Revolver by Duane Swierczynski

Book: Revolver by Duane Swierczynski Read Free Book Online
Authors: Duane Swierczynski
crazy,” Stan says. “Where?”
    Right there, on Broad Street, in front of the mammoth Divine Lorraine Hotel. Black folks give the white perv a wide berth as he struts like a mummer, baton in hand. Teenagers yelling and pointing at the stupid honky with his peeper out. Unbelievable.
    Stan pulls their big red machine to a halt but before the springs can finish rocking Wildey is up and out the door. They’ve been partners for exactly ten minutes and this is the job they catch. If Stan believed in omens, this would be a perfect one.
    “Hey, man, what’s going on?” Wildey says, looking around to make sure Weenie-Waggler here doesn’t have any friends nearby. Sometimes holdup crews will bait you. Or in this case, masturbate you.
    “Get away from me, you black pig!”
    Furious strokes now, like he’s trying to start a fire. His entire body quivers with pure rage.
    “Why don’t you put that thing away?”
    “Why don’t you suck on it for a while!”
    “Thanks, man, but I’ve already had supper.”
    Stan’s out of the car by this point, nervously scoping the scene. He hates uptown. Back before the war, the Lorraine Hotel used to be a fancy joint. But in 1948 it was sold to Father Divine and his Universal Peace Mission Movement. From what Stan understands, anybody could stay here—whites, blacks, men, women, whoever. A fully integrated hotel. You just couldn’t drink, smoke, screw, or curse. And you had to dress modestly.
    Maybe that’s why they kicked this guy out.
    “You don’t want to say things like that, man,” Wildey tells the guy. “Not in front of my partner.”
    “Fuck your partner!” the guy screams, stroking his cock and pointing it in Stan’s general direction. Almost as if he’s being literal.
    Stan pulls his baton, thinking, Yeah, well, mine’s bigger. One tap on the ol’ wacek and this will be over.
    “Hold on, hold on,” Wildey says, as if reading his mind. He looks over at Stan, motions with his hand. Easy. “There’s no need for that, Father.”
    Father? Did his new partner just call him Father? How old does he think he is, anyway?
    Wildey turns his attention back to the perv.
    “I’m telling you, man, you shouldn’t curse around my partner. He’s new on the force.”
    Weenie-Waggler is confused. He doesn’t cease his stroking, but it most definitely slows down a little.
    “And you know what he did before joining the force? He was an ordained minister. Isn’t that right, Father Walczak?”
    Stan blinks. Has Wildey lost his mind along with this guy? What the hell is he talking about, ordained minister?
    But as Weenie-Waggler’s face drops and goes ashen, Stan gets it.
    “You really should put that away, my son,” Stan says in a low, calm tone.
    “Oh god, I’m sorry, Father! I didn’t know, I didn’t know,” Weenie-Waggler stammers as he tries to tuck his cock back into his trousers. It’s still too stiff to go in. All that blood refuses to dissipate, despite the presence of a man of the cloth.
    “Father, you’ve gotta help me.”
    Stan looks at Wildey. Wildey nods at Stan’s baton.
    “Help him out.”
    Stan sighs, then raises the baton over the perv’s head.
    “Yeah, go in peace to love and serve the Lord.”
    The guy drops to his knees, and finally his fervor appears to flag.
    As they’re pulling away, Stan tells his partner, “Nice one.” Wildey belly-laughs. “We ever in a tight spot with a black guy, you do the same for me, okay?”
    This is the kind of shit they deal with at first.
    And when Stan gets home the next morning and tells Jimmy the story about the guy with his wacek out, Rosie gets mad. He can’t win.
    Their bailiwick is the Jungle. Last-out shift, 11 p.m. to 7 a.m.
    Stan Walczak knows this is his punishment, and he’s just going to have to deal with it. He should have expected that his low-key tour of Whitetown couldn’t go on forever. Hauling in boozehounds and busting up small-time numbers rackets is the cushiest assignment you can

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