doubling up, too."
"Motorcycles. I can do traffic."
"You ever ride a hog?"
"No."
Bartolome pointed at a picture on the wall. A younger version of himself, traffic leathers, white and blue helmet, astride a Harley
"Field training for the hogs, that takes weeks and costs the department. Tell you right now, the budget the way it is, the only retraining going on is for SWAT and the antiterrorism academy."
Park looked at the picture of Bartolome in his bucket-head rig.
SWATs were in love with their guns and the rush of blowing a door down and charging in. Why they were there, who had done what and to whom, didn't matter in the least to a SWAT. They just wanted a clean shot.
The antiterrorism academy was a one-way ticket to a desk. Paperwork. Intelligence review. Coordinating task forces with the CIA, FBI, Homeland Security, Customs and Border Protection.
He looked away from the picture.
"I don't think I'd be suited to either of those duties, sir."
"You aren't being offered either of those duties."
Bartolome weighed two invisible objects, one in either hand.
"You're being offered this one thing."
He showed the heft and gravity of what it was Park was being offered.
"Or you can accept online training for dispatch."
He displayed the relative lightness of a job relaying radio calls.
Park remembered his father asking him what he thought he could achieve as a police officer that he could not achieve in the family business. The family business having been government service and politics.
He shook his head.
"I simply don't think I'm suited to the duty, sir."
Bartolome nodded.
"Why?"
"From a practical perspective, I'm white. And I don't do street. I mean, I know the jargon, but it never sounds natural. And I've never done drugs myself, not even in college. I don't know where to begin a fake."
The captain smiled.
"Haas, what the hell? What are you thinking? Are you thinking I'm gonna send you down to Wilmington? Have you dealing meth to the longshoremen working the night shift at the port? Try and mix you in with the vatos down there? Think I'm gonna have you sling rock to the homies in South Central?"
Park found himself thinking about his father again.
"You said 'undercover,' sir. You said 'selling drugs.'"
Bartolome looked at his desk. He cleared away the sports page that had delivered the news that the bullshit going down outside wasn't going to be relieved any longer this summer by the distraction of a few ball games, and found a sheaf of pages that he'd printed on the back sides of old incident reports and call sheets. As per new department regulations that all paper be double printed before recycling.
"Haas."
He flipped through the pages, turning them over and back, finding the side he wanted.
"Most cops, being a cop is one of two things to them. One, being a cop is a job. Pay's not bad. Advancement is available to anyone with some initiative. Benefits are outstanding. No one these days gets the kind of medical police get. Good pension. Lots of perks. And, used to be, plenty of assignments where you don't have to even wear a gun, let alone worry about pulling it. A high school diploma, couple years at a JC, that or do your bit in the service, and you can get in the academy. It's a regular guy job. Average cop, his attitude has more in common with a welder than it does, say, a Treasury agent. Second thing is, for some, being a cop means the badge and the baton and the gun. Guys never gonna say it out loud, not sober, but they just plain like telling people what to do. Go to their house for a barbeque, see them talk to their wife and kids same way they talk to some guy they just busted for assault with intent. Guys come in badge-heavy and stay that way."
He peeled back the corner of one of the sheets of paper in his hand and looked at the one below it.
"Where do you fit in that lineup?"
Park was still thinking about his father, remembering the last time they met, at his mother's funeral. A month later he
"Motorcycles. I can do traffic."
"You ever ride a hog?"
"No."
Bartolome pointed at a picture on the wall. A younger version of himself, traffic leathers, white and blue helmet, astride a Harley
"Field training for the hogs, that takes weeks and costs the department. Tell you right now, the budget the way it is, the only retraining going on is for SWAT and the antiterrorism academy."
Park looked at the picture of Bartolome in his bucket-head rig.
SWATs were in love with their guns and the rush of blowing a door down and charging in. Why they were there, who had done what and to whom, didn't matter in the least to a SWAT. They just wanted a clean shot.
The antiterrorism academy was a one-way ticket to a desk. Paperwork. Intelligence review. Coordinating task forces with the CIA, FBI, Homeland Security, Customs and Border Protection.
He looked away from the picture.
"I don't think I'd be suited to either of those duties, sir."
"You aren't being offered either of those duties."
Bartolome weighed two invisible objects, one in either hand.
"You're being offered this one thing."
He showed the heft and gravity of what it was Park was being offered.
"Or you can accept online training for dispatch."
He displayed the relative lightness of a job relaying radio calls.
Park remembered his father asking him what he thought he could achieve as a police officer that he could not achieve in the family business. The family business having been government service and politics.
He shook his head.
"I simply don't think I'm suited to the duty, sir."
Bartolome nodded.
"Why?"
"From a practical perspective, I'm white. And I don't do street. I mean, I know the jargon, but it never sounds natural. And I've never done drugs myself, not even in college. I don't know where to begin a fake."
The captain smiled.
"Haas, what the hell? What are you thinking? Are you thinking I'm gonna send you down to Wilmington? Have you dealing meth to the longshoremen working the night shift at the port? Try and mix you in with the vatos down there? Think I'm gonna have you sling rock to the homies in South Central?"
Park found himself thinking about his father again.
"You said 'undercover,' sir. You said 'selling drugs.'"
Bartolome looked at his desk. He cleared away the sports page that had delivered the news that the bullshit going down outside wasn't going to be relieved any longer this summer by the distraction of a few ball games, and found a sheaf of pages that he'd printed on the back sides of old incident reports and call sheets. As per new department regulations that all paper be double printed before recycling.
"Haas."
He flipped through the pages, turning them over and back, finding the side he wanted.
"Most cops, being a cop is one of two things to them. One, being a cop is a job. Pay's not bad. Advancement is available to anyone with some initiative. Benefits are outstanding. No one these days gets the kind of medical police get. Good pension. Lots of perks. And, used to be, plenty of assignments where you don't have to even wear a gun, let alone worry about pulling it. A high school diploma, couple years at a JC, that or do your bit in the service, and you can get in the academy. It's a regular guy job. Average cop, his attitude has more in common with a welder than it does, say, a Treasury agent. Second thing is, for some, being a cop means the badge and the baton and the gun. Guys never gonna say it out loud, not sober, but they just plain like telling people what to do. Go to their house for a barbeque, see them talk to their wife and kids same way they talk to some guy they just busted for assault with intent. Guys come in badge-heavy and stay that way."
He peeled back the corner of one of the sheets of paper in his hand and looked at the one below it.
"Where do you fit in that lineup?"
Park was still thinking about his father, remembering the last time they met, at his mother's funeral. A month later he
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