complex. In the parking lot, five young boys were kicking a plastic ball back and forth across the cracked asphalt. Karr swung his four-year old Chevy van around to the back of the complex, searching for his neighbor’s Ford pickup, hoping the jerk had already left for work.
God, he hated that bastard. Son of a bitch laughed at him, called him rent-a-cop. Karr wished somebody would shove a fist down his throat and wipe that smirk off his face. Karr pictured taking him by the throat and squeezing, watching as he turned red, then purple, laughing when his eyes popped and his tongue hung out. Let him see how it felt to be laughed at.
When he didn’t see the pickup, he relaxed and swung around to the front lot, dodging the stand of kid’s bikes. He eased into one of the marked slots as close to the kids as he could get. They probably had the day off for some teacher’s conference or something.
He stepped out of his van, taking time to straighten his uniform, making a big show out of hitching up his gun belt. All the while, he kept an eye on the kids.
They stopped playing and were watching him. He hooked his thumbs on his wide belt and rocked back on his heels. He unsnapped his holster as if he was going to take out his forty-five. Sure enough, all five pairs of eyes watched.
“Hi, Mr. Wolfe,” the older boy said respectfully.
“Hello, there, young man. You being a good boy? ‘Cause if you’re not, I’ll haul you away!” He laughed to show the kids he was kidding. Sorta. Didn’t hurt to put the fear of God into the little snots. He held his hand over the tooled leather holster.
“Sure am,” the tow-headed kid said, eying the gun. “You gonna show us?”
Karr beamed.
“Naaa, got things to do. Maybe some other time,” he told them, swaggering to the building.
On the concrete step in front of the stairway leading to the second story, something crunched under his foot. He looked down and saw a half-eaten ice-cream drumstick.
“Damn kids,” he grumbled, wiping the heel of his shoe on the concrete step. Torn gum and candy wrappers littered the stairwell. A baby from the first floor cried, its shrieking getting louder and louder until Karr thought his ears would burst.
He unlocked the door to his apartment. Inside, the drapes were closed against the morning sun and it was quiet. Looked like Rosa had made it to her job at the Mexican restaurant off Pecos Avenue and 38th. Keeping the drapes closed, he turned on the floor fan next to his chair.
In the small living room, a fringed throw made a feeble attempt to cover the worn cushions of the couch against the wall. His brown recliner faced the TV. A water-stained wood coffee table held empty beer cans, a ceramic ashtray overflowing with butts, a limp ivy plant and a well-worn stack of men’s magazines.
He could go for another cup of coffee, but he didn’t feel like wading through all the dirty dishes in the kitchen. After Rosa’s bout with her stash of tequila last night, her defense against lonely nights, he wasn’t surprised she hadn’t cleaned up. But looking at all his empty beer cans, he didn’t have room to complain. He guessed they deserved each other.
Living with Rosa wasn’t no picnic, but it was sure better than being wi th his ex-old lady and that mope y kid. That shrew had nagged him from the time he got up until he went to bed. “Pick up your clothes.” “Pick up your cans.” “Aren’t you going to work today?” Always something, nag, nag, nag, until he finally busted her a good one and took off almost ten years ago.
Karr went into the bedroom to take off his uniform. He unloaded his gun belt, carefully placing his nightstick, handcuffs and finally his gun, on the pressed wood dresser. Then he emptied his pockets and lit a cigarette.
Taking off his boots and uniform, he hung his shirt and pants in the bathroom, ready to put back on in a couple of hours. He had to turn in his time sheets, and when he had a choice between his
God, he hated that bastard. Son of a bitch laughed at him, called him rent-a-cop. Karr wished somebody would shove a fist down his throat and wipe that smirk off his face. Karr pictured taking him by the throat and squeezing, watching as he turned red, then purple, laughing when his eyes popped and his tongue hung out. Let him see how it felt to be laughed at.
When he didn’t see the pickup, he relaxed and swung around to the front lot, dodging the stand of kid’s bikes. He eased into one of the marked slots as close to the kids as he could get. They probably had the day off for some teacher’s conference or something.
He stepped out of his van, taking time to straighten his uniform, making a big show out of hitching up his gun belt. All the while, he kept an eye on the kids.
They stopped playing and were watching him. He hooked his thumbs on his wide belt and rocked back on his heels. He unsnapped his holster as if he was going to take out his forty-five. Sure enough, all five pairs of eyes watched.
“Hi, Mr. Wolfe,” the older boy said respectfully.
“Hello, there, young man. You being a good boy? ‘Cause if you’re not, I’ll haul you away!” He laughed to show the kids he was kidding. Sorta. Didn’t hurt to put the fear of God into the little snots. He held his hand over the tooled leather holster.
“Sure am,” the tow-headed kid said, eying the gun. “You gonna show us?”
Karr beamed.
“Naaa, got things to do. Maybe some other time,” he told them, swaggering to the building.
On the concrete step in front of the stairway leading to the second story, something crunched under his foot. He looked down and saw a half-eaten ice-cream drumstick.
“Damn kids,” he grumbled, wiping the heel of his shoe on the concrete step. Torn gum and candy wrappers littered the stairwell. A baby from the first floor cried, its shrieking getting louder and louder until Karr thought his ears would burst.
He unlocked the door to his apartment. Inside, the drapes were closed against the morning sun and it was quiet. Looked like Rosa had made it to her job at the Mexican restaurant off Pecos Avenue and 38th. Keeping the drapes closed, he turned on the floor fan next to his chair.
In the small living room, a fringed throw made a feeble attempt to cover the worn cushions of the couch against the wall. His brown recliner faced the TV. A water-stained wood coffee table held empty beer cans, a ceramic ashtray overflowing with butts, a limp ivy plant and a well-worn stack of men’s magazines.
He could go for another cup of coffee, but he didn’t feel like wading through all the dirty dishes in the kitchen. After Rosa’s bout with her stash of tequila last night, her defense against lonely nights, he wasn’t surprised she hadn’t cleaned up. But looking at all his empty beer cans, he didn’t have room to complain. He guessed they deserved each other.
Living with Rosa wasn’t no picnic, but it was sure better than being wi th his ex-old lady and that mope y kid. That shrew had nagged him from the time he got up until he went to bed. “Pick up your clothes.” “Pick up your cans.” “Aren’t you going to work today?” Always something, nag, nag, nag, until he finally busted her a good one and took off almost ten years ago.
Karr went into the bedroom to take off his uniform. He unloaded his gun belt, carefully placing his nightstick, handcuffs and finally his gun, on the pressed wood dresser. Then he emptied his pockets and lit a cigarette.
Taking off his boots and uniform, he hung his shirt and pants in the bathroom, ready to put back on in a couple of hours. He had to turn in his time sheets, and when he had a choice between his
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