The Second Girl(77)

“You might wanna go hang somewhere else for a little bit. I think I got some courage now.”





Sixty-nine



I zip up my jacket and walk south on 16th, then cross so I can come up to them from behind. When I get to the area where Angelo used to park his car, I scan the gutter along the parked cars, but I don’t see the kind of trash I’m looking for.

At the bus stop I turn and walk into the tree-lined area surrounding the statue.

I get closer and the two Latinos see me, but don’t seem to mind.

I flash my badge and say, “Roll on outta here.”

They obey without hesitation. Cookie starts to slowly walk away in the opposite direction. He could run, but I’d catch him in no time.

When the two Latino boys cross Park to the other corner, they look back to see what I’m doing. I motion for them to keep moving. They continue north on 16th.

I return to Cookie, who’s about to hit the sidewalk on 16th and make his way south. I get behind him.

“Hold on there, Cookie.”

He turns sideways and looks like he’s about to bolt.

“You make me run and I’ll f*ck you up.”

“I ain’t done nothin’,” he tells me.

I grab a bit of his jacket behind his shoulder.

“What the f*ck I do?”

He tries to struggle free, but with hardly any force.

“Keep your hands where I can see them and move on back here.”

I escort him back to the statue of the sitting man, and I push him face-first against the large granite base. “James Cardinal Gibbons” is etched on the pink granite. I can’t help but look up for a second. The seated figure’s right hand is extending out and lifted just above my head as if trying to bless me.

The crackhead smells. It’s the kinda smell that sticks to your clothing. Something I don’t like taking home with me.

“C’mon, now, Officer Friendly, what’s your cause?”

“I don’t need probable cause, dopey.”

I pat his waist area.

“You got anything that’s gonna poke me?” I ask him.

“Naw, man, I don’t do that shit.”

I search his pockets and pull out a couple of small green empty dime-bag zips and a cell phone. I drop the empty zips on the ground and pocket his cell.

“Aw shit, c’mon now,” he says.

When I reach into the pocket of his jacket I pull out a nice-size baggie that contains a shitload of the same small zips—dimes and twenties.

“This has gotta be more than a sixty here. Damn, that’ll get you some good time.”

“Fuck, you have no cause to reach in my pockets like that.”

I ignore him, slip the large baggie in my side coat pocket, and continue my search. I find another baggie that contains several more zips, but these are blue and stuffed with nice powder. It looks like it’s about an eight ball’s worth of coke. I stick it in the pocket with the crack.

I keep Cookie pushed against the monument with my left hand and reach around to my backside with my right to grab my cuffs.

He struggles when I start to handcuff him, but I twist his wrist so he yelps and changes his mind quick.

“Fuck,” he says.

I start marching him to the car, using caution as we walk across 16th. These drivers don’t pay attention. We get some stares from the pedestrians, but there’s nothing so unusual about someone who looks like me walking a handcuffed man like Cookie, so no worries there. Unless some cop decides to drive by. Then I’ll worry.

That doesn’t happen. Instead I get him quickly to the car, the passenger’s side.

“What in the…?” he spits out. “What kind of car is this?”

“It’s an undercover car, dope.”

I open the door and help him sit and then, trying to maintain a bit of distance, mostly because of his filth, I buckle him in.

I pop the trunk and grab my pack and hop in the front seat. I set the pack down on the floor behind Cookie and start the car.

“What kind of setup is this shit here? Let me see that badge again.”

“I’m not gonna show you shit, Cookie.”

“And how the f*ck you know me like that?”

“I’m not here to answer your questions either, so you’d better just sit tight and shut the f*ck up unless I ask you something.”

He looks at me with an amazed, openmouthed kinda look, but without fear, just really bad teeth.

I park the car in the lot between the two trailers where I met up with Tamie. Cookie’s been surprisingly quiet. I take him for someone who’s been in rougher situations than this. I’m sure he knows if I was gonna beat the f*ck outta him, or even kill him, I would have taken him somewhere else.

I keep the car running.

Hard to tell how old some of these guys are. He’s probably in his thirties. His clothing stinks, but it’s not the kind of clothing a homeless person would wear, just something he doesn’t wash regularly. I can’t tell, but under the black skullcap it looks like he’s got an old-school barber cut.

“So here’s where we stand, Cookie.”

“These cuffs are kinda tight. You can loosen them up a bit?”

“Shut the f*ck up.”

I pull out the baggie with the crack and drop it in his lap. His big eyes immediately gravitate toward it.