Third Striker

"If you want to stop, I'll stop." My rookie ride along had been dropping hints like my three year old for the last half hour about being hungry.
"We can if you want to but I really don't have much money."
"Son, be a police officer. Stand up, show em your badge, and remind them who is out there serving and protecting fine restaurants like Juan’s eatery."

Of course, I probably should have given the rookie a chance instead of taking him to a place where most of the guys have long ago worked out a fair exchange.
"Four fourteen," are the numbers that ring up on the register and out of Mario’s mouth. Mario is one of the more useful workers Juan has working here. And he didn’t even need to use the calculator on the counter to figure out the conversion of there fifty percent off discount.
"Son, do you not see this badge here with my name on it. Billingsly. And this uniform I'm wearing isn't for a Halloween party." The rookie knows how to work his best David Caruso convincing someone of the “truth”.
"Right?"
"And son?" the rookie looks at me. I turn my attention to a table of friendly blonds in the corner. I want to see how the situation unfolds.
“Four fourteen, how did you come up with that number?”
“Fifty percent off what you ordered. Nick, you didn’t give him the heads up when he came in?”
I give the girls a wink and turn back to the situation.
“What?” I play the dumb card. Seems this is enough for the rookie or he knows he has my attention and wants to show how he handles a situation. Either way, the rookie unsnaps his holster. "And I carry one of these." His fingers begin to latch onto the handle like Billy the Kid getting ready for an encounter.
"Jesus son," I put my hand over his. It takes a few seconds, but the rookie snaps out of TV show mode and back to reality.
“Sorry, I just thought that a little show of force might be necessary."
"For your dinner?" I’m instantly aroused by the new opportunity to teach a life lesson but Debbie at dispatch throws cold water on the proceedings, "Go for Adam 52." I wander over towards the door to hear the bad news better.
"What is your location Adam 52? We have a burglary in progress. Or a suicide. Not sure. Neighbors called it in. Franklin and Audelia.”
"We are right around the corner. Be in route momentarily dispatch. Copy."
Upon returning to the counter, I find the rookie hunched over counting a stack of nickels and dimes. Mostly pennies. Looking at Mario lets me know that at some point, the rookie had informed him that this would be how he is paying for his dinner this evening.
“Put it away,” I tap the rookie on the shoulder, “we got a call.”
The rookie turns to me, blue puppy dog eyes on display, “we can wait until the food’s ready right?”
“How long?” I ask rookie as if he will be cooking the food himself.
“Not long, right Mario?” The rookie looks to Mario for assistance only now realizing he was mistaken on the friendliness of their relationship.
“Long time. Probably twenty minutes. Maybe thirty.”
“For a burger and fries?”
“Wait,” I interject, “I didn’t know you guys made burgers.”
Mario leans over the counter and points to the bottom right corner of the menu mounted behind him. “Kids menu.”
I wish I could say the announcement of this information would give the kid a little perspective on his dinner choices but he just kept right on staring at me, hoping I will be his food savior.
“Suck it up Billingsly, collect your little stacks of metal, and let’s go.” I check my watch on the way out the door, “I’m pulling out in ninety seconds.” Before the door slams shut, I hear a clattering of change on the linoleum.

“How many times have I seen you this month?” I somehow doubt the subject in question for the burglary, Donnie Walsh, can do that kind of math but certainly not while dangling from a window.
“Three.”
“A miracle. That’s right. A little incident here, a mishap here and I have to drive my car over and find you and inevitably you are going to have some kind of story,”
“Nick man, you got to help me.” The panic in Donnie’s voice was palatable.
“Donnie, you’re hanging out a second story window. The ground can’t be more than eight feet below where your Converse are.”
“I’m scared of heights and dogs,” and in sync with the shout out, the families dog lets out a few barks. Donnie panics, and lets go off the ledge, screaming like a ten year old with a broken collar bone caused by a mishap on one of dad’s “do not touch” items. “My finger.”
“Don’t be such a baby,” I grab Donnie by the arm to pull him to his feet. He fights, insisting that he is excruciating pain from the missing digit on his left finger. “Your finger.”
“Yea man,” Donnie sucks in some air, lips quivering, eyes gushing. “That’s what I told you.”
“Well shit Donnie, that’s no good.”
“You got to get up there and get my finger back and get me to a hospital.”
“Your finger? Shit, that dog’s already jostled that thing around like a tennis ball for a few seconds then gnawed it to the bone. Nine will be your new digit count. No question.”
“Don’t say that,” Donnie’s desperation is beginning to really shine through.
“Look, you lost your finger. That’s the way it is going to be so let’s move on. See where we can go from here.” I wave the rookie over, knowing this is going to be a two-man job. “Do you remember the last time we spoke? The last time I reminded you that you had two and a half strikes and if I had to be called out on you again cause you are doing some dumb shit cause you let the house when you were high.”
“Nah man, I mean yea I remember, but I aint doing any drugs.”
“Your telling me that you thought of this half brained scheme sitting on the couch, straight and sober? That nothing led to you trying to climb through these peoples window while they are away?”
“I came in through the door. I had to climb out the window when that FUCKING DOG came tearing after me.” Donnie realized that venting his frustrations had backed him into a truth corner he couldn’t possibly get himself out of.
“Ooh, that’s too bad then Donnie,” the rookie wanders up, pockets jingling. “We have a breaking an entering suspect here that was two strikes previous to us arriving on scene.” The rookie gives Donnie a wink letting him know we got a keeper, “however, this gentleman has lost a finger in the proceedings to the families pet which probably is in need of medical attention. What time is it Billingsly?”
“11:30.”
“And what time do we get off Billingsly?”
“Midnight.”
I hope rookie sees where I’m going. “And Billingsly, do you know what kind of paperwork is involved in a transport to a hospital of a suspect and then transferring him into the system?” Billingsly goes quiet. He has not had the experience of filling out paperwork involving a trip to the emergency room. “A long time. But if we just went our separate ways, no paperwork would have to be filled out and one nine fingered man would have a new lease on life to not fuck away.”
“That’s not right Nick. If I go up there, missing a finger or not, its still going to take me ten hours to get seen. If you drop me off, it’s much less. I can get my own ride home.”
“But if we are seen with you at the emergency room and you are missing a finger, we don’t get plead the fifth and wander away.” Donnie looks puzzled. “They would ask questions, we would have to answer. Paperwork follows questions.” Donnie gets it. “So I’m happy to take you to the hospital, get you first class help, and then see you off to prison for your third strike and lose your freedom or your finger could be all you lose. Your choice.”
Donnie hesitates. His face still shows the pain from the origin of the gushes of blood. “Billingsly, now is the time to show your aspects of police duty that you know.” Billingsly unlatches his gun holster. I begin to back away.
“I haven’t eaten in two days. Can you at least get me a cheeseburger or something before you leave my ass out here to bleed out?”
I toss Donnie a dirty towel from the floorboard of the cruiser; “you wont bleed to death out of your finger.” Donnie is slow to stand but I give him a push into the back seat and he stumbles right on in. “Don’t bleed on the seat.” I shut Donnie in. The rookie is all smiles. He gets to try again to eat.

"You're back already?" Mario leans over the counter, watching the door behind me. "I don’t hear your partner jingling behind you.”
"He'll be in your drive thru momentarily."
"Shit."
I approach the counter. Hand over a twenty. "Let him count out his change then tell him you decided to give it to him for free this time."
Mario’s demeanor softens. "Thanks Nick. You want me to give him your change when I'm done fucking with him?"
"It’s all yours."
"Appreciate it."
A small price to pay to avoid having my food spit in if mistaken for the rookies. Though, with the food here some times, any kind of extra ingredient would be beneficial. Being in the car most days, a restaurant can offer more than just food and free drinks. A clean bathroom can bring as much traveler traffic as decent food. I’m pretty sure Julio trades a homeless man a place to wash up and some food any time he comes and makes the bathroom shine. Why should I check if Julio has a W-2 on the guy?
Today, however, the smell of the bathroom lets me know the homeless man has moved on anyhow. Even in a public bathroom, it seems a reasonable request for people to flush the toilet when they are done. Handles can be pulled with hands or with a flick of the foot. No germs have to be spread. What’s infinitely more germ spreading is leaving a pile of shit twisted into a glob on the bottom of the toilet which could be washed away by the magic of the flushing toilet. My nose tells me that my bladder is fine to hold my piss until we get back to the station.

The rookie has pulled the squad car into the worst possible position in the parking lot to see any surroundings. And he remains the drive seat. Looking ready to take the car around the track a few laps.
“You lost?” The rookie looks at me through the window, looking bewildered. He finally rolls down the window. “Get the fuck out of my seat dummy.”
“Oh sorry,” he tells me then tries to scurry over the center console, through the computer, and into the passenger seat like a child climbing out of their fathers lap after their first attempt at driving. I open the door, and yank him out of the car. “Walk around.”
As I wait for Billingsly to get himself untangled and back out of the car, I watch a little black kid racing through the parking lot inside. I bet he’s done some running from us in his day. That’s too fast to be speed not induced by fear. My legs crumple together as a I try to climb in. “You couldn’t just leave the seat where it was to pull through the drive thru?”
“Your body is much longer than mine.”
I jiggle the handle until the seat releases and rockets backwards, jamming up against the back seat. The sudden halt sloshes my bladder around. My need to pee has reached critical levels. “I’ll be back.”

I keep my walk slow but methodical avoiding anything that might jostle my insides. I’m quite sure that even the slightest nudge might send a river down my leg. The dining room is desolate. “Mario, has there been any girls in here in the last little while?” I peek around to the front counter to see why no one answers my question but seems everyone has gone on a smoke break at the same time. The smell from the men’s side has begun to funnel its way down the hall so I go for broke and bang on the women’s door.
“Police officer, is there anyone in there?” No response. Even still, if I open this door and someone is inside, no amount of explanation could suffice as to why a police officer was playing peeping Tom. That reason alone would normally give me pause but walking around for the rest of the night smelling like piss doesn’t seem like an alternative.

Even if I wanted to be speedy about pissing in the girl’s room, I couldn’t manage with my work belt bogging me down like a cement block on a rats leg. If I have to stay at this job much longer, I might have to develop an in uniform catheter to avoid any messes I might have while removing my uniform to piss. Holding my gun belt in my left hand, cock in the right, I spread out my hips as wide as they will go to avoid my pants falling all the way to the floor and let it go. And what a great feeling it is.
Pop. Pop. Pop.
Why did they make car backfires the same noise as a gunshot? I never can tell the difference.

Once my uniform is reapplied and I open the door of Julio’s, I’m able to see this was no Buick backfiring. Two young black men yank at the back door trying to get my suspect out of the car. The door finally pops open and Danny tumbles out onto the concrete.
“Police, what the fuck are you two doing?” One of the teens notices me as I announce my presence and sends off a shot to let me know he cares. I draw my gun and fire back. If nothing else, the shot spooks the boys. They jump across the street and jump the fence into an apartment complex. I reholster my pistol and rush to the scene. I realize immediately why the kids left my suspect behind. He was dead before they pulled him out of the backseat; caught in their crossfire. I come around the squad car from behind to avoid the camera tracking my movements before I’m sure what to do. I open the passenger door. Billingsly tumbles out much the same way Donnie did. I check his pulse and find they are now both in the same way. Dead.
“Shots fired, shots fired at Julio’s on Pico and Audelia. Officer down.”
I sit walk back to the driver’s side, behind the car again, and begin to takes notes. I’m sure that one of the kids ran like the punk I saw running inside when I walked to the car the first time. From what I could tell, neither could have been beyond their teenage years. My stomach growls as I take notes. I dig in the brown bag for my burger, leave the fries marinating in Billingsly’s blood. It’s going to be a long night of questions that will lead to a longer night of paperwork and I’m going to need to have my strength up. Probably should eat whatever rookie ordered too. I’ll need the extra fuel.