back in the next day or two to check on you. In the meantime, Mrs. Copeland, I want you to have this.” He gave her the bullhorn. “You see anybody making a mess in the alley, just press the red trigger and yell at them with this. If that doesn’t work, you give me a call, any time of the day or night.”
He wrote his number down on a piece of paper and handed it to her.
“I can’t believe you’re doing all this for me,” she said.
“It’s my job, Mrs. Copeland.”
“This used to be such a nice neighborhood,” she said. “You should have seen it.”
“I still can.” Wade motioned to her garden. “Right here.”
“It smells like piss in this car,” Terrill whined from the backseat as they continued their patrol.
“Then you should feel right at home,” Billy said and then looked at Wade. “Why did we bother arresting him? He’s not exactly a major felon.”
“He is to Mrs. Copeland,” Wade said.
And he was sure that she was already talking about the arrest to all of her friends. Word would spread quickly, especially after she started using the bullhorn to yell at the junkies and hookers in the alley.
The news wouldn’t irritate guys like Fallon and Timo much, but Wade hoped it might give the law‐abiding residents some comfort.
“What Terrill said was true,” Billy said.
“Which was what?”
“Nobody pees on the dirt. We always have to pee against a tree or a bush or a rock.”
“It’s instinct,” Wade said.
“You think it’s about marking territory.”
“I think it’s about aiming,” Wade said.
“So we’re using our dicks like guns,” Billy said.
“Dicks came before guns,” Wade said.
“So we’re using our guns like dicks.”
“Most of the time,” Wade said.
The blocks that followed were a mix of small homes and boxy, two‐story apartment buildings built over open carports. On the retail boulevards, the liquor stores were as ubiquitous as the Starbucks coffeehouses were in New King City. There seemed to be a liquor store on every corner, second only in number to the nail salons.
He wondered if the women here were really passionate about decorating their nails or if they just enjoyed getting high on the fumes.
He kept heading east until he reached the freeway, the massive concrete interchange looming over the warren of small warehouses, repair shops, and storage units on the street and casting them in constant shadow.
One of the warehouses had a line of street people leaning against the wall out front, waiting to get inside. “Mission Possible” was painted in big letters on the windowless white cinder block. Wade wondered what the building was before it was a mission.
There was a man in a short‐sleeve black shirt with a clerical collar and blue jeans walking down the line passing out water bottles from a shoulder bag. He appeared to Wade to be in his late twenties, with a shading of a beard that looked like it had been applied with a black marker to give his chin definition.
Wade pulled up to the curb and got out, meeting the priest on the sidewalk beside the police car.
The priest looked past Wade to Terrill Curtis in the backseat. “It’s a little early for you to be dropping people off here, isn’t it?”
“I don’t know,” Wade said. “Is it?”
“At least you had the courtesy to stop your car before kicking him out.”
“This isn’t his destination. He’s on his way to jail. I just stopped by to introduce myself and to let you know we’re here if you ever need us. I’m Sergeant Tom Wade and this is Officer Billy Hagen.” Billy nodded from his seat in the car. “We’re working out of the new substation across from the Pancake Galaxy.”
“I’m sorry, Sergeant,” the man said, offering his hand. “I’m Ted Fryer, but everyone calls me Friar Ted—you know, like Friar Tuck.”
“Cute,” Wade said, shaking the man’s hand.
“But I’m not actually a friar, or an ordained priest,” Friar Ted said.
“Then why are
He wrote his number down on a piece of paper and handed it to her.
“I can’t believe you’re doing all this for me,” she said.
“It’s my job, Mrs. Copeland.”
“This used to be such a nice neighborhood,” she said. “You should have seen it.”
“I still can.” Wade motioned to her garden. “Right here.”
“It smells like piss in this car,” Terrill whined from the backseat as they continued their patrol.
“Then you should feel right at home,” Billy said and then looked at Wade. “Why did we bother arresting him? He’s not exactly a major felon.”
“He is to Mrs. Copeland,” Wade said.
And he was sure that she was already talking about the arrest to all of her friends. Word would spread quickly, especially after she started using the bullhorn to yell at the junkies and hookers in the alley.
The news wouldn’t irritate guys like Fallon and Timo much, but Wade hoped it might give the law‐abiding residents some comfort.
“What Terrill said was true,” Billy said.
“Which was what?”
“Nobody pees on the dirt. We always have to pee against a tree or a bush or a rock.”
“It’s instinct,” Wade said.
“You think it’s about marking territory.”
“I think it’s about aiming,” Wade said.
“So we’re using our dicks like guns,” Billy said.
“Dicks came before guns,” Wade said.
“So we’re using our guns like dicks.”
“Most of the time,” Wade said.
The blocks that followed were a mix of small homes and boxy, two‐story apartment buildings built over open carports. On the retail boulevards, the liquor stores were as ubiquitous as the Starbucks coffeehouses were in New King City. There seemed to be a liquor store on every corner, second only in number to the nail salons.
He wondered if the women here were really passionate about decorating their nails or if they just enjoyed getting high on the fumes.
He kept heading east until he reached the freeway, the massive concrete interchange looming over the warren of small warehouses, repair shops, and storage units on the street and casting them in constant shadow.
One of the warehouses had a line of street people leaning against the wall out front, waiting to get inside. “Mission Possible” was painted in big letters on the windowless white cinder block. Wade wondered what the building was before it was a mission.
There was a man in a short‐sleeve black shirt with a clerical collar and blue jeans walking down the line passing out water bottles from a shoulder bag. He appeared to Wade to be in his late twenties, with a shading of a beard that looked like it had been applied with a black marker to give his chin definition.
Wade pulled up to the curb and got out, meeting the priest on the sidewalk beside the police car.
The priest looked past Wade to Terrill Curtis in the backseat. “It’s a little early for you to be dropping people off here, isn’t it?”
“I don’t know,” Wade said. “Is it?”
“At least you had the courtesy to stop your car before kicking him out.”
“This isn’t his destination. He’s on his way to jail. I just stopped by to introduce myself and to let you know we’re here if you ever need us. I’m Sergeant Tom Wade and this is Officer Billy Hagen.” Billy nodded from his seat in the car. “We’re working out of the new substation across from the Pancake Galaxy.”
“I’m sorry, Sergeant,” the man said, offering his hand. “I’m Ted Fryer, but everyone calls me Friar Ted—you know, like Friar Tuck.”
“Cute,” Wade said, shaking the man’s hand.
“But I’m not actually a friar, or an ordained priest,” Friar Ted said.
“Then why are
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