me to start?”
“Right now,” Mullins said, pouring more rank coffee into his NRA mug.
“Chief, I can’t just walk off my security job. I gotta give my boss some notice.”
“Fuck him. I’m your boss now. Tell him to hire some other monkey for that no-dick job. I need you here more than he needs you guarding yarn.”
“All right, but my apartment’s over forty miles away. You have to give me some time to find a closer place to live.”
“I already found you a place. Old Lady Crane, you remember her? The old bag’s still got that hole-in-the-wall boardinghouse out off the Route, and she’s holding a room for you. Thirty-five clams a week—you think you can swing that, Daddy Warbucks? And I already paid your first month’s rent. So quit jacking your jaws and get out of here. Go load up that piece of shit you got for a car and get moved in tonight. I’m putting you on eight-to-eights, the night shift, and I’ll even pay you overtime for anything over forty until I can get a couple more men hired on.”
Phil felt winded. “Chief, we’re moving way too fast, aren’t we? First off, I need clearance from the state training academy, don’t I?”
“You’re already cleared through Metro.”
“And I need uniforms, I need a piece, I need—”
Mullins pointed to the corner. “See that big box sitting there? Those are your uniforms. And see that little box sitting on top of it? That’s your service revolver.” Mullins got something out of his desk drawer. “And see this teensy weensy box right here?”
Phil took the little box from Mullins’ fingers, opened it, and removed its contents:
A brand new Bianchi police badge.
“There’s your fuckin’ tin,” Mullins finished. “You’re a big bad policeman again. We’ll send in your new print cards to the state tomorrow. Only other thing I need from you is a passport photo for your department ID, and you’re all set.”
“Christ, Chief.” The badge flashed in Phil’s hand bright as 24-carat gold.
“Now shag ass out of here and get your shit squared away,” Mullins remarked, unconsciously flipping through last year’s Swank calendar. “Can’t you see I’ve got work to do?”
Phil picked up the boxes and headed for the door. “Okay, Chief. See you tomorrow.”
“Yeah. Oh, and one more thing.”
Phil turned.
Mullins’ mustached lip twitched up in a smile. “It’s good to have you back…Sergeant Straker.”
Sergeant Straker, the words drifted. He was staring out the window now, of the tiny room in Old Lady Crane’s boardinghouse that was suddenly his home. Yeah, Sergeant Straker, back in the tin…
Outside looked strange—trees and fields and hills instead of skyscrapers and traffic. Cricket sounds instead of sirens. Pine air instead of smog. Crick City was abed, and the night bloomed in a kind of beauty he’d forgotten even existed. Maybe this won’t be so bad, he considered.
Or was that just wishful thinking?
Because when Phil went to sleep, he dreamed…
He dreamed of his childhood.
And the vague, half-seen horrors of The House.
««—»»
Yes, sir, sooner or later, Gut thought, we’se gonna pick the wrong folks to razz…
Scott-Boy crumpled his empty beer can, tossed it out, and cracked open another. They could go through a case a night, no problem, healthy young livers and constitutions and all. But Gut was nursing his.
“What’s buggin’ you?” Scott inquired, never one to sit calm whiles his only razzin’ buddy displayed signs of psychic distress. “You done look plumb et up with a case of the blahs tonight, Gut.”
“Aw, it’s nothin’. Just feelin’ a tad spotty’s all.”
“Well, we’se shore gonna put a fixin’ to that right soon enough. Coupla bad razzers like us, we gots it all, ya know? Good beer, good set of wheels, plus laters on we’ll both have ourselfs a horse-choke-size wad of cash in each our pockets after we’re done with our run. Yes, sir. We’se plumb got it
“Right now,” Mullins said, pouring more rank coffee into his NRA mug.
“Chief, I can’t just walk off my security job. I gotta give my boss some notice.”
“Fuck him. I’m your boss now. Tell him to hire some other monkey for that no-dick job. I need you here more than he needs you guarding yarn.”
“All right, but my apartment’s over forty miles away. You have to give me some time to find a closer place to live.”
“I already found you a place. Old Lady Crane, you remember her? The old bag’s still got that hole-in-the-wall boardinghouse out off the Route, and she’s holding a room for you. Thirty-five clams a week—you think you can swing that, Daddy Warbucks? And I already paid your first month’s rent. So quit jacking your jaws and get out of here. Go load up that piece of shit you got for a car and get moved in tonight. I’m putting you on eight-to-eights, the night shift, and I’ll even pay you overtime for anything over forty until I can get a couple more men hired on.”
Phil felt winded. “Chief, we’re moving way too fast, aren’t we? First off, I need clearance from the state training academy, don’t I?”
“You’re already cleared through Metro.”
“And I need uniforms, I need a piece, I need—”
Mullins pointed to the corner. “See that big box sitting there? Those are your uniforms. And see that little box sitting on top of it? That’s your service revolver.” Mullins got something out of his desk drawer. “And see this teensy weensy box right here?”
Phil took the little box from Mullins’ fingers, opened it, and removed its contents:
A brand new Bianchi police badge.
“There’s your fuckin’ tin,” Mullins finished. “You’re a big bad policeman again. We’ll send in your new print cards to the state tomorrow. Only other thing I need from you is a passport photo for your department ID, and you’re all set.”
“Christ, Chief.” The badge flashed in Phil’s hand bright as 24-carat gold.
“Now shag ass out of here and get your shit squared away,” Mullins remarked, unconsciously flipping through last year’s Swank calendar. “Can’t you see I’ve got work to do?”
Phil picked up the boxes and headed for the door. “Okay, Chief. See you tomorrow.”
“Yeah. Oh, and one more thing.”
Phil turned.
Mullins’ mustached lip twitched up in a smile. “It’s good to have you back…Sergeant Straker.”
Sergeant Straker, the words drifted. He was staring out the window now, of the tiny room in Old Lady Crane’s boardinghouse that was suddenly his home. Yeah, Sergeant Straker, back in the tin…
Outside looked strange—trees and fields and hills instead of skyscrapers and traffic. Cricket sounds instead of sirens. Pine air instead of smog. Crick City was abed, and the night bloomed in a kind of beauty he’d forgotten even existed. Maybe this won’t be so bad, he considered.
Or was that just wishful thinking?
Because when Phil went to sleep, he dreamed…
He dreamed of his childhood.
And the vague, half-seen horrors of The House.
««—»»
Yes, sir, sooner or later, Gut thought, we’se gonna pick the wrong folks to razz…
Scott-Boy crumpled his empty beer can, tossed it out, and cracked open another. They could go through a case a night, no problem, healthy young livers and constitutions and all. But Gut was nursing his.
“What’s buggin’ you?” Scott inquired, never one to sit calm whiles his only razzin’ buddy displayed signs of psychic distress. “You done look plumb et up with a case of the blahs tonight, Gut.”
“Aw, it’s nothin’. Just feelin’ a tad spotty’s all.”
“Well, we’se shore gonna put a fixin’ to that right soon enough. Coupla bad razzers like us, we gots it all, ya know? Good beer, good set of wheels, plus laters on we’ll both have ourselfs a horse-choke-size wad of cash in each our pockets after we’re done with our run. Yes, sir. We’se plumb got it
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