Second Chance

Chapter 37

ABOUT AN HOUR LATER, Jacobi and Cappy entered the squad room. They were pushing a large redheaded biker type, his hands cuffed behind his back.

“Look who decided to drop in.” Jacobi smirked.

Red jerked his arms defiantly out of Cappy's grip as the policeman shoved him into Interrogation Room 1, where he tripped over a wooden chair and crashed to the floor.

“Sorry, big fella.” Cappy shrugged. “Thought I warned you about that first step.”

“Richard Earl Evans,” Jacobi announced. “AKA Red, Boomer, Duke. Don't feel insulted if he doesn't stand up and shake hands.” “This is what you thought I meant by no contact?” I said, looking cross but inside delighted that they had brought him in.

“The guy's got a CCI sheet so long it begins with ' me Ishmael.'” Jacobi grinned. “Theft, aggravated mischief, attempted murder, two weapons charges.”

“Behold,” exclaimed Cappy, producing a dime bag of marijuana, a five-inch hunter's blade, and a palm-sized Beretta.22-caliber pistol out of a Nordstrom's shopping bag.

“He know why he's here?” I asked.

“Nah,” Cappy grunted. “We busted him on the gun charge. Let him cool his jets in the backseat.”

The three of us crowded into the small interrogation room facing Richard Earl Evans. The creep leered up at us with a smug grin, sleeves of tattoos covering both arms. He wore a black T-shirt with block letters on the back: “If You Can Read This... the Bitch Must've Fallen Off!”

I nodded, and Cappy freed him from the cuffs. “You know why you're here, Mr. Evans?”

“I know you guys are in deep shit if you think I'm talking to you.” Evans sniffed a mixture of mucus and blood. “You got no teeth in Vallejo.”

I raised the bag of dope. “Santa seems to have brought you a lot of naughty toys. Two felonies... still on parole for a weapons charge. Time at Folsom, Quentin. My sense is you must like it there, ' next time up, you qualify for the thirty-year lease.”

“One thing I do know,” - Evans rolled his eyes - “is you didn't drag me all this way for some two-bit weapons rap. The sign on the door says Homicide.”

“No, big fella, you're right,” Cappy injected. “Tossing your sorry ass in jail on a gun charge is only a hobby for us. But depending on how you answer a few questions, that weapons rap could determine where you spend the next thirty years.”

“Pupshit,” the biker grunted, leveling his cold, hard eyes in his face. "That's all you assholes got on me.

Cappy shrugged, then brought the flat end of an unopened soda can down hard on the biker's hand.

Evans yelped in pain.

“Damn, I thought you said you were thirsty,” Cappy said contritely.

Red leered at Cappy, no doubt imagining running over the cop's face with his bike.

“But you're right, Mr. Evans,” I said. “We didn't ask you down here to go over your current possessions, though it wouldn't take much to hand your sorry ass right over to the Vallejo police. But today could work out lucky for you. Cappy, ask Mr. Evans if he'd like another drink.”

Cappy feinted, and Evans jerked his hand off the table.

Then the big cop opened the can and placed it in front of him, grinning widely. “This all right, or would you prefer a glass?”

“See,” I assured him, “we can be nice. Truth is, we don't give a shit about you. All you have to do is answer a few questions and you'll be headed home, compliments of the SFPD. You never have to see us again. Or we can lock your three-time-loser ass on the tenth floor for a few days until we remember we got you here and notify the Vallejo police. And, when it comes to a third felony offense, we'll see about just how much teeth we really have.”

Evans ran his hand across the bridge of his nose, dabbing at the blood. “Maybe I will take a swig of that soda, if you're still offering.” “Congratulations, son,” Jacobi said. “That's the first thing you've done that makes sense since we set eyes on you.”