Crystal Meth Cowboys

by John Knoerle

  Florence hid her face behind her knees. "Oh?"

  "OK, Boss Hogg's a notorious swillmeister, right? So all we gotta do is bust ol' Mister Law'n'Order for deuce sometime before the election and Florence Jillison wins by a landslide."

  Florence lifted her head from her knees and eyed Bell dreamily. She took a long time forming her words. "Did you ever work in the Nixon Administration?"

  This set off a buzz of laughter from Wes and Sherri and a flurry of obscenity-laced Tricky Dick impressions from Officer Bell. When they quieted down they heard the circuit breakers on the high tension pole spit and crackle in the moist night breeze.

  Florence lowered her left knee. Wes could make out only a murky, cubist image of her breast in the red underwater spa light. "He does go to a poker game once a week," said Florence to her thigh.

  "Where and when?" asked Bell, sitting up, all ears. Florence shrugged her shoulders. "I haven't the ssshlightest idea," she said and sank down, submerging her head in the rosy depths.

  Bell looked at Wes significantly, as if to say 'I'm way too wasted, you're in charge of remembering this', then splashed across the tub with a predatory growl and deposited his scalded pink body on Sherri's lap. He looked like an enormous newly-hatched chick. Sherri sat up and crushed her breasts against his stomach in a full embrace. Florence remained submerged.

  Bell stood up and clambered out of the tub, dragging a shlong the size of a turkey neck. He held Sherri's arm as she stepped out after him. Wes watched the water sluice down her backbone and cascade off her full round ass. Florence resurfaced with a mild "Whoo."

  Bell smacked his wife's bottom playfully. "She's a bit broad in the beam," he rasped in a pirate voice, closing one eye to suggest an eye patch, "But steady in a 'eavy sea!" They ran off then, Bell and Sherri, grabbing and giggling, leaving Wes Lyedecker sitting alone with Florence Jillison in the hot tub under a tin-bright moon.

  "It's so hot," said Florence, running a wet hand over her plastered-down hair. She arched her back and sat up straight. Her unfreckled alabaster breasts sprung from the water, naked and dripping. Wes watched the chill wind stiffen their nipples.

  Chapter 10

  "Always back into your parking spot," said Bell, backing the LTD into a parking spot. "That way you're ready to roll when the call comes in."

  Bell and Lyedecker were code seven in the Taco Bell lot, steaming bags of burritos on their laps at 8:58 PM. It had been a slow night. "Why didn't we go inside, get out of the car for a bit?"

  "It's not a safe house," said Bell. "Too many people handle the food. Too many chances for Paco to slip you the secret sauce. If you drive through the drive thru they don't know who you are till you pull up."

  Wes opened his bag to the aroma of ground beef and hot lard. "So a safe house is a restaurant where you know the chef?"

  "Correctamundo, moosebreath." Bell cocked his head to one side to give himself a better angle of attack on the soft white underbelly of the Supreme Burrito he had just unpeeled. "You never fuck with anyone who prepares your food, works on your car or handles you medically."

  Wes pondered this pearl of wisdom as two long-haired, scrawny white boys spilled out the door of the Taco Bell, extra-large sodas in hand, riffing a mile a minute, knocking into one another. They wore only jeans and t-shirts against the cold night and even Wes Lyedecker could see that they were seriously twisted.

  Bell strobed them with the high beams. The white boys looked up at the squad car as if it were bearing down on them at 90 mph. By the time Bell flicked the headlights again they were gone.

  "I'm beginning to wonder whereabouts all this methamphetamine in town is coming from," said Bell.

  Wes struggled to open a plastic packet of Taco Bell hot sauce. The damn things were too small to get a grip on. He noticed that Bell inserted the head of the packet inside his burrito and squeezed from the bottom till it exploded. Being a cop was pretty amazing, he thought. You could kill people, you could save lives, you could dematerialize malefactors with a flick of your brights.

  "Maybe it's weight that Bjornstedt unloaded before you…you know…"

  "Shot him six times at close range causing his bloody and gruesome demise?"

  "Yes."

  Wes followed a big chunk of burrito as it swelled Bell's skinny neck on the way down. "Well, I don't b'lieve ol' Biker Bob unloaded any weight. Not in this town."

  Wes tried to puzzle through to Bell's conclusion. Bell said, "Aren't you going to ask me how I know?"

  "How do you know that Bjornstedt didn't sell any drugs before he died?"

  Bell brightened, ready for the punchline. "Because he only had 60 bucks in his satchel. And selling bags of meth from the back of your Harley is a cash only business, trust me." Bell took another bite. "Which is how they say fuck you in Hollywood."

  Wes said, "I think that Bjornstedt was murdered. Forcibly OD'ed by rival dealers. As a warning."

  "And that's a warning he won't soon forget," said Bell.

  "No, I meant as a warning to other, you know, uh, interlopers."

  "I thought of that," said Bell, resting the stub of his burrito on the flattened sack in his lap. "But say some bad boys bust into the room and overpower ol' Biker Bob. What do they do then?"

  "Well, they hold him down and inject him with a massive overdose of crystal meth."

  "OK. And then what do they do?"

  Wes picked at the edges of his flour tortilla. It was getting cold. "I see your point," he said.

  Bell elaborated anyway, sawing the air with his arms. "They can't tie him up if they want the pigs to think the OD was accidental, which they must've cuz they left ten grand worth of meth sitting in the closet. Can't knock him out, same reason. So, once the bad guys geeze up ol' Biker Bob they've got to sneak out without being noticed. Only now they're facing one extremely agitated speedfreek superman who wants to rip their eyes out and skullfuck 'em!"

  Wes tossed his burrito back in the bag. He sipped his Dr. Pepper. "They could have held a gun on him," he said, then immediately regretted it.

  Bell snorted. "Oh, yeah. You saw how that worked when I tried it. No, Braintree, you were right when you said ol' Biker Bob wanted your gun to shoot himself. I didn't think so at first because Bjornstedt didn't immediately stick the gun barrel in his mouth. But you can't decock with your wrist twisted around like that. He raised it up to release the safety. After I replayed the scene in my brain twenty or thirty times I remembered hearing it. That click."

  Unbelievable, thought Wes. His training officer had actually agreed with him. Sort of. The naked man had definitely wanted to shoot himself when he looked up from Wes Lyedecker's holster, his arteries about to burst. But that didn't mean that he had overdosed himself.

  "If a meth freak wanted a quick and painless death it seems to me that a massive overdose is the last method he would choose," said Wes. "Maybe those guys in the El Camino did it. And no, I don't know precisely how but they gave you a thumbs up, remember?"

  "I remember."

  "Maybe that was their way of saying thanks for finishing the job."

  Bell checked his watch and fired up the unit. "We've still got some code seven time," he said, weaving out of the lot. "Let's go visit our ol' pal Esteban at Doctor Wog's."

  -----

  "You get in the froghouse last night?" asked Bell as he and Lyedecker waited in the general admissions area of the Wislow Hospital, a spartan facility that rambled through a converted high school on the west side. The general admissions area was housed in an ancient high-ceilinged gym.

  "Huh?" said Wes.

  "The froghouse, the bearded clam, the warm and fertile delta."

  Wes stared straight ahead. He had always disliked this aspect of male behavior, the sticky detailed boasting of sexual conquest. He especially disliked it when he had nothing to boast about. "No comment."

  Bell clucked his tongue sympathetically.

  Wes had heard their radio commercial on the ride over to the hospital. When Florence said 'I
founded the Rape Crisis Center in 1988', the events of the previous evening came flooding back. Lounging in the hot tub, his muscles relaxed and his loins on fire, Wes had asked Florence how she came to be a community activist. She related a grim tale of stranger-rape in her own bedroom. She went on to recount discovering her fiance weeping bitterly. She had been deeply touched. Later she came to understand that he was weeping for himself, now that she was soiled goods. This discussion took the erotic charge right out of the evening and Wes politely averted his eyes when Florence climbed out of the hot tub to grab her towel.

  Wes Lyedecker's talking brick spit static. Bell had told the dispatcher only that they were code four at the hospital. If a call came in they'd have to take it. And Wes didn't want to. He'd been teacher's pet in Questioning and Communication at the Academy, consistently scoring 'excellent' as both cop and suspect in the role plays. He was primed to discover mutual interests, build the golden bridge, refute the zero sum game, craft a win-win solution and clearly demonstrate to Officer Bell the error of his prehistoric ways.

  Bell and a bespectacled Pakistani in a doctor's smock greeted one another warmly. Wes followed them down a hall, their footsteps echoing off the thirty foot ceiling. The radio remained silent. The doctor, prattling to Bell in the singsong cadence of the the Subcontinent, stopped and unlocked a door.

  "Thank you, Doctor," said Bell, snapping a smart salute. The Doctor bowed and walked off.

  "He's all yours, peachfuzz," said Bell, pushing Wes inside the room. "You're the one he likes."

  Rodriguez lay alone in the small room, an oxygen mask covering his nose and mouth, a glucose drip bag attached to his arm. Rodriguez raised up and propped his head on some pillows, blinking his eyes awake. He looked gray-green against the white pillowcases, his large head bobbing along on gentle waves of morphine. His dark eyes came to life when he saw a cop bearing down on him from above.

  "Esteban, how you feelin'?

  Rodriguez mumbled something into the oxygen mask.

  "Are you feeling any better?" Wes leaned down to hear the response.

  "Shhh…shhhh…shhh…shhh," said Rodriguez, fogging the plastic mask. He appeared to be snickering. Wes drew back. This was not a promising start to the initial 'inquire to explore' portion of the negotiation. He wondered if Rodriguez recognized him.

  "You look a lot better than you did in the back yard."

  Rodriguez stopped his snickering and glared. Wes recognized his mistake immediately. He had reminded a proud man of his moment of humiliation.

  "I'm glad you're better, Esteban. Glad you pulled through. I just came by to check on you. And see if you could help us with a problem." In class, Wes had learned that the world's eight most powerful words were, 'I have a problem. I need your help.'

  Rodriguez gave his head a little shake, fanning out his bangs. They were trimmed very precisely and lined up evenly on his forehead. He looked as tough and defiant as he could in a hospital gown, an oxygen mask on his face. Wes searched for a way to establish a commonality of interest (this influx of meth is bad for the community) without insulting the man's pride (look at what it did to you). Esteban's head started to wobble, as if a bolt had been loosened in his neck. He was losing him. Say something!

  "Esteban, all this speed is bad for everyone. We've had fatal overdoses, bar fights…all kinds of trouble. Now I'm not saying you're a user, but if you are you could tell me the name of your supplier and it could help you in your assault case and no one would have to know it was you. Who fingered him. At least until he goes to trial." Wes shrugged his shirt back into place. "And that's the best offer you're gonna hear all night." Rodriguez pulled the oxygen mask down to his chin and licked his lips. He raised his head and croaked out three words. "Chinga tu madre."

  Wes didn't know the exact translation of this remark. But the tone was unmistakable.

  Chapter 11

  The half moon hung on the night like a broken pearl button on a blue velvet blouse as the LTD Crown Victoria plowed into a headwind blowing peaty air from the ag fields. They were westbound on Playa Road. Bell switched the police band to the chat frequency and said, "If the Big Bad Wolf can come out and play he should 11-98 at Grandma's House."

  Bell and Lyedecker drove a block in silence before a deep soft voice said "Roger."

  Bell turned right at M Street and backed into a spot in the rear of the parking lot of Miss Muffet's Air-Cooled Cafe. The lot was almost empty at 8:39 PM. Wes wondered what Bell was up to. He had hardly spoken since they left the hospital.

  "Just this year," said Bell, unhitching his seat belt. "Down in Smell-A somewhere, the DEA concluded a two year investigation into a big cocaine smuggling operation. They had el jefe's compound all staked out. They had dope dogs, they had armored vehicles, they had swat teams on hot standby, but…they were waiting for the launch command from some bullshit brass back in Washington D-Sneeze. So, ol' El Jefe himself sashays out and jumps in his short. They know from phone taps that he's got important shitbag dinner guests incoming so they figure he's just goin' down to the store for some last minute dinner rolls. They figure he'll be back in ten. So they let him go and wait for his return."

  Bell narrowed his eyes and crimped up the corners of his mouth. Wes took this to mean that they were still waiting.

  "I know that proper procedure is to obtain a warrant and tell the defectives and Shitamoko and PsychoSarge, and since I'm your training officer I should be training you in the proper procedure and I feel bad about that, I really do." Bell nodded solemnly at the steering wheel. "But meth dealers never land anywhere for long, ex-pecially if they're cooking, and we'll be lucky if he's still there."

  Wes stretched his spine till his skull bumped against the head rest. Things were moving way too fast. Bell's tall shadow had stretched across Esteban's bedside shortly after Wes Lyedecker's unsuccessful negotiation. Wes had felt guilty pleasure at Esteban's sudden loss of bravado. When Bell pinched off the feeder tube to Esteban's oxygen mask, Wes did nothing. He figured Esteban could still breathe through the vents in the side of the mask. Esteban was apparently too stoned to reach the same conclusion because ten seconds after Bell said 'Where'd you score the shit Rodriguez?', Rodriguez provided a name, address and phone number.

  Officer Cyril Reese's patrol car swept into the parking lot and slid soundlessly into the slot next to Bell, head in. His driver's side window withdrew itself, releasing a blast of heated air. Wes could tell that Reese smelled combat because he looked even more cool and disengaged than usual.

  "What up?" said Reese.

  "Quality lead, I have got a quality lead on a gentlemen in the pharmaceutical redistribution business," said Bell. "Specifically yer crystal meth-am-phet-amine, youknowhuta'hm sayin'?"

  "I know what you're sayin'," said Reese.

  "So now lemme splain whut we gonna do heah…"

  Nice, thought Wes. His senior training officer was giving instructions for a probably unlawful and potentially life-threatening narcotics raid to an African-American officer in an accent borrowed from Amos 'n' Andy. Reese kept his eyelids firmly at half-mast. When Bell concluded with "You got it?" Reese said "Let's roll" and threw his LTD into reverse.

  Bell fired up the unit, bucked down the driveway and squealed left on M Street. He ran the stop sign, turned west on Playa and flicked on the blinking amber running lights. He goosed the siren at a lumbering panel truck in the number one lane. When the truck slowed even further Bell whipped around on the right, Reese locked on his bumper like a Jap Zero.

  Was Bell going to notify dispatch? An on-duty officer was required to give his status and location when either one of those changed. Wes didn't think Bell would. There wasn't a ten code designation for 'en route to a forcible entry of a private home without a warrant using illegally obtained information.' The Academy trained cadets in transactional techniques for calming combative suspects and in negotiating techniques for eliciting the co-operation of reluctant witnesses. However, they received absolutely no instruc
tion on how to restrain a senior officer who was hellbent on mayhem.

  The radio squelched. A microphone had just keyed on. Wes could hear the hissy mutterings of the SO and CHP frequencies in the backround. The dispatcher was about to break her long silence and rescue Wes from a career-ending nightmare call.

  "12 Frank - Control."

  Bell grabbed the mike and said, "…rol, this is…ank 12."

  "12 Frank, doorbell ditching in progress, six-seven-nine T-Temperance Drive. Request a roll-by."

  "Door bell ditching," snorted Bell.

  "…eck…ah..ouble hearing you…rol," he said to the mike. "…eaking up…eck..ah…oh." Bell concluded his transmission by pressing the mike to his lips and imitating radio static. He keyed off. "We're way off the reservation now, peachfuzz. Find me a pay phone."

  Wes told himself to voice his objections. And he would, at the first opportunity. "I think there's one up here, by the library."

  "Is there or isn't there?"

  "Ummm, yes. Yes, turn here."

  Bell bootlegged into the front lot of a small stucco branch of the Wislow Library and screeched to a halt. Reese pulled to the curb. Several elderly women looked out the windows of a conference room.

  "Now here's the deal," said Bell to Lyedecker. "I want you to tweak the siren when I give you the high sign. You got it?"

  "Yes, but I’m really not…" said Wes as Bell slammed the door and quick stepped toward the pay phone. He stopped, turned around and scurried back.

  Bell tapped the tips of his fingers together and grinned sheepishly. "I need a quarter."

  Wes dug in his pants pocket. "Here," he said. "But maybe we should…."

  Bell pinched Wes Lyedecker's cheek, then raced to the pay phone. An Asian schoolboy dressed like a 50's teen in a plaid shirt and beltless slacks fiddled with his bike lock as he leaned forward to eavesdrop. Wes did likewise, wondering why in the world Bell would want to call the man.

  "Ramon," exclaimed Bell to the phone. "Is me, mang… Estebang. Estebang Rodriguez! Chu gotta book, mang!…Por que? Tracion. Muy malo tracion. They beat me. Los puercos they beat me and I gave chu up, mang." Bell pointed at Lyedecker. Wes goosed the siren.