by Len Norman
Quentin pretended to be hurt and said, “I could have landed it. Want another beer?”
The next day Quentin and Rich were on a jobsite and that was the last day they ever worked together again. The injury really was accidental. First Quentin was electrocuted, and then he fell twenty-five feet. He realized he needed to find something less dangerous. When he saw the city police were hiring, he applied. There were over four hundred applicants and Quentin was relieved to see someone he knew taking the same test.
Quentin smiled at Reg and sat next to him before the test began. He was feeling very confident. They’d known each other from grade school, and in the eighth grade Quentin frequently copied off Reg’s answer sheet during tests. Reg was a reader as Quentin recalled, and he thought the shithead probably studied for this test just like all the others.
The more Quentin thought about Reg the more he remembered things. They were actually friends in school and he recalled Reg messing with most other students; he dinked with bullies and ass kissers alike as near as Quentin could recall. Did they play pranks on others? He seemed to remember something along those lines. Maybe Reg wasn’t a shithead after all, maybe he turned out like him…a really neat guy.
The police test took three hours and Quentin figured if Reg passed he’d probably pass as well. He was pleased with the way Reg positioned his answers throughout the test. A couple of weeks later they were both notified that they finished in the top-ten test scores.
Quentin was transferred to nights along with Reg and Frank. He was assigned with an older officer, Albert Brown. Albert was different, and having grown up in the south he’d sometimes revert to southern ways. He fancied himself the best officer on the department and prided himself on his driving skills and defensive driving tactics. In truth, Albert was a menace. He had already been involved in several car chases; each one ended in an accident.
On Albert’s days off he competed in the local demolition derby, usually winning the cash prize. When Albert chased a car he was as happy as a pig in mud—had he not been a police officer his driver’s license would have been suspended. All seventeen of his chases and car crashes had been coded in a manner in which the Secretary of State didn’t attach them to his driving record. This was not an uncommon practice, and in many ways it made sense. In Albert’s case, however, it merely fed the fantasy. Riverside’s drag racers all knew about Officer Brown and when he turned on his overheads they pulled over.
Quentin was riding shotgun, because Albert saw fit to instruct. He was doing reverse spin arounds in a parking lot and explaining to Quentin how he would probably do a few more in traffic once the roads iced over. “You will love how the traffic offender pulls right over and accepts any ticket given to them,” Albert bragged.
“I flew a plane once and nearly landed it without wheels. All by myself. The pilot was busy.”
“Wow! Did you collide with any cars? I bet you did, right?”
“Nah! But the trees were real close,” Quentin said.
“Well, maybe in a year or so I’ll let you drive and see how you do. I have plenty of pursuit-driving tips if you want.”
Quentin looked out the window and saw a possum stray too close to the prowl car’s right front tire. Albert ran the critter over; it made a funny sound. “That reminds me,” Albert said. “I’m hungry, there’s always free food for the guys in uniform.”
Quentin sighed and said, “I guess.” He was wondering why he cheated on the cop test. He was beginning to miss his last job already.
******
Victor Klemm was the funniest of the new recruits. Actually, he was the funniest living soul in all of Riverside. He got into police work because he was curious and thought it would be fun to know what was really going on around town. He already knew plenty of Riverside’s finest. Some of the old timers grew up in the same neighborhood as Victor and they all knew his family. Victor made them laugh. Even as a teenager he’d crack wise and the old timers would chuckle at nearly everything he told them.
The Sisters of Mercy didn’t think he was funny, not even a little. They continually beat him across the back of his hands with their rulers and anything else that was available. Sometimes his knuckles bled. This was done when he disrupted class, making the other students laugh. Even on those rare occasions when he wasn’t acting up, he was slapped around for some reason, things like impure thoughts Victor was probably entertaining as he looked at girls or telling dirty jokes at lunch. Mother Superior secretly liked Victor and urged the other nuns to go easy on him.
Years earlier, when Victor went to confession for the first time he made up sins because he was only seven years old but wanted to impress the priest.
“Bless me Father for I have sinned,” Victor began.
The priest said, “How long has it been since your last confession?”
“This is my first one, Father.”
“Whatcha got for me?”
“I was disobedient to my parents. I stole a pretzel from the candy store and committed adultery.”
The priest inquired more of Victor, “You committed adultery?”
“Sure did and it felt good.”
The priest recognized Victor’s voice and was aware the Sisters thought he might be someone to keep an eye on. The priest continued in a professional manner, “The sin of adultery is a mortal sin and that is serious business. How long you been at it?”
“Usually a half hour is all it takes me.”
The priest began to laugh, “How did you meet her?”
“I don’t want to get anybody else in trouble. Do I have to tell you everything?”
“Do you know her name?”
“Nope…but I’ve got her box number!”
The priest took out his notebook and wrote himself a reminder. Victor Klemm. Are his parents large donors? That would be enough to remind him to look into things deeper.
He told Victor, “The stealing and adultery alone will land you in hell for sure. Try to be nicer to your parents. Your penance is ten Hail Mary’s and ten Our Fathers.”
As Victor recited his Act of Contrition he decided he liked going to confession. He knew darn well the priest was snickering and that made him happy. He had plenty more where that came from.
Years later in high school, Victor would sit in the back of church and time study the girls’ confessions. The ones that were in the confessional booth the longest were the ones he’d try to date. Victor was clever and by then he thought he might want to try police work, investigating things like how long girls took to confess their sins seemed like detective work to him, sort of like a stakeout.
It was 1975 and Victor had perfected his delivery, and before too long others would only have to look at him and they’d smile and wait for the next part. He never disappointed them, not once. He couldn’t wait to fight crime and rid the streets of pests; he sat in the police supply room waiting for his uniform and gun. He was rubbing his knuckles, a nervous habit he had developed when he was younger. He wasn’t surprised that his knuckles were a little sore and he didn’t find that funny; it reminded him of the Sisters of Mercy and he still flinched when one of them walked by him in church.
The supply sergeant appeared and asked him if he had a preference to a badge number. Victor said, “Is sixty-nine taken?” The sergeant immediately chuckled.
The Oldies
1975
Captain Kurt Eberhart was the meanest badass that ever wore a badge in Riverside. It was rumored that even Ivan feared him. The Captain was an imposing figure at three hundred and fifty pounds of solid muscle. He literally did what he thought was best and wouldn’t allow the Chief of Police input as to how he ran the night shift. He was once overheard telling the Lieutenant, “That meddling fuck of a Chief had better stay away from me and my men. I call the shots around this shithole after hours, he might run the place but he doesn’t belong, this is my town after dark.”
Frank pointed out to the other newbies that Kurt was a German name for a bold counselor
and Eberhart was another German way of saying strong as a boar. “We’re fucked boys,” Frank told Quentin and Reg.
He went on to tell them both, “I wouldn’t be surprised if the crazy ass was a former SS Nazi war criminal, there are plenty of them that got away. I’m just throwing it out there for the good of the order.” Frank walked away with a smile on his face.
It didn’t take long for some of the newer officers to see the good Captain in action. Quentin was working with Albert and, of course, Albert was driving. He managed to get into a chase and dinged up the squad car, and Quentin banged up his knee in the bargain. The whole thing started when Albert thought it would be fun to keep an out-of-town businessman from frequenting one of Riverside’s whorehouses. Quentin was able to get the man’s identification and warned him, “Go home. There’ll be no nookie for you as long as Officer Brown and I are on duty.” Albert rolled his eyes and told the potential customer to get lost.
Within the hour the businessman returned. He parked his car around the corner and tried to sneak past Albert and Quentin. Albert said, “Hey Quentin, get a load of this dipshit. I think we should arrest him.” They got out of the car and when the businessman saw them he ran back to his own car and sped off, squealing tires and fish tailing. Albert was delighted, “Call in the chase Quentin, this is important stuff.” Quentin did as he was told but wondered what the big deal was all about; couldn’t they just go and get a warrant? They had his identification already; why did Albert have to drive so fast? He had already skinned a couple of parked cars.
When the crash finally ended the chase, four other vehicles had been damaged, but Albert had prevailed and the businessman was under arrest, they brought him into the station and began to book him. Or at least they tried. Captain Eberhart was sitting at the command desk. His role was the observer and he never missed a thing. He pretended to read the newspaper as the booking began. When Albert told his collar that he wanted to take his fingerprints, the businessman said, “Fuck you.”
Albert said, “This is standard procedure, sir. We fingerprint everyone before they are taken to jail.”
“Fuck you. I’m not playing your silly-ass games. I want a lawyer.”
Quentin wanted to sock the guy, but instead he chimed in, “Sir, you may call your lawyer after the booking procedure.”
“Kiss my ass. You won’t get my fingerprints and don’t even think about trying to take my picture.”
Captain Eberhart lowered the newspaper and said, “Sir, the officers are only trying to do their jobs. Please cooperate with the booking procedure.”
“Fuck you fat ass!”
Captain Eberhart slowly lowered the newspaper to his desk. As he lowered the paper, his face began to turn red. Albert smiled, because he knew what was coming next. The captain slowly got up and took his glasses off. As he approached the businessman he said, “Very well, sir, if you won’t allow the officers to take your fingerprints, I’ll take your nose prints.” He grabbed the businessman’s head and smashed his nose on the ink blotter. When he lifted his head off the blotter, Quentin couldn’t help but notice the blood and what he thought might be nasal cartilage. The Captain wasn’t finished. He smashed the nose back down on the back of the booking card. This time Quentin was sure he saw two of the man’s teeth lying on the counter. “Hey captain,” Quentin said. “Does the Tooth Fairy ever visit the holding cells?”
Captain Eberhart was too busy to answer, because he was holding the booking camera and pointing it at the semi-conscious businessman’s face as he took his picture. Albert was holding the back of his head and propping him up for the camera.
“Officers, take this piece of shit and get him out of my sight. Please make sure he gets his phone call when you take him to the county lock up!”
The Smoker and Alien Influence
1975
Calvin Rolan was the smallest of the class of 1975. What he lacked in size he made up for in other ways. He was one vicious and brutally efficient cop and Riverside toublemakers soon sat up and took notice. The older officers would stand back and watch him for entertainment during bar fights and various other trouble calls. There were times when even Ivan called Calvin a cold-blooded little prick. Pound for pound and inch for inch, Calvin was trouble of the highest magnitude. The other cops loved him because he took no shit and brought in plenty of prisoners.
Arrests were soon up and crime was down and the City Commissioners loved it and so did the good people of Riverside. The Chief and his minions hated Calvin’s guts almost as much as they hated Ivan.
Calvin was a local product. He grew up in Riverside and went to its schools. After graduation, he went in the Army and was off to see the world. He never really saw anything other than boot camp and then an infantry assignment in Vietnam. Calvin learned a trick or two in his Nam assignment. His platoon sergeant assured him the Viet Cong were nothing more than a bunch of thoughtless commie bastards; at best, a bagful of dirty assholes was all they’d ever be. That was all Calvin needed to know. He enjoyed going solo for weeks on end. There were plenty of Viet Cong hiding in the bush. All of them vile douchebags that were hell-bent on shattering the American way of life, and Calvin gleefully hunted them.
When he applied for the police department they were happy to bring him on board after learning about his military experience. The Police Academy was a breeze for someone like him. The other cops soon sat up and took notice after Calvin and Quentin were working the bar district in the south end of Riverside. Last call was over and there were drunks galore. It would be like shooting fish in a barrel.
They were conducting a field interview, which for Calvin and Quentin was simply a chance to start trouble. They heard a noise and looked up to see that a drunk driver had just bounced off a trash can on the sidewalk. Calvin ran to the squad car and yelled at Quentin, “Hop in, the sonofabitch is probably drunk. Let’s get him.”
They pulled the driver over and couldn’t believe who was behind the wheel. Silas Jansen was clearly shitfaced and driving. Calvin immediately put on his sap gloves and said to him, “Get the fuck out of the car right now you dickhead. I think you’ve been drinking.”
Silas got out of the car, all six feet and four inches, two hundred and sixty pounds of solid football-playing muscle. Silas Jansen was the biggest thing that ever embraced the Riverside Athletic Arena. He was All-American in his last three years of high school. He received a full ride to Illinois and led their football team to a national championship his junior year. He was selected in the first round of the draft at the number-three pick with the Washington Redskins. He didn’t deal well with fame and was a problem child from day one. The Redskins gave up on him and he was picked up by the Miami Dolphins. A year later he was earning $30,000 a year playing football in Italy. All of that was three years ago.
And here they were. By the time Calvin told Silas to get out of his car, he’d managed to piss away everything; he was broke with no prospects in sight. He was able to freeload drinks and whatnot at Riverside’s Sports Bars, but that was the extent of his current portfolio. He believed he was only one more tryout from a Super Bowl ring. It would be fair to say he really was optimistic.
Silas didn’t realize the cigarette he was smoking would soon lead to trouble. Quentin giggled when the tip of the cigarette was knocked off when Silas waved at a passerby. He figured it had to be one of his many fans when he heard the horn honking. As Silas was waving, the lit end sailed into the cuff of his trousers. He had no clue what was going on but Quentin nudged Calvin and looked down. Calvin immediately saw what had just occurred; he was very interested in how this might play out, thinking good times would soon commence.
Calvin was holding a driver’s license that depicted a picture of Silas in better times. The information was radioed into the police station and the desk officer ran Silas on the teletype. While they were waiting, he started smoking. Not another cigarette—Silas actually began to smoke. Wispy plumes of smolder soon appeared from his fashion-conscious polyeste
r trousers. Silas was one to dress for any occasion when cadging free drinks and telling stories of greater days when he was one of the NFL’s chosen.
Calvin and Quentin let the scenario play out awhile longer until Quentin actually saw what appeared to be… flames. “Hey, Silas,” Quentin said. “Check it out. You look like a flaming asshole!”
Silas screamed his fool head off and began to run.
Calvin yelled after him, “Stop, drop, and roll, numbnuts. Just like the hose monkeys taught you to do in the fifth grade on career day.”
Silas fell to the ground, and it wasn’t because he had learned anything from the firemen. He was just too goshdarn drunk to stand on his feet much longer. He rolled back and forth in the dirt and then tried to get back up. He looked down and actually vomited all over the ground, his shoes, and the flaming pant cuff.
Calvin looked at Quentin and said, “Lucky for him he drank a lot of beer tonight. Right?”
“Looks like it to me.”
“You think we should run his sorry ass in for something?”
Quentin said, “I don’t see why, I think he learned his lesson, plus he puked all over himself. I don’t want him in the car. Can’t we just give him a break?”
“I guess.”
Calvin nudged Silas with his foot, and he stirred a bit and looked around. At first he thought he had been gang-tackled near the end zone, but when he looked up at Calvin he knew it had to be something else. League rules would never allow sap gloves on the playing field. Silas thought it was still summer. Was it supposed to snow tonight? Why was some guy wearing gloves? He was confused and he rolled over again and decided to take a dirt nap.
Quentin went back to the car that Silas had borrowed and took the keys out of the ignition, he locked the car up and left the headlights on for fun. The rightful owner would probably need a wrecker driver to help him move the car in the morning. Would it really hurt if the car needed the battery jump-started? Quentin didn’t think so. He liked wrecker drivers and knew they could always use the extra money.
