Book Four: Part 8 - Rhyming Evil - Chapter 11
Wednesday – July 11th
The Squad Room – 8:31 a.m.
“Most of Montie is starting to look like Montie again thanks to cleanup crews and volunteers from Stanhouse. Power has been restored in every section of the city, and ninety percent in the suburbs, and traffic is back to normal.
“On another note, today begins qualification at Brewster’s Gun Club. Those scheduled, make sure you are on time. You will know your results tomorrow. Those who shoot on Friday, will know your results on Monday.
“One last thing, on Monday, be here in your dress blues. Captain Page got word that the Vice-President is coming here to personally hand out each citation to every officer involved in the rescuing of lives during the tornado. This includes EMS, and those officers from Stanhouse. He will stop here first, then go to Stanhouse. Make sure everything is polished and repolished twice to a glass sheen.”
“How did we rate getting him in the first place?” asked Charlie Banyard.
“Can’t answer that one, Charlie. Captain thinks it’ll go over well for the upcoming election. It’s all about politics. This deal will be taped and later aired on all the major channels. So, look sharp guys.”
“Loverly,” said Henry Clausen. “Can I tell him I’m republican?”
A few smirking laughs were scattered about the room.
“November isn’t that far off, and all we can do then is vote. Otherwise; we do what we do best, our jobs. Come Monday, be respectful is all I ask.
“If there isn’t anything else, then let’s get out there and stay safe, and keep our streets safe.”
Brewster Gun Club – 11:00 a.m.
Blake would be at the range with his father until he left for home, after which, Blake would be on his own.
For the next eight days, he was to be on hand to keep shooting records of each police officer who came from Montie. Six officers were scheduled to shoot this morning, and four others later in the afternoon. In September, it would happen all over again, but with the Stanhouse PD.
Blake found all of this boring, as much as he did when he worked his normal hours, but it was an easy job and jobs for kids with no legs aren’t easy to find.
At least he could take solace with his online (girl) friend, Liv. She could make him laugh so quickly and easily. That was something he found hard to do in his real world.
Looking out the office window; four cars pulled up. Six men got out. Two were in uniform.
Blake’s day begins.
Best Western
Exit 14-A – 12:28 p.m.
Both Devon and J.W., along with officers Andrew Davis and Ryan Clinton, were in the vicinity when a robbery in progress was called in from the Best Western. The motel clerk had clear vision to the gas station next door being robbed.
Within minutes, both cars were at the Sunoco. Just as they pulled in, Davis saw three bodies pile inside a dirty tan van. Both he and Clinton grabbed their riot guns and took positions behind their car.
Cisco and Poncho, also on the scene, looked at each other and grinned.
“Oh, Cisco!” laughed J.W. “Here we go again, amigo.”
“Oh, Poncho,” grinned Devon, “time to nail us some bad guys. I knew it was too good to be true. Call in for EMS.”
Devon turned his loudspeaker on and said, “Step out of the van with your hands empty and behind your head. Nothing comes out of that van but the three of you. No guns, no nothing else. Just you. Do it now!”
There was no movement.
“There is nowhere for you to go.” Devon looked over at Davis and Clinton. “Give them a preview, guys.”
The riot guns exploded in the hot afternoon air. Both front tires and the driver’s rear tire blew apart on impact.
J.W. was in position with his own pump-action riot gun.
“As I said, nowhere to go. Step out of the vans, hands behind your head.”
From their vantage point, J.W. and Devon could see the side panel door slide open.
“Very good. Move nice and slow.”
Three men came out, hands behind their heads, and without being told, they dropped to their knees.
“Very good. Now, lay flat on the ground, face down, and keep your hands behind your head.”
All four officers watched as two Latino’s, and a white male, did as they were told.
Davis, Clinton, and J.W., made their way forward to cuff each man when an EMS vehicle pulled up.
Devon walked to the two EMS medics, explaining he didn’t know if anyone in the gas station were injured or maybe worse.
As the two paramedics entered the gas station, a fourth body jumped from the side of the van, ran toward the front of the van, as another Latino began yelling with two Mac-10’s, one in each hand.
He started shooting wildly, not hitting anything, and with twin loud bursts from Devon and J.W., the Latino didn’t get another chance to straighten his aim. Oddly enough, one of the bullets fired did kill one of his friends and wounded another. Inside the gas station, a clerk who was on duty was alive, with a deep gash to his forehead.
After forensics were called in, as well as the city morgue, reports from witnesses filed; J.W., Devon, Davis, and Clinton, all knew how lucky they were to be alive that afternoon.
“Tell you what, guys, after we take these guys downtown, and file our reports, in triplicate no less, come on down to Benny’s Pub. I’m buying. After this, I don’t know about the rest of you, but I could sure use a cold one. Call it celebrating life this time.”
Three men looked at J.W, and said they would be there.
Brewster Gun Club – 4:23 p.m.
His father was already gone for the rest of the day, and the last two police officers had just finished their qualifying rounds.
Blake could always read the looks behind cop faces. So similar to the weekender’s who would come out to play with their toys.
Blake’s father used to be a police officer. Did his thing for thirteen years, then took an early retirement. Then Blake showed up, and he always believed that changed the playing field. Blake was physically half the man his father is; and could never follow in the footsteps of a man who was somewhat of a legend.
Jimmy Brewster. The only cop to stop and arrest five armed men from robbing the First State Bank of Montie on his own. The only man to save a suicide jumper from the tallest building in town, the Snyder Building. He was also the first one in on almost any given situation, but one day, he caught a bullet that slowed him way down. Then came the early retirement. In the middle of those years, Blake was born.
But it’s the cop’s eyes he sees when they come here. It sickens him and makes him sad at the same time. He can almost hear their thoughts. “Damn shame, kid.” “You could have been like, Jimmy.” “Pity you came up short.”
When he first started school, the kids would call him stumpy, poster-kid for fence posts, and dickless. Those words hurt, but he endured it until he would get home; then spend half the night in his bed, in tears.
High school seemed to change all that. He met a few people like Jimmy Kerrigan, Ron Snyder, and even that Stevie Baker kid. He had found a small group that accepted him for what he felt and thought; not a sounding board for cruel insults.
It was Stevie that gave him thoughts he might one day be able to walk. That was, until his father found out it would cost almost $300,000, and with no guarantees. The bionics on the leg are designed for recent amputees with some form of viable muscle tissue that can be electrically stimulated.
After that, Blake could see even more disappointment in his father’s eyes because he didn’t have that kind of money. And his mother, well, his mother was just, mom. Except when she got drunk, which was often, as in practically every day.
No, Blake Brewster settled into his routine of accepting what he was and put on his fake happy face with everyone he met.
Every night he worked, he did those things to get the next set up; he would count the receipts, drop everything into the floor safe, lock up, and ride over to the small barn to make sure it was secure, then he would get back in his van, drive home, and call it a night. Tears would still be there before sleep found him.
Benny’s Pub – 6:00 p.m.
“Guys, first off, I’m not much of a drinker but what we went through this afternoon; I can’t shake off as being good police work on our part.
“What happened today, I believe it to be an act of providence, or God, maybe both that none of us were killed, especially you two guys,” J.W. said, looking at Ryan Clinton and Andrew Davis.
“We put our asses on the line every damn day knowing there might be a few crazies out there with a bullet that has our name on it. Still, we do what we do because that’s who we are.
“All I’m trying to say to the three of you; as far as I’m concerned, four good cops survived because of the man upstairs. He isn’t ready for us yet. I’m also saying, I’m damn proud to work with all of you.”
J.W. raised his shot glass in the air, and with three other arms raised, they clinked glasses together, slugged down the whiskey, and then chased that down by emptying an eight-ounce glass of beer, and smacked their lips together. J.W. was the only one to make a face.
“Damn, Benny,” he yelled back toward the bar, “this shit could kill somebody!”
“Better that than a damn bullet,” Benny shot back.
6637 Dusty Lane – 7:35 p.m.
For Patrick, today had been a banner day. When he went on TV to do Terry’s segment; eight people came in to have their pets given shots, annual physicals, or a shampoo to be given that “look at me” look. Because of the special he offered; of the eight people who came in, six more dogs were adopted.
Those few people who lost their pets to the mayhem of Fred creasy and Bertram Ballmate; six of the nine people who lost pets came to the clinic and returned home with a new family member into their lives. The other three lost two cows and a horse. Those, sadly, the clinic couldn’t replace.
Patrick was half laying on his couch munching Doritos, watching a rerun of Transformers Three for about the eighth time, more for the noise than the content, when he glanced over a 5x7 picture of Daniel sitting at one end table.
He smiled at the gentle easy smile that stared back at him.
“You were such a beautiful man, Daniel. I suspect you are up there looking down on everything with an even more beautiful soul.”
Patrick held his gaze on Daniel’s features. Soft green eyes, his smooth bald pate, and he couldn’t remember how many times he had kissed the top of his head. He might have been a bit cheeky for some, but to Patrick, he was perfect in every way.
He only hoped Patrick would understand it was time for him to see if he could find someone new he could fall in love with and begin a new chapter in his life.
Getting off the couch to get another beer, he wiped away a small tear.
Smither’s Supermarket – 9:45 p.m.
Cliff Potter was just unlocking his car when Michael Collins approached him.
“Oh, what brings you here? Run out of sausages at home?”
“Don’t even start, Potter. I’m only here for you to pass a message to Davenport.”
“Stay away from him, Michael.”
“I’m not interested in him sexually, especially if your hands have already been all over him, which I suspect has been often. You just tell him to stay away from J.W.”
“Who the hell is he?”
“Davenport knows. Just tell him, hands off.” Michael turned to leave, but stopped short, and shot a smiling look at Cliff.
“You never were very good at holding onto your lovers, Cliffy.”
“Go away, Michael. Just. Go. Away.”
Getting into his car, Cliff grabbed his cell phone and was going to call Patrick, but he decided he would stop by his office in the morning instead.
He started his car and with nervous energy, spun the wheels leaving a short run of burnt rubber on the parking lot as the tires squealed.
Sitting in his Porsche, Michael smiled. Doubt is such a strong seed to plant in a man’s mind. Especially when it is a weak-willed mind.
He wasn’t about to lose J.W. to a man like Davenport. Probably smells like dog hair, and the man isn’t the least bit attractive.