He moved along and stopped at another desk. “Jesus Christ. Bobby Borata, I do believe you get fatter every time I walk past you. Do you have a desk drawer full of donuts, Bobby?”
A thin wave of laughter wafted through the room, and Carson soaked up the attention. The officer didn’t respond, so he tried again. “You’ve got to shape up, Borata. Square that sloppy uniform away. It looks like you slept in it. Wasn’t your old man a Marine? Didn’t he teach you anything?”
Bobby looked at him. “Keep my old man out of this, Carson.”
“Hard to do, Borata. I’m looking at him hard for this priest murder. Conspiracy and all that. Him and his buddy Moses, who is, shall we say, no longer with us.”
“Leave my father alone, Carson,” Bobby cautioned again.
“He’ll be alone in the joint; except for when he’s getting it in the can from his cellmate.”
Bobby came out from behind his desk awkwardly and tried to grab Carson, but was expertly placed in a chokehold, his head directed down toward Carson’s crotch.
“Do me, Bobby!” Carson yelled as he jerked Bobby’s head up and down.
The room erupted in laughter, and a door burst open as Chief of Detectives Patterson emerged. “What the fuck is going on here? Knock this shit off and get your asses to work. Carson, let go of him. Now. You’re out of line. Again. I need to speak to you about it.”
Carson released his grip and whispered to Bobby. “You best get back to your martial-arts training, Borata. It’ll never top my cage skills, though. If you want to be a cop, get your ass in shape. Get out from behind that desk once in a while.” He turned to Patterson. “Sure thing, Chief. I’ll pop in as soon as Jackson and I get back from this run. We have a date with a snitch. Can’t blow it by being late.”
Patterson shook his head. “Don’t forget. By the end of your shift.”
Carson and Jackson made their way out of the building to their unmarked car in the parking lot. “You drive. I’ll ride shotgun today,” Carson said.
Jackson started the engine as they strapped in and prepared to leave. “Where to first?” Jackson asked.
“Head on to the ’hood. Back to the Taylor place. I want to shake that nephew down, see if he’ll talk to me. Maybe he’s ready to say what he knows about old man Borata’s involvement with his uncle when he killed the priest.”
“You want me to plant a bag on him?” Jackson asked. “That’ll give you some leverage.”
“Yeah, in fact, that might work. I have to get this investigation moving if I’m gonna get promoted next cycle.”
Jackson slowed down as they drove through the city’s blighted section. They both lowered their windows and stared menacingly at the people on the street, who froze in place at the sight of them. Movement and conversations stopped until they had moved past. “I love this shit,” Carson said. “I love to intimidate. Call me The Intimidator. That’ll be my superhero name.”
They pulled up next to a strapping, overly-made up woman with a large afro, wearing a short dress standing at a corner. “Hello, honey,” Carson greeted her. “Haven’t seen you in town before. Got stuck working the early shift today, huh?”
She looked around uncomfortably—as if searching for an escape route.
“Don’t be nervous,” Carson added. “You know your boss, Charlie the pimp? Well, we’re kind of his boss. So it’s all cool. Except we might need some favors occasionally from you, understand?”
She nodded, and they moved on.
“I believe I’ll get me some of that black sugar,” Carson said.
“You do know that was a dude, right, Carson?” Jackson asked.
“The hell it was,” Carson replied. His face reddened with embarrassment. “These street women are rough, that’s all.”
“Nah, that was a dude. You just hit on a dude. Maybe you have some latent homosexual tendencies there, Carson.”
Carson flew into a rage. “Shut the fuck up, Jackson. Of course I knew it. I was just fucking around, you understand? Nothing more. Don’t think about embarrassing me with any shit like that around the station, you understand?”
“Alright, alright. Calm down. Jesus.”
Carson continued to fume as they approached a bodega. A large man was leaning against the building, smoking a cigarette. “Hold on, Jackson,” Carson said.
They stopped, and Carson got out of the car and approached the man. “What’s up, brother-man? You causing trouble?” he asked.
The man looked at him uneasily. “I’m not doing anything wrong. Not holding, not soliciting. Just got off my shift. Graveyard.”
“You’re loitering though, right? Stay where you are,” Carson ordered. He opened the door to the store and summoned the clerk. The Asian woman came outside.
“Didn’t you call in about some guy shoplifting?” Carson asked her.
“Wait a minute, what is this?” the man objected.
“Shut up, or you’re going down,” Carson responded sharply.
The clerk looked confused, appearing to wonder if she’d heard him correctly. “No. Nobody cause trouble today. Quiet day so far.”
“Go back inside,” Carson ordered her. She eagerly complied.
Jackson got out of the vehicle and walked over. “Is this man resisting arrest, Detective Carson?” he asked.
“He might be in a minute. Let’s see.” Carson grabbed the man and spun him, pushing him up against the wall.
“Come on, I ain’t doing nothin’,” the man complained.
Carson kicked his legs apart and yanked his hands behind him, cuffing them tightly. He jammed his elbow into the center of the man’s back and pushed his face into the wall. “Hold still,” he shouted. Carson turned to enjoy the attention from the passing traffic as cars slowed to watch what was happening. He patted the man down, yanking bills, change, cigarettes, and a lighter out and onto the sidewalk.
Jackson picked up the pack of cigarettes and ripped the top open, dumping them onto the street. He examined them to see if any were joints. “All clear,” he said.
Carson removed the cuffs and spun the man back around. His face was bleeding, and he wore an angry scowl.
“Police brutality. You should be ashamed of yourselves,” he said.
Carson laughed as they got back into their car. “Have a nice day, buddy. Stay outta trouble.” He picked up a few of the larger bills. “And thanks for the tip.” As they pulled away, he watched the man bend to pick up his belongings. “I love this job.”
“We’re just keeping the streets safe for the citizens, in our own special way,” Jackson added. “You know, too bad he was clean. The more of them we put into cages, the cleaner and safer my city becomes.”
“We need a bigger zoo,” Carson laughed. “There they are, just up ahead, dancing in the street like a bunch of goddamn monkeys. Hold up here and let’s watch for a few minutes. Maybe they’ll fire up a joint. Then park as close to those bikes as you can, block them in. Call our location in to the station while we wait.”
2 Rough Rider
Lukas Taylor stood and stretched, bending backward with his hands on his hips. The early spring sunrise crested the decaying apartment buildings nearby, bathing the group and their motorcycles in warm light. “Damn, it’s hard getting anything done with these busted-up old tools and junkyard parts,” he complained to the group around him.
“I keep saying it don’t pay to be honest,” Gary said. “I keep telling you. We ain’t getting out of this ’hood working our shit-paying jobs. We got to hustle. We can barely put gas in our tanks, Lukas. I don’t want to break bad, my man, but this poverty is gettin’ old. After those motherfuckers took the towers down a few years ago, we should’ve all signed up for the military. We’d be out soon and all set with GI benefits.”
Lukas slapped him on the back and gripped his shoulder. “You can’t get me down, brother. Sun’s shining. Let’s finish these repairs and ride.”
He reached over to a boom box on the curb, punching a few buttons and turni
ng a knob to bring it to life. “Take a break, Black Eagles,” he told them. “Easy old-school ghetto morning music.” As the first strains of Marvin Gaye’s “Sexual Healing” began, he looked up and pointed one of the two tire irons in his hands at a closed window above. “This one’s for you, Uncle Mos. Rest in peace!” he declared.
The other Eagles, five men and a woman, paused to watch as Lukas began a practiced choreography, flipping the steel irons high in the sunlight, twirling them, grabbing them from the air, and relaunching them. He folded his muscular body lower and lower, until he morphed the routine into a break dance, spinning his body on the cardboard sheets they’d laid out on the street for their repairs.
“Go on, kick it, Luke,” Tass said above the music. She dismounted her bike, sauntered over to him, and began dancing. Her lithe body moved in sync with Lukas and the music, with just the faintest traces of sweat beginning to show on her tight-fitting ribbed tank top.
The other Eagles rose from their milk crates and bikes and joined in, filling the sidewalk with their writhing bodies, laughing and clapping to the beat. The sun fully revealed itself and bathed them in its glow, erasing the dullness of the surrounding concrete and steel.
As the song wound to its finish, a voice came from a fire escape above. “You all either drunk or crazy. It’s too damn early on a Sunday to be acting foolish. People got to rest.”
Lukas looked up, smiling. “Aw, come on, Miz’ Irving. Take that robe and headscarf off and let your beautiful ‘fro fly free. Come on down and dance with the Eagles on this sunny day. Ain’t nobody drinking. We’re good Eagles, can’t drink and fly...” He motioned to the bikes.
“Huh. If you ain’t drunk, I’m going with crazy. You all be careful on those damn bikes.” She pulled her bathrobe sash tight and went back into her apartment.
“Uncle Mos would’ve liked the tribute, Luke,” Tass said.
Lukas put the tire irons into a long toolbox and looked back up at the window to his uncle’s former apartment. “Yeah. I sure miss him sticking his big-ass head outta that window to lecture us.”
“He was the boss,” Gary said solemnly. “Boss Mos. Now there’s a man who didn’t go out quietly. Took his stand and took him out some evil when he killed that child-molesting priest. I hope nobody ever rents that place up there again. That man deserves a shrine.”
“Yeah,” Lukas replied. “Remember him and that crazy white man Tommy? Couple of old cancer vigilantes. If I got the big C, I think I might do the same. Why not?” He paused to reflect. “Remember the first day Tommy came around, driving that big-ass Buick?”
A few of them laughed at the thought. “I heard on the news that the cops are talking to him about how the priest died, asking if he had anything to do with helping Moses,” Tass said.
“They won’t find anything,” Lukas answered. “Uncle Mos did what he did on his own. He left that letter explaining it, and that’s that.” He spoke with a tone of finality to subtly remind the group that the topic was off-limits. “I saw Tommy a while back,” he continued. “He said the cops are still hassling him, though. He’s still fighting the cancer—wasn’t looking too good at all. Uncle Mos sure loved that sumbitch. Said he brought life back into his life, for a little while anyway.”
They sat for a while, catching their breath, enjoying the silence of the morning.
“Uh-oh, five-oh coming down the road,” Tass said.
They followed her gaze and watched as an unmarked police cruiser accelerated toward them. It swerved in close to the row of bikes and came to a quick halt.
“Be cool, Eagles,” Lukas cautioned.
The passenger door swung open and struck the front wheel of the last bike, causing it to topple over onto the street with a crunch, glass particles from the side mirror spraying out next to it.
Lukas moved toward the emerging cop. “What the fuck, man? That’s my ride.”
“Sorry, bro. Jackson here just got his license,” the officer responded.
Jackson got out of the driver’s side. “Is this individual giving you some trouble, Officer Carson?” he asked.
“Could be. You’re Taylor, right? Lukas Taylor?” Carson asked.
“I am,” Lukas responded. “We ain’t doing nothin’ wrong here. We don’t want any problems.”
“Come on over by the car, Taylor. We just need to ask a few questions about an investigation. Private, away from your crew.” He took hold of Lukas’ elbow and guided him back over to the driver’s side of the cruiser. “Officer Jackson, can you just make sure he’s not carrying any weapons?”
Gary stepped forward. “Oh, come on man. You got no cause to be thinking that...”
Carson stepped in front of him as Jackson placed Lukas against the cruiser and spread his feet. “Stand down, brother man.”
“Let it go, Gary,” Tass said. “Let’s just get them out of here and get on with our business. You know Luke’s clean.”
“Oh, really, young lady? What kind of business are we talking about? You all dealing from the street out here?” Carson asked her.
“Hell no,” Tass answered. “Nobody here even got a record. We got jobs. We’re just fixing and cleaning up our bikes.”
Carson turned toward Jackson, who was finishing his frisk of Lukas. Jackson pulled a hand out of Lukas’ sweatpants and held up a small plastic bag half-filled with white powder.
“Well, well,” Carson said. “Sure doesn’t look like motorcycle polish to me. More like cocaine.”
Lukas looked up at the bag and immediately tried to turn. “Bullshit! You put that shit on me. I don’t know nothing about that.”
“That’s what they all say,” Jackson said, slamming him back against the cruiser. He pulled his cuffs as Lukas broke away, shoving him backward. The rest of the Eagles rose up at once toward the two officers.
Carson and Jackson moved in unison, backing off a few steps and pulling their sidearms out, pointing them at the group. “Stand down, that’s an order,” Carson shouted.
“Stay there,” Lukas warned the Eagles. “Nobody’s getting shot here today. Don’t give them an excuse.”
Jackson moved to the vehicle and grabbed the radio, calling for backup.
The standoff continued for a few long, tense minutes as the group engaged in derisive discourse with the officers, who continued to point their guns at them.
“Here comes your ride, Taylor,” Carson finally announced, as another police car came toward them from one end of the street and a police van from the other, sirens wailing and lights flashing.
Lukas remained silent as the vehicles rolled to a stop and cut their sirens. More officers got out to cover them. Carson holstered his weapon and approached him, throwing him back against the car and cuffing his hands behind him.
“Don’t say nothing, Luke,” Tass shouted to him. “Don’t say nothing. Get a defender. It’s bullshit.”
Carson pulled him to the back of the van. Lukas stepped up, watching the rear bumper, then felt a hand on his neck and heard, “Watch your head, buddy,” as his forehead was pushed into the top of the van and stars swirled in his vision.
He was tempted to complain, but kept his dignity, not giving Carson the pleasure. He knew it would be futile. Carson followed behind him, shoved him down onto the bench seats, and pulled the doors closed behind them.
“Stop resisting, Taylor,” Carson yelled for the benefit of the others outside, slamming his forearm into Lukas’ face.
“You need help in there?” Jackson called to him.
“Nope, just strapping him in.” Carson reached behind Lukas’ hips and pulled the seat belts around either side of him, placing them in his lap as if they were connected.
“They’re not buckled,” Lukas said as Carson opened the doors and exited the van.
Carson winked at him. “Yeah, I know. Have a nice trip,” he said as he slammed the doors shut to secure the van.
Lukas began to call out to let his friends know, but felt the words bounce back at him from the
reinforced sides of the police van. He wanted to pound on the walls but figured that would only add to their argument that he was being disorderly, and the cop would beat him further. Before he had time to think, he heard the front door open and then slam shut, and saw Carson and Jackson up front, looking at him through the small partition. Carson was behind the wheel.
He felt the van moving slowly down the street. As they took the first turn, his body was thrown across the small space, crunching against the other side of the van and sliding down to the floor.
He tasted the blood that filled his mouth and felt it flowing on his head and face as he was tossed from one side of the van to the other. The vehicle increased its speed, and Carson took each turn faster than the last. Lukas heard laughter from up front. It felt as if his arms were being pulled from their sockets each time he rolled across the floor.
In his last moments of consciousness, he imagined himself as an empty soda can being thrown around the back of a pickup truck, back and forth.
3 Medical Event
Tommy leaned back on the park bench and let the afternoon sun wash across his face. He welcomed the unusually warm spring weather, but even on better days, he could feel the effects of the experimental drugs he was taking and the chemo treatments he’d been enduring. Always cold, always weak. But it’s nice not to have to worry about skin cancer anymore.
A group of children playing nearby caught his attention. He found himself enjoying their shrieks as they held on to a spinning roundabout. Once upon a time, that noise would have driven me nuts.
As he watched them, he struggled to keep his eyes focused, and he felt dizzy. He thought back to his childhood, remembering himself and his friends enjoying the same playground equipment so many years ago. It’s good that some things don’t change. I wish I could go back. Maybe in the afterlife.
He thought about the brevity of his life, and how it seemed like just a few years ago that he was a boy with grand aspirations and no understanding of how easy it would be to become sidetracked from them. With his recent cancer diagnosis, all he could focus on was the past, and how he had wasted so much of his life. He knew there wasn’t going to be much future.
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