The Meter Maid Murders

by Andrew Delaplaine

  “You ‘bout ready for work?”

  “Running a little late.”

  “It’s not gonna be pretty at the station house.”

  “No fuckin’ kidding.”

  “You wanna go get some breakfast first?”

  “Nope. Thanks, pal, but I think I just better go in and face the fuckin’ music.”

  “Call me for lunch, if they ever let you go to lunch again.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “Well, Jake, look on the bright side.”

  “I’m looking at all the sides, and ain’t none of ‘em bright.”

  “You still have Miss December.”

  Bricker didn’t even say goodbye, just hung up.

  He remembered half a year ago when he and Billy’d been out tailing meter maids and Bricker promised the meter maid murderer would never get to Miss December, the formidable Melissa Cuthbert.

  Bricker chose an especially nice suit, dressed, and went into the office.

  When he got to the police parking lot, passing uniformed and plainclothes cops who shook their heads when they recognized him or either looked the other way in disgust, he parked and reached into the glove box and pulled out a bottle of Creed cologne he kept there to use just before he met a girl. But he wasn’t meeting any girls right now, just the whole world, so he gave his face a little extra squirt.

  He locked the car door, set his Trilby at a rakish angle, and went into the building.

  More shakes of the head as he passed people.

  Fuckers all hate me. Well, fuck ‘em. Fuck ‘em all!

  He didn’t even bother dropping by his desk, but went straight up to the chief’s office. He had about a hundred text and voicemail messages, and several were from Rwanda looking for him.

  One of the nicest:

  “Bricky-bat, chief wans-a see you the minute—you heah me?—the minute—you git yer sorry ass inta da station.”

  He strolled into the chief’s suite and confronted the lovely Rwanda, whose lips were pursed out about as far as they could be pursed without causing a blood vessel to explode.

  “Well, well, well...” she began.

  “What can I say?”

  “Don’ say nuthin’... he’s in dar waitin’ fer ya.”

  “Okay. I’m ready.”

  He squared his shoulders. She buzzed the chief.

  “He’s here, Chief.”

  Bricker opened the door and went into the chief’s office.

  “Ah!” Ramirez smiled insincerely as he leaned back in his black chair and Bricker heard the familiar squeak and squeal. “So nice of you to grace us with your presence, Lieutenant Bricker.”

  He doesn’t have to be so sarcastic about it, thought Bricker.

  It got worse.

  Seems like Ramirez had had to assign two officers to handle all the requests from organizations that gave Bricker awards or citations, because those same organizations now wanted their awards returned.

  The White House also called about the citation President Quince had given Bricker.

  They wanted it back, too.

  “Sorry, Chief. Sorry for all the mess I caused.”

  “I won’t disagree with you, Bricker. You are sorry. Very sorry.”

  “Chief, I coulda sworn he was the guy.”

  “Coulda sworn, coulda sworn he was the guy? Yeah, right! We got a big-time serial killer on our hands, and what does the Miami Beach Police Department do? We arrest one of our own people. No wonder they’re laughing at us.”

  “How’s the mayor handling it?”

  “Oh, he’s taking it really very well, Bricker, you douche bag.”

  “Well, you know, it’s kinda humorous, when you take a step back and look at it... look at it objectively.”

  Ramirez just shook his head. Bricker’s half smile faded.

  “No, it’s not ‘kinda humorous,’ as you put it, asshole. You think Barney Weiner thinks this is funny? How many millions are we gonna have to settle on him when he brings suit? How funny is that?”

  “Not very.”

  “No, and it’s even less funny when you take a step back and look at it.”

  “No,” Bricker said sheepishly.

  “Now take a step out of this office and get out of my sight.”

  “What’s my new assignment?”

  Ramirez sighed deeply, then looked up at Bricker.

  “Let me rephrase that, Lieutenant: get out of my sight before I pull my gun.”

  Bricker blinked a couple of times, then backed his way out of the room and made a beeline to the Deuce. He decided he needed some breakfast after all.

  26 - Bricker Corners Slimy

  Bricker put in a request with the chief for a month’s leave.

  “Gladly,” the chief had said. “Take two if you need it. We sure do.”

  Nothing like a little insult added to injury, a dose of salt in an open wound. No rest for the weary. No safe harbor to protect him from the tempest. No respite from an unforgiving world.

  He even changed his normal habit of dress, let his beard grow a little so he always had a stubble. He put away his Trilby and nice suits and wore jeans and rumpled shirts.

  He even shunned Alice. She’d been there for him, propping him up, telling him to quit feeling sorry for himself. But he pushed her away. He liked feeling sorry for himself. Always the victim.

  Three weeks passed and Jake Bricker became a pariah on South Beach. He couldn’t even go into Publix without the checkout girls glaring at him, when once they used to smile the moment he flashed his smile and they saw his dimples. He took to shopping at the little Cuban market a few blocks from his home where they didn’t really know him. Bought canned foods. Lived like a bum.

  Every morning, he’d slide into the Deuce: quality time with Boobs McCoy.

  Today, it was still so early that Boobs McCoy was serving only one customer, a slump-shouldered lush who’d come in to spend what was left of his Social Security check after his flophouse rent was paid.

  “You look like a hunted man, Pussy.”

  “I feel like a hunted man, Boobs. Jesus, you’d think a guy can’t make a simple mistake. One mistake and they want your fuckin’ ass.”

  Boobs poured a generous portion of Ezra Brooks and dropped her two ice cubes into the glass, then returned to some paperwork she was toiling over.

  As Bricker nursed his drink, his body (not used to booze this early) reacted with a slight shudder as the whiskey attacked his nervous system and made it aware in no uncertain terms that Ezra Brooks was taking control of the helm for the rest of the day.

  He was on the verge of calling Billy-Boy to join him, but thought better of it. What could Billy-Boy do? Nothing. Billy-Boy’d kept his distance these last three weeks. Bricker felt like a cornered animal. Desperately, he’d been searching his mind for something he could do to redeem himself, salvage what little was left of his reputation.

  He pulled out a little calendar he kept in the hand-tooled wallet his mother gave him as a stocking stuffer last Christmas.

  The only thing he’d been able to think that would rehabilitate his image was to catch the meter maid murderer when he went for Missy Cuthbert. And now almost four weeks had passed since Satty Gomez had been killed, and the New Moon began tonight. It was just a week before Christmas. He’d been lying low all this time, awaiting his big chance. He was planning to start following her tonight. This time—yes, this time—this time he’d catch the motherfucking killer.

  But wait!

  Missy Cuthbert!

  And Slimy Salazar!

  The warehouse full of money!

  Of course!

  He’d put the warehouse full of nickels, dimes and quarters completely out of his mind in the whirlwind of activity that swept him up in the aftermath of his galvanizing celebrity.

  He hadn’t even told Billy-Boy about it.

  Now he remembered the not quite logical reasoning he’d invented to convince himself not to report what was going on to Chief Ramirez: he might
need that warehouse if he failed to catch the meter maid murderer.

  Well, as it turned out, isn’t that exactly what happened?

  Suddenly, he smiled, a glint flickered in his eye, and he felt really smart. Not something he usually felt. It was as if God had provided a Plan B for Jake Bricker.

  And today was the day Missy and Slimy made their weekly run to the warehouse out by the old Bobby Maduro Stadium. He looked at his watch. Eleven. Plenty of time. They didn’t make that run till noon.

  “Hey, Boobs!”

  Boobs looked up from her paperwork.

  “Yeah, Pussy.”

  “Lemme have another one.”

  Boobs brought the bottle over and filled his glass.

  “There ya go, sweetie.”

  Bricker looked around the bar. Still nobody in the bar but the lush in the corner about to nod off. But Bricker was feeling suddenly expansive.

  “You know, Boobs, I’m feeling like a million bucks. It’s almost Christmas. Let’s buy the house a round.”

  Boobs rolled her eyes.

  By noon, Bricker’d put away about four more Ezra Brooks, and he was way too wasted to drive, but he convinced himself God had sent him this Plan B, that it was God’s will that he follow Missy and Slimy out to the warehouse.

  He picked up the trail at PMS HQ. Bricker had to admit Major Bunstable ran things like clockwork. Everything according to schedule. Bricker took pictures at a rapid-fire pace with his digital camera.

  Bricker followed them across the MacArthur Causeway along the usual route. As usual, they stopped at Enriqueta’s little open window cafeteria for coffee and Cuban sandwiches. More pictures as Missy opened the back door to get her sandwich and coffee.

  “Smile, bitch,” Bricker said under his breath.

  They went to the warehouse, made the drop and left in Slimy’s TWERP tow truck (still more pictures, the evidence was mounting), the fake Stinx armored truck safely hidden in the warehouse.

  Bricker followed them back to South Beach where Slimy dropped Missy at her Cushman scooter parked down in South Pointe Park where Missy had spied Jake and Alice canoodling under the palm trees that day. More pictures.

  Missy went on her way. Bricker let her go. He was due to pick up her trail tonight at the opening of the Flamingo Christmas Carnival held annually in Flamingo Park. He knew she’d be working.

  Everything was coming together.

  His plan now was to follow Slimy, arrest him, keep him hidden away overnight in his bungalow so he’d know where to get him in the morning, follow Missy, catch the killer and call Chief Ramirez.

  If God meant for him to be lucky, Bricker’d be able to reveal in the morning not only who the killer was, but he’d have solved the mystery of the missing millions in nickels, dimes and quarters.

  If by chance the meter maid murderer escaped yet again and Missy was killed, he’d still have the evidence in his photos that she was involved in the coin caper, and he’d have Slimy Salazar cuffed to a column in the warehouse, just waiting for Bricker to come with a squad of cops (and the all-important press) to pick him up and book him.

  Now, as he trailed behind Slimy’s tow truck, Bricker tried to decide when exactly to pull him over and pick him up, but while he dithered, Slimy drove back across the Causeway and back to the warehouse.

  Bricker’s mood brightened.

  This was working out perfectly.

  Obviously, Slimy’d left something in the warehouse and was heading out to retrieve it. He’d just arrest him on the spot, cuff him, leave him a couple of bottles of water and pick him up the next morning.

  Bricker sped up, took a shortcut and got to the warehouse five minutes before Slimy, parked his car a block away, then walked back to the corner where he peeked around the edge of a building.

  Slimy drove to the intersection beyond the warehouse to make sure the streets were deserted, then did a U-turn, pulled up to the garage, got out of the truck, opened the garage door, drove the tow truck in, then closed the garage door behind him.

  Bricker hurried across to the warehouse. He wanted to be just around the corner from the garage door when Slimy opened it to pull out the tow truck.

  In a matter of five minutes, Bricker heard the garage door open. The tow truck came out. He heard it stop, then the truck door slam as Slimy got out to lower the garage door and secure it.

  At this point, Bricker, gun in hand, came around the corner and spoke.

  “Don’t move, Slimy. Not even a twitch. I got you covered.”

  Slimy didn’t move. Bricker was surprised. He himself would have jumped like a scared bunny rabbit if he’d been suddenly interrupted like this. But Slimy had nerves of steel, obviously. His arms were raised to bring down the garage door. His head just turned slowly—very slowly—to look at Bricker.

  “Fuck, it’s you,” was all he said.

  “Yep, it’s me. Go inside the warehouse. Don’t reach for anything.”

  Slimy did as he was told. Once inside the warehouse, Bricker’s jaw dropped and his eyes widened. There were hundreds of plastic crates, like milk crates, but twice the size, filled with canvas sacks of coins.

  “Jesus Christ.”

  The crates were ranged along the sides of the walls, stacked as tall as a man. There was a loft space, like a half-floor mezzanine, supported by not very sturdy looking wooden posts near the rear of the warehouse, almost like an open loft, and this upper level was also filled with these plastic crates full of coins.

  “There’s plenty here, amigo. You can have a share, Bricker. The way they treated you, you deserve a break. You need a break.”

  Bricker lost no time.

  “Not a chance, Slimy. What I need is for you to catch these.”

  He whipped out his cuffs and tossed them to Slimy.

  “Now go to that column and cuff yourself to it.”

  Slimy caught the cuffs deftly enough, but just as he did, he threw them back at Bricker’s face, totally catching him off guard. Bricker leaned back to avoid the cuffs, but caught them in one hand. In this instant, Slimy ran up the stairs to the loft above, hiding out of sight among the stacks of crates.

  Bricker could see up into the loft, but not very far back because the crates were stacked high.

  Bricker looked over his shoulder. The tow truck was still idling outside the open garage door. The last thing he wanted was for somebody to casually walk by and see what was going on. But he had to secure Slimy before he did anything else.

  “There’s no way out, Slimy. Come on down, now.”

  “Fuck you, copper! Come ‘n get me!”

  Bricker cautiously approached the loft. He saw a couple of the crates tilt toward him, and then suddenly a torrent of coins poured down on him. Maybe a hundred pounds, maybe two hundred.

  Fuck! They were heavy!

  He was barely able to dodge under the loft overhang to avoid being buried in a pile of coins.

  “Stop that shit, Slimy! Where the fuck you think you’re going?”

  “You gotta make a deal with me, Bricker!” Slimy yelled.

  “No I don’t. I’m taking you in, breaking this thing wide open. You, Missy, Bunstable. I know all about it.”

  “Then why you alone? Where’s your back up?”

  “They’ll be here any minute.”

  “You’re a fuckin’ liar.”

  “Just get your ass down here and don’t try something stupid, Slimy.”

  Bricker was facing out from under the loft, yelling up to Slimy. So he didn’t see Slimy creeping down a narrow spiral staircase at the rear of the loft concealed by stacks of the plastic crates.

  Slimy sneaked along gently, like a panther, quietly picking up a shovel leaning against the wall.

  “C’mon, Slimy. Don’t make me come up there. I know your gun’s in the truck, so what’re you waitin’ for?”

  “For you to die, copper!”

  Just as Bricker was turning, Slimy swung the shovel with all his might, hitting Bricker squarely on the shoulder a
nd knocking him back against one of the wooden beams supporting the center of the loft floor.

  Bricker ducked to the other side of the beam.

  “God damn it, motherfucker! Slimy, that hurt like hell. What the fuck you want me to do? Shoot you?”

  “You haven’t got the guts!” Slimy yelled, swinging the shovel again, this time hitting the wooden support beam.

  Bricker heard it crack, looked up and saw the old wooden floor above buckling under the weight of God knows how many tons of coins, and he backed out from under the loft into the open part of the garage.

  “I’d get my ass out here, Slimy. That thing’s about to...”

  Just then it did... the center of the loft floor opened as the rickety wooden beam collapsed and a ton of coins poured through the opening like a waterfall of silver, right on top of Slimy Salazar. He just had a chance to look up, and was in the process of screaming when the flood of metalhit him like a silver shithouse and silenced him forever.

  Bricker had continued to move farther out into the warehouse. Now, as the coins settled, he moved forward again.

  “Whoa!” he whispered, looking up to see the flow of coins trickle to a halt.

  He looked down at a huge pile of coins. Not a single sign of Slimy Salazar. Not a foot. Not a finger. Not a head. Nothing.

  “Slimy?” he called out tentatively. “Slimy?”

  Chapter 27 – End of the Line

  That night, there was just a hint of a light drizzle coming down as Bricker got to Flamingo Park. It was chillier than expected.

  Bricker took special care with his outfit tonight: he was dressed as a circus clown, with a one-piece outfit of blue and white polka dots and a big red foam rubber button on his nose.

  He meandered easily along the midway, totally unnoticed except by a few kids who wanted to play with him. He shooed them away and felt guilty for it.

  But hey! This was his last chance to nab the meter maid murderer. After tonight, for all Bricker knew, the meter maid murderer would cease to kill. And Bricker’d never be able to tell anybody what he knew all along.

  As he wandered around the fair looking for Missy, he passed various rides, kids eating hot dogs, parents buying cotton candy from a vendor, Mayor Germane surrounded by well-wishers as he hit the bell-hammer, Rwanda and Boobs at the ball toss, Louie Lewis at the mirrors where his already distorted features took on another layer of weirdness, Chief Ramirez and the Australian reporter Morningstar slamming into each other in the bumper cars, Major Bunstable bobbing for apples.