Bunnie Adams, yell, “she’s the homeowner.”
A baby-faced cop, gun at the ready,
advanced cautiously into the blaze of light. Picking up the shotgun, he handed
it off to his partner, who broke open the breech. Homemade shotgun shells fell
onto the ground.
“Not loaded, huh?” the cop said.
“Only rock salt and bacon rind.”
“No shit? Jesus, lady, where did
you get the crazy idea to load your shotgun shells with stuff like that?”
“My great grandmother.”
* * *
“I think I might have found your
problem,” a cop hollered from downstairs. There were now six of them and three
patrol cars. I was in the living room being grilled by the boy cop, who seemed
pissed because he couldn’t find anything to charge me or my dog with. He waved his
hand in disgusted dismissal, indicating I could go down and see what his crony
had found.
RJ, who had lost interest in
barking and menacing men in blue, docilely followed me down the stairs to where
a grinning officer stood in three inches of water.
“Looks like you need the water
police,” he quipped. All the cops in the city and I gotta get one who thinks
he’s Jerry Seinfeld, only black. He pointed to a busted pipe. Water shot up
onto the wiring around a door. “System shorted,” was his brilliant verdict.
I turned off the water main and
tromped upstairs to call a plumber who lived down the street in a home that
rivaled those of the professional athletes on the same block. I could hardly
wait to get his bill.
Oakland’s finest, laughing and
shaking their heads, began filing out to their cars. “Hey, you guys, why don’t
you each take a damned bucket of water?” I called out to what I thought was an
empty house. I was startled to hear a reply.
“You want us to mop the floor as
well?”
Crap, leftovers. At least that’s
what I hoped. I followed the voice to find a man in a rumpled suit sitting on
my couch, scratching RJ’s ears. RJ’s obvious approval notwithstanding, I was
judging the distance to my shotgun when the man flashed a badge. I relaxed.
“Martinez,” he said as an
introduction. “I got here a little late. Looks like things are wrapped up, so
guess I’ll be going. Here’s my card if you think you have any more problems.”
I took the card, read it, and
nodded. “Thanks, Detective Martinez. I guess it was a false alarm. Anyway,
that’s what your guys think.”
“And you don’t?”
“I’m not sure. Could be. One thing
for sure, I got a mess on my hands. How did I rate a dick?”
Martinez did a double take and
grunted. “You have some fairly important neighbors who don’t like being woken
up in the wee hours.”
“Ah, yes. The plumber.”
He smirked. “Nope, the NBA. Nearing
the playoffs, you know.”
“Aha, so all those decibels on my
roof did wake the dead? Or is it my
imagination that Oakland died on the court weeks ago and refuses to lie down?”
His lips twitched. “They do have a
big game tomorrow, so let’s don’t bury them quite yet.”
“Such loyalty. Well, you can tell
the NBA…” the doorbell rang. “Oh, never
mind. With any luck at all, that’ll be my plumber. You might stick around and
arrest him when he’s done. He’s sure to commit highway robbery.”
16
My bedside alarm clock went off at
eight, exactly two hours after Mr. Handy Pipe departed with the following
warning: “I’ve left a sump pump working on that downstairs flooding. Check it
after two hours, cuz if the pump runs dry and burns up my motor, I’ll have to charge you for a new one.” What
happened to the good neighbor policy?
I needed sleep, but I needed the
three hundred bucks I’d have to pay for a burned out pump more, so I dutifully set my alarm clock.
Stumbling down the stairs, I found
that most of the standing water was gone. I turned off the sump, dug out my
Shop-Vac, and sucked what I could from the soggy rug. The house alarm people
were due later, and I was anxious to hear what they had to say,
A baby-faced cop, gun at the ready,
advanced cautiously into the blaze of light. Picking up the shotgun, he handed
it off to his partner, who broke open the breech. Homemade shotgun shells fell
onto the ground.
“Not loaded, huh?” the cop said.
“Only rock salt and bacon rind.”
“No shit? Jesus, lady, where did
you get the crazy idea to load your shotgun shells with stuff like that?”
“My great grandmother.”
* * *
“I think I might have found your
problem,” a cop hollered from downstairs. There were now six of them and three
patrol cars. I was in the living room being grilled by the boy cop, who seemed
pissed because he couldn’t find anything to charge me or my dog with. He waved his
hand in disgusted dismissal, indicating I could go down and see what his crony
had found.
RJ, who had lost interest in
barking and menacing men in blue, docilely followed me down the stairs to where
a grinning officer stood in three inches of water.
“Looks like you need the water
police,” he quipped. All the cops in the city and I gotta get one who thinks
he’s Jerry Seinfeld, only black. He pointed to a busted pipe. Water shot up
onto the wiring around a door. “System shorted,” was his brilliant verdict.
I turned off the water main and
tromped upstairs to call a plumber who lived down the street in a home that
rivaled those of the professional athletes on the same block. I could hardly
wait to get his bill.
Oakland’s finest, laughing and
shaking their heads, began filing out to their cars. “Hey, you guys, why don’t
you each take a damned bucket of water?” I called out to what I thought was an
empty house. I was startled to hear a reply.
“You want us to mop the floor as
well?”
Crap, leftovers. At least that’s
what I hoped. I followed the voice to find a man in a rumpled suit sitting on
my couch, scratching RJ’s ears. RJ’s obvious approval notwithstanding, I was
judging the distance to my shotgun when the man flashed a badge. I relaxed.
“Martinez,” he said as an
introduction. “I got here a little late. Looks like things are wrapped up, so
guess I’ll be going. Here’s my card if you think you have any more problems.”
I took the card, read it, and
nodded. “Thanks, Detective Martinez. I guess it was a false alarm. Anyway,
that’s what your guys think.”
“And you don’t?”
“I’m not sure. Could be. One thing
for sure, I got a mess on my hands. How did I rate a dick?”
Martinez did a double take and
grunted. “You have some fairly important neighbors who don’t like being woken
up in the wee hours.”
“Ah, yes. The plumber.”
He smirked. “Nope, the NBA. Nearing
the playoffs, you know.”
“Aha, so all those decibels on my
roof did wake the dead? Or is it my
imagination that Oakland died on the court weeks ago and refuses to lie down?”
His lips twitched. “They do have a
big game tomorrow, so let’s don’t bury them quite yet.”
“Such loyalty. Well, you can tell
the NBA…” the doorbell rang. “Oh, never
mind. With any luck at all, that’ll be my plumber. You might stick around and
arrest him when he’s done. He’s sure to commit highway robbery.”
16
My bedside alarm clock went off at
eight, exactly two hours after Mr. Handy Pipe departed with the following
warning: “I’ve left a sump pump working on that downstairs flooding. Check it
after two hours, cuz if the pump runs dry and burns up my motor, I’ll have to charge you for a new one.” What
happened to the good neighbor policy?
I needed sleep, but I needed the
three hundred bucks I’d have to pay for a burned out pump more, so I dutifully set my alarm clock.
Stumbling down the stairs, I found
that most of the standing water was gone. I turned off the sump, dug out my
Shop-Vac, and sucked what I could from the soggy rug. The house alarm people
were due later, and I was anxious to hear what they had to say,
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