rearview mirror. Jim startled and jumped up in his seat, probably thinking that a semi truck was bearing down on him from behind. Once fully upright, he craned that thick neck of his around and I threw him a friendly wave. Jim shot me a friendly middle finger in return and began to roll down his window, but the physical exertion quickly got the better of him and he reached for his radio microphone instead. Shouting at me from across the street would have probably worked just fine, but I got the distinct impression that Big Jim must have been feeling even less motivated than usual.
The radio on my hip crackled to life. “801 to 714.”
I reached down for my walkie-talkie, somewhat surprised that I’d actually remembered to turn the damned thing on. Still, I was being extra careful to wait a few seconds before responding. The radio channel was shared between all the cops downtown, so you never wanted to answer up quickly. It never paid off to sound overly eager, or else you ran the risk of giving off the impression that you didn’t already have enough work to do.
“714 here. Go ahead, sir.”
Jim keyed the mike to respond but got caught up in a sudden coughing fit before he had the chance to speak. I cringed in sympathy as his cruiser rocked back and forth at each of those big heaving breaths. Big Jim’s been smoking four packs of unfiltered Lucky Strikes a day for the past forty years, so his lungs aren’t quite as pink as they used to be. The last time we’d talked, Jim had confided that he was contemplating a transfer down to the identification section in order to get out of climbing an extra flight of stairs every day.
My old boss finally managed to roll down his window and spit a wad of phlegm out onto the blacktop. While Jim took his sweet time about getting back on the mike, I watched as his loogie shimmered in brilliant shades of brown and yellow beneath the soft light of the streetlamps. “714,” he barked again, “meet me at East Bay and Vendue Range for a quick follow-up.” His cruiser’s tail lights flashed red as he stomped down on the brake pedal and threw the car into gear. Without even waiting for a response, Jim gunned the engine and shot southward on Meeting Street. It looked as if he was doing his best to leave a trail of burnt rubber in his wake, but given the two blown cylinders in his creaky old cruiser all he managed to produce was this small cloud of obnoxious blue smog.
I sighed, dreading the thought of walking another four whole blocks. At least it would be one more opportunity for me to get some fresh air, which definitely wouldn’t have been the case if Jim had thought to offer me a ride. The department’s policy manual says that we’re technically not supposed to be smoking inside city vehicles but Big Jim’s eyesight has always been kind of spotty, and it’s particularly hard for him to focus on anything he doesn’t agree with.
“714 copies” I said, slipping my radio safely back into its holder. With a grunt, I eased my rear end up off the steps and used the railing to pull myself vertical. Walking directly through the Market was the most direct route, and even though it was a risky proposition with all the drunks and tourists milling around, I kind of felt like living dangerously. With any luck, some patrol supervisor might happen to drive past and catch sight of me actually doing my duty. Who knows, maybe Shaky McShivers himself might even still be lurking about, looking to check up on me. It’s been my experience that it’s best to play it safe every once in a while, especially when you know for a fact that your boss is out to get you.
As I shuffled my way through the crowds, I caught sight of a solitary frat boy ducking down behind a parked car. His sudden movements caught my attention almost as much as the preppy manner in which he’d popped up the collar of his polo shirt. I gave him a second look and realized he’d just stepped out of sight to relieve himself,
The radio on my hip crackled to life. “801 to 714.”
I reached down for my walkie-talkie, somewhat surprised that I’d actually remembered to turn the damned thing on. Still, I was being extra careful to wait a few seconds before responding. The radio channel was shared between all the cops downtown, so you never wanted to answer up quickly. It never paid off to sound overly eager, or else you ran the risk of giving off the impression that you didn’t already have enough work to do.
“714 here. Go ahead, sir.”
Jim keyed the mike to respond but got caught up in a sudden coughing fit before he had the chance to speak. I cringed in sympathy as his cruiser rocked back and forth at each of those big heaving breaths. Big Jim’s been smoking four packs of unfiltered Lucky Strikes a day for the past forty years, so his lungs aren’t quite as pink as they used to be. The last time we’d talked, Jim had confided that he was contemplating a transfer down to the identification section in order to get out of climbing an extra flight of stairs every day.
My old boss finally managed to roll down his window and spit a wad of phlegm out onto the blacktop. While Jim took his sweet time about getting back on the mike, I watched as his loogie shimmered in brilliant shades of brown and yellow beneath the soft light of the streetlamps. “714,” he barked again, “meet me at East Bay and Vendue Range for a quick follow-up.” His cruiser’s tail lights flashed red as he stomped down on the brake pedal and threw the car into gear. Without even waiting for a response, Jim gunned the engine and shot southward on Meeting Street. It looked as if he was doing his best to leave a trail of burnt rubber in his wake, but given the two blown cylinders in his creaky old cruiser all he managed to produce was this small cloud of obnoxious blue smog.
I sighed, dreading the thought of walking another four whole blocks. At least it would be one more opportunity for me to get some fresh air, which definitely wouldn’t have been the case if Jim had thought to offer me a ride. The department’s policy manual says that we’re technically not supposed to be smoking inside city vehicles but Big Jim’s eyesight has always been kind of spotty, and it’s particularly hard for him to focus on anything he doesn’t agree with.
“714 copies” I said, slipping my radio safely back into its holder. With a grunt, I eased my rear end up off the steps and used the railing to pull myself vertical. Walking directly through the Market was the most direct route, and even though it was a risky proposition with all the drunks and tourists milling around, I kind of felt like living dangerously. With any luck, some patrol supervisor might happen to drive past and catch sight of me actually doing my duty. Who knows, maybe Shaky McShivers himself might even still be lurking about, looking to check up on me. It’s been my experience that it’s best to play it safe every once in a while, especially when you know for a fact that your boss is out to get you.
As I shuffled my way through the crowds, I caught sight of a solitary frat boy ducking down behind a parked car. His sudden movements caught my attention almost as much as the preppy manner in which he’d popped up the collar of his polo shirt. I gave him a second look and realized he’d just stepped out of sight to relieve himself,
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