Time's Up

by Janey Mack

  “People don’t. My name is Jennifer. If my parents had wanted people to call me Jenny, they would have named me Jenny.”

  “O—kay.” I sat up a little straighter. “After my . . . er . . . falling-out with the Police Academy, Caiseal thought a job in Traffic Enforcement—”

  “Yes. Why is that exactly?”

  “I’ve always had a great respect for parking—”

  “No. The Police Academy. You had high marks. Why did you quit?”

  “Excuse me?”

  Jennifer paged through my application. “The fax I received from the Academy states ‘subject declined to continue academy post psych interview.’ Why?”

  I suppressed a sigh of pure relief. At least my future employers weren’t to be informed of my pitiful lack of emotional regulation.

  “Ms. McGrane?”

  “Maisie . . . Yes, I did,” I said, scrambling to invent a reason why I didn’t want the best job in the world. “I realized the . . . uh . . . some elements of police work were too . . . intense for me.”

  “I see.” She nodded. “Although I would be remiss if I did not caution you that occasionally, you may be dealing with unhappy or even hostile members of the public.”

  Thank You, God. “I can imagine.”

  The interview slowed to a slog as I waded through endless generic questions designed to reveal personality and suitability.

  Ms. Lince closed the folder on her desk. “Now a little about us. The Traffic Enforcement Bureau is a branch of Dhu West, a privately owned LLC. We are not a government agency, nor do we partner with any other state or municipal agency.”

  I nodded.

  “The Traffic Enforcement Bureau has garnered a hundred-year lease of the City of Chicago’s downtown parking meters. We maintain and operate over thirty-six thousand meters and generate approximately twenty-eight million dollars a year in revenue.”

  My eyes began to glaze over.

  Jennifer folded her hands primly on the desk. “What interests you most about the TEB family?”

  Nothing. “Its reputation and opportunity for advancement.”

  “Dhu West and the TEB strive to help employees achieve their goals. I’m proof of that.” She held up a finger, putting me on pause, and signaled for someone to enter her glass office.

  Her secretary extended a clipboard. “Dean resigned.”

  Jennifer frowned, signed it, and turned her attention back to me. “There is a high level of turnover in this position. That, combined with your brother’s impeccable recommendation, have me wishing I could put you on the roster today. Unfortunately, the training session started this morning. The next one won’t begin for two weeks.” She turned to the secretary. “Give her a requisition for the next class.”

  Two more weeks plus a week of training? Holy cat, a fifty-two-week meter maid prison term was stretching into a fifty-five-week eternity. “Is the training a legal requirement or company policy?”

  She thought for a moment before answering. “Policy. But you’d never pass the test without it. Even after training, the median score of first-time test takers is sixty-eight percent.”

  I could pass the test. I just needed to take it. “That has to be stressful for you. All the interviewing, waiting for them to cycle through training only to fail—”

  “Or drop out after the first unpleasant encounter.” Jennifer sat back in her chair for a moment, then flipped open her laptop and clicked a few keys. “What’s the closest distance you can park to a fire hydrant?”

  “Fifteen feet.”

  “A fire station driveway?”

  Dinnertime entertainment at the McGranes’. The more obscure the violation, the more points scored. “Twenty.”

  They used to call it “pulling a Conn McGrane” in Vice. Vice cops were too cocky to write parking tickets. But when Da had an untouchable perp in his sights, he’d paper-trail the guy—ticketing everything from too close to a stop sign to more than twelve inches from a curb. And in little more than a month he’d have a built-in arrest warrant.

  She sat back in her chair, a speculative gleam in her eyes. “Perhaps, just this once, I could make an exception.”

  I took the test.

  Two hours later I was back in Jennifer Lince’s office. “A ninety-seven percent,” she said. “Impressive.”

  What did I get wrong?

  “Thank you. I won’t let you down.”

  “The thing is—” She hesitated. “It really is against company policy to bypass the two-week class session.” Her french-tipped fingernails tapped an ivory card that lay on her desk and sat back. “If only I could think of a way . . .”

  She looked from the card to me. Twice. Before I caught on and picked up the card. You are cordially invited to Dhu West’s Annual Gala . . .

  So that’s how it is. I pimp out my brother and get the job.

  And just to make it a complete pig’s breakfast, the gala wasn’t for two months. Eight weeks of dating and a black tie event. How skeevie does she think I am? “I . . . Uh, Caiseal’s low man on the totem. He doesn’t have much choice for shifts.”

  “I’m sure you could help him understand how important this is to you.”

  And I thought picking up his room for a month was bad. This was going to cost . . . I didn’t want to imagine how much. Then again, I never did pay him back for shaving my eyebrows off in tenth grade. “No problem.”

  Jennifer rose and extended her hand. I stood and shook it. “Welcome aboard.”

  “Thanks.” I held the card out to her.

  “Keep it. As part of the TEB family, you’re invited, as well. In fact, I’ll make sure we’re seated at the same table.”

  “That’ll be . . . great.”

  “All righty, then.” Jennifer gave me a perky smile. “I’m assigning you to Leticia Jackson for ride-along instruction. My secretary will supply you with everything you need and direct you to Dispatch.” She opened a desk drawer, removed a silver badge, and slid it across to me. The words Traffic Enforcement Bureau stood out in relief across the top, the number 40506 engraved in the bar at the bottom.

  The taste in my mouth turned bitter as I picked up the Mickey Mouse corporate fake. I should have been getting my real shield.

  “If you’re as ready to become a parking enforcement agent as I think you are, and of course pending Leticia’s evaluation, I’ll be proud to assign you that very badge next Monday.”

  Chapter 7

  Dispatch was a helpful nerd named Obi in a tricked-out Star Wars wheelchair. He drew me a map to the magical mecca of meter maids on the back of a pizza flyer and handed me a key card, radio, and AutoCITE ticketing machine before warning me to never, ever punch in more than four minutes before my shift. “Dhu West has a strict policy about overtime.”

  “Oh.” And because I couldn’t help myself, I asked, “Is that your name, really?”

  He grinned, showing a set of choppers that had never seen a retainer. “You bet. Obi-Wan Peter Luke Olson.” He pushed smeary glasses up the bridge of his nose. “I had it changed last year.”

  “Cool.”

  “Yeah. I kept the Peter and Olson for my mom. And Facebook.” He wiggled his brows. “’Cause you never know when an old girlfriend’s gonna look up for a hookup. Am I right or am I right?”

  “You know it,” I said, studying the map. “Why’s Dispatch so far away?”

  “Radio signal requirements.” He pulled a paper packet from beneath the counter. “You’re new here, so let me give you a little advice. PEAs don’t get much respect, so don’t go looking for it. And”—he slid the packet to me—“keep the Loogie hidden when entering and exiting.”

  “Loogie?” I opened the package. Inside was a reflective traffic vest the color of neon phlegm. How sublimely revolting. “Thanks, Obi. I appreciate it.” And I did. I turned to leave.

  “So, Maisie? Uh . . .” He chewed his bottom lip.

  Please don’t ask me out.

  “I’d lose the hat.”

  Whew
. Except now I was getting fashion advice from a basement dweller. “Not a good look?” My hair was slicked back with gel beneath the black PEA ball cap, ponytail swinging through the adjustable strap. No way was I gonna be seen without it.

  “No, it’s fine. Great.” He shrugged. “It’s just Miz Jackson doesn’t much care for hats.”

  “Thanks for the intel.”

  He pointed at his Darth Vader LEGO wristwatch. “You have time to leave it at your car.”

  Hardly. In a sick sort of irony, the Traffic Enforcement Bureau didn’t provide parking for its employees. It had taken me fifteen minutes of searching before I gave up and parked six blocks away from Dispatch.

  Hank’s Law Number Seven: Never be late.

  I had less than twenty minutes to find the TEB’s PEA’s working office, my locker, and Leticia Jackson.

  “I can hold it for you, if you like,” he offered hopefully.

  “I got it. Thanks again, Obi.” I gave him a small salute and left.

  Three blocks and two alleys later, I swiped my key card through the security lock of a nondescript office door in a squat cement building. The empty reception area smelled like a combination of fried rice, burnt microwave popcorn, and two-day-old tuna salad. I decided to pass on hunting for an administrator to get my locker assigned. Purse free, my cargo pockets held thirty bucks and a couple of protein bars. Against Obi-Wan’s advice, I was keeping the cap.

  I followed the stink down a gray hallway. I turned the corner at the sound of chatter. Twenty-three uniformed parking agents, milling around the time card punch, stopped and gave me the walleye.

  “Hi,” I said. “I’m looking for Leticia Jackson?”

  Crickets.

  A chubby Hispanic snorted and whispered something behind her hand to a lone and much heavier white male with an eighties metal-band haircut. They laughed.

  Whatever.

  This job was turning out to be as much fun as actually doing time. Or worse, revisiting junior high. Same rules still applied. So, whose ass do I have to beat to not become everybody’s bitch?

  A chime over the PA system started a jostling of black and blue uniforms, pushing to the punch clock. I waited, trying to make eye contact.

  Zip.

  I took my turn, then followed the pack through a tight maze of hallways to the back of the building, where three sets of glass doors opened onto a pristine razor-wired parking lot full of . . . golf carts.

  The lot was double-gated, tire-spiked, with a lot attendant in a snappy little bulletproof guardhouse and a dozen visibly placed security cameras. Which meant, of course, there were more. I located car number 13172 and waited for Leticia. The others drove out of the lot, waiting to snap on their flashing yellow lights until they hit the end of the block at a peppy twenty miles per hour.

  Alone in the lot, I circled the blue and white, two-seater enclosed cart. It had a mini covered bed, like a pickup. Which, according to the official Parking Enforcement Agent Manual, should contain at least three of the despised bright yellow boots. The metal grille and hubcaps were stamped Westland Utility Motors. Across the back of the bed in five-inch letters above the city worker license plate were the words “Interceptor–4.”

  Seriously, how wasted were the dudes at Westland to name a three-wheeled covered motorized trike the “Interceptor”?

  It was a beautiful day. Even if I was dressed in black cargo pants and a knockoff blue police shirt littered with patches and a fat silver bar that read “Trainee” over my left breast.

  Leticia Jackson was now nineteen minutes late.

  Utilize wasted minutes to hone your edge. I straightened into military attention. Chest lifted and arched, stomach in, legs together—straight but not locked. As close to Buddha as I could get, and concentrated on something pleasant. My date with Hank.

  I’d asked him once what he did when he wasn’t training.

  “The occasional 1099 consult.”

  Ooo-kay. After that, I ran Hank through the system. For no other reason than my moon-eyed infatuation. And I’d been far more disappointed than Flynn to come up empty.

  My stomach muscles quivered. I remained motionless.

  I had tonight, tomorrow, and the next day to get my hair highlighted, get a spray tan, and figure out what to wear on Friday night.

  Perspiration prickled on my forehead. Probably best not to start the day in a covered golf cart smelling like a New Age soap-and-water-conservationist hippie. I relaxed and looked at my watch. Again.

  At twenty-six minutes past the hour, a four-foot, eleven-inch black woman walked onto the lot with an intricate updo meticulously pinned in and around her PEA visor. A solid one-eighty, she was apparently trying to make up in width what she lacked in height.

  She sauntered across the asphalt, ticket machine swinging from her black cargo pants, radio bobbing against the poly-blend shirt.

  I’d seen looser casing on a sausage. “Leticia?” I asked.

  “You can call me Miz Jackson.”

  If I’m nasty? “Nice to meet you.”

  “Mmm-hmm.” She eyed me up and down. “My, my, my. Well, ain’t you just a bitty-bit of a thing.”

  The perverse prejudice of reverse weight-ism. I should’ve been ready for it as the only one in the break room with a BMI still on the chart.

  Ms. Jackson stepped in front of me and leaned into my personal space. The trick’s effectiveness diminished somewhat by the eight inches I had on her. She pointed a decaled nail in my vague direction. “What’s that on your head?”

  “A TEB issue cap, ma’am.”

  She cocked a pierced brow. “What does it say on the cap?”

  “PEA.”

  “And are you a parking enforcement agent at this time?”

  “No, ma’am.” A safe bet her favorite movie is Cool Hand Luke.

  “Then I suggest you take it off, Trainee.”

  I did, stowing it in one of my cargo pockets, but not before I caught Leticia’s combination smirk and head bob.

  Hank’s Law Number Eight: If they ask for the rope, give it to them.

  I let it slide, waiting as she unlocked the door to the cart. Leticia got in. The Interceptor uttered a small wheeze in protest as she leaned across and unlocked the passenger side door. I climbed in.

  It smelled like tater tots.

  The Interceptor-4 wasn’t a bad ride for a souped-up go-cart—plummy blue vinyl seats, padded armrests, and an AM/FM stereo. Leticia staked the entire console with a water bottle in one cup holder and her pink clutch in the other. She snapped on the radio and pressed the AM button. Mark Levin joined us in the tiny cart, delivering clarity to the great unwashed. Leticia cocked a brow and waited.

  Unsure of what she was waiting for, I kept my mouth shut.

  “Did you read the manual, Trainee?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “How ’bout the handbook?”

  Pretty much memorized them both. You can’t win the game if you don’t know the rules. “Yes, ma’am.”

  She started the cart and we pulled up to the guardhouse.

  An old Asian man with a dried apple face slid open his Plexiglas window, and leaned way out to get a good look at me. “What we got today, Miss Jackson? Salt-N-Pepa?”

  Leticia gave him a boob-jiggling shimmy. “More like Pepper Shaker and Saltine.”

  Was that a cracker reference?

  The old man gave a barking laugh of delight, closed his window, and opened the gate. We drove out onto the downtown city streets of Chicago.

  Leticia did not buckle up.

  I tugged my seat belt. “Optional?”

  She snorted. “Last time I checked, there weren’t no seat belts on a motorcycle.”

  “What’s that?” I pointed at one of the dials in the dashboard.

  “An LTI reader.” Leticia slid on mirrored aviator sunglasses. I waited a beat. Nothing. “What’s that?”

  “State-of-the-art G-force detector.” Leaning forward, she scanned the meters looking for red fl
ags. “It tells you if you’re going too fast to make a turn.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Hell, no. Dhu West docks two days’ pay for every tip over. Cheap-ass bastards.”

  I nodded in agreement, wondering how many times she’d beached it.

  “It’s not like driving a car, you know.”

  “Didn’t think so.” I eyed the cart around me. “It’s a trike.”

  “Mmm-hmmm.” Leticia reached up and tapped her knuckles on the metal ceiling. “But the City of Chi gives the carts a free pass on account of they’re covered. Truth is, they don’t wanna pay for us being Class B licensed drivers, as that would count as a skill and raise our hourly wage.”

  She shook her head and flipped on the AC, cranking it up to its highest setting. On one of the few decent days in the state of Illinois.

  “Don’t the windows work?” I asked.

  “I’m not messing my ’do.” She double-parked in front of a red Mercedes SL at Starbucks and turned on the flashers. “Now, go get me a white chocolate crème Frappuccino, whole milk, whipped cream, and a couple of them raspberry scones.”

  Seriously? Shanghaied for Starbucks?

  “And I’d do that because?” I said, careful to keep my voice even and non-confrontational.

  “On account of your being so grateful and shit at my impartation of my parking knowledge to you during this training session.”

  I pressed my lips together in a polite smile. Her sense of entitlement irked me, but not as much as knowing I’d fall in line because I needed her approval at week’s end.

  Ms. Jackson graciously cleared that up for me with combination brow cock and head bob. “You plan on sittin’ here all day?” She flicked her fingers at me, shooing me out the door. “Out. I got tickets to write.”

  I wish I hadn’t worn the “Loogie” into Starbucks.

  I stood in line, getting snake hisses, about as popular as a sex offender at a PTA meeting.

  Two suits in front of me decided to rethink their order. Idiot metros.

  God, could this take any longer?

  Under silent protest, I put in Leticia’s order and started to pick up a sugar-free Red Bull from the open case. And stopped. A hit of caffeine was not going to help me keep my mouth shut under my supervisor’s misanthropic tutelage.