I’m gregarious and I understand folks. My father was a Rabbi.”
“I wondered about that. You left your religious affiliation blank.”
“I’m not much of a Jew, sir. My father was a reform Rabbi. I was adopted.”
“Well I ain’t much of a Christian to tell you the truth. I try to be. A man’s faith is his own business. But that’s interesting. You have a religious education?”
“Like I said, my father tried. Faith is a gift.”
“Ain’t that the truth.”
Fagan thought back to all those Saturdays and Sundays spent at Temple school learning about the great Jewish scholars, the history of Judaism, the Old Testament. Like a caged animal, desperate to bolt that den of stultifying boredom. Looking back on his childhood Fagan reflected it was long stretches of boredom punctuated by seconds of stark terror. That was also pretty much a description of war or police work.
How could he explain what had been on his mind for those seemingly endless hours? He was deeply ashamed of his childhood obsessions. While his father taught of God he dwelled on evil. When his father pointed to the great spiritual leaders, he conjured monsters in his head. He entered a period of darkness where he could easily have gone either way. It lasted until his enlistment.
He stalked women. He was a peeper. He vandalized property.
Fullerton weighed Fagan’s application in one hand. “Son, ever now and then I play a hunch. Now you and I both know there’s a lot unsaid here about why you left your last job but I’m not going to press you on that. For some reason we didn’t get a whole lot of qualified candidates and I need someone now. Will you be ready to start by June 17?”
“Sir, I’m ready to start now.”
“Make any difference whether I use the Old Testament or the New Testament ?”
“No sir.”
Fagan reached behind him to a bookshelf beneath the window and placed a red Rosicrucian’s Bible on the desk. Fullerton stood and took off his hat. Fagan stood and placed his hand on the Bible.
“Do you solemnly swear to serve the citizens of Bullard County, the Constitution of the United States, to uphold the law without fear of favor?”
“I do.”
“So help you God?”
“So help me God.”
Fullerton pumped Fagan’s hand. “Welcome to the force. Now there’s a few things you need to know.…”
***
CHAPTER 15
Traffic Stop
It was really the Rabbi’s own fault Fagan became a biker. The Rabbi took young Pete to the annual Memorial Day parade and hoisted young Pete to his shoulders. From this vantage point Fagan watched the baton twirlers, the Homecoming Queen and King in their borrowed Sebring convertible, the Mayor in a borrowed Corvette, the 4H, Junior Achievement, JayCees, Boy Scouts and Girl Scout floats, local radio and TV personalities. And then came the Shriners on their mini-bikes. A bunch of fat old men in purple fezes zipping in and out of traffic, performing breathtaking chicanes and not acting their ages.
From that moment on all the Rabbi heard was, “Can I get a mini-bike?”
To which the answer was an unequivocal no.
However, the Rabbi’s neighbors the Thompsons had just such a mini-bike, and young Ralph Thompson was not shy about burning up and down the block. Fagan sat on the curb and stared intently. He wanted to ride that thing so bad he was seriously considering knocking Ralph off his perch and just taking it.
Fortunately Ralph was a generous boy. He showed Fagan how to work the controls and turned him loose. Fagan ran out of gas forty-five minutes later down by the tracks. Ralph soon followed on his bicycle. Fagan ended up pushing the mini-bike two miles home. He was thirteen.
No matter where he rode his one-speed Huffy the wind was against him. It was against him as he pedaled to school in the morning and it was against him when he pedaled home at night, the weight of his backpack pressing between his shoulders.
Someday, he vowed, he would own a motorcycle and not have to do all this
“I wondered about that. You left your religious affiliation blank.”
“I’m not much of a Jew, sir. My father was a reform Rabbi. I was adopted.”
“Well I ain’t much of a Christian to tell you the truth. I try to be. A man’s faith is his own business. But that’s interesting. You have a religious education?”
“Like I said, my father tried. Faith is a gift.”
“Ain’t that the truth.”
Fagan thought back to all those Saturdays and Sundays spent at Temple school learning about the great Jewish scholars, the history of Judaism, the Old Testament. Like a caged animal, desperate to bolt that den of stultifying boredom. Looking back on his childhood Fagan reflected it was long stretches of boredom punctuated by seconds of stark terror. That was also pretty much a description of war or police work.
How could he explain what had been on his mind for those seemingly endless hours? He was deeply ashamed of his childhood obsessions. While his father taught of God he dwelled on evil. When his father pointed to the great spiritual leaders, he conjured monsters in his head. He entered a period of darkness where he could easily have gone either way. It lasted until his enlistment.
He stalked women. He was a peeper. He vandalized property.
Fullerton weighed Fagan’s application in one hand. “Son, ever now and then I play a hunch. Now you and I both know there’s a lot unsaid here about why you left your last job but I’m not going to press you on that. For some reason we didn’t get a whole lot of qualified candidates and I need someone now. Will you be ready to start by June 17?”
“Sir, I’m ready to start now.”
“Make any difference whether I use the Old Testament or the New Testament ?”
“No sir.”
Fagan reached behind him to a bookshelf beneath the window and placed a red Rosicrucian’s Bible on the desk. Fullerton stood and took off his hat. Fagan stood and placed his hand on the Bible.
“Do you solemnly swear to serve the citizens of Bullard County, the Constitution of the United States, to uphold the law without fear of favor?”
“I do.”
“So help you God?”
“So help me God.”
Fullerton pumped Fagan’s hand. “Welcome to the force. Now there’s a few things you need to know.…”
***
CHAPTER 15
Traffic Stop
It was really the Rabbi’s own fault Fagan became a biker. The Rabbi took young Pete to the annual Memorial Day parade and hoisted young Pete to his shoulders. From this vantage point Fagan watched the baton twirlers, the Homecoming Queen and King in their borrowed Sebring convertible, the Mayor in a borrowed Corvette, the 4H, Junior Achievement, JayCees, Boy Scouts and Girl Scout floats, local radio and TV personalities. And then came the Shriners on their mini-bikes. A bunch of fat old men in purple fezes zipping in and out of traffic, performing breathtaking chicanes and not acting their ages.
From that moment on all the Rabbi heard was, “Can I get a mini-bike?”
To which the answer was an unequivocal no.
However, the Rabbi’s neighbors the Thompsons had just such a mini-bike, and young Ralph Thompson was not shy about burning up and down the block. Fagan sat on the curb and stared intently. He wanted to ride that thing so bad he was seriously considering knocking Ralph off his perch and just taking it.
Fortunately Ralph was a generous boy. He showed Fagan how to work the controls and turned him loose. Fagan ran out of gas forty-five minutes later down by the tracks. Ralph soon followed on his bicycle. Fagan ended up pushing the mini-bike two miles home. He was thirteen.
No matter where he rode his one-speed Huffy the wind was against him. It was against him as he pedaled to school in the morning and it was against him when he pedaled home at night, the weight of his backpack pressing between his shoulders.
Someday, he vowed, he would own a motorcycle and not have to do all this
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