THUGLIT Issue Two by Justin Porter, Buster Willoughby, Katherine Tomlinson, Mike MacLean, Patrick J. Lambe, Mark E. Fitch, Nik Korpon, Jen Conley Page A
Authors: Justin Porter, Buster Willoughby, Katherine Tomlinson, Mike MacLean, Patrick J. Lambe, Mark E. Fitch, Nik Korpon, Jen Conley
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coffee mug. “I guess you’ll ride with me the first couple of days, till you get the lay of the land. Then it’s off to the night shift. Low man on the totem pole and all.”
“I don’t have any problems with that.” I’d expected I’d have dues to pay. I was so green I was actually looking forward to it.
“Good, we’ll get started in a minute, just as soon as I go over some of this paperwork.”
He started with a local newspaper, ignoring me as I sat right in front of his desk, fidgeting. When he was done sorting through the Home News he moved onto a Star-Ledger.
“Can you show me the bathroom,” I asked after the watery coffee went to work on my kidneys.
Scanlon pointed to a hallway toward the end of the building. “You’ll have to use one in a holding cell. Ours has been out for a couple of weeks.”
“You’re kidding me, right?”
“I hope you don’t get pee- shy. We’ve got a guy waiting to transfer to county in the other cell.”
There were two cells adjacent to each other, a line of bar s separating them. A disheveled- looking man snored on the metal bed in the cell to the left. The ot her cell door was propped open . I ambled up to the exposed off-white toilet in the unoccupied cell and peed, marveling how the acoustics of the room echoed the sound of water hitting water.
I stopped by the main bathroom on the way back to Scanlon’s desk. He didn’t look as if he was in any hurry to hit the streets, and I wanted to see if the bathroom was really out of order or if he was just pulling a fast one on the rookie.
He was telling the truth: the bathroom door was covered with yellow caution tape. I tore it off and went inside. I jiggled the handle a few times, opened up the top. The inside stopper was worn, preventing a good seal.
I got a spare replacement toilet kit out of my car trunk from my Home Depot job. Took me about two minutes working with my pocket knife to get the bathroom back in working order.
A crowd of cops gathered around the bathroom door, watching me work.
Scanlon tore himself away from his papers and made his way to the front of the crowd. I depressed the handle, impressing the assembled crowd as the water went down into the sewer as designed.
“Looks like the taxpayer’s already getting a return on their money,” Scanlon said. “Let’s saddle up and hit the streets Plumber Boy.”
And with that, I earned my cop nickname.
*****
Plumber Boy. I wish I c ould live up to my name and slow down the sewage of red spewing out of the bullet wound. I try to keep my gun trained on the body across the room from me as I struggle to the doorway in a kind of three-legged crab-walk.
The guy I’d put the bullets into hadn’t moved in the ten minutes or so it had taken me to work up the strength to make a try for the door.
I planned on just sitting there, wa iting for the emergency personnel to find me on their own, but there are a number of doors leading off the main hallway and I don’t want to take the risk of them ch ecking every room until they fi nd me passed out from blood loss.
Besides, there’s always the chance the siren isn’t coming from an ambulance. I want to be out in the open, with my service pistol ready, in case a cop car arrives first and I have to aim the business end of the gun between ill-formed talons.
*****
The police station was next to the City Hall, the whole municipal complex sharing a central parking lot, typical of suburban towns in New Jersey.
We passed a young guy dres sed in a suit, carrying a brief case, on our way to the patrol car. The guy couldn’t have been more than two years older than me. He looked nervous, like he was going to his first real job interview after college. Scanlon stared him down, almost forcing the guy off the concrete walkway as we passed him.
Scanlon didn’t even turn to make sure he was out of hearing distance, then he said, “That was the Boy Wonder; the guy cutting off our budget like a
“I don’t have any problems with that.” I’d expected I’d have dues to pay. I was so green I was actually looking forward to it.
“Good, we’ll get started in a minute, just as soon as I go over some of this paperwork.”
He started with a local newspaper, ignoring me as I sat right in front of his desk, fidgeting. When he was done sorting through the Home News he moved onto a Star-Ledger.
“Can you show me the bathroom,” I asked after the watery coffee went to work on my kidneys.
Scanlon pointed to a hallway toward the end of the building. “You’ll have to use one in a holding cell. Ours has been out for a couple of weeks.”
“You’re kidding me, right?”
“I hope you don’t get pee- shy. We’ve got a guy waiting to transfer to county in the other cell.”
There were two cells adjacent to each other, a line of bar s separating them. A disheveled- looking man snored on the metal bed in the cell to the left. The ot her cell door was propped open . I ambled up to the exposed off-white toilet in the unoccupied cell and peed, marveling how the acoustics of the room echoed the sound of water hitting water.
I stopped by the main bathroom on the way back to Scanlon’s desk. He didn’t look as if he was in any hurry to hit the streets, and I wanted to see if the bathroom was really out of order or if he was just pulling a fast one on the rookie.
He was telling the truth: the bathroom door was covered with yellow caution tape. I tore it off and went inside. I jiggled the handle a few times, opened up the top. The inside stopper was worn, preventing a good seal.
I got a spare replacement toilet kit out of my car trunk from my Home Depot job. Took me about two minutes working with my pocket knife to get the bathroom back in working order.
A crowd of cops gathered around the bathroom door, watching me work.
Scanlon tore himself away from his papers and made his way to the front of the crowd. I depressed the handle, impressing the assembled crowd as the water went down into the sewer as designed.
“Looks like the taxpayer’s already getting a return on their money,” Scanlon said. “Let’s saddle up and hit the streets Plumber Boy.”
And with that, I earned my cop nickname.
*****
Plumber Boy. I wish I c ould live up to my name and slow down the sewage of red spewing out of the bullet wound. I try to keep my gun trained on the body across the room from me as I struggle to the doorway in a kind of three-legged crab-walk.
The guy I’d put the bullets into hadn’t moved in the ten minutes or so it had taken me to work up the strength to make a try for the door.
I planned on just sitting there, wa iting for the emergency personnel to find me on their own, but there are a number of doors leading off the main hallway and I don’t want to take the risk of them ch ecking every room until they fi nd me passed out from blood loss.
Besides, there’s always the chance the siren isn’t coming from an ambulance. I want to be out in the open, with my service pistol ready, in case a cop car arrives first and I have to aim the business end of the gun between ill-formed talons.
*****
The police station was next to the City Hall, the whole municipal complex sharing a central parking lot, typical of suburban towns in New Jersey.
We passed a young guy dres sed in a suit, carrying a brief case, on our way to the patrol car. The guy couldn’t have been more than two years older than me. He looked nervous, like he was going to his first real job interview after college. Scanlon stared him down, almost forcing the guy off the concrete walkway as we passed him.
Scanlon didn’t even turn to make sure he was out of hearing distance, then he said, “That was the Boy Wonder; the guy cutting off our budget like a
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