by Chris LeGrow
Ben watched their lined faces light up as though they’d stepped into a fog of youthful memories. Paps cast his gaze from the north wall to his left where a series of black metal file cabinets rested. On top of those an antique electric fan turned just fast enough to create a light breeze. One blade clipped the outer protective cage in a rhythmic squeak. A large chalkboard specified the local neighborhoods and announced the names of officers assigned to each. BOLOs—Be On the Look Out—clamped to clipboards hung down. Black-and-white mug shots of tough-looking criminals with small chalkboards sporting names, descriptions, and assigned inmate numbers stared out.
Sunlight flooded the room from wide windows. With no fluorescent lighting, bulbs from hooded fixtures hanging from the ceiling bathed the room in a golden glow. “How long has it been since you’ve seen a typewriter?” Paps asked Jerry.
“A million years—give or take,” his friend replied.
White-haired officers were perched behind wooden desks scattered throughout the room. “How many do you think are working here?” Jerry asked Paps.
“Twenty max,” his friend said.
“The uniforms…” Paps said. “Wow.”
Each officer sported the blue hat and Omaha Police uniform. No one bothered looking up. The typing continued. “Are they writing up reports?” Jerry asked.
“And forms,” Paps added.
“Look,” Jerry pointed at a vintage rotary telephone. “Dials.”
Paps gave a long, low whistle. “Wow.”
Seated at a large desk higher than the others Paps and Jerry spotted an elderly officer with a wizened face and understanding smile. Reaching down he pressed a button and glanced back at the two guests.
“Looks kinda like the old precinct on Tenth Street before they tore it down,” Jerry said.
“Kinda?” Paps asked. “Looks exactly like it!”
“Paps,” Jerry said in a bad stage whisper. “They’re not wearing pants.”
Paps spun around to the working officers. “What?”
“They’ve got the hats and shirts but no slacks,” Jerry said.
Instead of regulation-issued pants, the men wore hospital gowns. Their shirts covered the top but trousers were nonexistent. It was abundantly clear to anyone standing behind that some displayed adult diapers and others exhibited boxer underwear.
“Oh, jeeze,” Paps said. “Their shoes!”
Black patent leather gleamed up at them. Suspenders wrapped around the lower leg holding up each man’s socks.
“What the—”
Large smoked windows separated the main precinct from another office. The door swung open. The Sarge waved at them. “Yo, look what the K-9 dragged in. How’d you two like a job?”
“Sarge?” they asked in unison.
“If you’re finished reminiscing?” His bushy gray eyebrows raised in query. He stuffed his cigar back into his mouth and headed to his office with a motion for them to follow.
Paps and Jerry exchanged a look, shrugged their shoulders, and followed.
“Like it?” Sarge asked around his ever-present cigar stub.
“Like it?” Paps responded. “I love it.”
“I—I can’t believe it,” Jerry said. “It’s like we went back in time.”
“Back in time and then some,” responded the Sarge. “You two sure didn’t though. You both look old!”
“Hello, pot,” Paps said.
Jerry shared a laugh with the Sarge who indicated two chairs to sit in.
After a minute or two Paps glanced around and held his hands out. “How did you get all this?”
“Well,” the Sarge said. “Let’s say there are some very important people in this town who want us to enjoy our ‘golden years’ in an extremely comfortable environment.”
“I love it,” Jerry said.
Paps nodded.
“Makes you feel young again, doesn’t it?” Sarge asked.
Each man nodded and smiled.
“Well.” The Sarge paused, his countenance growing serious. “How would you like to not only feel young again, but be needed—and I mean needed like on a professional level again?”
Paps and Jerry exchanged a quizzical look and turned to the Sarge.
“Sure,” Paps said.
“But how?” Jerry asked.
“All you need to know is that there are some very rich people in this city called The Bureau. They think there’s real value in a bunch of old coppers together in a retirement home, in an environment where they fought crime for years and,” he pointed the cigar at Paps and Jerry, “in a specially designed facility where our decades of experience can be put to use—again.” Sarge emphasized the last word and leaned back in his chair to watch Paps’s and Jerry’s reactions.
“What do you mean ‘again’?” asked Jerry.
“The Bureau is renovating this place and not just for all the old coots who were sitting around doing nothing except wasting their old school experience. No, The Bureau thought us old guys could provide a community service as ah…ah…what did they call it? Oh! A think tank. We’d have old cops talk to neighborhood watch groups or advise current investigators on crimes they were having trouble solving. Anyway, The Bureau loved the idea so—” he gestured around him— “here we go.”
“Wow,” Jerry said. “This place really brings back a lot of good times. I could provide advice on what we’ve done for decades. No problem.”
“Glad you agree,” the Sarge said and leaned forward. “That’s phase one—at least for the public.”
“What else is there?” Paps asked.
“Sounds like there’s another shoe waiting to drop,” Jerry said.
“Is there ever,” the Sarge leaned toward the two men. “A few of them recognized that we could do more than advise and talk about crime. We could actually do something about it and from right here in this specially designed precinct.” The Sarge waved his chewed cigar around his office. “These guys included some special additions like what you saw when you came in the front doors: the medical and student areas. State offices are all provided at no cost. Needless to say, it made getting special permits pretty easy to come by.”
Warming to his subject, the Sarge grew more animated. “By far the most interesting addition is the precinct itself. You saw it as you walked in, a reconstruction of the old downtown station. That was by design. What you didn’t see was an actual functioning cop shop. The guys you walked by at the desks and on the phones are actually working cases.” Sarge glanced excitedly from Paps to Jerry. “What do you think?”
As if both Paps and Jerry comprehended at the same time, they slid their hands down the arm rests of their chairs, then both of them leaned back and cocked their heads.
“You mean,” Paps said as he twirled his hand around the office, “those guys are investigating current crimes? Stuff happening right now?”
“Uh-huh.” The Sarge plopped back in his chair and simultaneously popped the chewed cigar back into his mouth. “You got it,” he said and started rocking back and forth.
He let that thought sink in.
“But…but how can that be?” asked Paps.
The Sarge yanked the cigar out of his mouth. “We’re retired from the force but still have police know-how…well sort of, anyway. We don’t go running down the hoods, but we gather intelligence and evidence that we report anonymously to the proper investigation units at headquarters by using the Crime Stoppers phone line. How brilliant is that?”
“The what?” asked Jerry.
“Crime Stoppers,” Paps said. “It’s on TV all the time.”
“Right,” the Sarge said. “It was around before we retired but it’s big right now. People can call the hotline and report crime without giving their names. A huge success all over the country. Anyway, we give the information, and the appropriate unit, like robbery, auto theft, or the gang unit gets it. Our information should be so good that they don’t even have to follow up. They just mop up, cuff ’em and stuff ’em.” The Sarge
said with a satisfied grin. “Course sometimes we have to help them out by providing surveillance of the hood’s activities and then it’s just a matter of them putting the case together for the prosecutor and bingo. The punks land in jail. We’ve been doing this on a small scale for a couple of months, but now we’re ready to move into phase two.”
Paps shook his head. “And that is?”
A full-bellied laugh shook the Sarge and he leaned forward. “Full-scale operations from the precinct. Surveillance and evidence gathering from all the problem spots in the city. We go under cover as innocent old men, but we’re equipped with state-of-the-art cameras, microphones, and light weapons.”
“Weapons!” Jerry all but whooped.
“Shoots pepper spray twenty-five feet!” an old copper crowed outside the Sarge’s office and held up his cane. He pointed the bottom of the cane at Paps and Jerry and made a squish-h-h-h sound.
“Put that thing down, Benson,” the Sarge growled. “Last time you accidentally shot that stuff in the office, we had to vacate the premises.” The Sarge looked back at Paps and Jerry. “Had to drop a piss pack on the floor where it landed so the medical staff would be none the wiser.”
“You mean nobody else knows?” asked Paps.
“Nope. It’s all ‘spy-versus-spy’ around here. We’re all undercover now. Cops playing cops that people think aren’t really cops anymore.” The Sarge reclined in his chair. “It’s awesome.”
“It’s freaking brilliant!” Jerry said.
“Under cover and under everybody’s noses!” Paps said. “So, where’s all this special equipment?” he asked. “I don’t see any surveillance cameras. And who gets the equipment for you? Does someone sneak it in from the outside?”
“Well, actually someone sends it.” Another mischievous smile from the Sarge. “Not in from outside, but, up from below. That’s why I asked for you two to be transferred here.” The Sarge pointed down at the floor. “Below this main building are old bomb shelters. Each one has been renovated. When you enter one of them through the front door, it looks like a typical supply room. One is linen and janitorial; one is medical; another is office supply.”
Jerry shrugged. “That’s normal.”
The Sarge clapped his palms together. “Exactly what we want people to think. What the legitimate supply rooms provide, besides supplies, are a cover for our armory, computer, research lab, and our tunnels.”
“What tunnels?” Paps asked.
“How do ya think we get all of the equipment and support personnel in and out of the labs?” The Sarge asked. “Or for that matter, how we sneak out of here for covert missions? The tunnels were built to help with some government sewer water separation program, so we just made them bigger than they needed to be,” the Sarge replied nonchalantly.
“The real purpose of the whole supply room system is to be a façade for the precinct. Whoever runs the supply rooms are the actual guards and gatekeepers of the precinct armory, labs, and tunnels. That’s why I wanted you two,” the Sarge said, and pointed at each man with his cigar. “I watched you two in the supply room at headquarters. You’re the best ever. Know this, if you accept this responsibility, you will be the backbone of the entire program. You’ll be the ones who ensure the secrecy of our underground network and the undercover supply supervisors of the entire facility. You guys are more than needed; you’ll be all that stands between what we are able to accomplish to fight crime and the exposure and subsequent folding of the entire operation.”
The Sarge paused and looked point-blank first at Paps and then Jerry. “So what do you say? Will you do it?”
In a heartbeat, Paps shot Jerry a knowing look and turned to the Sarge. “When do we start?”
“It’s almost time,” Ben Mitchell told The Bureau at their monthly meeting. “Things are going well to say the least. The Ol’ Blues have moved in, and there are only a few more projects being worked on with the rest of the facility.”
“How close to completion?” Dan Stevens asked.
“Couple weeks I think,” Steve DeGoff said.
“Dan,” Ben said, “that sewer retrofit was quite a trial.”
“Yeah,” Dan said and swept his hand through his thick, brown hair, “but it finally all came together. My pipefitters and crew were incredible.”
“No kidding,” Pam said. “Awesome job.”
“Yes,” Bonnie said. “Glad we had your mad design skills on our side.”
“Not to mention the manpower he provided,” Bud said.
The door swung open behind him and Ben turned around. “Al, Tyler,” he said in recognition of the Long bothers. “Just in time. We’re all going over to the opening together.”
“Great,” Al said. “The local media outlets think this is the best thing since bottled water.”
“True, but without you guys pulling your supervisors and construction workers from India and Malaysia, we would’ve lost the secrecy we needed.”
“I love it when things come together like this,” Frieda said.
“Yeah. This idea was gold, Ben,” Tyler said. “Solid.”
“The politicians love it,” Bud said.
“And the preservationists are thrilled to finally get a historic building the mayor won’t raze,” Frieda said. “I was at their meeting last week. They think we walk on water.”
“Not to mention the state snarfing up our free office space and training facilities,” Bud said in reference to the Department of Health and Human Services.
“The universities and medical centers—”
Ben held up his hands. “Okay, okay,” he said. “We’re definitely the topic du jour and we’re getting great press, but the tech center at the precinct is almost finished. Once we get that nailed down, we’ll be ready for the real stuff. Steve, are we close?”
DeGoff nodded, his well-gelled hair stayed securely in place. “Couple of weeks max and we’re there.”
“Awesome,” Ben said. “Need anything from us?”
“Another million,” Steve said.
No one in the room blinked at the sum. “You’ll have it by tomorrow morning,” Ben said.
Nods of agreement from all members brought a smile to DeGoff ’s face.
“Shall we see how it all looks on TV?” Ben asked. Without waiting for a response, he turned on his favorite local television channel. “We’ve gotten a lot of these feel-good media videos featuring retired officers who’ve served the community for years.”
Tyler said, “I liked the one that showed the old gents moving out of a ratty old apartment.”
His brother interrupted. “Nah, the one in his kid’s basement. That was great!”
“The families are really the ones selling it,” Frieda said. “They love the idea that Grandpa will be in a facility that reminds him of a time when he was young. Oh.” She pointed at the screen. “Turn it up.”
Ben complied. A family member spoke directly to the camera and audience. “These are men who were wasting away, like my grandpa. He was just sitting around and doing nothing. Nothing really interested him and now look.” The camera panned in the direction the family member pointed and zoomed in on a group of old men in a reunion of sorts. They were laughing and slapping each other on the back. Whether they leaned on canes or sat in wheelchairs, their infectious grins made compelling television.
“It’s like their memories have come back to life,” the reporter commented, “along with their purpose in life.”
The next story quashed the euphoria of moments earlier. A body had been found in an abandoned lot just off the interstate in North Omaha. The skull had been bashed in and every bone broken in multiple spots. The police had no leads. The neighborhood wasn’t talking.
“Maybe that’s where we should start,” Frieda said.
“As good a place as any,” Ben agreed.
Nobody in The Bureau knew it, but Clubba was building his empire as they were building the Ol’ Blues precinct. Making sure anyone who spoke or acted out of turn p
aid the price, as evidenced by another blunt force trauma victim.
SHANESE WHITTIER STROLLED THROUGH MILLER PARK enjoying the quiet beauty of spring in Nebraska. The brutal winter wind chill evaporated into still crisp air and sixty-five degree sunshine, a welcome relief from previous months. People sat on their porches watching children on their bikes or, like her, simply meandered through the public grounds or neighborhood sidewalks.
She stopped and turned back to her thirteen-year-old sister Melia, or “Lele,” bringing up the rear four steps behind. A hot pink cell phone in her hand held Melia transfixed.
“You always on that thing,” Shanese said.
“Cuz I got lots of friends to talk to,” Melia said without lifting her gaze off the electronic device.
“Well, come on then, slowpoke,” Shanese said with a playful tug on Melia’s braids. “We best head back.” Melia nodded but Shanese doubted the girl had any idea of where they were.
Shanese turned and took her sister’s shoulder in her hand and escorted her across an empty parking lot. “You’re gonna get yourself killed if you don’t look up once in a while,” she told Melia.
“And you’re gonna get yourself killed by that bully, Clubba,” Melia said. She speared her sister with a direct gaze from her dark eyes. “You need to dump him.”
Shanese turned away and began walking away. “I can’t. You know that.”
“He’s no man. He’s nothin’ but trouble.”
“Stop it,” Shanese said quietly.
Melia shrugged and turned back to her phone.
Shanese walked along the sidewalk lost in her own thoughts. At twenty-five, she’d seen more than her share of strife—much of it brought on herself. She now found herself on a long list of girls that Te’quan Yates Koak, aka Clubba, claimed as his own. Just the thought of him was like a kick in the gut. She didn’t know how to handle the continual horror he instilled in everyone…not just her. The entire neighborhood—city blocks of folks—lived in fear of him. Hardly anyone would look him in the eyes; he might take offense and call it an act of disrespect. Disrespect meant punishment and punishment…
Tires screeched behind her. In broad daylight and with his usual arrogance, Clubba skidded to a stop and shouldered open the door of his dark blue Yukon. He placed one foot outside and reached back for something. A sickening dread snaked along Shanese’s spine. Kingpin didn’t begin to describe him. He feared nothing and no one, or he wouldn’t be here in broad daylight. The air of authority he wore said he never gave a thought that anyone would call the cops. His six feet two inches cast a long shadow on the cloudless day. He planted one leg on the road but left the other on the running board. He pulled his well-muscled arm out, a wooden baseball bat in his hand. That tool had sent more than one enemy—real or imagined—to intensive care or the grave. He pointed it straight at her.
