Jim picked up the radio mic as Wells pulled out of the station parking
lot. "1-Adam-12, PM Watch clear." Driving during this shift became
a non-issue when Mac assigned Wells to ride with him. Some things
don't change. It irked him, but he'd resigned himself to riding
shotgun and keeping the log.
"So, Ed, I guess this is gonna be a big change from riding an L-unit," Jim
began, trying to make conversation. At least I can try to make the shift
pleasant. He looked over at Wells. "I mean, 7 hours riding around by
yourself must get pretty lonely."
"I like the quiet."
Jim frowned. There goes that idea. He turned to the window, scanning
the scenery as it whizzed past. That's not right. He craned his
neck a little and found the speedometer needle hovering between 30 and 40.
A passing sign declared the speed limit for the 4-lane stretch to be 35.
Better just keep your mouth shut.
Jim turned back to the front windshield, compensating for Wells' heavier
foot by concentrating on the passing landscape and ignoring Wells. He didn't
speak again until they neared the end of their sector. "Take a right on
South Hill."
A second later, the intersection whizzed by. "Why didn't you turn?" Jim
couldn't hide his annoyance.
"Look, Junior," Wells began, the emphasis turning the nickname into
a slur. "I was driving when you were still in diapers. I know my way around
this town."
Jim turned to the window. "We're in 1-Adam-54s district."
Wells turned to Jim. "What?"
"We're out of our district and in Adam 54s." Jim never turned from the
passenger window.
"Why didn't you say something?" Wells demanded.
This time, Jim turned back to Wells. "I did! I told you to turn onto South
Hill!"
"You didn't say we were heading out of our district," Wells returned, swinging
the car over, slowing only slightly as he executed a U-turn.
"WELLS!" Jim shouted, throwing a glare at his temporary partner.
"What?" Wells completed the turn and accelerated toward South Hill. He
slowed slightly to make a left turn.
Jim gripped the dashboard as Wells slammed on the brakes to avoid an on-coming
car. "WELLS!"
"That's my name, don't wear it out." Wells chortled at his own joke.
"This is gonna be a long shift," Jim muttered, reluctantly releasing
his death-grip on the dashboard and turning to stare out the passenger window.
"You know what your problem is, Reed?"
Jim shook his head. "I'll bite, Wells." He turned to look at the officer.
"What's my problem?"
"You're too stiff," Wells informed. "Next time you go over to Central Receiving,
you should have 'em remove that stick that's up your butt."
"And I know exactly where I'll put it," Jim said under his breath.
*****
6:15 p.m.
Jim's basic good nature got the better of him and, 2 hours and 15 minutes
into the shift, he was over his earlier anger at Wells. No wonder Wells
thinks I'm too stiff. I should've just laughed at the "don't wear it out"
and the "stick" comments. They approached a traffic signal, which went
from green to yellow to red. When Wells slammed on the brakes, Jim nearly
went through the windshield. For the fourth time that shift, Jim's hand
hit the dashboard and he held on for dear life.
Don't criticize him. Just ask him to slow down. Nicely. Jim took
a deep breath to steady himself. The light turned green and the car lurched
forward. "Ahhh . . . Ed . . . ah, could you slow it down? Just a little?"
"Can't take it, huh?" Wells said with a grin. "Too used to Granny Malloy
behind the wheel." He continued before Jim could respond. "I heard you
used to race motorcycles, Reed. Don't tell me you lost your nerve."
"When I raced, I was driving," Jim returned. "There's a difference."
Wells chuckled. "Sure there is." He laughed out loud. "You just keep
telling yourself that."
"We're on patrol, Wells. Not in a race." Despite Jim's efforts, the statement
came out through clenched teeth as the car bucked with another choppy deceleration.
"If I was exceeding the speed limit, I'd write myself a ticket."
I doubt that. Jim kept his mouth shut instead of voicing the thought.
"Look, Wells, I'm the one that'll go through the windshield if you TA.
Just slow it down, huh?"
"Why don't you just sit back and relax, Reed?"
Jim's comeback was cut off by the radio.
"All units in the vicinity and 1-Adam-12. See the woman. Possible 459,
prowler there now. 2610 South Flower. Respond Code 2."
"1-Adam-12, roger." Jim replaced the mic, then gripped the dash as Wells
sped to the address given by the dispatcher.
Thankfully, the trip was a short one. Wells reached the South Flower Street
address, barely slowing as he pulled the car out of the main traffic lane.
Jim winced as the right tires of the car thumped over the curb, mere inches
from the woman waiting for them on the sidewalk. Sheesh! And Pete thinks
I can't drive. Jim donned his hat and got out of the car, grabbing his
nightstick and placing it in its ring. "You called about a burglar, ma'am?"
"I came home and saw the lights on in the front room of my apartment," the
woman explained as Wells came around the front of the car. "I'm sure they
were off when I left this morning."
Wells looked around. "No lights on now." He looked over at Reed and rolled
his eyes.
"I don't live on this street," the woman returned. "My apartment's on Figueroa,
right up the alley." The woman pointed. "I saw the lights on and I just
kept driving and called you."
Jim nodded. "You did the right thing."
"The apartment's on the 2nd
floor, over the office supply store on Figueroa," the woman informed. "I
usually park in the alley and go in through the back." Her voice had begun
to shake. "If I hadn't come around on Figueroa, I might've gone in . . ."
Her voice trailed off.
"Like my partner said, you did the right thing." Wells gently patted the
woman's arm. "Now, you just step back and we'll take care of everything."
"I'll call for back-up to cover the front." Jim returned to the car, leaned
in and picked up the mic. "This is 1-Adam-12, Code 6 at 2610 South Flower.
Requesting back-up at our location."
"Roger, 1-Adam-12, be advised 1-Adam-36 is responding."
"Roger." Jim replaced the mic. As he straightened, a second car stopped
next to the unit.
"We heard you and Wells needed some help with a 459." Walters grinned.
"It was all Wells' idea," Jim shot back, grinning. "Cover the front on
Figueroa. We're going in through the alley."
Walters and Brinkman saluted, then pulled off, turning at the next block
to return to Figueroa.
"Back-up should be in place." Jim motioned toward the alley. "Ready?"
Wells put his hand on the butt of his revolver. "I was born ready, kid."
Jim didn't miss the wink Wells threw to their complainant. Shaking his
head, he followed Wells up the alley, past several stockade fences, each
with a gate access leading to the rear of the buildings backing along the
alley.
"This is it," Wells whispered, stopping in the middle of the alley. He
put his hand on the latch to pull the gate open. The latch clattered, but
the gate was stuck. He peered at the gate for a second, then shook his head.
"It's latched from the inside."
Wells stretched, reaching over the fence to open the latch. Each time,
his fingers brushed the hook and eye without dislodging it.
Jim watched the shorter officer stretch and contort in an effort to unlatch
the gate. He's never gonna get it. Finally, he stepped over,
reached past Wells and over the fence, unlatching the gate.
He didn't even have to stretch! "Wonder how she gets it open,"
Wells muttered.
Telling Wells she's taller than he is won't get me any points. Jim
shrugged. He peered over the fence and signaled to Wells that the rear of
the building was clear.
Wells slowly swung the gate open, his right hand instinctively moving to
the butt of his service revolver. Jim silently followed, his own hand on
the butt of his revolver. When the two officers reached the rear of the
building, they moved to opposite sides of the door. Wells reached over and
tested the knob. The door was unlocked.
Wells drew his revolver. A hand signal to Jim told the younger officer
to cover the door when Wells opened it. Jim nodded, drawing his own weapon.
Wells turned the knob and pushed the door open.
After a beat, Jim turned, aiming his weapon down the long passage. "Clear."
The two officers cautiously entered the building, following a long narrow
passage until it reached a door. To the left of the door was a flight of
stairs leading up. Wells nodded his head toward a television and record
player at the bottom of the stairway.
With his thumb pointing up, Wells signaled that he would climb the stairs
first, with Jim covering him. Again, Jim nodded, positioning himself to
the side and training the barrel of his weapon on the top of the stairs.
As Wells stepped onto the first riser, a man appeared at the top of the
stairs carrying a pillowcase.
"Freeze! Police!" Jim shouted.
The man's mouth dropped and his hand opened, dropping the pillowcase, which
made a clanging noise as it hit the floor. "Awww, man." He put both hands
behind his head.
"I've got him covered." Jim nodded to Wells.
Wells holstered his gun and trod up the stairs. "Hands on the wall, feet
back and spread 'em." He ushered the suspect into the short hallway at the
top of the stairs and quickly frisked him.
Once the suspect was handcuffed, Jim holstered his own weapon. Wells picked
up the pillowcase, then escorted the man down the stairs.
"Pretty good work, Reed." Wells led the suspect past the younger officer.
"Bring that stuff out to the car, would ya?"
"Thanks, Ed," Jim muttered to Wells' retreating back, then picked up the
television, which, along with the record player and the items inside the
pillowcase, would become evidence against the burglar.
*****
8:20 p.m.
"Call us in Code 7." Wells pulled the car to the curb and parked.
He didn't even ask if I was ready for 7. Okay, I'm always hungry.
Jim picked up the radio mic. "Dispatch, this is 1-Adam-12, put us Code
7 at 15272 Olympic." The Golden Dragon? Chinese food? Send us on a
call. Please.
"Roger, 1-Adam-12, Code 7, 15272 Olympic."
Of course, we wouldn't get a call when Wells picks Chinese food. I
hate Chinese food! Jim replaced the mic and got out of the car.
He scanned the street, hoping he'd have another choice. No such luck.
The Golden Dragon was the only game in town. I'm not even gonna
bother asking him to go somewhere else.
"This place is great. It's one of the few places in L.A. where you can
get Szechwan, Hunan and Cantonese food." Oblivious, Wells walked to the
door, opened it and went in.
I've tried all three and I don't like any of them. After one last
look at the quiet street, Jim followed Wells into the restaurant.
"Officer Wells!" The young, attractive Asian woman behind the register
exclaimed, smiling broadly. "We thought you'd forgotten us!"
"Forget you and your family, Lily?" Wells laughed. "Not a chance."
Lily turned to the opening behind her. "Mama, Officer Wells is here
for dinner! Will you come out to greet him?"
Jim understood the words "mama," and "Officer Wells." He guessed that
Lily was calling her mother to the front.
"My mother will be right out." Lily smiled, turning to Jim. "Are you Officer
Wells' new partner?"
Jim smiled. "Only temporarily." Hope she doesn't want my opinion about
that. She seems to like Wells. Go figure.
Lily's mother appeared from the back, dressed in a long white apron. The
woman smiled broadly, bowing once and speaking rapidly in Chinese.
"My mother's so happy to see you again, Officer Wells," Lily translated.
"She's been worried about you."
Wells smiled. "I'm sorry I haven't been back in a while, Mrs. Shan."
Mrs. Shan turned to Jim, who towered over her. Smiling, she bowed once.
"This is Officer Reed," Wells made the introduction.
"Pleased to meet you, Officer Reed." Lily smiled, speaking for both herself
and her mother.
Mrs. Shan spoke to Lily, then bowed again to Wells and Reed, before disappearing
in the back.
Lily stepped out from behind the register. "My mother is going to fix something
very special for you." She led them through the quiet restaurant.
"Now, tell your mother not to go to any trouble, Lily." Wells laughed when
they reached a table and Lily stopped. "Officer Reed and I are only on our
dinner break."
Lily smiled. "It's no trouble," she insisted. "You'll both have to come
back with your wives so Mama can fix a proper banquet." She paused. "Would
you like coffee?"
"That'd be great, Lily." Wells smiled.
Jim nodded. "Thank you."
Both men waited for Lily to turn and leave the table before sitting down.
"I got called to a 211 here one night a couple of years ago," Wells began.
"The creeps did a number on Mr. Shan. He didn't make it." He paused.
"I caught the guys. I guess that means something to Lily and her mother."
He shrugged. "I try to come by once in a while to see how they're doing."
That isn't like one of Wells' usual stories. "Wow . . . Ed
. . ." Jim didn't know what to say. "That's a shame. About Mr. Shan."
He paused. "And it's nice that you check up on Lily and her mother."
Wells shrugged. "Yeah, well . . ." Come on, Reed, don't disappoint
me. Tell me you can't believe it. When that didn't happen, Wells was
at a loss for words.
Lily returned and set a cup of coffee in front of each officer. Behind
her, Mrs. Shan delivered steaming bowls of soup. "I hope egg drop soup is
all right, Officer Reed. It's Officer Wells' favorite."
Jim smiled and picked up his spoon. "It's fine. Thank you." He stirred
the soup briefly, uncomfortable as Lily and Mrs. Shan stood watching. Finally
he lifted the spoon to his mouth. Hey, this isn't bad. He smiled
and nodded. "It's very good."
Lily translated for her mother. "Enjoy." The two women left the table.
*****
9:45
An hour after finishing dinner, Jim remembered the main reason he didn't
care for Chinese food. It always disagreed with his stomach. He groaned
and shifted in the passenger seat as his stomach protested. Yet again.
He inconspicuously pulled a roll of antacids from his pocket and popped two
into his mouth.
"What's the matter, Reed?" Wells asked, his eyes never leaving the street
in front of them.
"Nothing."
"What'd you just put in your mouth?" Wells persisted.
Jim sighed. "Antacids," he admitted. "Don't get me wrong. The meal was
great. But Chinese food always upsets my stomach." He didn't want Wells
to think he was criticizing Mrs. Shan. After all, the woman had prepared
and served the meal to them herself. Jim had eaten every bite Mrs. Shan
put on his plate. And enjoyed it. Until now.
"That's the dumbest thing I've ever heard you say, Reed." Wells spared
him a glance, then turned back to the road. "How can Chinese food upset
your stomach? It wasn't even the spicy stuff!"
Jim shook his head, as bewildered as Wells. "I don't know, Wells. It just
happens," he said defensively. "Can I help it if my stomach doesn't like
something? No."
"Well, if you throw-up in this car, you're gonna have to clean it out."
I have the feeling that if you threw up, you'd make me clean
it up, Wells. "It's not that bad," Jim said mildly. Then grinned.
"Although, with your driving . . ."
"All units in the vicinity and 1-Adam-12. 211 in progress at the liquor
store. Suspect there now. 1635 Washington Boulevard. Respond Code 3." Jim picked up the mic. "1-Adam-12, roger. Request any units responding
back-up to meet us on Tac 2." He flipped the two toggles, turning on the
lights and siren.
"Roger, 1-Adam-12. Units responding to the 211 with 1-Adam-12, meet 1-Adam-12
on Tac 2."
Jim reached forward and switched frequencies.
"1-Adam-36 to 1-Adam-12."
"Go ahead, 1-Adam-36."
"We're on Maple coming up on Washington Boulevard. We'll be coming up on
your location from the south in about a minute."
"Copy, 1-Adam-36. We'll meet you there." Jim replaced the mic and gripped
the dash. "Washington coming up on the right."
Jim briefly released the dash as Wells turned onto Washington Boulevard.
He switched the lights and siren off, then picked up the mic and switched
back to Dispatch's frequency. "Dispatch, this is 1-Adam-12, put us Code
6 at the location."
"Roger, 1-Adam-12."
Wells pulled the car to the curb in front of the building next to the liquor
store. He and Jim scrambled from the car, drawing their weapons. Jim crouched
behind the passenger door, while Wells crouched at the rear of the car.
They heard a shot fired inside the store, which was followed a second later
by a man running out onto the sidewalk. In one hand he carried a paper bag.
The other hand was empty.
"FREEZE! POLICE!" Wells shouted.
The suspect stopped and turned, raising both hands over his head. "Okay,
you got me. Don't shoot."
"Cover me." Wells ordered, rising and holstering his gun. He walked around
the car toward the suspect.
Wells was three feet away when the man changed his mind about giving up
without a fight. He took a step back, then threw the paper bag at Wells.
The bag struck Wells in the chest, knocking him back a step.
"FREEZE!" Jim shouted as the man's right hand groped at the pocket of his
jacket. Damnit! Get out of the way Wells! "DON'T DO IT!"
A dark object clattered to the ground at the suspect's feet. Without missing
a beat, the man turned and ran.
"Call in a foot pursuit!" Jim holstered his weapon and took off after the
suspect. Man, I hope all the street lights are working tonight.
The suspect sprinted through the first intersection, running south on Washington
Boulevard with Jim only a few yards behind him. In his peripheral vision,
Jim saw a black and white pass them. Walters and Brink. The suspect
turned at the next intersection and the squeal of tires followed them as
Jim sprinted after him.
The race continued for several blocks past apartment complexes and closed
businesses. Streetlights, keep working. Jim managed to close the
distance between himself and the suspect, but was never able to get close
enough to get a hand on the man, or bring him down. Jim's luck changed for
the better when the suspect turned into the open gate of an apartment complex.
The turn brought a change in the suspect's luck. For the worse. The man
turned to the right in an effort to throw his pursuer off and stumbled into
a tall hedge bordering the complex pool. He rebounded off the decorative
and substantial shrubbery, right into Jim's hands.
This time, the suspect's surrender was final. He didn't fight as Jim pushed
him toward the ground and pulled his arms behind his back.
"Smart move." Jim quickly cuffed the man, rising and pulling the suspect
to his feet.
*****
9:50 p.m.
After calling in the foot pursuit and checking on the uninjured clerk, Wells
took off on foot, following Reed and the suspect south on Washington Boulevard.
He'd seen the chase turn at the second intersection and had hoped to spot
the pursuit when he rounded the corner. Man! Reed sure is fast.
He passed the open apartment gate without registering it. At the next intersection,
he had to stop to catch his breath. Wheezing, he scanned the street.
Reed and the suspect have gotta be around here somewhere. He paced back,
spotting the open apartment gate. A car door slammed on the next block.
Damn! The suspect was heading for a getaway car!
*****
9:56 p.m.
Walters and Brinkman entered the apartment complex from the opposite side,
where they'd left their unit parked. The complex wasn't as well lit as the
street, but they managed to spot Jim escorting the suspect along the pool
toward them.
"We thought you were gonna run him right to us, Reed." Walters joked.
Jim had a grip on the man's right elbow. "The hedge gave me a great assist."
He looked back toward the street where he and the suspect had run in. "Can
you handle transport? Wells must be tied up with the clerk. We heard shots
fired."
"Sure." Brinkman took the man's right arm. "You okay? You're lookin'
a little green."
"Nah . . . it's pretty dark in here." Jim's stomach gurgled. Hope they
think that's the pool pump. "We'll meet you at the station and handle
the report," he promised. "And I'll spell the name right, Brink."
"What's he talking about?" Walters asked as he and Brinkman headed back
to their car with the suspect in tow.
Jim turned and walked back toward the opposite gate. You can pull up
anytime, Wells. The work's done. Stomach cramps stopped him in his
tracks. "Oh, man." The cramp passed and he turned, hoping to catch Walters
and Brinkman before they drove off. Two steps and another cramp doubled
him over.
"Reed! Where are you!" Wells' voice.
The next thing Jim knew, something hit him from behind. He stumbled forward,
feeling his toes catch on something, then he was falling forward. He expected
to hit concrete and put his hands out to brace himself, only to meet something
cold and wet. He'd swallowed what felt like a gallon of chlorinated water
before he realized he'd fallen into the complex pool. Great! Drowned
by my temporary partner. They'll be laughing about this for years!
Wells had watched in awe as the taller man stumbled, then keeled over into
the pool. It reminded him of the time he'd seen a sequoia cut down by one
determined lumberjack. When the younger man's head broke the surface of
the water, Wells broke into an uncontrolled fit of laughter. This
is the story to top all stories.
In spite of his laughter and the younger man's coughing and spluttering,
Wells knelt next to the pool and extended his arm. Even if he pulls me
in after him, it'll still make a great story.
Jim shook the water from his head. Still coughing up the water he'd inhaled,
he glared at the outstretched arm. "I . . ." Cough. ". . . can get out."
"Whatever you say." Wells chortled, not phased by Jim's glare.
Jim slowly made his way to the side of the pool and tiredly pulled himself
up the ladder. Just keep laughing, Wells. He sloshed past Wells
back toward the gate. He was next to the hedge when the chlorine hit the
Chinese food in his stomach. He almost didn't make it to the hedge.
Wells stopped laughing when Jim dropped to his knees and leaned into the
bushes around the pool. Whoa! What's wrong now? "Jim? Man, are
you okay?"
Oh, shit! Just go away! Jim's only concern was keeping the mess
off of his uniform. Going back into the station soaked to the bone was one
thing. Going back covered in puke was quite another. When his stomach had
finished emptying itself, the spasms stopped and he spat, wishing for something
to wash his mouth out.
"Yo! Jim!" Wells was kneeling a foot away from him.
"I'm okay, now." Jim's voice was hoarse. He pulled himself up using the
hedge for leverage. "Walters and Brinkman are bringing the suspect into
the station." I can't leave that here. He used his foot to push
mulch over most of the mess, hoping that would do the trick. Ignoring Wells,
he trudged toward the gate.
"Hey, what happened?" Wells asked as they stepped through the gate back
to the street.
"Just the run. I'm fine." Jim stopped, scanning the street. "Where's
the car?"
"The car?"
"Yeah, the car. Big black and white thing. Four tires. Red lights on
top." This is too much. Jim turned on Wells. "You know . . . the
fu . . . oh, forget it!" He stalked off.
"Oh, come on, Reed. I followed on foot. So?" Wells followed, practically
trotting to keep up with Jim's longer strides.
Jim stopped and turned on the officer. "You know what your problem is,
Wells?"
Wells took a step back. "No, Reed, what's my problem?"
"You're . . . " Jim paused. There were too many expletives he could choose
to describe Wells. "You're an asshole!" He shouted, then turned and stalked
off.
"You kiss your wife and kid with that mouth?" Wells called after him.
*****
10:10 p.m.
Pete walked out of the coffee room, surprised to see Wells alone at the
desk outside the Watch Commander's office, working on a report. He walked
over. "That your 211?"
Wells looked up, grinning broadly. "Yep. Walters and Brinkman brought
him in about 10 minutes ago."
Pete looked around. "Where's Reed?" Nobody called in any injuries.
Wells chortled, then bent his head and went back to the report.
I don't like that. "C'mon, Wells. Give it up. Where's Reed?"
Wells looked up. "Try the locker room." He snickered.
"What happened?" Pete took a deep breath. "He tear his uniform or something?"
"Well, I seem to be on his bad side." Wells' grin had grown broader. He
snickered. "I'd better let him tell you."
Without a word, Pete turned and headed for the locker room. He opened the
door and immediately spotted his partner, sitting on the bench with a towel
draped around his shoulders.
Now I know why Wells was grinning. Pete couldn't help but grin himself.
"What happened, partner? You go over another fence without looking on the
other side first?"
Jim looked up. "Oh, that's great." He stood and stripped off the sodden
belt. "Jokes from a guy who hasn't learned to duck, yet." He pulled the
uniform shirt open and two buttons flew across the locker room, pinging against
the weights. "If you'd just ducked last night, I wouldn't be in this mess."
He balled the shirt up and tossed it into the bottom of his locker. "He
drives like a maniac. He didn't even ask me if I was ready to go 7, let
alone asking where I wanted to eat. Then the idiot leaves the car at the
location and I have to walk all the way back. Like this!"
He's on a roll. Pete crossed his arms, his grin never fading.
So far, he's describing Typical Wells. He knew better than to open his
mouth, though.
Jim stripped off his undershirt, tossing it into the bottom of the locker.
"That isn't even the topper. The topper is him blundering into the
apartment complex where I chased the suspect and knocking me into
the pool."
"Why didn't you just get out of his way?" Pete asked mildly. "I know Ed
Wells. He's not that quick."
Jim glared. "I didn't see him." He grabbed a second towel from his locker
and furiously rubbed his torso and arms. "That's beside the point." He
tossed the towel aside and glared at Pete. "The real topper's gonna be me
going through the windshield when Wells tries to stop the car." He paused.
"Or Wells mowing down a PR and me filling out paperwork for the rest of
my life." He looked at Pete. Why the hell is he grinning? "You
think this is real funny, don't you? See if you're still laughing when I
slam that locker door on my head so I don't have to go back out with Officer
Half-Pint."
Pete opened his mouth, but the door of the locker room opening behind him
stopped his response.
"Come on, Reed, light a fire under it. We've gotta get back out on the
street." Wells must've heard Jim's tirade, because he didn't come into the
locker room.
"Oh, stick a sock in it, Wells!" Jim shouted, pulling a pair of dry pants
from the locker and slamming the door.
The response amused Wells, who laughed as he closed the locker room door.
Jim glared at the closed door.
This isn't so funny anymore.Jim riled up is SOP. This
isn't like Jim. Once he was sure Wells was gone, Pete turned to Jim.
"Sit down," he ordered.
"I gotta change my pants," Jim muttered.
"Yeah, in a minute." Pete waited as Jim considered the order.
Jim finally sat down. "What?"
"You're playing right into Wells' hands," Pete began. "You've gotta just
take a deep breath and let all this crap go." He paused. "Look at it this
way, Wells is testing you. He's probably hoping he'll get you riled up enough
to take a swing at him." Okay, so I might be stretching it a bit. But
Wells is testing him. Nobody's that annoying by accident.
"You think?"
Pete grinned. "Sure, you know how little guys like Wells can be. They
find the biggest guy they can and they decide they can take 'em down." He
paused. "You and I both know that wouldn't happen with you, but maybe Wells
thinks he can take you down."
Jim nodded. "And if I throw the first punch, it's my butt in the sling,
not his."
Pete chuckled. "See, you've figured him out." He grinned. "So . . . don't
let Officer Half-Pint get to you."
Jim stood. "That's easier said, than done."
"Come on, you've put up with me for how long?" Pete joked.
Jim laughed. "Yeah." He looked at the ball of fabric in his hands. "I
gotta go change my pants." He walked toward the stalls at the back. Halfway
there, he stopped and turned back to Pete. "Thanks, Pete."
Pete waved Jim off, then headed out of the locker room.
*****
11:15 p.m.
Pete's replacement on the desk had arrived on time, so he was back in his
civvies by the time Wells and Jim walked into the locker room. They'd spent
an extra 15 minutes on their shift filling out an incident report on their
last call, which was another 211. This time Jim had managed to stay dry.
Jim opened his locker and removed the belt he'd borrowed before going back
out on the street earlier that night.
"Glad to see you made it through in one piece," Pete commented mildly.
Jim chuckled. "Yeah, well, even Wells can't get into too much trouble in
30 minutes."
Brinkman walked over. "Why didn't you tell us you were sick after that
foot pursuit?" He grinned. "Oh, and better watch it. I heard one of the
tenants called pissed off about somebody puking in the bushes in front of
her door." He cackled, then walked away.
"Why me?" Jim breathed, leaning his forehead against the locker door.
Pete laughed. "What's Brinkman going on about?"
"I had to eat Chinese food for dinner. I went on a foot pursuit and I swallowed
about a gallon of chlorine when Wells knocked me into the damn pool." Jim
put his head down. "I got sick." He looked up at Pete. "I tried to cover
it up. You think somebody really called?"
Pete laughed. "What're they gonna get you for? Littering?"
"That's right. Laugh it up, Redbeard," Jim shot back. He was still holding
the locker door. Maybe I should slam my head in the locker. It'll
get me out of working the next shift.
Pete pulled the locker door out of Jim's hand. "It'll never work. You're
too hard headed."
Jim just stared back at Pete for a minute, then broke into a grin. "Yeah,
you're right." He cocked his head. "How about my hand?"
Pete laughed. "Get changed and let's get out of here. How about a cup
of coffee at Eddie's?" He grinned. "I'm buying. And I'll even pitch in
for a piece of pie, if you think your stomach can handle it."
"Why? What'd I do?" Jim asked suspiciously.
"Now, that's gratitude." Pete shook his head in mock disgust. All right,
he's had enough for one night. "Hey, it's the least I can do. Your
little swim and your delicate stomach made everybody forget about my patch."
"I haven't forgotten about it, Redbeard," Jim muttered. Then he smiled.
"Not tonight. I'm kind'a tired. How about a rain check?"
"You've got it." Without thinking, Pete winked the right eye under the
patch, then winced.
"Now, that was funny. Do it again." Jim grinned.
"I'm goin' home," Pete returned. "See ya at 3:30 tomorrow."
"Yeah. See ya." Jim turned back to his locker to change.
