accused of racism yet tonight. Normally, it happens four or five times a night. I get edgy if I don’t get in my quota. So thanks.”
The bangers exchanged a glance.
“Can I count this as two, since you both seem to be accusing me?” K o priva deadpanned. “Come on, man, I need the stats.”
“Cracker is crazy, man. Let’s get outta here.” Both men walked north on Perry, muttering to each other about racist cops.
“Nice work,” Chisolm noted, as the two gangsters walked away.
“Thanks.”
“See ya on the next one,” Chisolm said and returned to his car. He noticed O’Sullivan locking the doors to the Chevy as he pulled away and headed back into Adam Sector.
2223 hours
Stefan Kopriva searched for a country station, knowing full well that Morris reviled cowboy tunes. He turned it up and faded it to the rear.
“Baker-123, I’ll be en route to jail with a male for warrants,” he said into the radio mike and punched the r e set button on the odometer. “Mileage reset.”
“Baker-123, copy.”
Morris seemed about to have a stroke in the back seat, jerking around and screaming. Kopriva let him be for a few more seconds. He loved these trips to jail. No one in the patrol car but him and the bad guy. He could say whatever he wanted. It made up for all the times he had to hold his tongue.
He turned the radio down. “What’s the problem, Kitty-kat?”
“Hey, man, fuck you. Fuck you!”
“Awww, what’s the matter, Isaiah? Did that hurt? You did hit the pav e ment awful hard. Doesn’t feel too good to get your ass kicked by a little white boy, does it?” Kopriva allowed himself to gloat.
Morris cursed at him some more. Looking in the rear-view mirror, Kopriva saw a small raspberry on Morris’s cheek where he’d been held down against the pavement. Oh, well. Department policy stated that when an offi c er used the prone cuffing technique, a minor abrasion like that might occur. The policy, and the Chief himself, said that was just too bad for the arre s tee.
“You got the wind knocked out of you, huh, Morris? And an ow-ie on your cheek. That kinda sucks.”
“Kiss my ass, you white-boy, mother—”
Kopriva turned up the radio and sang along with Travis Tritt. He wished the song had been Here’s a Quarter, Call Someone Who Cares, but all it took was country music of any kind to fuzz Morris up some more.
About a block from jail, he turned the radio down again.
“What, sir?” he asked in mock politeness.
“I said I want a picture of this.”
“What?”
“This. On my face.”
“Your boo-boo?”
“Fuck you, motherfucker. That’s police brutality and I want a picture of it.”
Kopriva paused as if considering the request. Then, “How about a pi c ture of my foot up your ass?”
“Fuck you, faggot! I wanna talk to a supervisor.” Spittle flew from Morris’ lips and struck the plastic shield. “I wanna see one of them gold-badge motherfuckers!”
“Call him from jail, kitty-kat.”
“YOU CALL HIM!” Morris yelled, enraged.
Kopriva snorted. “I’m not a rookie, Cat-man. Save your act and call him your little old self.” Ignoring Morris’s tirade, he turned the radio back up and caught the tail end of the song as he pulled into jail.
2230 hours
Isaiah Morris struggled to get himself under control.
That fucking punk cop! Little wise-ass cracker! He thought he was so tough with a badge and a gun. Pul l ing his little tricky kung fu stunt on me back there at the car.
As the car slid into the jail sally-port, he forced himself to calm down. The jailers knew him and they didn’t like him. If he gave them any reason, the racist motherfuckers would beat the black right out of him. He sat as still as he could manage, waiting while the cop exited the car and locked his gun in the gun safe.
I’d like to try you now, motherfucker, he raged silently. Take these cuffs off and see, bitch.
The cop walked into the booking area and several moments later, three
The bangers exchanged a glance.
“Can I count this as two, since you both seem to be accusing me?” K o priva deadpanned. “Come on, man, I need the stats.”
“Cracker is crazy, man. Let’s get outta here.” Both men walked north on Perry, muttering to each other about racist cops.
“Nice work,” Chisolm noted, as the two gangsters walked away.
“Thanks.”
“See ya on the next one,” Chisolm said and returned to his car. He noticed O’Sullivan locking the doors to the Chevy as he pulled away and headed back into Adam Sector.
2223 hours
Stefan Kopriva searched for a country station, knowing full well that Morris reviled cowboy tunes. He turned it up and faded it to the rear.
“Baker-123, I’ll be en route to jail with a male for warrants,” he said into the radio mike and punched the r e set button on the odometer. “Mileage reset.”
“Baker-123, copy.”
Morris seemed about to have a stroke in the back seat, jerking around and screaming. Kopriva let him be for a few more seconds. He loved these trips to jail. No one in the patrol car but him and the bad guy. He could say whatever he wanted. It made up for all the times he had to hold his tongue.
He turned the radio down. “What’s the problem, Kitty-kat?”
“Hey, man, fuck you. Fuck you!”
“Awww, what’s the matter, Isaiah? Did that hurt? You did hit the pav e ment awful hard. Doesn’t feel too good to get your ass kicked by a little white boy, does it?” Kopriva allowed himself to gloat.
Morris cursed at him some more. Looking in the rear-view mirror, Kopriva saw a small raspberry on Morris’s cheek where he’d been held down against the pavement. Oh, well. Department policy stated that when an offi c er used the prone cuffing technique, a minor abrasion like that might occur. The policy, and the Chief himself, said that was just too bad for the arre s tee.
“You got the wind knocked out of you, huh, Morris? And an ow-ie on your cheek. That kinda sucks.”
“Kiss my ass, you white-boy, mother—”
Kopriva turned up the radio and sang along with Travis Tritt. He wished the song had been Here’s a Quarter, Call Someone Who Cares, but all it took was country music of any kind to fuzz Morris up some more.
About a block from jail, he turned the radio down again.
“What, sir?” he asked in mock politeness.
“I said I want a picture of this.”
“What?”
“This. On my face.”
“Your boo-boo?”
“Fuck you, motherfucker. That’s police brutality and I want a picture of it.”
Kopriva paused as if considering the request. Then, “How about a pi c ture of my foot up your ass?”
“Fuck you, faggot! I wanna talk to a supervisor.” Spittle flew from Morris’ lips and struck the plastic shield. “I wanna see one of them gold-badge motherfuckers!”
“Call him from jail, kitty-kat.”
“YOU CALL HIM!” Morris yelled, enraged.
Kopriva snorted. “I’m not a rookie, Cat-man. Save your act and call him your little old self.” Ignoring Morris’s tirade, he turned the radio back up and caught the tail end of the song as he pulled into jail.
2230 hours
Isaiah Morris struggled to get himself under control.
That fucking punk cop! Little wise-ass cracker! He thought he was so tough with a badge and a gun. Pul l ing his little tricky kung fu stunt on me back there at the car.
As the car slid into the jail sally-port, he forced himself to calm down. The jailers knew him and they didn’t like him. If he gave them any reason, the racist motherfuckers would beat the black right out of him. He sat as still as he could manage, waiting while the cop exited the car and locked his gun in the gun safe.
I’d like to try you now, motherfucker, he raged silently. Take these cuffs off and see, bitch.
The cop walked into the booking area and several moments later, three
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