Almost closing time for Brookfield. It had become a bit cold for most of the animals to survive outdoors, and they were shutting the place down until spring.
We were all dressed as casually as possible. But we had to wear jackets to cover our weapons, as always. I had my Nine under my black windbreaker, and I had the .44 Bulldog strapped to my left leg, just below the knee. And I was carrying a switchblade in my left-hand jeans pocket, contrary to department policy.
Doc carried two pieces as well. A Nine in his shoulder holster and a .38 Police Special in a holster at the small of his back. He carried a blackjack in his pants pocket too. Jack was armed with a Nine at the shoulder and another Nine on his opposite hip. We didn’t arm ourselves quite as heavily for a standard tour of the streets, but The Farmer had everyone behaving a bit more cautiously than usual.
It was an overcast day. There was a hint of precipitation in the air, as the weather guy might say. At least there wouldn’t be any sun glaring in our eyes if we had to use any ordnance on this cutter.
And it might not be The Farmer who showed up. He might send a rep, just like the Internet message said. I don’t know why, but I had the impression this guy worked solo and that he was going to be here in person.
Doc walked over to the concessions and bought a hot dog. We were making our way slowly toward the area where they housed the giraffes. I had taken my kids here twenty times, at least. But every time I returned, there was a new wrinkle. They added something I had never seen before. The dolphin house was off to our left, at the center of the park. There were shows indoors with the porpoises every half-hour, but those events might have been canceled after the summer became the fall. I couldn’t remember.
The lions and tigers and bears (oh my) were ahead of us, and behind them were the long-necked varmints we were looking for.
Wendkos, with his bright green windbreaker, was directly in front of us. He was eating popcorn and trying to become unnoticeable. Which was hard for him to do, especially with the female population. As I said, he had Hollywood looks, and women were constantly mistaking him for Val Kilmer or for some other blond La La Land hunk. Since he’d separated from his wife, I assumed he’d been leading a very active social life. He never talked about women, however. Too bad, because everyone in Homicide wanted to know if he’d scored with the well-built waitress we saw at the pizza joint. Doc had made a legend of that young woman’s mammaries by now, and it was like a continuing series on TV, finding out if Jack ever got his hands on her goodies. He didn’t talk, though. Said it was wrong to talk about ‘private matters’. He was pissing a lot of coppers off. Many of us lived very vicariously.
We approached the bears’ enclave. The polar bears lay on the concrete, undisturbed by the plainclothes policemen who ambled past them en route toward the lions and tigers.
‘Let’s go by the monkey island,’ Doc pleaded.
He smiled and took the last bite out of his hot dog. Then he slurped down the ice in the bottom of his Coke cup.
‘I love to watch them abuse themselves. I swear they do it to insult us human critters.’ Gibron smiled.
‘I do not understand your amusement at watching some ape pound sand in public,’ I told him. ‘You want to see a bunch of whackers, go down to City Lockup around 11.00 p.m. The jailers have to wear earplugs.’
‘Ah bullshit, guinea.’
‘Nah. I swear that’s what they say —’
‘There are the giraffes. Right ahead,’ Doc said. The smile was off his face.
These animals were housed on the eastern edge of Brookfield. We had guys heading toward them from the north, south, and west. The cars were parked just beyond the giraffes, on the east perimeter. There were fifteen-or twenty-feet-high chain-link fences that separated man from beast here. I saw the other coppers walking slowly toward
We were all dressed as casually as possible. But we had to wear jackets to cover our weapons, as always. I had my Nine under my black windbreaker, and I had the .44 Bulldog strapped to my left leg, just below the knee. And I was carrying a switchblade in my left-hand jeans pocket, contrary to department policy.
Doc carried two pieces as well. A Nine in his shoulder holster and a .38 Police Special in a holster at the small of his back. He carried a blackjack in his pants pocket too. Jack was armed with a Nine at the shoulder and another Nine on his opposite hip. We didn’t arm ourselves quite as heavily for a standard tour of the streets, but The Farmer had everyone behaving a bit more cautiously than usual.
It was an overcast day. There was a hint of precipitation in the air, as the weather guy might say. At least there wouldn’t be any sun glaring in our eyes if we had to use any ordnance on this cutter.
And it might not be The Farmer who showed up. He might send a rep, just like the Internet message said. I don’t know why, but I had the impression this guy worked solo and that he was going to be here in person.
Doc walked over to the concessions and bought a hot dog. We were making our way slowly toward the area where they housed the giraffes. I had taken my kids here twenty times, at least. But every time I returned, there was a new wrinkle. They added something I had never seen before. The dolphin house was off to our left, at the center of the park. There were shows indoors with the porpoises every half-hour, but those events might have been canceled after the summer became the fall. I couldn’t remember.
The lions and tigers and bears (oh my) were ahead of us, and behind them were the long-necked varmints we were looking for.
Wendkos, with his bright green windbreaker, was directly in front of us. He was eating popcorn and trying to become unnoticeable. Which was hard for him to do, especially with the female population. As I said, he had Hollywood looks, and women were constantly mistaking him for Val Kilmer or for some other blond La La Land hunk. Since he’d separated from his wife, I assumed he’d been leading a very active social life. He never talked about women, however. Too bad, because everyone in Homicide wanted to know if he’d scored with the well-built waitress we saw at the pizza joint. Doc had made a legend of that young woman’s mammaries by now, and it was like a continuing series on TV, finding out if Jack ever got his hands on her goodies. He didn’t talk, though. Said it was wrong to talk about ‘private matters’. He was pissing a lot of coppers off. Many of us lived very vicariously.
We approached the bears’ enclave. The polar bears lay on the concrete, undisturbed by the plainclothes policemen who ambled past them en route toward the lions and tigers.
‘Let’s go by the monkey island,’ Doc pleaded.
He smiled and took the last bite out of his hot dog. Then he slurped down the ice in the bottom of his Coke cup.
‘I love to watch them abuse themselves. I swear they do it to insult us human critters.’ Gibron smiled.
‘I do not understand your amusement at watching some ape pound sand in public,’ I told him. ‘You want to see a bunch of whackers, go down to City Lockup around 11.00 p.m. The jailers have to wear earplugs.’
‘Ah bullshit, guinea.’
‘Nah. I swear that’s what they say —’
‘There are the giraffes. Right ahead,’ Doc said. The smile was off his face.
These animals were housed on the eastern edge of Brookfield. We had guys heading toward them from the north, south, and west. The cars were parked just beyond the giraffes, on the east perimeter. There were fifteen-or twenty-feet-high chain-link fences that separated man from beast here. I saw the other coppers walking slowly toward
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