Senile Squad: Adventures of the Old Blues

by Chris LeGrow

  Just then he saw the undercover officers rounding corners and trying to tackle the bangers as they ran straight toward them. This obviously surprised many of the bangers who thought they were getting away by running through the complex. They tried to stop in their tracks and change direction. Some fell and were caught, but there were still those able to break free.

  Turley got on his radio and said, “Sergeant Scott, this operation has turned to a catch-whoever-you-can pursuit!”

  Sergeant Scott replied, “I know, but do the best you can, more cruisers are on the way, but I don’t know if they’ll get here in time.”

  Turley acknowledged and started after the two bangers who were about thirty yards in front of him. He looked and couldn’t believe what one of them was doing. The banger was talking into a small radio, and it looked like he was yelling instructions.

  Abrahim bellowed instructions in Sudanese to his soldiers over their CB radios. A few had been captured, but with a little luck most of them might slip away. Scanning the familiar area, he turned in the direction his men were headed. From his vantage point he saw why the cops were catching some of his soldiers. Rounding the buildings were cops wearing black vests filing in from the middle of the complex. White block lettering proclaimed POLICE on their vests moved exactly where the soldiers were heading.

  Abrahim yelled into his CB radio, “It’s a trap,” he screamed. “More cops coming from the parking lot.” Abrahim could see that more cops meant more of his soldiers were going to get caught. The only way more of his soldiers would escape would be to keep the cops tied up by fighting with them if they got caught. If they are fighting, they can’t be chasing us. Some of his soldiers had to be sacrificed so that the rest could escape.

  American cops were used to regular gang members giving up when caught. They didn’t want an assaulting-an-officer charge added to whatever else they were arrested for. Not the Sudanese. Unfamiliar with the criminal justice system, they loved to fight and would punch, kick, and bite—anything to get away.

  Abrahim was no exception. “Fight them.” He yelled into his radio, “If they catch you, fight them; this will help the rest of our soldiers escape.”

  Over his radio, each soldier repeated it to one another. Abrahim smiled and watched. His directive to battle proved effective. One, then two, then three of his men broke away and ran between the buildings. Abrahim couldn’t help but chuckle. “Fools,” he muttered. “You didn’t bring enough cops!”

  The soldier he had with him pointed at an officer who was starting to run toward them. They quickly sprinted away leaving the sound of the chaos behind them. Abrahim knew that officer could not catch them with the lead they had.

  A pair of Blues, Kim and Paul, milled around between buildings. “Hey look,” Kim said and glanced down at a long, gray garden hose coiled on the ground beside his feet. Glancing over at Paul, he picked up one end. “Grab the other end and stretch it tight,” he said with a chuckle. “We’ll trip the punks after we spray them?”

  Paul nodded and shot Kim a conspiratorial wink.

  Smitty pressed the hearing aid-radio in his ear. “Kim and Paul, three of them headed your way.”

  Once the bad guys were in sight, Kim pushed the button on his walker and shot a cloud of pepper spray twenty feet ahead of them. Three tall young men raced around the brick corner, glancing back over their shoulders. The Blues saw too. The officers giving chase were a good thirty yards behind the boys. Escape looked within reach. Paul and Kim stepped out. The mocking bangers didn’t see the old men as threats to them and focused on getting away. The boys ran straight into the orange plume.

  Eyes and mouths wide open in the melee, they drew in the caustic spray. In a heartbeat, their eyes involuntarily slammed shut, their noses, mouths, and throats seared. The burning chemical pain of two million Scoville Heat Units, a measurement of hot spices, overcame them. Their hands flew to their eyelids to no avail. Still intent on escape they continued running—straight toward the outstretched hose of two grinning Ol’ Blues, Kim and Paul.

  Their plan couldn’t have fallen into place better if they’d scripted it. Kim and Paul exchanged an evil grin. Clubba’s punks hit the hose and ran right past them, pulling the rubber from their two sets of hands. “Nuts,” Kim said. “I thought that would work.”

  Ten feet later, the bangers could move no more. Pepper spray had worked its debilitating mission. They screamed in their native tongue but no relief was in sight. Kim and Paul smiled again at each other. Maybe their plan didn’t work the way they wanted, but it still succeeded.

  Kerry and Tye responded to the cries. Three young males gagged and pressed their palms into their eyes. One dragged a hose along behind him. Pepper spray still hung in the air but nothing as intense as seconds earlier.

  Two senior citizens stood by and watched the altercation like it was a Friday night fight; they grimaced and cheered, scowled and smirked as the young men squirmed.

  “Watch it,” Tye muttered so only his partner could hear. “You know what happened the last time we came across one of these old folks.”

  “Oh shut up,” said Kerry with the darkening contusion. “On the ground now,” he roared at the three men. Two started to lie down. The third shrieked something in Sudanese at the officers. Instantly the young man met the ground hard. “We ain’t playing,” Tye said.

  The three were cuffed in minutes, then picked up and ushered toward the designated pickup spot for arrestees. Walking by the same two old men brought renewed smiles and then laughs directed at Clubba’s men.

  “You boys enjoy the full effect of that pepper spray,” one gentleman called out.

  “Yeah,” the other chimed in, “all the way through your nose, your sinuses, and into your lungs.”

  Kerry peered at the three thugs. Mucus flowed in gobs out their noses.

  “Oh, hey, that’s the walrus effect,” Tye said. “Look, Kerry, those long strings of mucus hang from their nose.”

  “Yep, looks like tusks,” Kerry said.

  “Not so tough now are ya, punk?” Kim said.

  “Okay, guys,” Tye said. “Get back in your apartments. Show’s over.”

  The two older men turned slowly. “Hmph. You’d think they’d be thanking us for delivering those creeps to ’em.”

  “Yeah,” Paul said. “You’d think.”

  Kerry and Tye exchanged a questioning look. “You hear that?” Kerry asked.

  “Yeah.”

  Both officers peered at the old men moseying away. “You don’t think—”

  “Nah.” Tye shook his head. “One of our guys pepper sprayed them. It just took a little time for it to take effect.”

  “Dude,” his partner said with a nod. “That lady with the spoon really laid one on you.”

  “Tell me about it; my head’s still throbbing.” He pushed his perpetrator forward. “Let’s go.”

  Abrahim and his soldier hit their stride, putting distance between them, the ruckus, and a very tired Officer Turley still trying to recover from having the wind knocked out of him. Escaping was the only good thing about this mess. There were too many unknowns: how many of his soldiers had been caught and arrested, how many had been injured, what were they charged with? Mostly he didn’t know how he’d explain it all to his cousin.

  Then as if in answer to his fear, he saw them. Shanese and her sister, holding hands and running for their lives. If I kill her myself, Clubba will still be pleased with me, Abrahim said to himself.

  Shanese knew that if she could get out of this hornet’s nest filled with Clubba’s thugs she and her sister would be able to find another place to hide and hopefully survive. Shanese told her sister, “Just run! Don’t look back.” Shanese didn’t know that Abrahim and one of Clubba’s soldiers were bearing down on them from behind. Abrahim pulled a knife from his waistband, and smiled in anticipation of killing for Clubba.

  Shanese yelled to her sister, “Just past that old man, and we’re…” Shanese had looked back at her si
ster when she trailed off mid-sentence by the sight of two of Clubba’s thugs chasing them. One she recognized as Abrahim, quickly gaining on them. Shanese’s eyes widened in terror as she saw Abrahim smiling and clenching a knife in his hand. “Don’t look back!” She yelled to her sister, “Don’t look—” She was cut off by a loud, determined yell from in front of her. “Keep running, darl’en. I’ll take care of these hoods.” Shanese looked forward to see an old man, waving them past with one of his crutches. Shanese didn’t have time to think, she just ran past the man towards the urban neighborhood and hopefully safety.

  Thirty yards in front of them, Abrahim spotted an elderly man on crutches. By the way the aged one walked, it appeared as if he wanted to intercept Abrahim. “Stupid old goat, out of the way, old man,” Abrahim shouted. Pulling closer, Abrahim realized that he recognized him, but from where?

  As he approached to pass, Abrahim watched the geezer lift the bottom part of his left crutch and point it at him like a gun. He met Abrahim’s gaze and smiled.

  Boom! Whatever was inside that crutch hit Abrahim in his right shoulder and spun him around. He’d been hit with a police bean bag round, a lead pellet cloth container shot from a 12-gauge cartridge at 300 to 400 feet per second. Though officially deemed nonlethal, anyone hit would well wish they were dead. It’s brought full-grown men to the ground in agonizing pain.

  Boom! Boom! Abrahim’s companion toppled to the ground, beside him.

  Boom! Something knocked the air of him; Abrahim grabbed his abdomen and sank to the ground beside his soldier.

  Bean Bag Charlie, one of only a few of the retired officers who could still shoot a shotgun and not land flat on his back, stood over Abrahim and smiled. “Nothing stops a moving mass like two of those babies straight to the gut.”

  Abrahim and his companion lay on the ground moaning and struggling to breathe. Abrahim gazed up at him. “I…I know you,” he said through gasps of air. “At—” he struggled to gulp a breath, “at the police home.”

  Bean Bag shrugged his shoulders. “You sure, son?” he asked. “Cuz all us old guys look alike.”

  Bending over, he plucked up the bean bags and left the scene. Passing Officer Turley who’d just caught up to them, Bean Bag Charlie turned and pointed back at the two young men writhing on the ground. “Make sure your sergeant knows,” he jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “The tallest one,” He indicated Abrahim, “that’s Clubba’s cousin.”

  CLUBBA KICKED BACK IN FRONT OF THE COMMON ROOM television set. Tomorrow…tomorrow,” he sang happily.

  “Don’t rub it in,” Earnest said with a sidelong glare at his partner. Honestly, the fact that Clubba was so ready and willing to work with Earnest still amazed him. Clubba would network his accomplices on the outside; Earnest would handle them on the inside. “News is on,” he said with a lift of his chin toward the screen.

  “Yeah,” Clubba said with a knowing grin. “My last day watching from this place.” Clubba said loud enough for all to hear and envy him.

  Earnest eyed the younger man. Without realizing it, Clubba had given all his hot-button issues to Earnest who made it a point to fan the flames of anger in Clubba. The mere mention of the old man with the whistling teeth sent the youngster into tornadic wrath. Earnest took the opportunity to goad the boy at every opportunity. Earnest wanted Tiny dead; Clubba wanted to kill him. The way Earnest figured, if his plan worked out the way he wanted, Clubba would be the pawn that helped him get the last laugh. Earnest wanted nothing more than to dance on Tiny’s grave—literally.

  “We have breaking news on a major police operation in the area of Sixtieth and Etna Streets,” the anchor said to the prompter. “We go there live when we return.”

  Clubba turned away from a conversation with a handful of other prisoners in his vicinity. “Sixtieth and Etna,” he said with a sudden serious tone. “That’s where my soldiers are.”

  “Something going on up there?” Earnest asked.

  A prisoner at the table behind him tossed a wad of paper into the wastebasket. “Heard something’s goin’ down in North O. Sounds like somethin’ big to me.”

  “You have no idea,” Clubba whispered.

  Earnest watched him closely; the television held his rapt attention. “What’s up?”

  Clubba shushed him.

  The anchor’s handsome face grew somber. “We go now to the scene.”

  “Shut up!” Clubba growled at the chatting prisoners surrounding him. Nobody disputed him although he drew frowns, questioning looks, and shoulder shrugs in return.

  “I’m at this group of apartments at Sixtieth and Etna Street,” said the young female reporter. “As you can see behind me, there are numerous police cars. Officers are still swarming the area collecting stragglers.”

  The camera panned the area zeroing in on both uniformed officers and vested undercover detectives. “About fifteen minutes ago, a call went out for more officers, and as you can see,” she said swallowing a chuckle, “respond they did.”

  The reporter stepped to her right; the camera obligingly zoomed in on the dwindling action. Ten marked cruisers filled the street; officers escorted handcuffed perpetrators to waiting police vehicles. About fifteen to twenty young men cursed and shrieked at police. “We still don’t know what brought about the initial altercation,” the reporter said, “but—”

  A uniformed officer put his hand on the head of one young man to ease him into the back of a patrol car. The boy jerked away and raised his mouth to the sky. “Sudanese soldiers!”

  Clubba sat rooted in place; he couldn’t believe his eyes. The entire police department swarmed through Shanese’s neighborhood. Caught up in the dragnet, he recognized his own men handcuffed and under arrest. “No,” he whispered. “Nooooo.”

  Every prisoner within earshot turned toward Clubba.

  “What’s wrong?” Earnest asked.

  “When we first arrived on scene we noticed a lot of senior citizens,” the reporter said, once again facing the camera, “but this entire complex of apartment buildings are single-family dwellings. Still, it appears that a great many older residents live here. Most have headed inside now but there were a great many outside. This,” she said, indicating the ongoing cleanup,“would send me back to the safety of my home too— even on this otherwise gorgeous day. Back to you guys in the studio,” she said with a bright smile.

  Before the camera stopped rolling, it caught four elderly men in the background moving toward a nondescript van. Another, obviously younger man, brought up the rear as though shepherding them along. As though sensing the media, he turned and spotted the broadcasting duo. Immediately ushering the older men into the vehicle, he slammed the door closed, hopped into the driver’s seat, and sped off.

  “Totally weird day,” the camera operator said to his companion.

  “You’re telling me,” she said. “Looks like the showdown at the O.K. Corral—without bullets.”

  Clubba stalked back to his cell; he punched his white-knuckled fist against his thigh with every step. “This can’t be,” he muttered. “Fifteen to twenty of my soldiers…they’ve got almost all of them.” The realization of all his networking, all of his planning, all of his currying favor with people he thought below him—gone in minutes. His warlord empire collapsed on the grass at Sixtieth and Etna.

  Clubba fell onto his bunk and stared at the ceiling with unseeing eyes. Stunned, he struggled to make sense of his crumbling world. Bewildered and disbelieving at what he’d just witnessed, he sucked in a deep breath of air. Never had he considered his plan wouldn’t be successful. Everything he’d ever attempted had succeeded. There was no reason to think his latest venture would be anything less. Now it was gone—all of it—in an insignificant corner of North Omaha. What now? He only had a handful of soldiers left—if that. Everything he’d built or hoped to build rested on his Sudanese soldiers. With them behind bars, he had nothing. “Nothing!” he screamed to the solid walls.

  Clubba lay quietly for a long t
ime, willing away the panic that threatened to consume him; deep, steady breaths steadied him and calmed his rage. Nothing good ever came from an angry decision. He continued his rhythmic breathing until a long while later, a slow but ever widening smile crept across his face. There was one thing worth reaping: revenge. “First the old man, then that stupid woman and her sister.”

  Yes, revenge would be oh, so very sweet. Hearing the sound of his bat against each head would bring him stature again. He wouldn’t be down for long.

  Outside Clubba’s cell, Earnest leaned against the cool cinder-block wall. Ah, Clubba, he thought, you’re such a perfect little pawn. Tiny’s days were numbered.

  “Everybody okay?” the tech asked the occupants of the van.

  “Get us back to the precinct—and fast!” Smitty ordered. The Chelini brothers, Kim and Paul, sucked in gulps of air through wide smiles. Each man nodded. “We’re good,” Paul said.

  “That dang camera caught us for sure; somebody’s bound to have seen us.” Smitty said. “Floor it!”

  The driver followed the order. Three blocks away Smitty turned to the rest of the Blues. “Once we get back to our rooms, you can’t be puffing and panting. We all need to act like we’ve been there the entire time.”

  The van screeched into the special maintenance garage, and the Ol’ Blues piled out and into the entrance under the hydraulic hoist. Specially made golf carts awaited them. The shuttles zipped through the tunnels and the supply room. Each Blue entered his individual quarters.

  The doors to the precinct burst open. Boss Nurse Betsy followed by three apprehensive student nurses marched straight in and headed toward the back doors, gateway to the Blues’ private living quarters.