Read Online Crystal Meth Cowboys by John Knoerle - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: John Knoerle
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trying to find the precise designation for their most recent call.
Bell and Lyedecker had gotten Wilhemina Fredericks up on her feet before the police van arrived. Bell sent Wes up the sagging wooden staircase to fetch Wilhemina some clothes from her apartment. He had been surprised to find a teenage girl reclining on the couch watching television.
Wes turned to his partner. "What's the call code for a beserk naked woman screaming obscenities in a carport?"
Bell smiled. He was playing with a miller moth, ushering him up his pants crease with a protective index finger. "Just put '2601, general disturbance'. I put that down for everything and nobody's flagged it yet."
Wes continued flipping through the book, ignoring Bell's suggestion. All his reports were going to have to be letter perfect from now on. The Chief could fire him without explanation at any time during probation. '0374 - Assault with a Deadly Weapon, hands, feet, etc.', '2312 - Civil Problem - Keep the Peace', read the call codes. The woman was obviously high on drugs but, since they hadn't found any contraband or paraphenalia, Wes settled on '2611 - Disturbance, Mental'.
A light dust of rain blew across the windshield. Wes turned his back to the open window to protect his paperwork. Bell studied the dark serpentine outline of Highway 9. The moth beat its wings against the crookneck lamp.
"You best be glad she didn't seize up," said Bell over the cacophony of chirping. "Cause if you had to give her mouth-to-mouth you'd've been in line for some serious F-B-B."
Wes continued filling out his MS card. He was not currently interested in deciphering another of Bell's obscure acronyms. Bell turned to Wes and jabbed his upper arm with a forefinger, "That's Fat Broad Blowback."
Wes tried a smile that came out a grimace. Like a tongue to a jagged tooth his mind kept going back to the problem. He finished the MS card and handed it to Bell.
"Am I going to get fired out of this?"
Bell sat up and and placed his hand on the ignition switch. He was locked onto a pair of far off headlights speeding up the highway. Wes watched the headlights stab through the swirling mist and star the pinpricks of rain on the windshield. Bell took his hand off the car keys and slumped back down.
"It's a Ford," he groused. "God, I hate Fords. I hate Fords worse than anything." Bell drummed the dashboard in a marching cadence. "Except the French."
They watched a Ford Galaxie shush down Playa Road, throwing spray out its wheel wells. The Academy taught that persistence was the key to a successful interrogation so Wes rephrased his original question as precisely as he could. "Sir, in your opinion, am I going to be terminated as a result of my being involved in an officer involved shooting in my first week of probation?"
Bell scanned the black world beyond the windshield. Wes felt the misty rain seeping through his shirt sleeve. He cranked up his window halfway. The reading lamp shone down on the transmission hump, throwing spectral shadows on Bell's profile, making him look like Ichabod Crane.
"Naw. Prolly not," said Bell. "I mean Shitamoko would've loved it if you'd rolled on me. But he didn't really expect you to."
Bell swept another glance through the windshield as a pickup truck with one tail light sailed down Highway 9. Bell shook his head and cranked the starter. "He's not comin' tonight," he said.
The tires spun on the moist mud, then bit, and the Crown Victoria scuttled down the ag road. "I think you're safe for now," said Bell, his eyes on the road. "Besides, good rookies are hard to find." The LTD crawled up and over the shoulder, swung left on Playa Road and headed east.
The rain splashed down suddenly, fat drops smacking the windshield. Bell twisted the stem control and sent the wiper blades clacking. Rain drummed the acres of plastic sheets incubating the strawberry fields on both sides of the road. A Peterbilt hauling two empty hoppers rattled by, washing water through the
Bell and Lyedecker had gotten Wilhemina Fredericks up on her feet before the police van arrived. Bell sent Wes up the sagging wooden staircase to fetch Wilhemina some clothes from her apartment. He had been surprised to find a teenage girl reclining on the couch watching television.
Wes turned to his partner. "What's the call code for a beserk naked woman screaming obscenities in a carport?"
Bell smiled. He was playing with a miller moth, ushering him up his pants crease with a protective index finger. "Just put '2601, general disturbance'. I put that down for everything and nobody's flagged it yet."
Wes continued flipping through the book, ignoring Bell's suggestion. All his reports were going to have to be letter perfect from now on. The Chief could fire him without explanation at any time during probation. '0374 - Assault with a Deadly Weapon, hands, feet, etc.', '2312 - Civil Problem - Keep the Peace', read the call codes. The woman was obviously high on drugs but, since they hadn't found any contraband or paraphenalia, Wes settled on '2611 - Disturbance, Mental'.
A light dust of rain blew across the windshield. Wes turned his back to the open window to protect his paperwork. Bell studied the dark serpentine outline of Highway 9. The moth beat its wings against the crookneck lamp.
"You best be glad she didn't seize up," said Bell over the cacophony of chirping. "Cause if you had to give her mouth-to-mouth you'd've been in line for some serious F-B-B."
Wes continued filling out his MS card. He was not currently interested in deciphering another of Bell's obscure acronyms. Bell turned to Wes and jabbed his upper arm with a forefinger, "That's Fat Broad Blowback."
Wes tried a smile that came out a grimace. Like a tongue to a jagged tooth his mind kept going back to the problem. He finished the MS card and handed it to Bell.
"Am I going to get fired out of this?"
Bell sat up and and placed his hand on the ignition switch. He was locked onto a pair of far off headlights speeding up the highway. Wes watched the headlights stab through the swirling mist and star the pinpricks of rain on the windshield. Bell took his hand off the car keys and slumped back down.
"It's a Ford," he groused. "God, I hate Fords. I hate Fords worse than anything." Bell drummed the dashboard in a marching cadence. "Except the French."
They watched a Ford Galaxie shush down Playa Road, throwing spray out its wheel wells. The Academy taught that persistence was the key to a successful interrogation so Wes rephrased his original question as precisely as he could. "Sir, in your opinion, am I going to be terminated as a result of my being involved in an officer involved shooting in my first week of probation?"
Bell scanned the black world beyond the windshield. Wes felt the misty rain seeping through his shirt sleeve. He cranked up his window halfway. The reading lamp shone down on the transmission hump, throwing spectral shadows on Bell's profile, making him look like Ichabod Crane.
"Naw. Prolly not," said Bell. "I mean Shitamoko would've loved it if you'd rolled on me. But he didn't really expect you to."
Bell swept another glance through the windshield as a pickup truck with one tail light sailed down Highway 9. Bell shook his head and cranked the starter. "He's not comin' tonight," he said.
The tires spun on the moist mud, then bit, and the Crown Victoria scuttled down the ag road. "I think you're safe for now," said Bell, his eyes on the road. "Besides, good rookies are hard to find." The LTD crawled up and over the shoulder, swung left on Playa Road and headed east.
The rain splashed down suddenly, fat drops smacking the windshield. Bell twisted the stem control and sent the wiper blades clacking. Rain drummed the acres of plastic sheets incubating the strawberry fields on both sides of the road. A Peterbilt hauling two empty hoppers rattled by, washing water through the
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