No Good Deed

No Good Deed

I recognized that cholo bastard as soon as I walked into the McDonald’s, but what was I supposed to do? Rebecca and her kids were already inside. I didn’t have my gun with me, but I wasn’t about to run away from any piece of shit.

The guy was standing in line to order, wearing his baggy jeans, blue flannel shirt over the wife-beater T-shirt and a blue bandana. He was right out of a gang movie.

I would’ve recognized him by his face, his wispy goatee and the smart-ass look on his face. But it was the bloody cross tattooed on his neck that nailed it for me. You don’t forget a tattoo like that.

I stood at the doorway for a few seconds, debating how to handle things. I’d been a cop for fourteen years and this wasn’t a new experience. In a city this size, you always run into the losers that you’ve arrested in the past. Usually, thankfully, I see them first and avoided them.

Maybe he wouldn’t see me. Or recognize me.

I pushed my bicycle in and walked it toward Rebecca and the kids. If I stood in the fucking doorway, he’d make me inside of five seconds for acting so strange. I greeted Rebecca with a brief kiss on the cheek and, as always, the shock of smelling her skin flustered me. I turned to the kids and said my hellos.

“Uncle Conner!” Anthony Junior yelled as he hugged my leg.

I tousled his hair as I felt Rebecca’s smile upon me. The seven-year-old boy was his father through and through. Same hair, same face, same eyes. I loved him like he was my own, but his features haunted me.

I kissed Maggie on top of her head and she grinned. “Hi, Uncle Connor. We already ordered. You’re late.”

“So I am,” I said. “Lucky for you, I’m not hungry.”

“I’m hungry!” said Anthony Junior. He dove under the table, past his mother and into his seat, where he attacked his Happy Meal.

I pointed out the window. “What’s that?”

All three looked. I snatched one of Maggie’s French Fries and stuffed it in my mouth.

Maggie looked back in time and caught me. “Hey!”

“Keep your eyes on your fries,” I half-sang and slipped into the booth next to her.

“I thought you weren’t hungry,” Maggie said.

I shrugged. “Don’t have to be hungry to eat fries.”

“Keep yoah eyes on yoah fwies,” sang Anthony Junior.

I heard Rebecca laughing softly. I glanced up at her and caught her eyes. She looked at me and that sweet, seductive softness was there again. It had begun appearing more frequently sometime earlier this year. I don’t think either one of us was ready to deal with it just yet. I wasn’t, anyway.

I gave Rebecca a quick smile and glanced back toward the counter. The shitbird was still waiting in line. I looked around the dining area for his crew. An elderly couple sat a few tables away drinking coffee. A polyester cow and her three kids were sitting next to them eating sundaes. Two kids, probably boyfriend and girlfriend, lounged by the window, munching cheeseburgers and talking on cell phones. Probably to each other, the way they were giggling. But no sign of any Mexican bangers anywhere.

I struggled to remember this cholo’s name. It’d been about three years ago, I knew that much. Before I left patrol. He and his brother had been in a fight with a couple of Crips outside a downtown bar. His brother had been an asshole…in fact, he’d fought with us. I remembered now. He’d fought like a fucking Tasmanian devil, even though he only weighed a buck fifty. I finally had to nail him in the nose with a blast from my palm and that took the fight out of him. He bled all over the place, too. And once he started bleeding, he started crying and calling for his brother, who was the stocky one at the counter now. The cops beat me up, he said. Come help me. Come help me…Rueben! That was his name. Reuben Gonzalez, Hernandez, some-fucking-dez.

“We went shopping,” Rebecca said.

“Were you successful?”

She motioned at the bags next to her on the bench. I nodded. “A resounding victory for bargain hunters everywhere.”

“Smart alec. How’s work?” Rebecca asked.

I watched Rueben out of the corner of my eye. He was talking to the thin girl with bad teeth taking orders.

“Same as ever, “ I told Rebecca. Nothing ever changes in my office. I deal with the bar owners, liquor licenses, code enforcement, and zoning issues. Over-service at the newest night-spot is the most severe crime I deal with anymore.

“You always say that.”

“It’s always true,” I answered. “SPP is not exactly a firestorm.”

“But it is special,” she joked.

Special Police Problems. SPP. Ha. Ha.

Just join right in, Rebecca, I thought. It’s not like every cop on patrol hasn’t thrown in their own little jokester gem about my job. It comes with the territory.

I grinned at her anyway. She knew I transferred there for the day shift and the weekends off. She knew I did it to be able to see her and the kids and to be there when they needed me. She knew a lot. She’d been a cop’s wife.

“Uncle Connor id speshal,” Anthony Junior said around the chicken nugget in his mouth.

Rebecca and Maggie laughed. I smiled and watched that fucking cholo get his food and start walking right toward us.

Back when I was on patrol, I carried my off-duty gun everywhere I went. My old girlfriend thought it was cool at first, but after a while she’d sigh heavily every time I strapped on the ankle holster or slipped the gun into the small of my back. “Better to have a gun and not need it, than to need a gun and not have it,” I always told her. For her, my carrying a piece ruined the night for her, like the gun somehow invaded our personal life. I couldn’t be her boyfriend while I was being a cop. Ironically enough, that’s what she said when she moved out.

After Anthony died, I got promoted but after a couple of years on patrol, I managed a transfer to SPP. Around that time, I stopped carrying so often. Now, I couldn’t remember the last time I packed my off-duty piece. Which was stupid, really, because right now I needed a gun and I didn’t fucking have it.

Reuben-Fucking-Greaseball walked by without a sideways glance.

Maybe he wouldn’t recognize me. Or maybe he was playing it off, too. Waiting for the right time to make a move.

Jesus, police work makes you paranoid.

“What’s wrong?” Rebecca asked me.

I gave her a cautious look. I’m sure it looked paranoid. “Client,” I said in a low voice.

Her eyes widened slightly and she glanced around the restaurant. I watched her until she spotted Reuben, then looked back at me. I nodded to her that she was right.

“Should we leave?” she asked.

“Probably.”

Maggie watched both of us. She didn’t miss a thing. Anthony Junior might have looked like his father, but that little girl acted like him to a tee. Same awareness, same senses, same ability to judge people. Same radar. Anthony’s had almost never failed him. Almost.

“What is it, Mom?” she asked. She may have been eleven, but sometimes she sounded like she was twenty.

“Nothing, hon. Just finish up your fries.”

Maggie wasn’t convinced, but her radar was on and she dropped it.

Rebecca started gathering her things. “You want to meet us back at-”

“Hey, pig.”

His voice was coarse and accented. Rebecca’s eyes snapped over my shoulder and back to me. I saw panic enter them.

Easy, I mouthed to her.

I turned slowly in the booth and planted my feet on the floor. Rueben stood almost directly in front of me. His right hand was deep in his baggy pants pocket. His left hand dangled at his side, fingers twitching.

I felt the adrenaline course through me. I took a long, slow breath to control it and met the greasball’s eyes. He gave me his best I’m-The-Baddest-Motherfucker-In-The-Cell-Bloc look. I tried not to reflect it back at him. The last thing I wanted to do was to start posturing. But I had to show him strength. It was the only thing people like him understood.

“You beat up mi hermano, ese,” he said, his voice low and singsong. “Broke his fucking nose.”

I kept my eyes locked on his but I concentrated on that right hand. Was he carrying or was he bluffing?

“You think you’re tough, ese? Hmmm? Not so tough without your badge and uniform. Not so tough without your homies.” He leaned in toward me and lowered his voice. “Not so tough without your gun, huh, ese?”

“You’re out of bounds, Rueben,” I told him evenly.

He cocked his head back and to the side at the sound of his name. “Out of bounds? What the fuck you mean, ese?”

“I’m off-duty. You’re not with your homies. This is out of bounds.”

He regarded me in silence for a moment, his eyes flat and unrevealing.

“Let’s save this for another time,” I suggested. “This isn’t the time or the place.”

A smile touched the corner of his lips. “You’re scaaaaared, ese. Fucking tough guy is scared.”

I changed tactics. “I don’t want any trouble, Reuben.”

His gaze swept over me, took in the T-shirt and shorts. Saw the small fanny-pack around my waist.

“You got trouble, puto.”

I didn’t reply, but moved my hand slowly to the zipper of my fanny-pack. I watched his eyes calculate the size of the fanny-pack. Could I fit a.38 in there? A.25? Maybe a.22?

“Is this going to be a fist fight, Rueben, or a gun fight? Or nothing at all?”

His eyes met mine again. I gave him a calm stare. Back down, you son of a bitch, I thought. Just turn and walk away. Find me another day and I will oblige you. Not here. Not now.

I don’t know how long he stared at me before his eyes flickered. I was watching for that flicker and I hoped it was going to be a flicker of doubt. That it would flicker and then he would slink away and make up some story to tell his cronies about how he faced down a cop at the McDonald’s.

But it wasn’t a flicker of doubt.

“Fuck you, puto,” he said and pulled his hand out of his pocket.

He was fast but I was ready. I exploded from my seat toward him. Even so, it seemed like I was moving in slow motion. I saw the silver metal come out of his pocket surrounded by his tan hand. I recognized it as a gun. It could’ve been a.380 but at that moment it looked like a Dirty Harry Forty-four.

I grabbed onto that cannon with my right hand and squeezed as hard as I could. I could feel him pulling the gun away from me, but my grasp held. He reversed direction and tried pointing it at me. I forced the muzzle toward the floor.

Motherfucker was strong.

Stronger than me, I realized.

I evened the odds. I buried my thumb in his left eye and gouged like I was scooping ice cream.

He screamed out in pain and turned his head, but his grip on the gun remained firm. I pulled my left hand back and hit him in the throat with all the force I could muster. There wasn’t much on it because of the angle, but the throat is a vulnerable target.

He grunted and the gun went off. The blast shook my hand. I heard the loud thud of the bullet impacting.

I struck him in the throat a second time.

He began coughing.

I tore the gun from his grasp. Without thinking, I cracked him upside the skull with the handle. He collapsed like a tub of shit.

I dropped down onto his back with my knees, trying to drive him through the porcelain. I felt the breath whoosh out of him.

“Hands on your head, motherfucker!” I told him. I fumbled with the gun momentarily. Once I had a good grip on it, I jammed the muzzle behind his ear. “Do it, asshole!”

Reuben groaned but slowly moved his hands headward.

I glanced up at Rebecca and the kids. All three were staring with shocked expressions.

“Get to the back of the kitchen and call 911,” I told Rebecca.

She was a cop’s wife. She grabbed the kids, one by each hand and hurried toward the counter.

Rueben groaned again.

A man in a McDonald’s shirt was staring at us from behind the counter.

“Are you the manager?” I asked him.

He continued to stare.

“Are you the manager?” I asked again, louder. This time, he nodded back at me slowly.

“Get your people to the back of the kitchen. Call 911. Tell them that an off-duty officer has a suspect in custody for attempted murder. Tell them what I am wearing. Do you understand?”

He gave me a slow, frightened nod.

“Say it back to me.”

“Wha…?”

“Say it back to me. Say what you’re going to tell the 911 operator.”

“Oh. Uh, you’re an off-duty cop and you got some guy under arrest. And what you’re wearing.”

Good enough. “Do it,” I told him.

He turned and ran toward the back of the kitchen.

I took a breath and looked down. Rueben’s hands hovered next to his ears. I grabbed onto them and squeezed them together on top of his head. “You son of a bitch,” I hissed at him. “I should fucking kill you right here.”

Reuben coughed weakly and groaned.

“Oughta put a bullet behind your fucking ear.” I pressed the muzzle into his head for emphasis.

“Do it, pig,” he rasped. “Chinga tu madre.”

I almost did. I swear to fucking Christ I almost pumped some lead love behind his ear. Instead, I told him, “Forget it. I’d rather you died in prison of AIDS after getting raped by a bunch of Aryan Brothers.”

He laughed wetly, then coughed again.

“You ain’t got the cojones, pig. Don’t fool yourself.”

“Fuck you.”

He gave another gurgling laugh.

An eerie silence set in. I could hear the sizzling of meat back in the kitchen and the incessant beeping from the order screens. Someone was not getting their quarter pounder on time.

I listened for the sirens. Nothing yet.

I grabbed onto Rueben’s hands with my left hand. I kept the muzzle of that pistol pressed against his neck. I watched him. Dared him silently to move, to fight. Reach for a second gun. A knife. Give me enough of a reason to end your miserable life.

“Your brother cried all the way to jail, Reuben,” I whispered.

I felt his body tense.

“Cried like a little bitch.”

A twitch. Not enough.

“Once they booked him in, his broken nose kept him from being the prettiest one on the floor. He made up for it by giving the best head, though. Benito the Blowjob King. We even heard about him outside the jail, he was so famous.”

Another twitch. No fight.

“I hear that runs in the family. Cocksucking. Maybe you could get by throwing blowjobs in the cell bloc, too.”

I glanced over my shoulder at his feet to see if he was trying to get them underneath him. They were pointed harmlessly. The left one was twitching.

“I figure you and Benito learned how to suck cock from your mother, no? She was a real pro, I hear. Made a good living at it.”

Now he was shuddering. I could feel the anger radiating off his body. But that son of a bitch didn’t break. Unlike his dumb ass punk brother, he knew when to fight and when to wait.

“Someday, ese…” he rasped, “…you pay.”

I started to ask him why not today when I heard the wail of sirens.

Last chance.

I pressed the muzzle deeper into his flesh. My finger tickled the trigger.

Fuck. I couldn’t do it. And he wasn’t going to give me the justification.

I grabbed a handful of hair, pulled back and then smashed his face into the porcelain. He grunted. “Cocksucker,” I hissed at him again.

I glanced up and around the dining area, checking for latecomers. The elderly couple was staring at me, frozen. The two teenagers lovers were nowhere to be seen, but the polyester cow and her kids were all gazing at me with their jaws hanging open. One of the kids was moving his lips slowly like he was trying to say something, but no sound came out.

A siren approached. Tires screeched and the siren abruptly died. The slam of a door. Other sirens in the background, further away.

I took a breath, hoping I knew the cop that came through the door.

I watched as a head poked out from the threshold of the glass door and pulled back too fast to have seen anything.

Great. A fucking rookie.

I prayed briefly that those other cars hurried. The sirens yelped and wailed in the distance.

The head bobbed back past the edge of doorframe. This time, he took a look around. I didn’t know him. His smooth face looked about fourteen.

His eyes held excitement and fear. I vaguely remembered that feeling. I don’t think I could dredge it up for even a second, but I remembered that I used to feel it on every hot call I went to for the first year or two.

Would he be a cowboy, this kid? Or wait for back-up?

“Wait for back-up,” I said, barely above a whisper.

The glass door swung open violently.

Of course. He had to be a fucking cowboy.

He slipped right through the fatal funnel and advanced on me, his Glock pointed right at my head.

“Police! Don’t move!” he screeched at me.

Fuck. His voice was in the stratosphere and that forty caliber was looking like about a twelve gauge as it shook in his hand.

“Easy, man.”

“Put down the gun! Police! Put down the gun! Don’t move!” His voice cracked every second word. He licked his lip and I could hear his breath coming in short gasps. He reached for the microphone with his left hand, then changed his mind and went back to two hands on his gun.

“Easy,” I repeated. “Take a breath. I called you.”

“Put that gun down! Police! Do it now!” His voice was still as high-pitched as a fucking Bee Gee.

This was going nowhere. “Listen, son. I can’t take my gun off this guy. He’s the sus-“

“Don’t move!”

“Okay,” I said. “Listen, just cover me until your backup gets here, okay?”

“Put that gun down right now!”

“I can’t.”

“Do it! Police! Do it now!”

“Just cover me until you have back up.”

He finally heard me. I saw his wheels turning inside his eyes while he processed what I said.

“Just cover me until your back up gets here.” I tried to keep my voice calm. “Then I will put my gun down and move off this guy and — “

A new voice cut in. “This is not a debate. Put that fucking gun down or I will shoot you dead.”

I turned slowly to the opposite door. Another face I didn’t know. But this had resolve and a calm voice.

“I’m a police officer,” I told him.

“Says you. Now put that gun down slowly or you are dead.”

I put the gun down and slid it out of reach.

“Now get the fuck up off of him. Keep your hands where I can see them.”

I rose slowly, my hands at shoulder height.

“Vickers, keep the one on the ground covered,” he told the rookie.

Vickers nodded, nervous and excited.

We stood there for another thirty seconds, the four of us. Well, except for Rueben. He lay still, not even coughing.

Another officer arrived. Another face I didn’t know. Great. A fucking hat trick. I followed their directions and was quickly cuffed and removed from the dining area, out the door and toward the patrol car. The cool metal bit into my wrists. The cop must’ve had the air conditioner in his car cranked up.

This was too surreal. I almost said something about how tight the cuffs were, but stopped. I remembered all the suspects who bitched to me about that through the years and all the witty responses I shot back at them.

They’re not built for comfort.

Could I get you some coffee, too?

I left the fur-lined ones next to your girlfriend’s bed.

Fuck it. It wasn’t going to make a difference, anyway.

“I’m a police officer,” I told the second cop again.

“You said that.” He removed my fanny pack and started searching my waistband.

“Sergeant O’Sullivan. Badge number 105.”

“Uh-huh. Bend over at the waist.”

I bent over and he bent with me, checking my socks.

We stood back up. “I’m in Special Police Problems.”

“Well,” he said, popping the car door open, “I’d say we have a bit of a special problem here, huh?”

I quit talking. Fucking smart-ass.

“Watch your head as you get in.”

I slid into the back seat, behind the shield. The plastic that coated the seat was cold on my bare legs. I felt the tiny needles in my hands as they started to fall asleep. I stared at the dried blood and spit on the back of the shield that separated the prisoner area in the back seat and the passenger compartment. This was unbelievable.

The longest minutes of my life had been spent at Anthony’s grave-side, listening to the police chaplain mutter meaningless platitudes that were of little or no comfort to Rebecca or the kids. But after that, the ninety seconds I spent sitting in the back of that police car with cold metal biting into my wrists and my hands going numb finishes a strong second.

Pete Schmidt’s face appeared at the window. Pete was a good guy and I’d known him for years. The shocked look on his face mirrored my own emotions.

Pete opened the front door and hit the door release for the back seat.

“Jesus, Connor! What the fuck?”

I slid my feet out and Pete helped me out of the back seat.

“Hey, Pete.” I said.

Another shocked look. “Hey, Pete? What the fuck is that? What is going on?”

“You remember about three years ago when-ah, fuck it. It doesn’t matter.” I tipped my head toward the restaurant. “Motherfucker in there tried to shoot me. I took him down and held onto him. The fucking cavalry shows up and it’s all rookies, so I get slammed into these cuffs and tossed into the car.”

“You’re kidding?”

“No, I’m not. They wouldn’t listen to a word I said.”

Pete winced a little. “New guys, you know?”

I nodded. “I figured.”

I noticed Sergeant Rick Hunter near the doors to the restaurant. He was talking with the first two rookies. They were motioning in my direction and Hunter’s angry glances followed their gestures.

“Must be that they didn’t know you. Being over in SPP.”

“No shit, Pete.”

“Still, they shoulda maybe listened to you a little more…”

Hunter started walking this direction.

“Fuck,” I said involuntarily.

Pete’s head swiveled around, following my gaze.

“Fuck,” he whispered.

Hunter was a prick. He had one setting on his dial and it read “pissed.” One critical son of a bitch. I don’t know of anyone in this world who’s ever been right except for him.

“Turn around, I’ll get these cuffs off of you,” Pete told me.

I turned and tilted my handcuffed wrists to him.

“Leave those goddamn cuffs on!” Hunter boomed from fifteen yards away.

Pete froze for a second.

“What?” I couldn’t believe my ears.

“Sarge — “ Pete began.

“You heard me, Schmidt. Don’t touch those fucking cuffs.”

I lowered wrists and turned to face Hunter. This was unbelievable.

Hunter’s eyes bore into me as he closed distance. He didn’t stop until his nose was about to butt into mine. I could smell the coffee on his breath and see the white phlegm in the corners of his mouth. I noticed a small patch of stubble just below his nostril that he missed shaving.

“What is your problem, O’Sullivan?” He barked at me.

I looked back into his hard eyes. “You have got to be kidding me.”

He shook his head. “Uh-uh. I want to know where the fuck you get off.”

“Sarge — ” Pete started again.

“Shut the fuck up, Schmidt.” Hunter continued to stare at me. He was waiting for me to answer. It was going to be a long wait.

We stood there, locked in a battle of wills, in some sort of Mexican standoff, which I guess was pretty fucking appropriate for the situation. I watched Hunter’s nostrils flare as he did his best to intimidate me and I waited for him to get tired of not bitching at someone.

True to form, he couldn’t stand not hearing himself for longer than a minute. “Why didn’t you do what the officer on scene told you to do, O’Sullivan?”

“Because I had a suspect in custody that needed to be covered.”

“To my officer, you were the fucking suspect.”

“Maybe your officer should listen to the fucking dispatcher.”

Hunter cocked his head and the corners of his mouth turned up in a small, sarcastic smile. “What, you had a radio to go with your gun and handcuffs? You know what the dispatcher said?”

“I know what I told — “

“Do you know what the dispatcher said?” He repeated, raising his voice as he spoke.

I didn’t answer.

Hunter nodded his head. “I didn’t think so.” His gaze never left my face. “What my officer was told was that there was a suspect with a gun and shots had been fired. That was it. Then he shows up and you have a gun and you fucking argue with him. Now, I want to know — where do you get off?”

“Right about here,” I told him and turned my back on him.

There was a moment of stunned silence, then I felt a hard grip on my shoulders. Hunter spun me around to face him. “Don’t turn your back on me!”

“Then take these handcuffs off of me and calm the fuck down,” I told him. I struggled to keep my voice low. “Besides, I had the situation under control and your rookies were coming in too hot.”

“Too hot?!” Hunter snorted. “You know what that sounds like to me, O’Sullivan? That sounds like the guy hiding over in Special Police Problems trying to tell the real police how to do their jobs. That’s what it sounds like.”

Ignorant prick, I thought.

“Go fuck yourself” is what I said.

“What did you say to me?”

I stared him dead in the eye. “I said, go fuck yourself. One sergeant to another. You don’t like it? Go fuck yourself again.”

Hunter’s hands shot out and struck me in the chest. I fell back into the car, nailing my shoulder into the doorjamb. Hunter grabbed onto me and slammed me over the back of the car. My head bounced off the trunk. With my hands cuffed, I couldn’t fight back.

“Easy, Sarge! Jesus, people are watching!” came Pete’s voice.

Hunter paused a moment, then gave me another small shove into the car before releasing me. “Fucking desk jockey,” he muttered.

“Fucking ape,” I muttered back.

Hunter pointed his finger at Pete. “Those cuffs stay on until I decide if he’s a collar or not.”

“Sarge-“

“They stay on!” And he stalked away.

Pete and I stood still for a few seconds. I was busy catching my breath and Pete was busy being embarrassed. I watched Hunter disappear back into the restaurant and I wondered how in the hell I ended up standing there in handcuffs.

“I’m sorry, Connor,” Pete said.

“Not your fault, Pete.”

“Still.”

“What a fucking cock he is,” I muttered, shaking my head.

“Always was,” Pete said.

“Always will be.”

Pete unlocked the cuffs and loosened them to the last notch. Blood flow surged into my hands and the prickly needles were back. Still, it was better than the numbness.

Pete closed the back door of the patrol car and we stood by the wheel-well and watched in silence. Officers arrived and gawked at the scene and at me, but no one else approached us. Hunter remained inside the restaurant. Crime scene tape went up for some unknown reason and a little while later a pair of detectives rolled up in their unmarked car. Finch and Elias, both from Major Crimes. Usually, they worked homicides or robberies. Sure, they worked some assaults, too, but serious ones. Not something like this. Bringing them in was like sending Roger Clemens to the mound for a little league game.

Except that there was a cop involved.

Christ, what a circus.

Some time later, Rebecca and the kids were escorted out and into a police car. Rebecca cast a worried look at me through the window of the patrol car as it drove away.

The other witnesses filtered out and found their way to their own cars and drove themselves away. None of them looked at me.

I saw a media van pull up a short time later. Gratefully, it passed right by and parked on the other side of the building. I hoped they got what they wanted over there and left me alone. I knew that if any of those vultures spotted someone in handcuffs, I’d be the lead story on the next edition of the evening news.

Finally, the Shift Commander, Lieutenant Hudson, pulled up. He studiously ignored me and went inside the restaurant. I knew he was getting an earful from Hunter. I glanced over at Pete and could tell he was thinking the same thing. I was screwed.

Ten minutes later, Lieutenant Hudson came outside and walked directly toward us.

“Here it comes,” I whispered to Pete. He didn’t reply.

Hudson motioned to Pete. “Uncuff him.”

I offered Pete my wrists and he unlocked the cuffs. I rubbed my wrists and looked at the Lieutenant and waited.

“Sergeant O’Sullivan,” he said with an air of formality, “Go home. You’re on administrative leave pending the outcome of this investigation.”

“Lieutenant…”

He held up his hand. “I don’t want to hear a word. Go home. Call your Union Representative or your attorney. Do not contact anyone associated with this investigation. Do not engage in any law enforcement activity. Remain available to the Internal Affairs investigators. Do you understand?”

Holy shit.

“Yes, sir.”

He nodded briskly, turned and walked back into the restaurant.

I took a deep breath and let it out.

“You gonna be okay, Connor?” Pete asked.

I gave him a slow shrug. “I don’t know. This is…I don’t know.”

“You better just head home.”

I nodded, then realized something.

“Pete?”

“Yeah?”

“My bike is still inside. I need a ride home.”

Internal Affairs. Not exactly happy land for a cop. I sat in the small waiting area. There was nothing to read and nothing to do except rub my tired eyes, which were still red from three too many Kokanees the night before. I’d slept maybe six hours over the past two days, sitting at home waiting for IA to call. I’d spoken to my Union rep, but not a lawyer. I couldn’t figure why I needed one. Other than the Lieutenant telling me so, that is.

My Union rep was Detective Butch Pond. He told me not to worry. He told me things would work out. He couldn’t tell me exactly how, but he was sure they’d work out just fine. He said he had to be in court this morning, but he’d try to make it over.

Imagine how great I felt. My Union rep was a guy named Butch and he was going to try to make it to my IA interview. Marvelous.

Lieutenant Hart kept me waiting long enough to make him seem sufficiently important, then came out into the waiting area. He didn’t say a word, just motioned me to follow him. We settled into the small interview room. A mini-tape recorder sat on the table next to a clean notepad and a two-inch file.

Hart sat down and made a show of sliding the tape recorder to the side. I took his meaning. We were going to be out of school for a bit. Fine.

I sat down, folded my hands and waited. It was his play.

“Sergeant, where is your Union rep?”

“Couldn’t tell you.”

“Are you waiving representation?”

“For now, I don’t suppose I have a choice.”

“Of course you do. We can wait. Or reschedule.”

Hell with that. I’d already spent two days waiting for this. Two days cut off from the world I’d known for the last fourteen years.

“Now is fine,” I told him.

Hart twisted his pen, exposing the tip. He stared at it, then twisted it back again. I watched it disappear inside the pen.

“Just between us, O’Sullivan, you’re in a lot of trouble.”

“Thanks for the news flash.”

“Sarcasm isn’t going to help your cause.”

“I’m guessing it can’t probably hurt it much, either.”

Hart shook his head. “You were always such a smart ass.”

I took a breath and leaned forward. “Lieutenant, let me ask you something. How do you expect me to feel when I’m getting treated like this?”

“If I were you, I’d be happy I still had a job.”

I was, but I wasn’t going to tell this officious prick that I was.

About fourteen smart-ass replies went through my head. I held my tongue.

Hart took my silence as submission. Figures. He had been about as good at reading people on the street. Perfectly worthless. Couldn’t tell a citizen from a maggot half the time. And now he was investigating cops.

“Are you aware of the charges against you, Sergeant?”

I shook my head. “Not exactly.”

“I thought you had Union representation.”

“So did I.”

Hart smirked and opened the file in front of him. “Well, there are a few. On the administrative side of the house, you are being charged with excessive force, failure to cooperate with an investigation at the scene, conduct unbecoming a police officer and improper demeanor.”

“Demeanor? You have got to be kidding me!”

“No one is kidding, Sergeant.”

“How about Hunter’s demeanor then?”

Hart cocked his head at me. “What about it?”

I met his eyes, considering. That son of a bitch Hunter assaulted me and left me in cuffs like some kind of maggot criminal for almost an hour. But who really saw that?

Me.

Hunter.

And Pete.

I shook my head slowly. Anything I tried to make out of Hunter’s actions would quickly involve Pete. He’d have to be interviewed and anything he said about Hunter would come back on him. I didn’t want to jam him up. Add to that the fact that any stones I cast now would just make it look like I was trying to divert attention from myself.

Goddamn Hunter. He gets a walk.

“Sergeant? What about Hunter?” Hart asked me.

“Forget it. He’s just an asshole, that’s all. Not exactly a revelation.”

Hart shrugged, then glanced down at the file and read for a moment. “Fine. Now, on the criminal side of the house —“

“Criminal!?”

Hart paused and I could see that it was another delicious moment for him. “Yes, Sergeant. Criminal charges were considered by the Prosecutor.”

“For what?”

“Assault.”

I rolled my eyes in disbelief. “Assault?! He pulled a gun on me!”

“So you say.”

I caught his eye and held it with a hard stare. “That is what happened,” I gritted at him through clenched teeth.

“That is part of the problem, Sergeant. Figuring out exactly what happened.” He tapped the file with his pen and stared at me.

I willed my jaw to unclench.

Finally, he said, “Anyway, the Prosecutor has elected not to file charges against you on this matter.”

“How gracious. What about the other guy?”

Hart shook his head. “No charges will be filed against Mr. Gutierrez, either.”

“Mister Gutierrez? The guy is a convicted felon. He had a gun in his possession. Forget what he tried to do with it. Just having it is five years, Federal time.”

“If anyone is looking at Federal time, it would be you for Civil Rights violations,” Hart said quietly.

That stopped me in my tracks. How on earth did I go from defending myself to talking about Federal time?

I shook my head slowly. “This is ridiculous.”

“What is?”

“All of this. This guy attacked me. He tried to shoot me. Has everyone forgotten that?”

Hart sniffed in disgust. “Typical.”

“What did you say?”

“I said, typical. Did you forget attacking Mr. Gutierrez? Do you even know the extent of his injuries? Have you forgotten jamming that pistol into his head? Or smashing his face into the floor? Or the things you said to him?”

“Said?”

“Racial references. Homophobic statements. Degrading his family.”

“So he attacks me with a fucking gun and you’re beefing me over using harsh language?” I couldn’t believe this.

“Harsh language would be bad enough. Racial epithets and anti-homosexual remarks are worse. Threats to kill are worse yet.”

I shook my head. “I don’t know who you’ve been talking to, but you are spinning one hell of a fairy tale.”

“Fairy tale? Is that another homophobic reference?”

I stared at him in disbelief.

“Are you getting a picture of where you’re at right now, Sergeant O’Sullivan?” Hart’s voice was as hard as he could make it.

“I’m in fucking Wonderland,” I said, shaking my head.

“I think we should go on tape now,” Hart said.

Hart popped open the tape recorder and checked the mini-cassette. He snapped the tape recorder shut and plugged in the microphone. His movements were fluid, practiced. His face bore the smallest of smirks.

Clever bastard, I thought, as I watched him slide the microphone toward me. Get me all worked up, then go on tape and jump in for the kill.

“I don’t think so,” I told him. “I think I’d like my Union rep and a lawyer here.”

Hart froze. “Why?”

“Why? Because I need them. That’s pretty clear from what you’ve told me.”

“Well…I mean, if I said anything…” Hart stammered. His face reddened.

“You made your point,” I said.

“I didn’t want to…I mean…”

Yeah, you fuck, I thought. Your little plan backfired.

Hart regained his composure quickly. “I suppose that is your right. If you want to exercise it.”

“I do.”

“Fine. We’ll reschedule.”

It was quiet for a moment. Hart put his pen in his suit jacket and closed the file in front of him. I stared at the pale yellow folder and wondered exactly what was inside.

Hart read my thoughts. “There’s more than enough, Sergeant.”

I shook my slowly. “I was defending myself.”

“Not according to Mr. Gutierrez,” Hart told me. “Not according to Archie and Ruth Bales, who were sitting three tables away. Not according to Carrie Temple. Not according to Josh Prinz or Jessica Stern, who each took the time to shoot a picture of the whole thing with their brand new cell phones.”

“Pictures?”

Hart tried to suppress a smug grin as he opened the file and removed a computer-generated photo. He slid it across the small table. I recognized myself in the picture immediately, sitting astride Gutierrez with his gun jammed behind his ear. My face was twisted with fury. My eyes were wild.

“The other one is worse,” Hart told me.

I sat back in my chair and looked at him. No words came out. How could it be any worse?

Hart replaced the photo in the file. “This is going to hit the media. No way we can contain it.”

Bullshit. They weren’t even going to try.

“Let me see the other photo,” I said.

Hart shook his head. “You can see that when you come back later with your lawyer.”

Son of a bitch.

Hart leaned forward and dropped his voice to a whisper. “Can you see the headlines now, Sergeant? Huh? ‘Racist Cop attacks Minority.’ The Hispanic community is already up in arms. The rest of the city will follow suit as soon as they see this picture.”

He was right. Son of a bitch was dead on right.

Hart shook his head and tut-tutted his tongue. “Do you really think the department is going to take this hit?”

“I was defending myself and civilians,” I half-whispered.

“Civilians?” Hart’s eyebrow went up. “Civilians? It looks more like you were overreacting for Officer Battaglia’s widow.”

Rebecca. “Did you even talk to her?” I asked.

“Of course. But she’s a cop’s wife. She’s not unbiased.”

“So? She saw what happened.”

Hart shrugged. “If you ask me, Sergeant, you ought not be sniffing around another man’s widow, especially since you purported to be his friend.”

My fist was cocked and moving forward before I caught myself. I had started and stopped before Hart even reacted. He staggered backward out of his chair and fell to the ground. I lowered my fist as he stood up.

Hart pointed his finger at him, his face red and veins popping out of his neck. “That is exactly why you are in this mess, O’Sullivan!”

I just sat there, looking at his quivering index finger and wondering what fucked up surprise was next.

“Leave, Sergeant. Get out of here.”

I rose and walked toward the door. There was nothing else to say.

“I told them everything.” Rebecca’s voice was saturated with disbelief. “How can they listen to that…that criminal?”

I gave a rueful smile, though she couldn’t hear it through the telephone receiver. “Because they want to. Because the other civilians there have no idea what really went down.”

“But I saw everything,” she said.

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It should.”

“It doesn’t.”

We both fell silent. I watched my last remaining goldfish labor around the tank. He was tilted slightly side-ways as he swam and I had the distinct feeling he was a goner.

“Aaron Norris’s wife told me they were re-opening the investigation from when you arrested that guy before. Is that true?”

“I don’t know.”

“But that was over a year ago, she said.”

“Three.”

“Can they do that?

I sighed. “Rebecca, it looks to me like they can do whatever they want.”

Another silence. I closed my eyes and rubbed them.

This was a nightmare. All because the department seemed to be more concerned with public perception rather than reality.

“Connor?”

“Hmmm?”

“What are you going to do?”

I didn’t answer. I didn’t know.

When we said goodnight, I almost said something else, but it stuck in my throat. Afterward, I listened to the dial tone for a long minute and mouthed the words as I watched my sideways goldfish struggle on, only to swim in circles.

In the police world, if you’re doing good, the Chief comes to see you. Either he comes to roll call or finds you in the field. If you mess up, though, you go see the Chief.

The Chief’s office was strangely plain. Instead of the usual hail-to-me wall full of certificates and plaques, only a picture of his family and his certificate from the FBI Command Academy hung behind his desk, just beneath the department crest.

I sat there as the Chief made a show of reading the file in front of him. He would’ve read it already, but this was the way the show went. The department’s legal advisor sat off to one side, boredom etched in his face. Butch sat next to me, tapping his foot as rapidly as a paint shaker.

After a few minutes of silence, the Chief looked up at me. I think he was surprised at how calm I was. I imagine most guys are as nervous as hell to be in his office, whether their job was on the line or not.

“Sergeant O’Connor,” said the Chief, “this investigation is complete. Have you had a chance to consult with your Union representative?”

I nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“Attorney?”

“Waived,” I answered.

The Chief’s gaze moved over to Butch, who nodded and shrugged at the same time.

“He didn’t want an attorney?” The Chief asked him.

“No, sir,” I answered for Butch. “I don’t need one.”

Irritation flared in The Chief’s eyes. “Very well. Would you like to make a statement, then?”

I nodded. “Yes, sir.”

There was a pause. The Chief motioned at me with his hand. “Go ahead, then.”

I took a breath. “Sir, I did not initiate this event. I did nothing to encourage it or cause it. When it happened, I handled it without loss of life. I acted in self-defense.”

I stopped there. The Chief sat still, watching me. His face was impassive. After about thirty seconds, he said, “Continue.”

“That’s all I have, sir.”

“That’s it?”

“Yes.”

The Chief steepled his fingers in front of him. “Sergeant, let me get this straight. You used excessive force on this guy’s brother three years ago, and somehow we miss it. According to witnesses, at this restaurant last week, you taunt this guy to the point of attacking you. You hit him with a gun, make racial and anti-gay remarks, and threaten to kill him. Then you disobey the first officers on scene and argue with the first supervisor on scene trying to make heads or tails of the situation. And then, if that weren’t enough, you argue with and insult the IA investigator and all but take a swing at him.” He leaned forward. “After all of that, Sergeant, you have the balls to sit there and give me this song and dance about how it was all self-defense?”

I said nothing. Which was apparently the wrong thing to say.

“Answer me, Sergeant!”

“Sir, yes, sir. That is my position.”

Redness crept up from his collar. “Do you know what the papers are saying about his incident? Do you know what the Hispanic community is saying? You’ve set our relations with them back a decade with this stunt.”

“Stunt?”

“Do you know how long and hard I’ve worked to build bridges with these people?”

“Sir, this guy was not a member of any community other than the criminal community. I didn’t figure we cared much what they thought.”

The redness flooded his cheeks.

“Do you have anything else to say, Sergeant O’Sullivan?” he gritted.

I resisted the urge to tell him to shove it up his ass and shook my head instead.

“Fine,” The Chief said. “I’ll render my decision within the week.”

I rose and left without a word, not looking back.

“How’d it go?” I could hear the concern in her voice.

“Not well,” I told her.

“Did he yell? I heard from Aaron Norris’s wife that he yells in those meetings a lot.”

“That’s the last Chief. This one doesn’t yell much. Aaron Norris’s wife should get her facts straight. Besides, she’s not even his wife anymore. They’re divorced.”

Rebecca didn’t answer right away. She just waited quietly, giving me a chance to fix things.

“Sorry,” I told her, and I was.

“It’s all right,” she said.

And it was. But when we were finished talking, I still sat and listened to that goddamn dial tone and cursed myself.

In the end, I took a ten-day rip.

I thought for sure they’d fire me, giving the way the political winds were blowing. But between Gutierrez’s fingerprints on the gun and Rebecca’s testimony, I guess the waters got muddy enough that they figured I’d win on appeal if they fired me. Plus, I heard from Butch that Gutierrez didn’t do himself any favors in the interview, changing his story several times until it didn’t resemble my account or their precious witnesses.

As far as the Hispanic community goes, The Chief trotted out Gutierrez’s criminal record and the fact that it was his gun and then tossed in my ten-day suspension and they were as satisfied as any advocacy group ever is. After a few days, even the news got tired of reporting that everyone was happy with the outcome.

I took the ten-day rip without a word. Butch wanted to appeal, especially when it included a re-assignment back to patrol, but I told him not to worry about it. Instead, I called Rebecca.

“Can you get two weeks off from work?” I asked her.

“Probably. I can’t really afford it, though.”

“I’ll take care of that part,” I told her. “Can the kids miss school?”

“Miss school? Why?”

“I’m taking all of you to Disneyland.”

“What?”

“I said, I want to take you and the kids to Disneyland.”

She was quiet for a minute, then started laughing.

“What’s so funny?”

“Nothing.” She kept laughing.

“Rebecca?”

I heard a small snort through the telephone receiver.

“Rebecca? What’s so funny?”

“It’s just…I just imagined you on TV, like those pro athletes, you know?”

I started to smile.

“You know the ones, Connor? Where they win the Super Bowl or whatever and they get on TV and they tell the announcer guy, ‘I just won the Super Bowl and I’m going to Disneyland!’” She dissolved into laughter again.

My smiled widened. She was definitely a cop’s wife with that sense of humor.

“Connor O’Sullivan,” she said, her voice raising in pitch as she tried to control her laughter, “You just took a ten-day suspension. What are you going to do now?”

I gave it to her. She worked hard for the set-up. She deserved it. “I’m going to Disneyland. You and the kids wanna come with?”

She laughed for a while longer. I closed my eyes and saw her face. I imagined the lines near her mouth and could almost see her wiping a tear from her eye. I could smell her hair. I saw the kids laughing and screaming in the warm California sun and that fucker Mickey Mouse waving at us.

I continued to smile, and wait.

When she finished laughing at me, she said, “You know what?”

“What?”

“Save Disneyland. I’ll take the time off from work and get my Mom to watch the kids.”

I paused. “And?”

“And you can take me to Vegas. Adult Disneyland. Just you and me.”

Another pause. “That sounds…good.”

“Yeah. I think so, too.”

I took a deep breath and let it out. “Okay. Well, I’ll let you get back to work.”

“Okay,” she said. “See you tonight?”

“Sure. I’ll come by.”

“Okay.”

There was the moment again. That small window of opportunity that I always let fly by. Not this time, though.

“Rebecca?”

“Yeah?”

“I…”

“I know, Connor. I know.”

“You know?”

“Yes. I’ll see you tonight. You can tell me in person, if you want.” Her voice had softened. “I’ll see you then.”

“See you,” I whispered, and she hung up.

I put the receiver back on the hook and realized I was smiling.

I’m going to take my ten-day rip without filing an appeal.

I’m going to take Rebecca to Vegas.

Maybe I’ll come back.

Maybe I won’t.

Maybe after I tell her that I love her face to face, we’ll decide this shithole town can kiss our asses and we’ll just go somewhere else and get a fresh start.

Maybe.

I just don’t know yet.