The Interstellar Police Force, Book One: The Historic Mission

by Raymond F. Klein

  “This guy is one sick fuck!” Frank said, as he pulled out a Zippo lighter, flipped it open, ignited it, and brought it up to the tip of the lieutenant's cigarette. Dawson covered the flame with his dark hands and took a long drag. “Don’t worry,” Frank said, “I won’t tell Margaret.” Then closed the lighter with a loud click.

  DeLaRue exhaled. “Yeah, what Margaret doesn’t know won’t hurt me.” Dawson took another drag while contemplating the fact that he had a serial killer on his hands. He just shook his head and said, “Jesus Christ!”

  Doctor Riviera snorted out a laugh and said, “Oh! You got that right!”

  All three looked down at the victim that was lying on his back, eyelids fixed half-open, displaying two dark empty holes. The legs were straight together with ankles crossed, the arms stretched out like that of a clock, pointing at ten and two, with elbows slightly bent.

  Dawson took another drag, then exhaled, and said, “Like our Lord and Savior on the Cross.”

  “Yup!” Riviera agreed.

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Bollar drove into the city of Westberry. The low gray cloud cover of the cold and drizzly morning reflected off the large glass and metal high-rises, giving the city a foreboding feel. As he drove deeper into the artificial canyon of grays and blacks he thought to himself how this town was ripe for the taking. After he finished his business in Old Town and depleted it, he’d start up here.

  He continued on toward the north end of Westberry. He drove past a fuel storage field of large cylindrical tanks, each one holding 2.35 million gallons of Jet A and Jet A1 fuel that supplied the turbine jet engines at the Westberry International Airport. He drove on and into the large industrial center of town where all the old brick and modern prefabricated shipping and storage warehouses were located. He passed warehouses for dry and frozen goods that supplied the majority of the grocery stores in the region, and a large FedEx distribution center that bustled with trucks coming and going. Closer to the northern bend of the Horseshoe River that led to the bay he came to the fish-processing factories that received, processed, packed and shipped out their product twenty-four hours a day.

  Bollar was on his way to see Prodor Moffit for their bi-monthly meeting. It was something Prodor insisted on. Bollar hated checking in. He found it tedious and time consuming. But he always obliged, not wanting to cross Moffit. Bollar wasn’t sure if Prodor met with the others on different days, but most likely he did. Moffit was brilliant, but extremely paranoid. He always wanted to know what they were all up to.

  He pulled into the parking lot of a small, two-story office/warehouse building that overlooked the Horseshoe River. As he turned off the engine and got out of his car, smells from the fish processing plants wafted over on the air current, causing him to nearly retch. He fought the urge to remove his handkerchief to cover his nose and mouth the way he did the first time, but knew better. It did nothing to stop the awful smell, but did draw jeers and remarks from Prodor’s men.

  He approached the main entrance of Prodor’s building where a very large man stood. Bollar knew him as Murray, and he was the one who started the barbs when he dry heaved the first time at the smell of this place.

  Murray grinned as Bollar approached and motioned with his hands. Bollar knew the drill and raised his arms so Murray could frisk him. He was roughly patted down, then Murray opened the door for him saying, “I brung a plastic bucket for yah. It’s pink with little green flowers on it. Like the ones little girls use at the beach to play in the sand.” He gave him a crooked smile. “Just in case yah need to puke in it.”

  Bollar ignored him, thinking that his fat fingers would make a nice trophy someday. He walked through the door and into the building, an old brick warehouse with its wooden carriage doors swung open wide. Two men were loading two-foot-by-three-foot pine crates into the back of a panel truck that was backed into the warehouse. There were about ten workers in all, two of whom stood with automatic weapons slung over their shoulders. Bollar was always amazed at how Moffit could amass an army of followers no matter where he went. Or whatever planet he was on.

  One of Moffit’s lackeys came over to him. Bollar could never remember this man's name, only that he reminded him of a beady-eyed rodent from his home planet. “Good morning, Mr. Bollar. Mr. Moffit is expecting you. This way.”

  Bollar knew the way, but let the Rodent lead. They climbed the stairs to the second floor and then crossed a small catwalk that overlooked the warehouse floor. When they reached Moffit's office door, the Rodent knocked and swung the door open for Bollar to enter.

  “Good morning, Bollar,” Prodor said. He was standing behind his desk with his back to them. “and Taylor?”

  “Yes, Mr. Moffit?” the Rodent said.

  “I don’t wish to be disturbed.”

  “Of course, Mr. Moffit.” And with that, the Rodent closed the door behind him and scurried back downstairs.

  Bollar watched the Rodent as he left. “You know the humans would call him a brown noser.”

  “Yes, I know. But with a certain amount of payment you get a certain amount of loyalty.” Prodor looked over his shoulder at Bollar. “So, how have you been, Bollar?”

  “I’ve been well. Nice little operation you have downstairs.” Bollar was thinking that he, too, could have something like this if Moffit allowed the rest of them to produce the amount of currency he had the replicator produce for himself. “It’s gotten bigger.”

  “Yes, it has,” Prodor said as he turned to face Bollar. He had two glasses of scotch in his hands and handed one to him. Bollar took it with a thank you, but really hated this swill. It reminded him of the puddles that the beady-eyed rodents back home would leave behind. He followed Prodor to the large office window that overlooked the warehouse floor.

  “I have been producing a little drug that has become quite popular with the locals. It’s something I used back home during surgeries. I just added a few more ingredients to increase its potency. Which also makes it much more addictive. It’s selling like wildfire, the locals can’t get enough of it.” He took a sip. “I have several,” he paused, searching for the right word, “entrepreneurs, helping me with the distribution aspects of the product. It’s become very lucrative.”

  Bollar looked down at the far side of the warehouse where an assembly line of Prodor’s men were packing frozen fish in wooden crates of ice. The boxes traveled down a metal-roller conveyor belt to another group. One man would select a fish from the many in the crate, cut one fin off, then hand it off to the man standing next to him. That man stuffed a small white bag deep into the body of the fish through the slit in its belly where it had been gutted. He then put the fish back into the crate and covered it with ice and sent the crate down the conveyor belt to a third man who stopped it and nailed a top on it. That man then made a small mark on the crate's right top corner with a sharpie pen, then pushed it and sent it down the conveyor belt to the two men who would load it into the panel truck. And then the men would repeat the routine.

  “I never thought,” Prodor said, “when I purchased this warehouse that it would yield such a profit. Funny how things work.”

  Bollar thought of the offer that Moffit gave the previous owner. Most likely it was a PK30A pointed to the head and when all the paperwork was signed a PK30A round sealed the deal.

  Prodor stared down at the warehouse floor. “So, I take it your little problem has been resolved?” He took another sip of his scotch.

  “Apparently,” Bollar responded. “I haven’t seen hide nor hair of Colus Valda in some time now.” He took a sip of his drink and grimaced. “Could've died by eating something that didn’t agree with him. But most likely got arrested either by the local police or the IPF agent. Or killed by one or the other.”

  “Well, he was not arrested by the local police. But, no great loss either way. If the IPF has him, he knows nothing.” Prodor tipped his glass back and finished his scotch. “I was thinking of shooting Valda in the head while on the trans
fer ship during the firefight with the guards, but didn’t see him anywhere.”

  “Well, that’s because he was cowering behind a desk! I think he wet himself.”

  Moffit made a low sound of agreement as he turned away from the window. “I allowed him to come along with us, thinking that he could be of some use to me.” Prodor was introspective for a moment. “Well, it seems that he’s of no concern to us any longer.” He walked over and sat behind his desk and motioned with his hand for Bollar to take a seat in the chair facing the desk. Bollar obliged.

  “So, my friend,” Prodor asked, “my dear old friend, what do you have planned for the upcoming weeks?”

  Bollar wasn’t one hundred percent sure why he was asking so he replied, “Oh, I have a few plans for the next couple of weeks or so. I’m running a little low on currency, need to start thinking of replenishing my coffers.”

  Moffit looked into his glass and swirled the ice. “Like what?”

  Bollar never liked to reveal his plans to anyone, not even Prodor Moffit, but knew it was in his best interest to answer. “I’m going to hit this antique store in about three of four days.” He nervously glanced around the room. “It’s a very busy establishment, many people in and out. A lot of currency and expensive items, should be an nice take.” He looked at Moffit with an uneasy and asked, “Why do you ask?”

  “Oh, no particular reason.” Moffit then looked up from his glass at Bollar. “It’s just that I have been seeing your exploits in the paper reports I receive every morning. That last one was rather … colorful! You have the local police baffled and of course, since you're sitting here with me, you have the IPF baffled as well. Using the Interrupter on those jobs was a brilliant move.” Bollar quietly thanked him with a nod.

  “I enjoy reading the paper reports of this world.” Prodor turned to the table behind his desk and retrieved the Waterford crystal decanter of scotch. He motioned with it to Bollar. Bollar and placed his hand over the top of his glass and shook his head. Prodor refilled his glass and continued, “Have you noticed how violent this world is?” He asked. “The crime here is exhilarating! There are robberies, shootouts, and murders. And not just locally, but around this entire planet.” He got up with his glass and started to pace the floor. “On the other side of this world there are wars and civil upheavals. Armies fighting armies. Civil wars placing brother against brother, fights over land of all things.”

  Bollar was beginning to become uneasy. He’d seen Prodor Moffit go on rants before, and it always culminated with someone getting hurt. “Ah, no, not really. I don’t read the media reports.”

  “Oh, but Bollar you should. It opens and expands one’s mind.” He continued pacing. “When you know how the world on which you live works, it gives you the opportunities to utilize and take advantage of certain weaknesses.” He stopped and turned toward Bollar, who slightly jumped. “You have inadvertently stumbled across one of those weaknesses.” Moffit walked over to his office window. “Using the Interrupter to defeat their inadequate surveillance equipment. That’s a weakness.” Moffit looked down at the warehouse floor. “I ship out these narcotics and feed them to those who are stupid enough to use them so they can escape from their meaningless drab lives. Capitalizing on another weakness.” Bollar could see Moffit’s image reflected in the window as he gazed down at his warehouse floor. “Their weakness of dependency. The weakness of their lack of willpower in needing my product so they can cope with their pathetic existence on this planet.” Moffit took a big swig of his scotch. “And do you know what they will do if they need my product and don’t have the money for it?” He looked over his shoulder at Bollar. “Robberies, shootouts, and murders.” He turned back to the warehouse floor. “And the cycle continues.”

  Prodor Moffit tipped back his drink and drained it, ice clinking together. He paused a moment, looking down at the warehouse, then said, “Ah, the beauty of violence.”

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Jennifer was outside of the Mobile Plus store on Grant Street, where she had just purchased her cell phone. It was something she had researched for several weeks and had plenty for in her savings account. It was the top of the line smartphone and came with an affordable two-year contract. She wasn’t about to get caught again like she did that night in Grant Park without any way of getting a hold of Jeff.

  The sun was warm as a cold breeze blew her hair in all directions along with the golden leaves that were scattered on the ground from the now nearly bare trees that were set within the sidewalks. The streets and shops of Old Town were colorfully decorated with bales of hay and bright orange pumpkins of all sizes. There were happily smiling scarecrows and cutout witches and black cats in the windows. She looked at the large display screen with its many icons for the different applications, and selected the phone icon. With a mixture of pride and glee, she placed her very first call.

  Jeff Trent was sitting on the couch with the remote control for the TV in one hand and his “World’s Number One Dad” mug in the other. Genghis was next to him, sitting on the floor, typing on the computer. He was going over different police reports from the Westberry Police Department while Jeff channel surfed different news channels on the television. Genghis reached for his “Death Before Disco” mug that was sitting on the coffee table and took a big gulp of coffee.

  The white wall phone in the kitchen rang. They looked at each other. The phone rang a second time. They looked over their shoulders into the kitchen.

  “What the hell?”

  “Oh!” Jeff said, getting up. “That’s the telecommunication device Twinkie set up for us.”

  The phone rang again.

  “Geez O’ Cow! That’s an annoying sound,” Genghis said. He turned back to his computer. “Couldn’t it beep or buzz?”

  Jeff walked into the kitchen and picked up the handset and placed it to his ear. He hesitated for a moment, then said, “Good afternoon, Jeff Trent speaking!”

  “Hi, Jeff it’s me!” Jennifer said, then sing-sang, “I got my new phone!”

  “Well, that’s wonderful, Twinkie. I’m very happy for you.”

  “Yeah it’s so cool, I can’t wait to show you.”

  “Well, would you like us to come and get you? Are you still on Grant Street?”

  “Yeah. I’ll be waiting for you on the corner of Grant and Fifth.”

  “ Okay then, Genghis and I are on our way.”

  “Thanks,” Jennifer said. “See yah in a little bit.” She disconnected and started slowly walking to the corner while looking down at her smartphone, going through the different screens and applications. She then heard a familiar voice behind her. A voice she hadn’t heard in a long while.

  “Well, as I live and breathe! Is that you, Twinkie?”

  Jennifer turned to see a face looking down at her. A face that she was fine with never seeing again.

  “It is you. How you been, girl?”

  “I’ve been fine, Billy,” she said with little enthusiasm. “When did you get out?”

  “Oh, ‘bout two weeks now. Out early on good behavior.” William “Billy Bourbon” Jamerson in Jennifer’s eyes was still a sleazy grease ball. Tall and lanky, his hair was braided in nice neat cornrows that reached down to his narrow shoulders. He had a gap between his two gold front teeth that you could drive a truck through. Jennifer first met Billy Bourbon through Trisha about a couple of months after she got off the bus. She wasn’t making the kind of money she thought she could and knew better than to work for a pimp, but desperate times . . .

  “Lookie at you.” He circled her, looking at her up and down. “I heard you gone freelance but damn girl! You done good for yourself.”

  “Well, I couldn’t get ahead with the percentage you were taking,” Jennifer said. “And besides, I’m not working anymore.”

  “Oh, com' on now! You kidd'n ol’ Billy. You was my best earner, what did you do? Go and get yourself a Sugar Daddy?”

  “No,” Jennifer replied, getting tired of his questioning.
“I decided that I didn’t want to do it anymore, so I quit.”

  “You quit!” Billy Bourbon laughed, flailing his arms while producing a little theatrical hop. “Shit girl! Who you fool'n? Com’ on, Twinkie, com’ on! Once a whore always a whore.”

  All the hatred she’d bottled up for Billy came flooding back, like a bad cork in an old champagne bottle about to rupture. He had always run his business with intimidation and threats. When he finally got arrested one night for selling heroin to an undercover police officer and was sent to prison for five-to-eight years, Jennifer, Trisha, Pimples, and a couple of the other girls were all free to go off on their own. Without Billy Bourbon watching their every move.

  “Well, you haven’t changed a damn bit, have you, Billy!” She stepped away and turned from him. “Still an asshole! Like I said, I’ve quit. Well over two months now.”

  Billy stood there and watched as she walked away from him. “You just can’t quit Twink! No one quits on Billy. You still owe me, girl.”

  Jennifer stopped in her tracks. “What?” She turned to face him. “I don’t owe you shit, Billy!”

  “Oh, but you do.” Billy slowly walked toward her, “Yah see, it’s something called retroactive. Even though I been away for so long I still get my cut.” He again looked her up and down. “Mm Hmm, and you done real good.” He grinned and shook his head. “Damn girl! Yah know I been thinkin', now that I’m back. I wanna get the ol’ gang back together and get my business up and going again.” He reached up and ran a finger through her hair. “So, tell me, Twink. Where can I find Trisha, Suzie Q, Brittany and Pimples?”

  Jennifer pulled away from his reach and thought how she wasn’t about to get involved with Billy Bourbon again and wasn’t about to give up her friends either. “Suzie Q left and went back home. Brittany moved to Westberry with her boyfriend, and Trisha and Pimples, I haven’t seen them in over two years.” She was hoping the lie about Trisha and Pimples was working until Billy responded.