The work in progress
Oct. 23rd, 2006 01:02 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
If there's a worse thing to see when you first wake up than a cop's badge, I never want to see it.
Don't get me wrong. I've got nothing against cops in general. My old man's a cop. Hell, I was a cop - for a while. I just hate Dallas cops. And even Dallas cops aren't all bad - there are one or two who are almost human if you meet them out of uniform. But dressed in blue, armed with steel, and busting in my office door? Then I hate their guts. And that's exactly what they were doing this afternoon.
Yeah, afternoon. I put in some late nights on the job - and off it. The night before, for instance, I'd been out putting a tail on a guy whose boss suspected him of using company money to kick the gong around. I got as far as Elm with him, saw what I needed to see, and thought it'd be a shame to head home without sampling the delights of the neighborhood. Which is how I ended up spending the next afternoon asleep in the office - asleep to avoid a hangover that roared at me any time I tried getting up and in the office to avoid a dame who roared at me any time I tried answering the phone at my place - until the cops broke in.
You might be thinking that's hyperbole, but believe me, there's no such thing as hyperbole when you're talking about Dallas cops. When I say they broke in - they broke in. I had the office door locked while I took my shut-eye, but neither rain nor sleet nor locked-up doors keep them from their self-appointed rounds. I guess they saw me in there through the frosted window, and decided to make their own key out of the soles of their boots. And so I woke up with a badge up my nose.
I ought to have made a speech about respect and warrants and the sanctity of a fellow's private office. Maybe I'm not the most eloquent guy in the world. What I did was jump about two feet off my chair and holler "What the hell?" at the guy on the other side of the badge.
"Mr. Dalton," said he (the only thing worse than a cop calling me "Jim" in that too-smooth ain't-we-buddies voice is a cop calling me "Mr. Dalton" in that too-smooth ain't-I-gonna-bust-your-ass voice), "where were you last night?"
"Hell if I know," I said, prying the top of my head off the ceiling and sticking it back on. "I haven't had my coffee yet. I couldn't tell you where I was ten minutes ago."
"Could you maybe manage to tell us," said the cop in that same old voice, "whether you recognize the gentleman in this photograph?"
I didn't even need to look to know that question meant trouble - but I did need to look to answer it. It was the kid I'd been following around the night before, but he looked a little different. Maybe it was that his hair was parted on the other side. Maybe it was that there was a hole in his head.
Well, there wasn't much in that, was there? I allowed that yes, I recognized the gentleman in the photograph. But the police are never satisfied with a single answer. You tell them one thing, they want you to tell them six more. You've probably read about private eyes who refuse to talk about a case in order to protect their clients - but I'm not one of those. I refused to talk about it because I'm a stubborn cuss and these cops had rubbed me the wrong way. I clammed up tighter than a Scotsman's wallet and told them they could come back when they had a warrant and I had a lawyer. And I took the talky one's badge number down, to send him the bill for rekeying my door. Then I put my feet back up on my desk and shut my eyes again.
-----
I should've known better than to expect to finish my beauty rest after a wake-up call like that. I'd barely gotten comfortable again when the phone rang. I told it to be quiet, but it didn't listen. Ignoring it and hoping it would go away didn't work, either. Finally I picked it up and barked into it. "What is it now?"
The voice that came out belonged to that cop I mentioned earlier - the one who's almost human. You thought I made him up, didn't you? But Lt. Grey's a decent guy - probably because he's not a local. He's from back in the Piney Woods, like me. If a cop absolutely had to call me up, I'd rather it was him than the bozo who'd busted my door.
"Jim," he said.
"Dan," I replied. There, we'd proven that we knew each other's names.
"Jim," he repeated, I guess in case I'd missed it, or maybe forgotten who I was, "why do you insist on mucking up our murder investigations?'
"Mucking? Hell," I said. If it was anybody except Dan Grey I'd've started getting sore. "When did insisting you bums follow the laws you're supposed to enforce start counting as mucking? You'll know when I start to muck with your investigations, sir, count on that."
"Jim," he said for a third time, and so I said "Dan" right back at him. It was cute. He should've laughed but he didn't, so either my sense of humor was off or he was pretty serious about this investigation of his. Maybe both. I let him talk.
"If I let you in on this, you'll go along with us, won't you? I don't ought to give you anything out of police business, you know, but I need your cooperation and I know you too well to expect it unless I give you a good reason."
I told him that he knew me pretty well, then, and we made plans to meet later in the evening. As soon as I hung up, the phone rang again. "What now?"
It was that doll I was avoiding. I told her she had the wrong number and pulled the cord out of the wall.
A few hours later I was almost human myself and felt like maybe I could chance letting the sun hit my eyes.
Dan and I met back in college, the difference between us being that he left with a diploma - and you can tell. I wouldn't say he puts on airs, but once in a while he gets pretty breezy. So the place he said to meet him at was the kind of place that would expect me to have on a jacket. Lucky for him I owned one. I pulled it on and headed uptown.
[In the course of their conversation, Dan says "whom."]
I grinned at him and whistled through my teeth. "I heard rumors about that word, but I never thought I'd live to see one out in the wild. Who the hell let you and that sheepskin of yours join the force, anyway? I wouldn't've thought they'd want you around raising the tone of the place - might make 'em look legitimate and scare off the graft."
"I'm the white sheep of the family," he said straight-faced.
(this is as far as I've gotten so far)
Don't get me wrong. I've got nothing against cops in general. My old man's a cop. Hell, I was a cop - for a while. I just hate Dallas cops. And even Dallas cops aren't all bad - there are one or two who are almost human if you meet them out of uniform. But dressed in blue, armed with steel, and busting in my office door? Then I hate their guts. And that's exactly what they were doing this afternoon.
Yeah, afternoon. I put in some late nights on the job - and off it. The night before, for instance, I'd been out putting a tail on a guy whose boss suspected him of using company money to kick the gong around. I got as far as Elm with him, saw what I needed to see, and thought it'd be a shame to head home without sampling the delights of the neighborhood. Which is how I ended up spending the next afternoon asleep in the office - asleep to avoid a hangover that roared at me any time I tried getting up and in the office to avoid a dame who roared at me any time I tried answering the phone at my place - until the cops broke in.
You might be thinking that's hyperbole, but believe me, there's no such thing as hyperbole when you're talking about Dallas cops. When I say they broke in - they broke in. I had the office door locked while I took my shut-eye, but neither rain nor sleet nor locked-up doors keep them from their self-appointed rounds. I guess they saw me in there through the frosted window, and decided to make their own key out of the soles of their boots. And so I woke up with a badge up my nose.
I ought to have made a speech about respect and warrants and the sanctity of a fellow's private office. Maybe I'm not the most eloquent guy in the world. What I did was jump about two feet off my chair and holler "What the hell?" at the guy on the other side of the badge.
"Mr. Dalton," said he (the only thing worse than a cop calling me "Jim" in that too-smooth ain't-we-buddies voice is a cop calling me "Mr. Dalton" in that too-smooth ain't-I-gonna-bust-your-ass voice), "where were you last night?"
"Hell if I know," I said, prying the top of my head off the ceiling and sticking it back on. "I haven't had my coffee yet. I couldn't tell you where I was ten minutes ago."
"Could you maybe manage to tell us," said the cop in that same old voice, "whether you recognize the gentleman in this photograph?"
I didn't even need to look to know that question meant trouble - but I did need to look to answer it. It was the kid I'd been following around the night before, but he looked a little different. Maybe it was that his hair was parted on the other side. Maybe it was that there was a hole in his head.
Well, there wasn't much in that, was there? I allowed that yes, I recognized the gentleman in the photograph. But the police are never satisfied with a single answer. You tell them one thing, they want you to tell them six more. You've probably read about private eyes who refuse to talk about a case in order to protect their clients - but I'm not one of those. I refused to talk about it because I'm a stubborn cuss and these cops had rubbed me the wrong way. I clammed up tighter than a Scotsman's wallet and told them they could come back when they had a warrant and I had a lawyer. And I took the talky one's badge number down, to send him the bill for rekeying my door. Then I put my feet back up on my desk and shut my eyes again.
-----
I should've known better than to expect to finish my beauty rest after a wake-up call like that. I'd barely gotten comfortable again when the phone rang. I told it to be quiet, but it didn't listen. Ignoring it and hoping it would go away didn't work, either. Finally I picked it up and barked into it. "What is it now?"
The voice that came out belonged to that cop I mentioned earlier - the one who's almost human. You thought I made him up, didn't you? But Lt. Grey's a decent guy - probably because he's not a local. He's from back in the Piney Woods, like me. If a cop absolutely had to call me up, I'd rather it was him than the bozo who'd busted my door.
"Jim," he said.
"Dan," I replied. There, we'd proven that we knew each other's names.
"Jim," he repeated, I guess in case I'd missed it, or maybe forgotten who I was, "why do you insist on mucking up our murder investigations?'
"Mucking? Hell," I said. If it was anybody except Dan Grey I'd've started getting sore. "When did insisting you bums follow the laws you're supposed to enforce start counting as mucking? You'll know when I start to muck with your investigations, sir, count on that."
"Jim," he said for a third time, and so I said "Dan" right back at him. It was cute. He should've laughed but he didn't, so either my sense of humor was off or he was pretty serious about this investigation of his. Maybe both. I let him talk.
"If I let you in on this, you'll go along with us, won't you? I don't ought to give you anything out of police business, you know, but I need your cooperation and I know you too well to expect it unless I give you a good reason."
I told him that he knew me pretty well, then, and we made plans to meet later in the evening. As soon as I hung up, the phone rang again. "What now?"
It was that doll I was avoiding. I told her she had the wrong number and pulled the cord out of the wall.
A few hours later I was almost human myself and felt like maybe I could chance letting the sun hit my eyes.
Dan and I met back in college, the difference between us being that he left with a diploma - and you can tell. I wouldn't say he puts on airs, but once in a while he gets pretty breezy. So the place he said to meet him at was the kind of place that would expect me to have on a jacket. Lucky for him I owned one. I pulled it on and headed uptown.
[In the course of their conversation, Dan says "whom."]
I grinned at him and whistled through my teeth. "I heard rumors about that word, but I never thought I'd live to see one out in the wild. Who the hell let you and that sheepskin of yours join the force, anyway? I wouldn't've thought they'd want you around raising the tone of the place - might make 'em look legitimate and scare off the graft."
"I'm the white sheep of the family," he said straight-faced.
(this is as far as I've gotten so far)
no subject
Date: 2006-10-23 07:45 pm (UTC)