Day weekend for the first time in my adult life, or being surrounded by hordes of drunk people having a great time! I was a broken man, as close to tears as I’d ever come while at work. My sole consolation lay in knowing that since Shivers was actually expecting me to go out and make an arrest, I had an ironclad excuse for wandering the streets and mingling with all the intoxicated chicks. Judging by the sheer volume of noise coming from out there in the Market, finding a single hapless drunk to frame was going to be a simple piece of law enforcement.
5.
A few hours later, after a brief but refreshing evening nap down in the cozy basement, I set my jaw and headed out into the world. By my way of thinking, it wouldn’t hurt my career one bit if a member of our command staff just happened to drive by and see me out walking the beat. Besides, enough time had passed for my attitude to change, and I was determined to make the most of a miserable situation. If I couldn’t actually be out chugging green beer on a St. Patrick’s Day binge, the next best thing was wandering around and scoping out all the scenery. And who knows, maybe I’d even get lucky and walk up on some small bar fight in progress. That way I could put in a call for backup and pawn the actual arrest off on some patrol rookie, but still honestly report back to Shakey McShivers that I’d cleaned house.
At least it was shaping up to be a calm night, and the radio traffic was remarkably light. The partiers who were already out on the streets were an older bunch for the most part, groups of working stiffs who actually had some concept of how to behave in public. All those people were a little bit loud, but mostly harmless apart from that. I’d be willing to bet cash money that most of the college kids wouldn’t be out doing their hardcore partying until the following night, so I made a mental note to come down with a stomach bug over the next twenty-four hours. The masses of humanity were concentrated up near the corner of North Market and East Bay, down past the Level Two nightclub. After making this assessment, I weighed my options and decided to keep a respectable distance away. I didn’t feel completely at ease until I’d reached Meeting Street, though, which allowed for a three-block buffer zone from the center of the fray. Once there, the wide steps of the old Civil War Museum made for a perfect place to kick back and put my feet up. The museum’s entrance featured a covered, dimly lit porch, so it was an ideal place to hide out in plain sight. Even better, it was still technically within the confines of my assigned beat area.
Directly across Meeting Street, an unmarked police cruiser sat double parked on Meeting Street in front of The Smoking Lamp cigar shop. That baby blue Crown Victoria was taking up a full lane with its hazard lights blinking, causing all the other drivers to slow down and pull into oncoming traffic just to get around it. I had to wonder what cop might be brazen enough to park with such a complete disregard for traffic laws while on an obvious personal errand, but my question was answered as soon as the shop’s door swing open. My old boss from Central, Lieutenant Jim Cobb, waddled out onto the sidewalk wearing a threadbare uniform that looked more gray than blue. He sucked on a fat cigar as he walked, with a second stogie tucked safely behind his ear for later use. Jim’s thick legs jiggled like half-inflated beach balls as he wobbled out into the street and pulled open up his unlocked door. I could hear his groan from all the way across the street as he slumped down behind the wheel, then whipped out a comic book and began reading right there in the middle of traffic. That was Big Jim for you, though: no one was ever going to come between him and Batman, no matter where he happened to be parked.
I actually had a flashlight on my duty belt for a change, so I aimed a couple quick bursts of light in the direction of his
5.
A few hours later, after a brief but refreshing evening nap down in the cozy basement, I set my jaw and headed out into the world. By my way of thinking, it wouldn’t hurt my career one bit if a member of our command staff just happened to drive by and see me out walking the beat. Besides, enough time had passed for my attitude to change, and I was determined to make the most of a miserable situation. If I couldn’t actually be out chugging green beer on a St. Patrick’s Day binge, the next best thing was wandering around and scoping out all the scenery. And who knows, maybe I’d even get lucky and walk up on some small bar fight in progress. That way I could put in a call for backup and pawn the actual arrest off on some patrol rookie, but still honestly report back to Shakey McShivers that I’d cleaned house.
At least it was shaping up to be a calm night, and the radio traffic was remarkably light. The partiers who were already out on the streets were an older bunch for the most part, groups of working stiffs who actually had some concept of how to behave in public. All those people were a little bit loud, but mostly harmless apart from that. I’d be willing to bet cash money that most of the college kids wouldn’t be out doing their hardcore partying until the following night, so I made a mental note to come down with a stomach bug over the next twenty-four hours. The masses of humanity were concentrated up near the corner of North Market and East Bay, down past the Level Two nightclub. After making this assessment, I weighed my options and decided to keep a respectable distance away. I didn’t feel completely at ease until I’d reached Meeting Street, though, which allowed for a three-block buffer zone from the center of the fray. Once there, the wide steps of the old Civil War Museum made for a perfect place to kick back and put my feet up. The museum’s entrance featured a covered, dimly lit porch, so it was an ideal place to hide out in plain sight. Even better, it was still technically within the confines of my assigned beat area.
Directly across Meeting Street, an unmarked police cruiser sat double parked on Meeting Street in front of The Smoking Lamp cigar shop. That baby blue Crown Victoria was taking up a full lane with its hazard lights blinking, causing all the other drivers to slow down and pull into oncoming traffic just to get around it. I had to wonder what cop might be brazen enough to park with such a complete disregard for traffic laws while on an obvious personal errand, but my question was answered as soon as the shop’s door swing open. My old boss from Central, Lieutenant Jim Cobb, waddled out onto the sidewalk wearing a threadbare uniform that looked more gray than blue. He sucked on a fat cigar as he walked, with a second stogie tucked safely behind his ear for later use. Jim’s thick legs jiggled like half-inflated beach balls as he wobbled out into the street and pulled open up his unlocked door. I could hear his groan from all the way across the street as he slumped down behind the wheel, then whipped out a comic book and began reading right there in the middle of traffic. That was Big Jim for you, though: no one was ever going to come between him and Batman, no matter where he happened to be parked.
I actually had a flashlight on my duty belt for a change, so I aimed a couple quick bursts of light in the direction of his
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