between us and a drive-by that the GDs threaten ten times a day. "Happy hour," I’ve heard them call it.
I ask about Farrakhan again. Sonny shrugs and glances past me to the black patrol officers on my left, then back. I ask a third time. Sonny shakes his head, meaning we’ll talk about Louis Farrakhan somewhere else with fewer black faces. Eric Jackson, who’s black, puts down his Old Style and leans away deeper into the booth. He eyes me so I notice, then shifts his eyes and mine to the barstools at the bar. I look but don’t recognize the backs of anyone seated or their dim faces in the mirror. Our table is suddenly very quiet.
I say, "Why’d you ask me if I was coming to work today?"
Sonny squints, "Huh?"
"We been through this once. Last night, you called from the hospital and asked me."
Shrug and a Guinness sip. "Must’ve been Cisco or one of his babes." He smiles at Eric. "Man, he had some babes in there. I am not shittin’ you."
Since I’m not sure why or how long Sonny intends to run this game, I decide to retire, head home, and see if the locksmith came. Maybe let Stella assault my hair while I consider a life without Sonny Barrett and his private-agenda, alpha-male, Irish bullshit.
Outside, I’m about to get in my car and a blue-and-white stops, then a second one behind it two feet from the bumper. The passenger door of the second car opens and Kit Carson, Watch LT and all-around asshole, steps out. Although this is his district from 8:00 to 4:00, he’s rarely out in it and generally never as night falls. The two uniforms with him are his answer to dusk.
"Officer Black?"
He knows who I am, he’s trying to get me to stop. If I shoot him now, right now—
"Officer Black. I need a moment."
Technically I don’t work for Kit Carson because I’m TAC and we have our own LT, and technically I do because he’s the Watch LT. It’s confusing, and if my LT wasn’t on vacation I’d be much more likely to shoot this asshole and hope for a review board that could see past the lieutenant bars. But that’s not the situation, even in Fantasyland, so I stop on the sidewalk just steps from safety and an evening at home with music and my fish.
"Yes, sir. And what will it be, sir?"
One of the two patrolmen with him chuckles behind his hand; his partner winks.
Kit says, "Could you
possibly
be more stupid?"
"Sir?"
"The community is picketing 6 and you go to the mother’s
house
? Gibbons said you were there to threaten her."
"If you mean Ruth Ann, I went to say I was sorry."
"Sorry?" Kit Carson swells to full departmental height. "Alderman Gibbons has filed a formal criminal complaint against the department naming you, charging harassment and assault. These new charges dovetail with yesterday’s accusations of brutality, violation of civil rights, and ’the police-sanctioned murder of innocent Afro-American citizens.’ Unquote. Report to IAD downtown, now."
"Bullshit."
"Now. That’s an order."
A big shape that’s Sonny Barrett steps out of the bar semi-blinded even at dusk and yells, "Patti. Patti, wait a sec." He gets what’s left of the sun behind him, sees the LT and his bodyguards, and stops. He slows, his head swivels with his shoulders as he sizes up everyone on the wide sidewalk, including the civilians trying to size it up too.
"
Jazus,
Kit. It’ll be dark soon."
I choke into my hand. The bodyguards bend away, trying not to laugh. Kit Carson reswells to full height and rank, glaring at Sonny.
"What?"
"No shit, man.
Dark,
like no fucking light at all, you know? And felons, motherfuckers come outta the woodwork. Evil sons-a-bitches like that one." Sonny points at a crack merchant we’ve put in County on gun charges twice this year. "This is not a safe neighborhood…sir."
Kit Carson is crimson, as red as I have ever seen him, except last Valentine’s Day when he beat a handcuffed prisoner unconscious for kicking his secretary in the crotch. Kit’s wrapped a little tight in a lot of
I ask about Farrakhan again. Sonny shrugs and glances past me to the black patrol officers on my left, then back. I ask a third time. Sonny shakes his head, meaning we’ll talk about Louis Farrakhan somewhere else with fewer black faces. Eric Jackson, who’s black, puts down his Old Style and leans away deeper into the booth. He eyes me so I notice, then shifts his eyes and mine to the barstools at the bar. I look but don’t recognize the backs of anyone seated or their dim faces in the mirror. Our table is suddenly very quiet.
I say, "Why’d you ask me if I was coming to work today?"
Sonny squints, "Huh?"
"We been through this once. Last night, you called from the hospital and asked me."
Shrug and a Guinness sip. "Must’ve been Cisco or one of his babes." He smiles at Eric. "Man, he had some babes in there. I am not shittin’ you."
Since I’m not sure why or how long Sonny intends to run this game, I decide to retire, head home, and see if the locksmith came. Maybe let Stella assault my hair while I consider a life without Sonny Barrett and his private-agenda, alpha-male, Irish bullshit.
Outside, I’m about to get in my car and a blue-and-white stops, then a second one behind it two feet from the bumper. The passenger door of the second car opens and Kit Carson, Watch LT and all-around asshole, steps out. Although this is his district from 8:00 to 4:00, he’s rarely out in it and generally never as night falls. The two uniforms with him are his answer to dusk.
"Officer Black?"
He knows who I am, he’s trying to get me to stop. If I shoot him now, right now—
"Officer Black. I need a moment."
Technically I don’t work for Kit Carson because I’m TAC and we have our own LT, and technically I do because he’s the Watch LT. It’s confusing, and if my LT wasn’t on vacation I’d be much more likely to shoot this asshole and hope for a review board that could see past the lieutenant bars. But that’s not the situation, even in Fantasyland, so I stop on the sidewalk just steps from safety and an evening at home with music and my fish.
"Yes, sir. And what will it be, sir?"
One of the two patrolmen with him chuckles behind his hand; his partner winks.
Kit says, "Could you
possibly
be more stupid?"
"Sir?"
"The community is picketing 6 and you go to the mother’s
house
? Gibbons said you were there to threaten her."
"If you mean Ruth Ann, I went to say I was sorry."
"Sorry?" Kit Carson swells to full departmental height. "Alderman Gibbons has filed a formal criminal complaint against the department naming you, charging harassment and assault. These new charges dovetail with yesterday’s accusations of brutality, violation of civil rights, and ’the police-sanctioned murder of innocent Afro-American citizens.’ Unquote. Report to IAD downtown, now."
"Bullshit."
"Now. That’s an order."
A big shape that’s Sonny Barrett steps out of the bar semi-blinded even at dusk and yells, "Patti. Patti, wait a sec." He gets what’s left of the sun behind him, sees the LT and his bodyguards, and stops. He slows, his head swivels with his shoulders as he sizes up everyone on the wide sidewalk, including the civilians trying to size it up too.
"
Jazus,
Kit. It’ll be dark soon."
I choke into my hand. The bodyguards bend away, trying not to laugh. Kit Carson reswells to full height and rank, glaring at Sonny.
"What?"
"No shit, man.
Dark,
like no fucking light at all, you know? And felons, motherfuckers come outta the woodwork. Evil sons-a-bitches like that one." Sonny points at a crack merchant we’ve put in County on gun charges twice this year. "This is not a safe neighborhood…sir."
Kit Carson is crimson, as red as I have ever seen him, except last Valentine’s Day when he beat a handcuffed prisoner unconscious for kicking his secretary in the crotch. Kit’s wrapped a little tight in a lot of
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