by Thomas Melo
El Corazon turned towards his buyer, bringing out his pistol as his gaze met the buyer’s, but aborted his half-baked plan rapidly when he realized that the barrel of officer Tyler Swanson’s gun, which was tucked idly and harmlessly in the waistline of his ripped hillbilly jeans a second ago, was now resting against El Corazon’s perspiring forehead.
“Uh-uh. Don’t even think about it, amigo,” Tyler threatened. It was a line that should have sounded hokey, but coming from Tyler, it did not. It had just the right amount of authenticity.
Bad-ass extraordinaire, El Corazon, the most ruthless vato in Clark County, suddenly realized that perhaps he could get used to prison life after all, and that he wanted more than anything to live. His would-be suicidal cry-for-help moment came and went. He had proverbially sliced his wrists and then promptly held a towel over the wounds and applied pressure while whimpering. He reached for the sky and officers swarmed in to cuff him and recover the buy-money and drugs.
Sergeant Lukas Kulick approached his cream-of-the-crop plain clothes officer and swiped the pen out of the breast pocket of Swanson’s ridiculous Hawaiian shirt and clicked it so that the ballpoint retreated back into the shaft of the pen.
“Neat little toy, huh?” Kulick asked.
“I swear, Sarge, they just keep getting more and more creative with wires every year. I love it.”
“What excuse did you create to use the pen?”
“Well, the prick wanted to inspect the buy-money, so I used the pen tip to rip through the cellophane,” Tyler answered. He went on, “and all I had to do to get the dickhead to say ‘heroin’ on tape was question the quality. Amazing; although it’s nice to see that some people still take pride in their work, you know?” Tyler said.
Swanson and Kulick had a good laugh while the occasional passing officer pat Tyler on the back.
“Hey, what if he didn’t want you to open up the buy-money so he could inspect it?”
“I’m a hell of a mimic,” he started. In his best latino gangster accent, he continued, “I would’ve just done my best Corazon impression and said err-o-ween myself, as many times as it took to get it perrrrrrrrrfecto!” Laugh break number two ensued and when Tyler continued, his regular voice was back. “Nah, you know me sarge, I would’ve thought of something.”
“Hey how’s Lilith doing? I know she wasn’t hot on you switching to plain clothes duty. She seem to be coming around?”
“Well, she knows that it’s temporary until a firearms instructor position opens up at the academy. As long as there’s an end in sight, it becomes more bearable, you know? Plus, no offense, but I was happy in my hometown back in New York. I took a position out here to support her with her job.”
Tyler’s cellphone vibrated and sung a familiar generic tune in his pocket. He removed the phone and saw Lilith’s name on the touchscreen window and held it up to his Sergeant.
“H-hey! Speak of the devil, huh?” Sergeant Kulick joked with a wink. Kulick walked away, giving his best man some privacy. Kulick figured the least he could do was save Tyler the embarrassment of being overheard on his schmaltzy husband/wife phone call; God forbid that brand of conversation was overheard amongst all of the testosterone that currently permeated this corner of the desert.
“Hey babe, what’s going on?”
“Am I interrupting anything?”
“Actually, no; perfect timing. You have a knack for that! A couple of minutes earlier and you would’ve been interrupting big time,” he chuckled and then quickly thought of what a potential disaster that would have been had the call come a few minutes earlier.
“Ok, just hurry home after work today. I have a cool surprise for you,” Lilith said.
“Ah, nice. Ok, I have a couple hours of paperwork ahead of me and then I’ll be home. How was court today?”
“Please, they never stood a chance. I have to go. I’ll see you when you get home.”
“Ok, love you,”
“Me too. Bye, Ty.”
Some people would find “me too” a strange response to someone telling them that they loved them. But it’s been said before and is even commonplace in certain vernaculars, correct? Tyler thought that was surely what she had meant, that she loved him too, and most likely, she did. This was one thing that irked Tyler about his wife…the “speaking in riddles,” as he called it. This example was the epitome of his insecurity, as benign as it was.
Men over the course of history have typically been the physically dominant gender, but when it comes to emotions, there is a notable drop-off. That is not to say that females are the most stable in that category either; absolutely and unequivocally not. Men and women are equally poor in this arena. It is just that men are entirely more insecure than most will let on, and it was dubious statements like answering “me too” after being told “I love you” that sent these masculine minds tumbling into an abyss of perturbing diffidence. But then, there was this surprise she had waiting for him. Surely if there wasn’t mutual love, there would not be a surprise waiting for him…surely not. Surprises are the atomic bombs of romantic gestures.
And here you have a firsthand peek into the mind of an insecure man. Exhausting, is it not?
About two hours after the drug sting was concluded, and the GPS coordinates 36°10′30″N 115°08′11″W looked, once again, as if it had never accommodated the presence of man, save for the footprints and tire tracks left over from the day’s activity, the entire spec ops unit–that’s special operations unit to the layperson–had called it a day. It was time to “hit the showers,” which was not only a figure of speech, for it gets quite dusty and filthy in the arid climate. The showers (and locker room), where what the police wives call “dick measuring” commences.
You may be reminded of the classic hit movie, Top Gun, and the locker room banter which took place in that film. A police locker room could embody that scene quit closely, trading “war stories,” and having a laugh about the last perp who “accidentally” fell down some stairs on the way to an interrogation room after leading police on a mile-long foot pursuit. Or how about the fearless drug dealer who spits at the officers? Most men are not programmed to just grin and bear something like that…no sir. There are repercussions for spitting in a man’s face or even in his direction, especially a man who is a professional alpha-male.
There is a phone directory in each of the interrogation rooms. The reason floating around the precinct is so that a perp could flip open the Yellow Pages and grab a lawyers phone number in order to retain their services if they do not already have a lawyer on speed-dial or their previously loyal attorney grew tired of twisting and bending the law, as well as their own scruples, in order to avoid some serious charges for their recidivist client…hey, don’t laugh; while it is not likely, it is possible. That is the vindicating reason for the phone directories in the interrogation rooms…but you know better, don’t you?
Quite often, our police force is up against the most hard-edged and carefree criminals whom the general public forgets exist, thanks to good police work. Out of sight out of mind. But our police force’s job is to actively deal with these “pieces of shit,” as they are referred, especially in the locker room. One tactic used to deal with an overly lippy perp that has become commonplace with certain detectives is to hold the phone directory up to their cheek and smash their fist into it. Sort of a haymaker-by-proxy, if you will.
You’re absolutely correct to be appalled. This is not a tactic you will find in any of the countrie’s thousands of police force’s duty manuals, but it is certainly a trifle more tame than the makeshift tactic which the veteran police officers refer to as a “wood shampoo,” which involves the use of an officer’s nightstick or baton. But this is the world that exists now, and later, the savagery and Neanderthalish instinct which still courses through the veins of everyhuman being on the planet Earth–with no exception, although it is veiled in some more than others–will become evident…oh yes. It is the apotheosis of Tyler’s life story after al
l.
Chapter 2
Tyler rushed home in anticipation of the surprise that Lilith had in store for him. He would never admit it to anyone, but he absolutely loved surprises, but doesn’t everyone? It was something that stayed with him from when he was a little boy, which is also how he felt he acted when a surprise awaited him; hence his secret love for surprises. Tyler felt it was one of his more feminine qualities, but he was alright with that, as most men have a few estrogenal influences, to coin a new word for the English language.
Tyler and Lilith lived in a suburb approximately twenty miles outside of Las Vegas, in Clark County, called Divine Oasis. Divine Oasis was a close-knit story-book community where everyone waved to everyone else who just happened to be walking or driving by, whether they were strangers (probably not) or familiar. Many of the hamlet’s citizens kept their doors unlocked, which Tyler thought was absurd, coming from New York, albeit another nice suburb of New York. It was also the practicality which is inherent in most law enforcement officers, just how finding ways of screwing you is inherent in many contractors or mechanics. Are there exceptions? Of course there are.
Tyler always said you could tell who the native Divine Oasis populaces were apart from the transplants from points elsewhere by who kept their doors and windows unlocked…the transplants being the more prudent, or paranoid, depending on what side of the spectrum you hail from. A wonderfully tight-knit community Divine Oasis was, but when everyone knows one another, the hens will cluck, cliques will form, and rumors will spawn. While Tyler, a transplanted New Yorker and decorated law enforcement officer in Clark County, was revered by the town’s 1,500-plus or minus a few residents–there were some residents with whom Lilith did not quite sit right. Something was just painstakingly off, like sitting in your car seat after your spouse borrowed your car and finding that you can no longer see through your rearview mirror.
Tyler entered his home, hardly able to contain his excitement, being familiar with the caliber of his wife’s surprises. The anticipation was killing him, and the door handle slipped from his grasp and the front door slammed shut, shaking the frame and seemingly the whole front wall of the modest Colonial home.
“Ooo, jeez!” Tyler winced at the disturbance to the otherwise quiet house. “Lilith? I’m home!”
“Is that you, Officer Friendly?” she called from up the stairs.
“You know it! Where are you?”
“In our bedroom,” she answered.
“You don’t have someone up there hiding in the closet do you? Remember, I always take my gun home with me!” he japed up the stairs…well, 99 percent jape, one-percent serious and insecure (conservatively).
“Just get up here, dummy, I’m horny!” she called down.
He immediately dropped his duffle-bag and raced up the stairs, showing just how much man’s desires have evolved through the centuries. When he got to the bedroom, he saw Lilith sprawled coquettishly on her left side in Playboy center-fold position on the bed, her head propped in her hand, and her hand supported by her elbow on the bed. She was wearing a searingly seductive black and red number which did its best to cover her unmentionables, but surely left something to be desired in that department. However, this was duty-wear, a wardrobe designed for purpose rather than comfort, like a hospital room. Its purpose? Surely you don’t need every detail spelled out; I have faith in your deductive reasoning skills.
“Oooo,” Tyler said to himself and Lilith, liking what he was seeing.
“Me, or the surprise first?” Lilith tested.
“Well, do I still get the surprise if I pick you first?” Tyler asked.
Lilith’s mouth shot open into a perfect circle, as her eyes widened in that feign insulted countenance that women had perfected over centuries.
“Just kidding,” Tyler smiled. He undid the button on his jeans, shimmied his hips and kicked his legs up and down like pistons, as if he was doing an amphetamine-fueled jog in place, until his jeans slowly collapsed around his ankles. Lilith, who was not known for emitting boisterous laughter snorted a little, closed her eyes and shook her head slowly. “What an ass,” that gesture said benignly. Next came his shirt, which came off much faster and unceremoniously. After the shirt flew off his torso and ceased obstructing his vision, he saw the crook of his wife’s finger beckoning to come closer. He did.
Tyler and Lilith were together for a long time by this point in their relationship, eleven years to be exact. The stigma attached to long-term relationships is that the physical part tends to become routine, and in bad relationships, borderline wearisome. Tyler did not, for the life of him, know what it was, but their love-making was as novel as it was during their first month of the relationship when physical affection was first introduced. They were together before such activities, but this is locker room talk, which is exactly where Tyler and his co-workers, his blue-blooded brethren spoke openly and candidly about their sex lives.
The descriptions spanned all walks of life: the Al Bundy’s of the world (Al Bundy was a likeable but miserable character trapped in the shackles of marriage in a classic sit-com called Married With Children in the 1980’s and 1990’s), who described he and his wife’s (Peg) lovemaking as tedium at its best…or worst. Then, there were the indifferent husbands who basically boasted that they could take or leave sex with their spouses. There were husbands who conceded that while the sex was routine, it was still enjoyable, a consensus so popular that a clichéd idiom tossed around was that “Sex was like pizza; even bad pizza is still pretty good.” Although in the case of this particular police officer–Greg Korning, a coworker of Tyler’s–the sex was more mediocre than bad. Then there was Tyler. He had sworn on everything holy how even after eleven years of being together, only seven of which they were sexually active (remember that Tyler and Lilith were technically significant others when Tyler was in seventh grade), their sex-life was still as fresh (and breathtaking, really), as the first handful of sexual encounters they had together when Tyler was in tenth grade.
As they both laid there in bed together, glowing with contentment, Lilith lit her habitual post-coital cigarette that they would pass back and forth until it was spent as they conversed. Tyler did not particularly care for the cigarette, but it was an extension of the bonding between them, and he, as our archetypal man with a speckle of veiled insecurities, would apply a death-grip to every chance for connection that he could find with his attractive wife.
Every time he thought that they were close to one of those “We need to talk” conversations, something like this would happen where Lilith would reach out in some way and quell the emotional campfire before it turned into a raging firestorm. They did not have a bad marriage; it was just that Tyler, like many men, preferred more validation than he received.
She read him with frightening accuracy. It was just like when they were younger and how she would be able to tell just when Ty’s parents or Ty, himself, were at their breaking points and perhaps ready for a change. It was as if they walked around with pressure gauges protruding from the top of their heads that would disclose to her exactly when she needed to back off of her larks lest she wanted to put an end to her fun, perhaps permanently, and then on to the next sucker. But she liked Ty and did NOT want that to happen. Not at all. Tyler Swanson was perfect for this.
They spoke about their careers: Lilith as a phenom in the courtroom; juries just seemed to be smitten by her every word and wilt at her command, and Tyler, as the most reliable and decorated officer in his plain clothes unit. He had waxed poetic in a moment of genuine bliss about how their lives were right on track with what they both had hoped for after school; a true rarity. He told her about the drug bust earlier that day and explained how with this bust, the next anticipated opening in the Instructional Firearms Bureau (which was rumored to be sooner than later) was his to lose.
“So are you ready for your surprise?” Lilith asked.
“Jeez, I almost forgot.” He had. The lovemaking shorted out some of his cir
cuits.
Lilith opened her nightstand where she kept a legal pad with notes pertaining to whatever case she was currently involved with, as well as some feminine knick-knacks, and grabbed what looked like a pamphlet.
“Here you go,” she said emotionlessly save for the slight smirk she allowed to sneak upon her face.
It was not a pamphlet, but a ticketholder from an airline. Tyler opened the small booklet and saw two plane tickets to Boston in them.
“Oh wow! A little getaway? We always talked about taking a trip up there when we lived in New York, but we never pulled the trigger. This is gonna be great; thanks, babe!” Tyler proclaimed as he scanned the dates on the tickets, which he determined quickly in his head would fit his schedule perfectly with some personal time figured in.
Lucky guess, Lilith.
Tyler leaned in for a kiss, but was interrupted. “Wait, dummy; there’s something else in there,” Lilith teased.
Ty looked and saw two tickets to a Yankees vs. Red Sox game at Fenway Park. Tyler was over the moon. A getaway to Boston and a chance to watch the Yankees trounce their archrivals on their home turf.
Elated, Tyler began hugging and kissing his wife once again, until one thing led to another.
Chapter 3
“Fascinating story so far, is it not? ISN’T IT!?!? Ahh, I thought you might see it my way. You all are learning very quickly and that’s fantastic; it truly is. Well, now, we’re going to skip through all of the hubbub, fluff, dumbshit-bullshit, flip-flap, patty-whack, fuck your mother with a dog’s bone, and find our lovely couple in Beantown-that’s Boston to the layperson, or the profoundly stupid-where things really become good and fucked! To me, those are the most interesting parts though, interesting to all of you as well, I suspect, otherwise you probably wouldn’t even have found yourselves here with me. Am I right? Of course I am. So, strap in ladies and germs! This portion of our tale is about to hurt!”
