droning about some bill the General Assembly was trying to pass. Channel 5 was just droning, period. It struck me how similar all the talking heads were. It’s some kind of law in Atlanta television; all the anchor teams are black/white combinations: older, fatherly white guy paired with younger, attractive, but professional black chick. Every single news channel in Atlanta had identical, interchangeable anchor teams. Some of the teams had, in fact, switched team members more than once.
Maybe I was dozing when I heard Bucky’s name mentioned. I sat up, nearly spilled my milk.
It was Channel 2’s investigative reporter, a serious-faced Geraldo Rivera clone.
“Channel 2’s news has learned exclusively that Atlanta Police now believes that the police detective wounded in an apparent liquor store holdup last night may have had some involvement in the robbery itself.”
“What?” I screamed, sending the Tupperware and cookies
“In a startling new development in the case, sources close to the police told Channel Two tonight that investigators with the APD’s internal affairs division have new information that seems to implicate homicide detective Charles ‘Bucky’ Deavers in a crime spree that may have involved at least half a dozen robberies at automated teller machines in and around the city,” the reporter said.
“Channel Two will keep viewers posted on the case as new leads develop,” the reporter said.
The phone started ringing as soon as I switched channels.
It was Hunsecker. “You see what Dave Kaycrest was saying on Channel Two just now?”
“I saw it, but I don’t believe it,” I said. “It’s bullshit, C.W. Bucky never robbed anybody. Who the hell is behind this? Do you hear anything?”
Silence. “You don’t want to know what I’m hearing,” C.W. said.
“Tell me,” I demanded. “I want to know what kind of shit the cops are trying to hang on him.”
He sighed. “You’re not gonna like it. Hell, I don’t like it. Bucky worked under me. I trained the guy. It hurts me as much as it hurts you.”
“Just tell me.”
“What I’m hearing, it’s just bits and pieces. See, they been having these robberies at ATM machines. But not your typical kind, where the bad guys stake out a machine and stick up the first person walks up to get some money out. This is different. All the robberies have been of businesspeople going to the machines to make their night deposit. Big money. Cash, like six, seven thousand. These guys, that’s all they hit. They wait till the manager of a bar or a restaurant or a store goes to the ATM to make the deposit, bang—they jump out, wearing masks, pointing guns, they take the money away. No shooting, no alarms, nothing. What I hear, there have been eight or nine robberies like that. All around the city.”
“Bank robberies? How come this is the first we’re hearing about it?”
“It ain’t technically a bank robbery,” C.W. pointed out. “That’s the beauty of it. See, the bad guys hit before the money ever gets inside the bank. No bank robbery, no FBI. That’s why the cops been keeping it so quiet. Three or four of these hits happen, it’s interesting. This many hits, of this much money—the cops start wondering how come the bad guys are so smart.”
“How does Bucky tie into any of this?” I asked. “He was shot at a liquor store. And I was right outside, waiting in the car. Even if he was up to something fishy, why would he do it with me around? Why him?”
“I don’t know,” C.W. said. “Maybe because he was working that security job at the liquor store. That guy who owns the store, the Greek. I forget his name. He got hit three or four months ago, trying to make a deposit at an ATM in Little Five Points.”
“This is all wrong, C.W.,” I insisted. “I’m telling you, Bucky wouldn’t anymore pull a robbery than I would. He was a cop, C.W. One of the good guys. There’s something else behind this.”
“Like what?” C.W.
Maybe I was dozing when I heard Bucky’s name mentioned. I sat up, nearly spilled my milk.
It was Channel 2’s investigative reporter, a serious-faced Geraldo Rivera clone.
“Channel 2’s news has learned exclusively that Atlanta Police now believes that the police detective wounded in an apparent liquor store holdup last night may have had some involvement in the robbery itself.”
“What?” I screamed, sending the Tupperware and cookies
“In a startling new development in the case, sources close to the police told Channel Two tonight that investigators with the APD’s internal affairs division have new information that seems to implicate homicide detective Charles ‘Bucky’ Deavers in a crime spree that may have involved at least half a dozen robberies at automated teller machines in and around the city,” the reporter said.
“Channel Two will keep viewers posted on the case as new leads develop,” the reporter said.
The phone started ringing as soon as I switched channels.
It was Hunsecker. “You see what Dave Kaycrest was saying on Channel Two just now?”
“I saw it, but I don’t believe it,” I said. “It’s bullshit, C.W. Bucky never robbed anybody. Who the hell is behind this? Do you hear anything?”
Silence. “You don’t want to know what I’m hearing,” C.W. said.
“Tell me,” I demanded. “I want to know what kind of shit the cops are trying to hang on him.”
He sighed. “You’re not gonna like it. Hell, I don’t like it. Bucky worked under me. I trained the guy. It hurts me as much as it hurts you.”
“Just tell me.”
“What I’m hearing, it’s just bits and pieces. See, they been having these robberies at ATM machines. But not your typical kind, where the bad guys stake out a machine and stick up the first person walks up to get some money out. This is different. All the robberies have been of businesspeople going to the machines to make their night deposit. Big money. Cash, like six, seven thousand. These guys, that’s all they hit. They wait till the manager of a bar or a restaurant or a store goes to the ATM to make the deposit, bang—they jump out, wearing masks, pointing guns, they take the money away. No shooting, no alarms, nothing. What I hear, there have been eight or nine robberies like that. All around the city.”
“Bank robberies? How come this is the first we’re hearing about it?”
“It ain’t technically a bank robbery,” C.W. pointed out. “That’s the beauty of it. See, the bad guys hit before the money ever gets inside the bank. No bank robbery, no FBI. That’s why the cops been keeping it so quiet. Three or four of these hits happen, it’s interesting. This many hits, of this much money—the cops start wondering how come the bad guys are so smart.”
“How does Bucky tie into any of this?” I asked. “He was shot at a liquor store. And I was right outside, waiting in the car. Even if he was up to something fishy, why would he do it with me around? Why him?”
“I don’t know,” C.W. said. “Maybe because he was working that security job at the liquor store. That guy who owns the store, the Greek. I forget his name. He got hit three or four months ago, trying to make a deposit at an ATM in Little Five Points.”
“This is all wrong, C.W.,” I insisted. “I’m telling you, Bucky wouldn’t anymore pull a robbery than I would. He was a cop, C.W. One of the good guys. There’s something else behind this.”
“Like what?” C.W.
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