splayed out at her side; the students shrieked and groaned.

“What’d you do that for?” Smitty asked. “I was just—” In his doorway, the contents of his colostomy bag dripped down Boss Nurse’s legs. Her eyes still closed, it looked a lot like she was praying for strength not to kill him.

“Nurse Betsy thought you were on television,” one of the student nurses said with more than a touch of sarcasm. “She actually thought you’d sneaked out of the facility.”

“Sneak out?” he asked as innocently as he could muster. “Why? Better yet, how?”

Nurse Betsy glared at him and shook her head. “Get a mop,” she directed. “Get this place cleaned and disinfected ASAP.”

Moving as one, the students turned to leave. They showed their displeasure in long audible sighs, muttered remarks, and grimaces but they did as instructed.

“I don’t know what’s going on,” Boss Nurse said, piercing Smitty with a withering stare, “but when I find out…”

She stalked out of Smitty’s room, her threat resounding in his ears. Smitty sank into a chair and covered his face with his hand. He never wanted a repeat of this afternoon’s race home. Boss Nurse was the last person they needed meddling in their affairs. It had been a close call— way, way, way too close. One good thing had come out of it though, Smitty thought. He’d finally found a use for that stupid crap bag.