and Lewis Avenue in a shithole neighborhood where Vice had an easy time snatching up whores and street-level drug dealers. The area, a mix of old, low-rent apartment buildings and decaying homes, was inhabited by a blend of races and ethnic backgrounds. Even a few Middle Easterners resided there. The blighted neighborhood adjoined the grounds of the University of Tulsa; expensive and private, it was nationally recognized as one of the premiere universities in the nation. Yet a couple of blocks away you could get curb service for a blowjob, crack cocaine, marijuana—whatever your particular vice might be.
Geographically, Tulsa’s land area was as large as San Francisco, Boston, Pittsburgh P.A., and Minneapolis—combined. If you placed all the city’s arterial streets and highways together end to end, they would stretch from New York City to Los Angeles, back to Tulsa again and beyond. The Tulsa Police Department employed roughly 800 sworn officers and was in desperate need of more. There was just no way to be proactive enough to make the city as safe as needed with the limited amount of personnel.
The current mayor represented the latest in a long line of trust babies. Every Tulsa mayor in recent history had been the son, daughter, wife, or husband of a multimillionaire. Not one had earned their fortune on their own. Just once, Thorpe would like to have a bona fide leader who hadn’t bought his or her office. Empty promises, especially in regard to public safety, grew tiresome. In just a few short months the current administration had decimated the department, systematically reducing its ranks. Meanwhile calls for service went unanswered for hours. Thorpe wasn’t sure who he disliked more, politicians or criminals.
Thorpe pulled into a parking lot and changed into a pair of woodland camouflage pants and an old Vietnam-era army field jacket he’d obtained from Goodwill. He put the boots into a beat-up backpack and slipped on a gray stocking cap and dark cotton gloves. Suitably attired for the area, he drove west on 11 th Street—part of historic Route 66. The small motels left over from the famous highway‘s heyday were now homes to harlots, drug dealers, and meth labs. Thorpe spotted a couple of working girls along the way.
As a police officer, Thorpe had encountered hundreds of prostitutes, but not one approximated Julia Roberts’ character in Pretty Woman . Most were missing teeth, had open sores, and smelled like unrefrigerated, ten-day-old tuna. Why men stepped out on their wives for these walking petri dishes he would never understand.
Thorpe turned north on Atlanta Avenue and passed yet another dish on the corner of 7 th Street. This girl was, in reality, a man. His name was Desmond Jones, and made for a fairly convincing transvestite; at least at night and in poor lighting. Giraffe-like, Mr. Jones walked the streets on long skinny legs. The sad thing: he was better looking than most of his female companions. Jones had been in a considerable amount of fisticuffs over the years as many of his customers became rather disconcerted when they reached down and discovered an outie while expecting an innie . As a result, Jones had become quite the scrapper. Two Vice guys once picked up Jones and negotiated a threesome. When they identified themselves as police officers and attempted to take Mister/Miss Jones into custody, the fight was on. Jones wore copious amounts of makeup to help disguise his true gender. He also sported two water-filled balloons to give the appearance of having ample breasts. The struggle started in the officer’s undercover car and literally spilled out into the street as both water balloons burst. The water mixed with Jones’ heavy makeup. When the officers finally got Jones into custody, all three looked like they’d been dunked in a cauldron of CoverGirl. The sight of the two officers booking Jones into the jail made a lot of police officers’ and inmates’ night. Funny shit .
Thorpe
Geographically, Tulsa’s land area was as large as San Francisco, Boston, Pittsburgh P.A., and Minneapolis—combined. If you placed all the city’s arterial streets and highways together end to end, they would stretch from New York City to Los Angeles, back to Tulsa again and beyond. The Tulsa Police Department employed roughly 800 sworn officers and was in desperate need of more. There was just no way to be proactive enough to make the city as safe as needed with the limited amount of personnel.
The current mayor represented the latest in a long line of trust babies. Every Tulsa mayor in recent history had been the son, daughter, wife, or husband of a multimillionaire. Not one had earned their fortune on their own. Just once, Thorpe would like to have a bona fide leader who hadn’t bought his or her office. Empty promises, especially in regard to public safety, grew tiresome. In just a few short months the current administration had decimated the department, systematically reducing its ranks. Meanwhile calls for service went unanswered for hours. Thorpe wasn’t sure who he disliked more, politicians or criminals.
Thorpe pulled into a parking lot and changed into a pair of woodland camouflage pants and an old Vietnam-era army field jacket he’d obtained from Goodwill. He put the boots into a beat-up backpack and slipped on a gray stocking cap and dark cotton gloves. Suitably attired for the area, he drove west on 11 th Street—part of historic Route 66. The small motels left over from the famous highway‘s heyday were now homes to harlots, drug dealers, and meth labs. Thorpe spotted a couple of working girls along the way.
As a police officer, Thorpe had encountered hundreds of prostitutes, but not one approximated Julia Roberts’ character in Pretty Woman . Most were missing teeth, had open sores, and smelled like unrefrigerated, ten-day-old tuna. Why men stepped out on their wives for these walking petri dishes he would never understand.
Thorpe turned north on Atlanta Avenue and passed yet another dish on the corner of 7 th Street. This girl was, in reality, a man. His name was Desmond Jones, and made for a fairly convincing transvestite; at least at night and in poor lighting. Giraffe-like, Mr. Jones walked the streets on long skinny legs. The sad thing: he was better looking than most of his female companions. Jones had been in a considerable amount of fisticuffs over the years as many of his customers became rather disconcerted when they reached down and discovered an outie while expecting an innie . As a result, Jones had become quite the scrapper. Two Vice guys once picked up Jones and negotiated a threesome. When they identified themselves as police officers and attempted to take Mister/Miss Jones into custody, the fight was on. Jones wore copious amounts of makeup to help disguise his true gender. He also sported two water-filled balloons to give the appearance of having ample breasts. The struggle started in the officer’s undercover car and literally spilled out into the street as both water balloons burst. The water mixed with Jones’ heavy makeup. When the officers finally got Jones into custody, all three looked like they’d been dunked in a cauldron of CoverGirl. The sight of the two officers booking Jones into the jail made a lot of police officers’ and inmates’ night. Funny shit .
Thorpe
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