50 Stories in 50 States: Tales Inspired by a Motorcycle Journey Across the USA Vol 2, The East

by Kevin B Parsons

  I smacked my hand on the table. “Confound it, woman! Who is making this food?”

  She slapped her hand on the table. “Confound it, man! Who is eating this food?”

  We stood and faced one another, eyes ablaze. She overpowers people with her look, but not Michel. I stared back, my arms crossed. I could hear the grandfather clock ticking.

  Very well. I cannot stand here all day.

  “I will have a letter of resignation on your desk within the hour.” I turned to leave.

  “You shall not.”

  I stopped. “It will be there, I assure you.”

  “And I shall tear it up.”

  This woman exasperates me. “I am a world renowned chef, I create masterpieces.”

  “You do. Stay. Please.”

  I saw it in her blue eyes. They changed from anger to fear. She blinked. She needed me.

  All her guests, they eat my caviar and pheasant and tell her it is exquisite. I hear them say it. Jonathan hears it and tells me. But she never does. “Very well. I shall stay. With a twenty percent raise in pay.”

  She looked into my eyes, looking for humor or sarcasm and saw none.

  “Okay then.” She sat. “Jonathan.” He returned and slid her chair in to the table, then returned to his post.

  “And you must tell me that I am a magnificent cook.”

  Her head shot up and she peered at me. “Have you lost your mind? You have your twenty percent raise in pay. Now go on.” She swept her hand in a shooing manner. “Bring our omelets.”

  I crossed my arms. “You must say it, madam.”

  She stared at her fingers. Once again, we heard nothing but the sound of the clock ticking. “Oh, very well. You are a good cook.”

  “A magnificent cook.”

  “Fine. You are a magnificent cook.”

  I bowed. “Thank you, madam.”

  “But no more jalapenos.”

  “Good day, madam.” I gave a very slight bow. Jonathan and I left the room together.

  “Good job, man,” he whispered.

  “Thank you.”

  I opened the door to the kitchen and the heat hit me in a wave. Herman and William worked the grills, omelets for everyone this morning. She complained about jalapenos, but has probably ingested a quart of William’s sweat. He looked at me, expectant. “Did you resign?”

  “I did not. I gave her another chance.”

  The room erupted in laughter. “What? This is wrong?”

  Herman slapped me on the back. “You gave her another chance. That is beautiful.”

  We resumed our work.

  “William.”

  He came it my side. “Yes, sir.”

  “On the shopping list.”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Be sure to get five pounds of jalapenos.”

  “Will do, sir.”

  Delaware

  We noticed cops flagging traffic at every construction site. An armed policeman waving a ‘stop’ and ‘slow’ paddle? I wonder who gets chosen for this premier position.

  TRAFFIC

  Everyone loves autumn, with its turning leaves, cooler weather, sitting by the fireplace with a cup of coffee. That’s because they aren’t outside doing traffic control. Standing in the rain on a street all day, cold and wet. No matter how good of rain gear I wear, the water gets in somewhere and wicks up and by quitting time my legs or forearms are soaked. The cold creeps in, too, so by the time we knock off I’m a human block of ice.

  I’m supposed to be a cop. But the union, in all its brilliance, negotiated for cops to manage traffic control on all construction projects. So while other states have trained flaggers, we provide a cop and a car, usually at each end of the project. That’s a great way to spend taxpayers’ money. I suppose I should be happy I got a job in this economy. And I am. But standing here watching cars drive by becomes a mind-numbing experience. Oh, and my arms and legs are losing feeling, too.

  What happens is the traffic-control jobs become punishment. You’re a slacker? Traffic control. You beat down a kid? Park it on the construction site, bub.

  This gig, on the DuPont Highway outside of Smyrna, is gonna go on awhile. They’re rebuilding the bridge. And so they’re crushing four lanes down to one each way. Cars are lined up for miles, it seems. Most people are okay, a few nasty and a few really nice. Locals I know, like that.

  The worst part is listening to the radio all day long. Guys—peers—going on an arrest. Breaking up a fight. Pulling over a DUI. And me with the flagger paddle: ‘stop,’ ‘slow.’ Thankfully, they open the bridge up at lunchtime and we get an hour to get warm and dry. A construction worker, a kid, comes up and announces we can take lunch. I radio Perkins and we take my car to a fast food joint. We get our full meal dealies and sit on the plastic benches, the cold evaporating way too slow.

  “So what’s the story with you and Medford?” he says over a mouthful of food.

  “I didn’t do nothing wrong. Well, lately. When his kid was in high school, me and Dickens ran him and his buddies in. Smoking dope. And you know the Blue Wall. Should have called him. I would’ve, but the kid gave me lip. He’s a cop’s kid, so he knows he can just run to Daddy and everything’s forgotten. Fine, I’ll run your butt into the precinct and set you down in the cage for a couple hours. Everyone loved the great idea, except John Medford. So we’ve had—no, he’s had this thing for me ever since.”

  “Nice.”

  “And I don’t care. I was right. The kid grew up from a punk to a loser. Glad I did it, and no, Medford’s never getting an apology from me. For what? And that’s the way it’s been for ten years.” I roll a fry in ketchup and eat it. “The kid’s a dirt bag now, but does he see it? No.”

  “Yeah. Well, Medford works up the ranks, and he’s now Chief of Police in Smyrna. And you’re screwed.” He points a fry at me.

  “I’ll be traffic control until I retire. Or I kill myself.”

  Somehow, some way, I’ll figure out a way to get out of this. But I ain’t polishing his shoes, no sir.

  Perkins takes a swig of his soda. “I did ‘No show-no call’ three times.”

  “You’ll be traffic control for quite some time.” Perkins is such an idiot. Any other job they would have fired him. And here I am with him. He’ll be back on the street in a couple weeks. Can’t even show up for work. Probably a drinker.

  “Why don’t you go to the union?” Perkins looks at me like he’s gotten some kind of revelation.

  “You serious?”

  He’s not sure. “Sure.”

  “Medford would make my life a living hell. He’d find a way.”

  “It’s too bad. The boys say you’re a great cop and it’s a shame.”

  I feel my neck get hot. “They said that?”

  He nods, his mouth full. First time he’s not spoken around a half pound of fast food.

  “Well, that’s encouraging. But what can I do? I figure Medford will screw up one day, and I’ll get my shot.”

  We eat together and gossip like cops do. But two things keep running through my brain. The other cops think I’m okay, and somehow, I need to find a way to get back on the streets.

  We finish and head back to the site for the afternoon, the worst time of the day. I get out of the car and put on the wet rain gear and I’m cold through to my core. My boots didn’t dry out during lunch, so more cold creeps up my feet from the pavement. And there’s almost no traffic to break the monotony until midafternoon. The icing on the cake is they’re jack hammering the bridge rails. I think my skull’s gonna split in half.

  Traffic builds as the day wears on, and I see the regulars coming back home. First the women haul kids home from school. Can’t they walk? Ridiculous. Or take the bus? Tracy Johnson waves and I wave back. Sweet lady. Three kids. Amber Snyder pulls through in her minivan. She’s got five or something. The hammering sounds like machine gun fire and assaults my ears.

  Dr. Feinstein, my GP, shows up about three. I wave to him. Nice guy. Bu
t three p.m.? Great hours if you can pull it off. Then Rachelle Gordon, the banker. She’s got the hours, too. Today she’s got two kids in the car. Must be a recital or something.

  Anyway, being on traffic control, I get a feel for the pulse, you know? People show up like clockwork. They come, they go. After working the spot for a week or so, I can guess the time within a minute or two by the car that shows.

  So this guy drives a Toyota pickup. Every day around four-thirty. White. The pickup. Well, the guy, too. Call me trained, but I’d guess him to be around five ten, one ninety, black hair and five o’clock shadow. Blue eyes, I think. And a lantern jaw, that’s what they call it. I don’t know who he is, and don’t pay much attention. Today he rolls through just fine. Then after he’s by, the little walkie talkie crackles. The contractor-issued one. It’s Perkins.

  “That guy just ran over a road cone.”

  “Who?”

  “White Toyota pickup.”

  “Lantern jaw?”

  “Yeah. Jerk.”

  “Easy. Maybe he misjudged it or something.”

  “No, you can tell, you know? He swerved. Just a little, but sneaky like. Kind of a ‘screw you’ thing.”

  “Big deal. Put it back up.”

  “A laborer did. But it irks me, you know?”

  Wow. Big deal on traffic control. ‘How was your day, honey?’ ‘You won’t believe what happened today.’

  But he does it again the next day. Perkins calls me, all jacked up.

  “It’s a road cone. Pick it up.”

  “It’s just disrespectful, you know?”

  “Yeah, get over it.”

  But the third day when I hold cars my way, Lantern Jaw’s car stops in front. Being a cop, I’m naturally suspicious. So I look him over without being obvious. He’s got one of those heavy beards that sports a five o’clock shadow fifteen minutes after he’s shaved. Sharp nose, thin neck, and his fingers are jittery on the steering wheel. I wave, nice. He puts up an index finger. He goes through and doesn’t run over the cone. Maybe Perkins needs to be nicer.

  That night at the precinct I drop off a bunch of stupid paperwork and shoot the breeze with the guys. Walk past the desks. Man, somehow I need to get back here, investigating crimes. Heading out the door, the Wanted Posters catch my eye. There is Lantern Jaw. I stop and read it. Cody Banks. Killed a woman and her kid, and killed a cop. In California. I tap the poster. “That’s him.”

  Medford walks by, stops. Looks at me like a cockroach that needs squashing. “Who?”

  “This guy. Banks. He drives the DuPont Highway.”

  He waves a hand and walks away. “Blevins, you’re dreaming.”

  The next morning I call Perkins to my car. Bring up the mug shot on the computer.

  “That’s him.” I point at the screen.

  “You sure? He’s moving when I see him.”

  “Yeah. Watch for him this morning. He’ll be going your way.”

  Sure enough, eight twenty-two, Perkins calls me on the radio. “That’s the guy.” I watch and the white Toyota goes through, fourth in line. The guy looks over. I give him a disarming smile and wave. Get the license number, a Delaware plate. Once traffic slows, I call it in. The dispatcher responds, then Medford gets on the radio.

  “Unit sixteen, you are traffic control. Stand down.”

  I have never heard Medford go on the air like this.

  “But sir, this is—”

  “Officer Blevins, you are to resume your duty as traffic control and nothing else. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  I look to the other end of the bridge and shake my head. Perkins shrugs like, ‘what can you do?’ Stamp my feet to get warmth, but in frustration, too. We need to get this guy.

  At lunch we sit by the window. Perkins talks with his mouth full once again.

  “So Medford is so blinded by hatred for you, he skips catching a multiple killer.”

  I nod. “Cop killer, too.”

  “So what do we do?”

  I swallow a bite of burger before answering. “This afternoon he’ll come my way first. I’ll try to stop him and question him.”

  “Are you crazy? He’s a cop killer. You need backup.”

  “I’ll call you. You run up the bridge.”

  “I run. A half mile up the bridge. That won’t work.”

  “I’ll hold him like it’s a traffic thing, and you come up.”

  He looks doubtful. “You’re sure it’s the guy.”

  Pretty sure. “Yes. Absolutely.” Maybe I’m sure. He’s twenty pounds overweight, compared to the mug shot, my guess. If I keep this gig and eat this crap every day, I will be, too.

  “Why don’t we radio for backup?” He says it around another gob of crushed fries.

  “What, and hold him until someone shows up? And didn’t you hear Medford?” No wonder Perkins is doing traffic.

  “Let’s just see this guy.” Perkins shifts in the seat. He would dither for a decade while this guy might disappear. “I want to see him. Make sure it’s him.”

  I crush my papers and toss them on the tray. “Okay. But we need to move on this, and not spook him.”

  “Right. One good look.”

  That afternoon the Toyota somehow gets in line and I miss it. He cruises through sixth. I grab the contractor radio. “Perkins. He’s coming your way.”

  “Got it.”

  I wait a few seconds and his voice comes through, tight. “That’s him. I think you’re right.”

  Cody Banks, cop killer, triple murderer.

  “Stop him, I’ll come down there.”

  “Too late, he’s past.”

  I grind my teeth. He let the guy past. Unbelievable. Perkins should be taking orders at the hamburger counter. The pimply faced teenager could do better than him. After the shift, Perkins and I get together. I bring up the mug shot on the computer again.

  “That’s the guy. I’m sure of it this time,” he says, pointing to the screen. “Cody Banks, huh?”

  “Right. Now listen. Tomorrow morning, he’ll come to you first. You hold him up. Say the backhoe has to block the bridge or something.”

  He backs away from the car door and stands. “I don’t know. We’re traffic control. Let’s just get a couple black and whites and surround him.”

  “Perkins, you’re killing me. First, Medford isn’t going to help us at all. Second, this is my shot. Our shot. We’ll grab the guy, cuff him up, and we’re the heroes. No more traffic control.”

  I see it in his eyes. He likes traffic control. Anything else is above his skill level. Way above. I grab him by the front of his shirt. “Perkins. You’re a cop, you hear me? Serve and protect. We’re trying to catch a multiple killer here. Who knows what else he’s done or what he might do?”

  “Okay, okay.” He pushes off my hand and straightens his shirt. “I’ll do it.”

  The next morning, right on time, Perkins calls on the walkie talkie. “He got past.”

  “What?”

  “I missed him. He’s coming your way. Third.”

  I take it back. He’s under qualified for a hamburger stand. I resist the urge to smash the radio on the pavement. “Okay.” The cars roll through. Third one, white Toyota pickup. He moves along and just before passing me, he looks at me. And I screw up.

  Instead of looking pleasant and disarming, I glare at him.

  He knows I know.

  Then, even stupider, I do the two fingers to my eyes, two to him, ‘I’m watching you’ thing. He guns the truck and swerves to pass the two cars ahead of him. I curse my stupidity and jump in the car. Start and spin it around as the last car eases by. Key the construction radio. “Cover me; I’m going after him.”

  “What?”

  I throw the radio on the seat. Hit the lights and siren. Crush the accelerator. There are four cars behind him and two ahead. Six. I count them off as I pass them. Can see the roof of the truck, pulling ahead of the line.

  The cars pull aside, but e
ven with two lanes and a median, people just don’t get out of the way. But we got fifteen miles of open highway until Smyrna, I’ll catch him.

  I key the radio. “This is unit sixteen in pursuit of a murder suspect south on DuPont Highway past the Newcastle Kent road. Request backup.” The dispatcher responds as the Toyota flies ahead of me, going about ninety. But I close in on him.

  Then Medford does it again.

  “Unit sixteen, you are to stand down immediately.”

  “Negative, sir, we are engaged in a high speed pursuit of a Toyo—”

  “Unit sixteen, you are to cease pursuit immediately.”

  I gain on him, a lot, the highway traffic a bit lighter. I can catch him. I pass another couple of cars, then get behind him. This is the frustrating part. I really can’t just clip his bumper and take him out. We’re supposed to just follow them until they screw up, which shouldn’t be long, a pickup going these speeds.

  I swerve to the inside lane and accelerate to get beside him and he jams on the brakes and turns right on 300. I curse at my rookie mistake, slide to a stop and spin the car around, now headed backward on the highway. I swing the car left in front of one of the cars I’d recently passed. Fortunately, the guy pounds his brakes.

  I see Banks turn left on Main, heading into downtown Smyrna. I groan. Toss the mic aside. Traffic. Take the turn, hard, the tires squealing. “Hold on,” I mutter. I wreck this car, don’t catch this guy, and my job is done. The back end fishtails and I accelerate out of it. Let’s catch this moron and hopefully no one gets hurt. I squeeze the wheel, my knuckles white.

  I get up behind him and he takes a right on North, the pickup leaning heavily on the left side. Does he think his pickup can outrun a cop car? I hit the turn hard and this time it spins and I slide sideways into a little Smart Car. Joyce Ramsey’s car. I spin the wheel and take off again. Banks roars away. I follow and see a car enter the intersection ahead of Banks. Oh, dear God, no. Please don’t hit it.

  At Vernon he smashes into the back corner of Mrs. McGillicutty’s old Buick. The Toyota loses that battle. I run up beside him and block him in, get out, and draw my weapon. Run up and jack open the door. “Cody Banks, you are under arrest for murder in the first degree.” I read him his rights but fail to mention the other murders, the resisting arrest, negligent driving, and a half dozen other crimes.

  I cuff him and put him in the car.

  ~

  The Mayor shakes my hand as dozens of cameras freeze the scene, his other hand on my back, our big smiles. Election soon, so the Mayor acts like he did it himself. I can’t see the right half of the crowd, for the mayor’s puffed out chest. On my other side, John Medford smiles, too. The mayor speaks of ‘our man’ like we’d been buddies since we were kids. I knew him since childhood, but we ran in different circles. I know he just blustered, but so what? I hold up that plaque and smile like an idiot. Wonderful.