Charly's Epic Fiascos by Kelli London Page A

walkie-talkie from her hip. “I need assistance. . . .” she began, then went back and forth with whoever was on the other end. “Not locked? Really? Okay,” she said. “I’ll try it.” She holstered her walkie-talkie, then turned to Charly. “Don’t you move,” she warned, then let go of Charly.
    â€œOkay,” Charly said, then watched as the officer pulled on the doorknob, struggling to get the stuck door open.
    The officer held the knob with both hands, put the heel of her foot on the brick wall, then pressed her weight against it. The door rattled, but it was obviously very stuck. Charly watched as the officer struggled with the door, and admired the tenacity of the small cop. No matter how much the metal door refused to give, the cop didn’t let up, but instead tried harder, muttering here and there. A loud noise, followed by a barrage of curses, sliced through the air, then glass bottles flew past Charly’s head and crashed to the ground. Shards of glass flew and ricocheted everywhere. Charly ducked, barely escaping a cut or two, and saw a group of teenagers passing by with alcohol and cigarettes and bottles in their hands. They were yelling and singing and, obviously, inebriated.
    Suddenly, she felt a burn on the back of her arm. “Ow!” she said, realizing that the glass had hit her.
    â€œWhat the hell?” the officer said, looking at her arm. A trail of blood moved from her bicep to just above her wrist. “Wait here. And don’t you move,” she said to Charly, whipping out the walkie-talkie with one hand and unlocking her firearm holster with the other.
    Like a deer in headlights, Charly stood in place, afraid to move. She gripped her purse to her side, then thought better of it as more teens ran past, followed by a couple of adults who seemed to be running late. Chicago surely wasn’t Belvidere, and was too dangerous to let her bag be so free. She took it off, draped the strap around her neck, fed one of her arms through it, and crisscrossed it over her midsection. One of her hands stayed inside it, keeping the money in her wallet safe. Yes, she still had a stash in her bra, but she needed all the cash she had. Teenagers still shuffled by, some loud and boisterous, others looking as innocent or intimidated as she. Her phone vibrated in her pocket, scaring her. She’d forgotten it was there.
    â€œHello?” she said breathlessly.
    â€œCharly! What’s good, baby girl?” Mason’s smooth voice asked, giving her a dose of home that she needed.
    â€œBaby girl?” Charly laughed, despite being so rattled. “That’s a new one . . . but nothing’s good, Mason. Nothing.” She gave him a rundown of all her happenings, including waiting on the platform for the cop.
    â€œSerious? You’re waiting on the po-po to come get you?! Nah! Don’t do that.” He was silent for a moment. “Where’s your ID?”
    â€œIn my purse. Why?”
    Mason exhaled on the phone. “Listen to me, Charly. Listen to me carefully. You’re a teenager, no one can search you without your ma dukes’ permission. Hide your ID in your panties, and whatever you do, don’t give them your government.”
    Charly’s face twisted into a look of confusion. What was he talking about? “I don’t get it.” A group of cops now ran past her, one slowing down and looking back at her. “I think one’s here to get me, Mason. He just turned around. Maybe the lady cop told him—”
    â€œDon’t give them your real name, Charly. That’s your government, what’s on your birth certificate. And hide your friggin’ ID in your panties or bra, and don’t talk. Don’t say anything! You hear me? And if you give them any name, give ’em Brooklyn Mason. I’ll be calling and checking, and if they detain you under that name, I’ll be there to get you