L.A. at eighteen, was hired by the Bell Gardens police department at nineteen, and transferred to Las Vegas at the age of twenty-two.
“Why Vegas?” Melanie asked.
“I felt like I could do more good here than in L.A. Plus, the opportunity for advancement is much better. So are the benefits.”
The rest he could be truthful about if he wanted to. For twenty years he’d been working for Metro, first as a beat cop, now as detective. At forty-two, it was time for him to move on up to sergeant and have a little more power and a lot less interaction with the dregs of this town. He could’ve done it sooner, but he’d still had hope that he could make a bigger difference on the street than he could behind a desk. Year by year, however, what had started as a desire to fix what was wrong with Vegas had morphed into a desperate urge to just have some effect upon the rampant crime and community apathy—the byproducts of lives dominated by poverty and addiction. But now his career ambitions had changed and his energy had shifted from serving the community, to something he could have an effect upon: his own advancement.
The loss of his idealism had been a tough defeat, but it was inevitable when he saw the same people day after day committing the same crimes or going back to the same fucked-up situations. When your best effort wasn’t helping anyone, it could drive a man insane, or to drink, or to buy cars that went one hundred ninety miles an hour, or to fuck people whose names he didn’t know. In public. He’d never gone so far as to do anything that would jeopardize his career. It was, after all, what made him better than his parents—proof that the apple could fall wherever gravity dictated, but after that, it was all about personal choice. About self-control. About sacrifice and work. He’d seen plenty of his fellow cops break laws and use their get-out-of-jail-free cards. Typical really, but that kind of thing made a guy a lot harder to promote. So James kept his shenanigans to the legal variety. Strip joints, poker rooms, and once in a while, the sex clubs. He was a cop after all, not a politician.
After years of service and a slow degradation of his desire to make Vegas a better place, he knew it was best to just accept the limitations of policing this city and start focusing on what he could control. To start planning his future after police work along with the gentlest path to that future. He thought he might buy a boat and hire himself out as a fishing guide on Lake Mead. He could do anything; the sky was the limit and his pension would support him. And once he realized that there was going to be another life after this—a better life—a nice, safe desk job started to look like a damn good idea, and a promotion to sergeant would get him there.
James took a swig of his drink. He smelled the sweet burn of a cigarette and glanced toward the center bar where a man was smoking and playing a video poker machine. He thought about bumming one from him, then glanced at Melanie and figured she was probably not a smoker. He really wasn’t either, not enough to buy a pack, it just went well with a drink sometimes. Everyone knew that. That’s why it had driven him nuts when they’d passed the “Clean Indoor Air Act” in 2006, banning smoking from all the restaurants, pubs and taverns. It was all complete bullshit of course. A plot cooked up by the powers that be to get people out of the neighborhood bars and into the casinos.
He remembered the ridiculous commercials in support of the law. One particular TV ad had aired showing a blond five-year-old little girl in the non-smoking section of a restaurant sweetly peering over the back of the booth at a fat, disgusting middle-aged man marinating in a cloud of smoke a couple of booths away—in the smoking section. “Second-hand smoke kills” and all that. Waitresses were portrayed as exploited refugees forced to work under smoky conditions that were killing them by the
“Why Vegas?” Melanie asked.
“I felt like I could do more good here than in L.A. Plus, the opportunity for advancement is much better. So are the benefits.”
The rest he could be truthful about if he wanted to. For twenty years he’d been working for Metro, first as a beat cop, now as detective. At forty-two, it was time for him to move on up to sergeant and have a little more power and a lot less interaction with the dregs of this town. He could’ve done it sooner, but he’d still had hope that he could make a bigger difference on the street than he could behind a desk. Year by year, however, what had started as a desire to fix what was wrong with Vegas had morphed into a desperate urge to just have some effect upon the rampant crime and community apathy—the byproducts of lives dominated by poverty and addiction. But now his career ambitions had changed and his energy had shifted from serving the community, to something he could have an effect upon: his own advancement.
The loss of his idealism had been a tough defeat, but it was inevitable when he saw the same people day after day committing the same crimes or going back to the same fucked-up situations. When your best effort wasn’t helping anyone, it could drive a man insane, or to drink, or to buy cars that went one hundred ninety miles an hour, or to fuck people whose names he didn’t know. In public. He’d never gone so far as to do anything that would jeopardize his career. It was, after all, what made him better than his parents—proof that the apple could fall wherever gravity dictated, but after that, it was all about personal choice. About self-control. About sacrifice and work. He’d seen plenty of his fellow cops break laws and use their get-out-of-jail-free cards. Typical really, but that kind of thing made a guy a lot harder to promote. So James kept his shenanigans to the legal variety. Strip joints, poker rooms, and once in a while, the sex clubs. He was a cop after all, not a politician.
After years of service and a slow degradation of his desire to make Vegas a better place, he knew it was best to just accept the limitations of policing this city and start focusing on what he could control. To start planning his future after police work along with the gentlest path to that future. He thought he might buy a boat and hire himself out as a fishing guide on Lake Mead. He could do anything; the sky was the limit and his pension would support him. And once he realized that there was going to be another life after this—a better life—a nice, safe desk job started to look like a damn good idea, and a promotion to sergeant would get him there.
James took a swig of his drink. He smelled the sweet burn of a cigarette and glanced toward the center bar where a man was smoking and playing a video poker machine. He thought about bumming one from him, then glanced at Melanie and figured she was probably not a smoker. He really wasn’t either, not enough to buy a pack, it just went well with a drink sometimes. Everyone knew that. That’s why it had driven him nuts when they’d passed the “Clean Indoor Air Act” in 2006, banning smoking from all the restaurants, pubs and taverns. It was all complete bullshit of course. A plot cooked up by the powers that be to get people out of the neighborhood bars and into the casinos.
He remembered the ridiculous commercials in support of the law. One particular TV ad had aired showing a blond five-year-old little girl in the non-smoking section of a restaurant sweetly peering over the back of the booth at a fat, disgusting middle-aged man marinating in a cloud of smoke a couple of booths away—in the smoking section. “Second-hand smoke kills” and all that. Waitresses were portrayed as exploited refugees forced to work under smoky conditions that were killing them by the
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