Time's Up

by Janey Mack

  Niecy sucked her teeth. “You wanna mess up our numbers so you can sleep at night? Swim in the shizza and shaft our week?”

  I shrugged.

  “Put the effin’ boot on.” She snorted. “And don’t think I’m cleaning up after you. You can write your own frigging IO4.”

  I alternated between vomiting and passing out as I maneuvered the boot into place.

  Jeez, Hank. Why couldn’t you just have broken my nose?

  My partner lounged in the cart listening to Michelle Malkin on Laura Ingraham’s podcast. I secured the last nut, pulled myself up by the Malibu’s door, and wiped my face on my sleeve, looking forward to writing a note of apology and filling in the report. Fifteen solid minutes of rest.

  “Kid!” Niecy leaned out of the Interceptor window, my cell dangling from her hand. “El Guapo wants a word. You in?”

  “Yeah, sure.” Clammy as a sick salamander, I took my iPhone from Niecy’s hand.

  She’d changed my screen saver to her PEA badge. Would the hijinks never end? “Hello?”

  “Chica. You busy?”

  “Same old,” I said.

  “Wanna work out tonight?”

  “I’ll take a pass. I’m, uh, not real fast on my feet today.”

  “So it is true. Joe told me Hank freaking served you one right in the chops.”

  Please don’t tell me to man up.

  “Are you sure you should even be at work?” Ernesto asked sweetly, giving me a complimentary guilt towelette. “I could take you to the movies, that’s pretty relaxing. . . .”

  I sighed. A beaver with a birch sapling was less tenacious. “I’m beat. Wanna hang out at my house on Friday?”

  “I’m there.” He hung up.

  “Knowing you live at home like you do . . .” Niecy gave an exaggerated, openmouthed wink. “I’m fine to look the other way if you wanna meet him for a little bow-chicka-wow-wow.” She gave a couple of arthritic thrusts and tittered. “Just drop me at Butch’s.”

  “Thanks, but no.” I blew out a breath and searched the clipboard file for the Incident Report. “Besides,” I said, “we have one boot left.”

  “Do what you gotta do, kid.” She made a cawing sound that passed for a laugh, leaned forward, unplugged her iPod, and tuned the radio to Rush Limbaugh.

  There was something soothing about Rush Limbaugh. His velvet overtones of virtue flowed over us, amping us up with righteousness. There were plenty of fish, but not a one to lay off the orange anchor on. We wrote tickets all afternoon, walking the walk of the sinless—we were public servants. Commendable, even.

  I don’t know if it was Rush or the six Tylenol I sucked down with a sugar-free Red Bull at our Walgreens pit stop, but I was starting to feel better.

  Niecy looked at her watch. “Crap, we’re over. It’s almost five o’clock.”

  Overtime equals points against PEAs.

  “We’re laying this boot if it kills us.” I turned onto the street and—as dependable as the creepy homeless dude spanking it under the stairs at the Morse Red El stop—there he was.

  Poppa Dozen and his black armored limo, standing-zone pretty across two handicapped spaces. Traffic was in full swing, so I pulled up and parked a good twenty yards behind him, alongside the alleyway.

  The tickets I’d written were only a week old. He had a good four or five more weeks before the boot would activate. That is, if no one caught them in the system and made them disappear before then. After hearing Lince gush like a lovesick tween over the mayor, our tickets wouldn’t last past the first complaint from His Honor’s office.

  May as well take it while we can get it.

  One week short of ten more months to go, and silver linings were in short supply.

  I got out of the cart and knocked on the opaque limo window.

  The window retracted six inches. Out came a thick black middle finger. After a beat, the finger disappeared and the window closed.

  Good day to you, too, unnerving personal enforcer, sir.

  Da’s favorite motivator was, “Life is ten percent what happens to you and ninety percent how you react to it.” He failed to clarify, however, that the 10 percent could happen all at once. AutoCITE at the ready, I loaded the $430 ticket for parking in two handicapped spaces, blocking a hydrant, and hit Enter.

  The word Scofflaw blinked on the scuffed LCD screen.

  Yeah, baby!

  I trotted back to the Interceptor and tapped on the window.

  Niecy rolled it down. “What?”

  “I’m gonna boot this bulletproof orca.”

  “Hit him curbside.” She grinned. “I’ll keep watch.”

  I fastened the orange Wolverine on the rear wheel of the limo lickety-split. Remembering as I tried to stand up, that yes, indeed, I did have a bruised pancreas and shouldn’t be lifting anything.

  “Oh my gawd, we’re so gonna get an A!” On the front steps of City Hall, a posse of Midwestern-Italian tank-topped, hair-hopped junior college girls gathered around their diminutive teen leader.

  Niecy honked the Interceptor’s horn.

  Poppa Dozen came around the front of the limo to the sidewalk. Weirdly, the horrible jodhpurs, jackboots, double-breasted jacket, and chauffeur’s hat made him look kind of . . . scary.

  Shit.

  I pulled myself up by the rear tire.

  He strode toward me. Definitely bigger than I originally thought. Hulking, actually. “You wanna get active with me, baby?”

  “Huh?” Criminy. Where was Hank when I needed him?

  “You better step, bitch.” He tipped the mirrored aviators down his nose and glared at me. Eyes bloodshot and fierce. “And take that motherfucking boot off. Now.”

  Perhaps my actions had been a bit . . . rash.

  “Bluebird.” Dozen pushed the sunglasses back into place. “This ain’t no joke. The mayor has hisself a big-time appointment.”

  The ghastly realization that I may have just booted away my future skittered around in my brain like a cockroach on a kitchen counter.

  “I can’t.” I shrugged helplessly. “Only the removal and tow unit has the key.”

  Poppa Dozen took a switchblade out of an inside pocket of his jacket, opened it, and snapped the fingers of his other hand.

  What the hell is this? West Side Story?

  He held up the knife. “Call whoever the fuck you need to get it off.”

  “Settle down, Dozen.” I hit the radio on my vest. “Agent McGrane requesting an immediate boot removal.”

  “Negative, over,” Obi replied.

  “Yo,” Dozen said, putting his mouth to the radio, face at my breast. “Meter bitch tagged the wrong fucking car. The mayor’s car. You better recognize and get your ass down here pronto and unlock it.”

  “I don’t know who you think you are, sir,” came Obi’s astonishingly crisp reply, “but it is unlawful to touch a parking enforcement agent and/or his or her equipment, over.”

  Dozen raised his eyes from my radio with a baleful glance, face inches from mine. He riffled the scruff under his chin with the blade of the knife.

  “Hey, metah-maid!” the teen leader called from the stairs, in a Bronx singsong. “You in some kinda trouble ovah there?”

  Dozen looked over his shoulder. All five girls aimed their smartphones and best Mafioso glares at him.

  “Cuz, lady,” the girl said, not backing down, “it looks to me like you might be needin’ some help, if you know what I mean.”

  Dozen swung his head back to me.

  “Do I?” I said, giving him the flat cop stare. “Need help?”

  He blew a snort of air through his nose. “Hell, yes.”

  I leaned around him and called, “Everything’s fine. Thanks, girls.” I hit my radio again. “Obi. Connect me to Lince, now!”

  A whine of feedback, then, “Jennifer Lince’s office, go ahead.”

  “This is Agent McGrane. There’s been a big mistake. I need an immediate boot removal, over.”

  “Negative.” The
glee was unmistakable in Lince’s secretary’s voice. “The Traffic Enforcement Bureau will not remove a boot without payment. There is no protocol for mistakes.”

  “That your boss?” Poppa Dozen said. “Damn, girl. You need a new job.”

  You’re telling me.

  He laughed. “You’ll be looking for one tomorrow, that’s for damn sure.”

  “You, too, smart ass.” Talk about a crash-and-burn.

  Poppa Dozen twirled the switchblade between his fingers and looked down at the tire. “What if I punch it—let the air out? I can change a tire in two flat.”

  “Nope,” I said. “The jaws are tight and the plate’s secure—no access to the lug nuts.”

  “Bitch, I’m sticking my neck out for you, and this is what you give me? Negativity?”

  “Seriously? Try moving the car next time, Mr. Save-the-Environment.”

  “You got no mofo idea—”

  “Ohmigod! Ohmigod! I can see him coming through the glass doors!” scream-whispered one of the mini-Mafia.

  “Spread out,” the little one ordered. “Pay attention to where you are, and don’t break the visual plane! No cross-cut angles.”

  Out of the glass doors and from between the marble pillars of City Hall, strode His Honor, Mayor Talbott Cottle Coles. The new breed of politician—slim, six-foot, one-sixty-five, blandly attractive with a Zoom! white smile and salt-and-pepper hair.

  Coles’s hair-trigger temper and penchant for quoting The Untouchables made him a media darling. Bluster and attitude are always embraced when it’s for the correct side. Otherwise he’d have been tarred and feathered while they wound his guts out inch by inch on an intestinal crank.

  He started down the flat stone steps, safely surrounded by his staff of Brooks Brothers–and J.Crew–suited clones, trailed by two goons in black. The little Italian girl juked her way to him like Walter Payton and blocked his path on the first landing.

  “Hiya. I’m Allegra Luciana Maria Gaccione from Westwood College, and I’d like to interview you about the increasing tuition costs of junior college,” she said in less time than it took a Southerner to spit.

  Coles shot a look of irritation at one of his aides, then smiled down at Allegra. He turned to face the smartphone camera Allegra’s friend was recording them with. A consummate professional, he waited a moment and said, “Hello, Westwood College. Talbott Cottle Coles here, and where there’s a will there’s a way. Westwood’s a place where you can succeed.” He gave a thumbs-up.

  The dogface. He even recalled the school’s TV commercial motto. Ugh.

  A small crowd formed around the mayor’s latest camera-op flirtation.

  “An interview, please!” Allegra said.

  “I like your moxie, young lady.” He snapped his fingers at a woman in a navy pantsuit with an idiotic retro droopy bow. “Give her ten minutes, next week.”

  The aide, a fake smile plastered on her face, opened her date book and tried to wrangle Allegra off to the side.

  Like that was ever gonna happen.

  “How’m I gonna know you won’t back out?” Allegra said. “I got some pretty tough questions.”

  “You wound me.” Coles clutched his jacket at about his heart. “No faith in your humble public servant?”

  The crowd, growing larger by the second, hooted and clapped, eating it up.

  “But, Your Honor, sir,” Allegra said. “Can’t you just answer a couple a questions right now?”

  Again, he looked directly at the camera instead of Allegra and said, “I’d love to, Ms. Gaccione, but I’m on my way to a very important meeting.”

  Instant name recall. The Red Bull gurgled loudly in my stomach.

  “Nice.” Poppa Dozen nodded toward my midsection. “Your belly knows it even if your brain don’t.” He closed the blade, swapping it in his jacket for a cell phone. “You on your own.” He walked away toward the front of the vehicle, phone at his ear.

  Allegra sidestep-shuffled to stay in front of Coles. “If ya don’t mind me askin’, who’s so’s important, you don’t have time for your constituency?”

  Whoa. Allegra boned up for this interview.

  “Just between you and me?” He gave Allegra a spirited wink. “How about the vice president of the United States.”

  Oh shit.

  “Yeah, okay,” Allegra stepped aside, nodding. “For him—I’ll take a rain check.”

  Oh no. Oh no. Oh no.

  The crowds parted as the mayor of Chicago and his minions came down the steps. I stood in front of the limo, reflective Loogie vest blazing shamelessly in the sun.

  Coles eyed me curiously. “And who do we have here?”

  There’s always time for one more photo op.

  “Agent McGrane, sir.” I stepped to the side.

  Let’s get ready to rumble.

  His mouth opened at the sight of the orange boot, color flushing his cheeks, before he caught himself mid-frown. “Okay. I get it.” He nodded and grinned, looking for the TV cameras. “Hot meter maid. Boot on the limo.” Coles chuckled and turned to his staff. “You punk’d me. Funny.”

  Punk’d? That show’s deader than mesh trucker hats.

  “I’m afraid not, sir,” I said.

  He approached me and laughed again, a big, brassy laugh, and got in too close. I could smell Dentyne that almost but didn’t quite cover the garlic falafel he’d had for lunch. “You get that thing off my limo immediately, or you’ll be out of a job before the end of the day.”

  I hit my radio. “Dispatch? Jaysus, Obi. It’s the mayor of Chicago. Call in any goddamn favor you can.”

  “On it, McGrane. Already en route. Twenty minutes out.”

  I turned to the mayor and raised my palms in an apology I actually did feel. “I’m sorry, sir.”

  “I’m going to be late for the vice president of the United States, and you’re sorry?” Coles’s face darkened to brick. He reared back and said in a second-rate De Niro doing Capone, “You’re nothing but a lot of talk and a badge! You hear me? You’re nothing!” He reached out and ripped the PEA badge off my vest and threw it at me. “Nothing!”

  The crowd broke into wild cheers.

  So this is it. The hill I’m going to die on. Littered with a poorly referenced movie quote and a public flogging.

  “I get it,” I said. “You’re the mayor. But even an elected official isn’t entitled to block a fire exit, hydrant, and two handicapped spaces.”

  “You overzealous, mall-cop impersonator,” he said, playing to the crowd in a polished public speaking voice that seemed to carry for blocks.

  The crowd began to chant. “Coles! Coles!”

  “Seeing as you’re the man who personally doubled parking fines to raise revenue for the city,” I said, mildly, “I figured you knew better.”

  The crowd quieted a fraction. Make that a fraction of a fraction.

  Coles held up his fist, sideways, thumb extended. He held up his other hand palm-up. “What say you, Chicagoans?”

  The only thumbs not pointing down belonged to the mini-Mafia girls, whose fingers were clenched around their smartphones, recording every second.

  “The people have spoken,” he said and turned his thumb down. “You’re fired.” Talbott Cottle Coles clasped his hands together and waved them by his head like some old-timey prizefighter, to the crowd’s applause.

  Four bright blue–helmeted police officers on shiny white motorcycles pulled up in front of City Hall.

  “See that, bluebird?” Poppa Dozen returned to my side and pointed. “Tha’s our mutherfucking motorcade.”

  “Maybe one of them has a sidecar,” I said.

  Coles stiffened but kept up the show and signed a few autographs. Waving, he turned, and before I could move out of the way, he put his hands out and gave me a short, sharp shove, hitting the bruise under my sternum with a horrible, unerring accuracy.

  I stumbled back, falling hard against the limo and burbled up a throat-full of Red Bull vomit water. It trickled down the
front of my reflective vest.

  Was there no end to Hank’s gypsy curse of insta-hurl?

  Poppa Dozen snorted a muffled laugh that dissolved into serious throat clearing. He knew his was coming.

  Coles glared at me over his shoulder, brown eyes victorious. “Nobody likes a meter maid.”

  Moments later, Poppa Dozen drove off in one of the mayoral staff’s commandeered non-environmentally conscious Cadillac Escalades from the parking ramp, taking Al Capone Jr. to meet the vice president.

  There’d been plenty of rage behind the mayor’s badge snatch. A large flap of reflector material hung loose on my vest. While Coles didn’t have the outright authority to fire me, it wouldn’t take more than a phone call to make it happen.

  And it was going to happen.

  I can’t even say it was fun while it lasted. This job sucked worse than knocking my car keys into a gas station toilet.

  Niecy and I waited around silently until the removal crew showed up an hour later. I eased out of the Loogie—the water-repellent reflective vest held up pretty well, considering—and got into the Interceptor.

  “Talk about going to hell in a fast car,” Niecy said.

  “I prefer to travel by SST.” The pooch was officially screwed. Six ways till Sunday.

  “What the eff is that?”

  “Never mind.” I started the Interceptor. “Let’s get out of here.”

  “This ain’t little, McGrane. We gotta powwow with Leticia.”

  “Not me. I’ve had enough.” And I think I finally did. Have enough. Nothing was going to save me from Talbott Cottle Coles’s wrath. “I’m going home.”

  To be alternately coddled and teased beyond bearing by my family that loves me.

  Chapter 25

  That was that.

  No sense in getting all het-up over what happened. Nothing to be done but take it as it came.

  I will never ever be a cop.

  I turned off the car, hit the garage door opener, and got out. Deep pain in my upper abdomen radiated through the middle of my back and up into my shoulders. All I wanted was an oxy and a shower.

  The second day was always the worst. Hooray. Something to look forward to tomorrow. I hauled my carcass into the house.