Senile Squad: Adventures of the Old Blues (6 page)

The door burst open. Pieces of wood shot into the living room of the apartment. Before he could react, Clubba had a couple of officers standing over him. “Te’quan Koak, we have a warrant for your arrest,” announced a voice from behind a blinding flashlight. Officer Charlie Walker said, “The Domestic Violence Unit put the warrant out for you today.”

“This is all you got?” Te’quan Yates Koak threw a bored glance at the two Omaha Police officers in the apartment he was using for the night. Clubba had a string of places where he would stay for a day or two. That made it hard for the cops to know exactly where to find him. This particular apartment was located in a small complex infested with drugs, crime, and the sorts of people that hated the police. Nobody took care of the grounds and nobody cared. A cynical smile perked up Clubba’s lips. “I’ll be back in six months.”

Walker smiled and tugged the cuffs tighter. Three additional officers flanked Walker; two stood in the living room of the door they’d kicked in, and the third was stationed outside to watch for any trouble. The arrest of someone held in high esteem in this neighborhood could get ugly.

“Pretty proud of this, aren’t you?” Clubba asked.

“You’re just a run-of-the-mill punk in my book,” Walker said.

“Nah,” Clubba said. “I’m a prize collar. Or so my people tell me.”

“Don’t believe everything you hear.” Walker turned Clubba around and grasped his upper arm. The officer outside, gang unit detective Zach Reeves knew the neighborhood well.

“Word’s out,” he called to the officers inside. “Let’s go!” he said as much in warning as an order.

On the front stoop, Charlie stopped short behind Zach. A crowd, one appearing distinctly unfriendly to the police, gathered in the street.

“What’s wrong?” Clubba glanced at the officers and with a mocking smirk. “Scared?”

Reeves didn’t take his gaze off the roadway and sidewalks. “Hardly.”

Clubba smiled and surveyed a mass of about thirty people. “You ought’ta be,” he said softly. “Watch this.” Clubba threw back his head and called out to the crowd. “Anotha’ brotha’ bein’ arrested fo’ being black!”

Charlie blinked at the abrupt switch in Clubba’s speech. He’d gone from perfect American English to urban street talk. Clubba’s claim had the appropriate effect.

“Let him go!” A young man wearing a black sweat shirt hollered. He tugged the hood over his forehead as far as possible to avoid recognition by the police.

“He didn’t do nothin’!” A middle-aged woman with a sneer rose to the challenge Clubba’s word incited. “He was wit’ me da’ whole time!”

Clubba’s presence energized the whole block; tension arced in the air. From the back of the congregating group, a nameless, faceless bystander in the back threw down the gauntlet. “Kill the po-leece.”

The threat caught every officer’s attention. The antagonistic crowd warmed to the invitation. More anonymous yells, curses, and threats emanated from every face in the growing throng. Hoodies were tugged over their heads to conceal their identities.

Clubba chuckled. “Not too popular up here, are you?”

Officer Walker ignored the remark and shook his head. “This show isn’t for me,” he said. “Everybody out there is performing for you, currying your favor.”

“Run, Clubba!” a lone voice cried out from the middle of the throng. Insults, taunts, and curses flew through the air, trying to egg the police into a fight.

“Break loose, Clubba!”

“We got yo’ back!”

“No,” gang detective Steve Turley, a ten-year veteran of OPD said to Walker. “I’ve got your back. Let’s move.”

Reeves led the way to the cruiser with Walker and Clubba in the middle and Turley bringing up the rear. The threats amplified, those assembled growing more daring. The officers started pushing their way through the angry crowd. Turley scanned the contorted faces surrounding him and determined the situation could get ugly and out of control with more than a few injuries in a nanosecond. No longer onlookers in a nameless crowd, they’d morphed into a mob.

As the mob edged closer, the yells, screams, and taunts were issued within spitting range of the officers. Turley figured a brick or other projectile would launch through the air any moment. Sensing a direct and real threat to their safety left only one thing to do. Turley pushed the shoulder mike. “Help an officer!” he barked out along with their location.

The call went out to every cop on duty—and a few who weren’t. Within seconds, sirens shrieked; blue and red lights flashed. Half a dozen cruisers swerved to a stop wherever they could: in the streets, on front yards, sidewalks, anywhere and everywhere. Car doors opened and a stream of officers spilled out in a blue invasion.

Clubba’s smile widened. “It’s on now!” he said.

Half of the crowd scattered at the sound of sirens, bellowing a string of obscenities over their shoulders. Once home, they opened their windows and doors and walked onto their creaking balconies. The familiar profanity-filled tirades flowed from the relative safety of each home. Only the younger—or the really stupid—ones got up in the cops’ faces. They, in turn, ended up tackled and face-planted on the ground. The derision continued.

Clubba thoroughly enjoyed himself, satisfied that it was all for his benefit. That was the point. What good was power if you couldn’t make people do things just for you? Jutting his chin toward the melee, he laughed out loud.

“Look at that,” he said. “Takes your army to handle my people. The next time you come to get me, though, you’ll bring more officers…and that’ll tip me off. I’ll spot you from seven blocks away. That’ll teach you to bust me on some bogus charges.”

“Yeah, yeah, big man,” Charlie said and lifted Clubba’s upper arm higher. He stumbled forward and quickened his pace. “Move it.”

The mass of people dissipated, which allowed Walker to lead Clubba down the sidewalk and to his patrol car. Clubba spotted two white-haired men across the street. One was extremely short—couldn’t have been over five feet four—and the other stood about six inches taller. Both appeared unaffected by the massive police presence around and the commotion that had preceded it. Standing by the curb twenty feet away, they wore matching ear-to-ear grins. A ring of familiarity tingled in the back of Clubba’s head. He’d seen them around the neighborhood but where? The park? The street corner? The grocery store? Where? Seemed like there were always old men in the hood these days.

Officer Walker’s hand gripped Clubba’s head, and he got one last glance at the elderly men over the top of the cruiser. They stared at him. The short one nudged the other then pointed and laughed—at him. Clubba!

White-hot rage shot through him. The officer tried to nudge him into the cruiser, but Clubba stiffened and jerked to the side, clipping his forehead as he was maneuvered into the backseat. “Ow. Watch it, you blue-eyed devil!”

“Mind your head, Mr. Koak,” Officer Turley, the rear security guy, said with a fake smile, “and welcome to the cage.”

One glance and Clubba knew where the name came from. The back windows were down but no one could escape. Bars covered all open areas so anyone placed in there wouldn’t get out, so having the windows down was no big deal. Clubba twisted, trying to find a more comfortable position. Soft cloth seats had been removed and a slick plastic bench inserted, which made it easier to clean and much more difficult to hide drugs in the cushions. Almost impossible actually. Clubba squirmed around and silently cursed the criminal justice game. Nothing here was for comfort; it was all about making things easy for the police.

A dull pain throbbed where he’d banged his head. Blood trickled from the cut above his left eyebrow, and sweat stung his eyes. He shook his head and caught another shot of the two old guys. What was it that fixated him?

Officer Walker slammed the caged door shut. Clubba scooted across the plastic seat to get a closer look through the bars. They stood in the same spot, mouths open wide with waves of laughter. The short one jerked his head in an odd way and Clubba watched as his dentures flopped out of his mouth. He fumbled around trying to grab them, but they slid through his fingers and all but bounced off the street, an incisor breaking off.

Clubba grabbed his turn to laugh. “That’s what you get!” he bellowed at them. “Wait till I get back,” he muttered. “Just wait.”

With a shrug, the little guy snatched up his choppers and slid them back into his mouth. His buddy stopped yucking it up for a moment and turned toward his friend as though checking to see if everything was okay.

The smaller man waved and said something to his buddy. Clubba couldn’t make out the words but a loud whistle came from the hole where the front tooth used to be. The men exchanged a wide-eyed look of surprise only to start howling once again.

Once they settled down, they fixed their attention back on Clubba. The pointing, whistling, and laughing started again. Fury enveloped Clubba. He refused to tolerate the ridicule a second longer.

“Who are you?” he called out to the duo. “I want dey names!” He screamed loud enough so his followers could hear. Jerking his head from the right side of backseat to the opposite window, he continued his tirade. “Hear me? Those two old dudes. I—want—dey—names!”

Over on the sidewalk the short one made a funny sound similar to what a person would hear at a football game during a long pass. “Wooooo-ah!”

Clubba glared at them through the black iron when he saw something fly through the air…a large tubular thing. Full of an amber-colored substance. “Beer?” Clubba asked out loud. Time slowed to a crawl as he tracked the projectile though the air. “What the—”

The bag headed straight for the barred window. The old men leaned on one another, pointed directly at Clubba without any fear. They mocked him with the smiles on their faces. They, too, followed the path of their airborne gift with almost childlike anticipation. They couldn’t seem to stop laughing.

Seeing their antics enraged Clubba. He pressed his face against the bars, opened his mouth to scream more contempt on them, just as the bag hit the bars.
Ka-thwap!
The impact split the rubbery container open. Clubba caught the brunt of the liquid directly in the face. Wide-eyed, enraged, sweaty, and bleeding, he couldn’t breathe, think, or swallow.

“Whaa-haaa-Haa. Wooooo-haaa-haa!” The sound filtered through the air from the crazy old guys nearby.

The mysterious liquid was a mystery no longer. A heavy concentrated, disgusting odor mixed with a slimy thick liquid doused Clubba’s head, his body, and the entire backseat. He jerked away, gasping for air. Big mistake. The move slid him across the drenched plastic-covered seat; he banged the back of his head on the opposite window bars.

Surprise, pain, and rage shot through him. The sack contained the foulest, slimiest body fluid ever: urine. By the smell it had to be at least a week old. Clubba opened his mouth to yell and draw attention to his disgusting situation, but nothing came out. His stinging eyes, cut eyebrow, and gash on the back of his head combined with the putrid taste in his mouth and throat brought a lurch in his stomach. He gagged, fought the urge to vomit, and swallowed hard…repeatedly. But the impulse wouldn’t be denied. On his back, he coughed up the contents of his stomach straight onto the cruiser’s ceiling. “Guaaagh-ahh!”

Officer Walker settled himself into the front seat of his patrol car. “What a freakin’ day.” He was grateful for the help-an-officer call response. Every cop had either been in a life-threatening situation or knew they would be. Every cop who ever had to radio for help would say the same thing: the sound of answering sirens was one of the greatest on earth.

His brothers and sisters in blue had helped him control the situation. With the area secured, the melee of twenty clamoring officers dwindled to a calm mop up. Three cruisers still had their red and blue rotator lights on. Charlie’s pulse slowed to a normal beat. The perp in the backseat yelled something out of the back window. Walker brushed it off and reached for his microphone. “2 Adam 22.”

“2 Adam 22, go ahead, 2 Adam 22,” the dispatcher responded.

“Transporting one male suspect to Central Headquarters for—” The back of his vehicle rocked and bounced. From his rearview mirror Charlie watched Clubba slide across the backseat, feet in the air and weird noises coming from his mouth. “Ah, nuts!” he muttered under his breath. “Forgot to seatbelt him in.”

Walker reached back and opened the window separating the driver compartment from the caged backseat. “Knock it off or I’ll have to—”

He stopped midsentence, stunned by a sight that defied everything he had seen thus far in his fifteen years of law enforcement. Dark chunks of disgusting slime dripped from the roof onto Clubba who lay on his back. The slop dribbled onto his hair and upper body. He was covered in it. Eyes bulging, he heaved again launching another mouthful toward Charlie.

“Oh, n—” Walker bolted into action, trying to slam the window between them shut. He was quick but not quick enough. His left shoulder and the front of his uniform dampened with the second round of regurgitation. “You stupid piece of—”

There were bad smells in his line of work, but this was the worst. The vile odor washed over him and cut off his words. His head reeled and he fought his own almost overwhelming urge to cough up his cookies as well. No way; not on the job. Charlie scrambled out of the cruiser trying not to breathe until he got fresh air.