top. I’d never thought fat guys looked good with a haircut like that, but the bulging arms and thick neck…it looked fine on him.
A brutish, blond female cop kept glancing over at me as she talked to an equally brutish cop of the opposite sex. She was trying to come off like a guy, one of the boys. I wondered if she realized how silly she looked trying to act like a man. Then another lady officer - same haircut, darker hair…maybe they had a thing going with the desk officer - joined her, handed her a Styrofoam cup of steaming coffee. A cop’s always got something in their hand; donut, coffee, billy club.
Hey, I used to be a cop, so I figure I’m allowed to joke about it.
More cops came into the squad room. All of them kept glancing at me. Was it my winning frown? My brown eyes in a constant squint because I won’t wear glasses? Maybe the long shaggy black hair? Well, the hair’s really brown, but so dark it looks black.
A man stepped into the room from a back hallway door. He wore olive-green slacks, white shirt with green stripes, a tweed jacket with a lot of green and black. His black shoes were as shiny as any of the uniformed officers’.
He came right at me. Not hard to figure out I wasn’t a cop.
He stuck out his hand. I took it.
“Mr. Klick?” he asked. His hair was mostly gray with a little spray of original brown here and there. His mustache was just the opposite. “How can I help you? Captain Shinn asked that I give you what I can?”
Bobby Shinn was an old friend that went way back. Just a step or two away from making Chief…as if the Fort Worth elders would ever hire a local! Shinn really believed he had a chance at it. The fact that he knew everyone in the city, and the good and bad of their lives, probably did give him a decent shot.
“Yessir. You worked a case a couple years back, family assault. McGillicutty?”
He had turned and walked back the way he’d entered, and I’d followed. We talked as we walked through a maze to the ‘dicks’ cubicles.
He didn’t say anything until we came to the interrogation rooms. He pointed at an empty room, and I went inside, sat and waited. A couple of minutes later he came in and shut the door behind him. He sat and gave me that cop look. Outside I’d seen a passle of natty detectives chattering like housewives (after pausing to give me the once-over). As they talked they were just like you and me, ordinary. Except for the eyes. Lifeless.
The ‘cop-look’ is just an extension of the flat stare of the eyes. The whole face becomes a mask of indifference, all-knowing, unbelieving, unfeeling. Never play poker with a police detective if he’s the only dick at the table. You can’t bluff them.
Douglass handed me a folder. I leafed through it, a couple of police reports, some typed notes, and the results of a polygraph test.
“I remember Ms. McGillicutty. Right off the bat I took her for a con artist. Pretty close. But, she’d claimed her husband had assaulted her. Kind of thing we look into pretty good. Claimed to have a witness. But, she waited a whole month to file the report. No signs of any physical abuse by then. That’s usually the only reason we get into a case, if there’s any trauma physically.”
He paused. I glanced at him from time-to-time as I read the guts of the folder.
“She was insistent. Loud. So, I checked it out. Her witness’s story didn’t match. I tracked down a few people that had been at the location of the incident - a day-care center - and they didn’t have the same story, either. In fact, just about the opposite of what she claimed.
“But then Mr. McGillicutty comes in on his own. Volunteers for a polygraph test. I told him not to worry, so far his wife’s claim wasn’t panning out. But he was insistent too, only much quieter. Desperate, though. So we wired him up, asked some questions. He had a list of his own questions, unrelated to the incident, but we went ahead and tossed them at him out of order.”
When he stopped I looked up at him. He almost smiled, but his facade held up.
“He passed every question.”
“So,” I asked, ” you don’t think he’s dangerous, or violent.”
“No,” he said. Then did smile. “Just a poor sap that got taken. She divorced him afterwards. From what I understand she set him up pretty good. By the time he realized what was happening, she’d picked him clean in court.” The smile vanished. “Couldn’t use the polygraph, of course. That would’ve helped him. Damn law sucks, don’t it.”
I looked at him, slid the folder across the table. “Yeah, I used to be a cop. Know exactly what you mean.”
“Yeah, Shinn vouched for you, but of course I’d heard of you. You’re sort of talked about at the academy.”
My chest puffed up with pride. Quickly deflated, though.
Douglass said, “Yeah, you come up during driving training. You’re the only cop to wreck three cars in three weeks. Sort of a legend.” His smile now was one of arrogance. Cop rubbing an ex-cop’s face in it, the fact he was an ‘ex-‘. “An example of what not to do if you want to keep your job.”
I stood, moved to the door. I turned to him. “Yeah, but you know what?”
“What?”
“At least I don’t have to wear a jacket like that every day.”
He squinted at me as I walked away. Another burned bridge. Oh well.
FRANKIE
“Hey, Frankie!”
My brother’s big head swiveled towards me, eyes glaring. I was the only person left in the world calling him ‘Frankie’. From the look of his mean blue eyes, I guessed there was a little resentment there.
“Give it a rest, would ya’?” he said.
A black customer, a lithesome good-smiling lady, smiled at me. “Frankie?”
“Yeah, that’s what we all used to call him growing up.”
“When we was runts. And guess what, I ain’t a runt no more,” he said. Then, to the customer, he said, “Ignore him. He only comes around here when he needs something.”
“And calls you a name you doesn’t like being called?” the lady said.
“He ain’t never been too bright,” Frankie said, smiling. Flirting? That’s why he comes over here, wantin’ me to take care of him.”
There was nothing to say. Frankie was right.
“Well, I’s got to run, ‘Frank’. See you later,” the cute gal said as she walked sasshayed out the door.
“What is it now, Clyde?”
I set some cash down on his counter to lube him up. Instead, I just got a suspicious look.
“What’s this?” he asked.
“The last of the money I owe for the paint job on the Charger,” I told him.
It was already in his hand. He counted twice, looked at me, then held each hundred up tot he light to check it. Then he picked up a pen and slashed a mark across the bills. If it leaves a black mark, it’s phony. No black marks.
“Okay, now what do you want?”
“Hey, is that any way for a loving brother to talk?” I asked him.
“Yeah yeah. Like I said, what do you want?”
“I’ve got a surveying job. You know, keeping an eye on someone for a customer. Wondered if you had a van I could use. Cheap.”
“Sure, but I want copies of any dirty pictures,” he said.
“What, need a little help motivating yourself in the sack?” I asked, smiling.
“No, more like showing them to customers