hear.
On the other hand, considering what had happened to her daughter, there was something to
be said for McCray’s opinion.
“Can I arrange a ride for you?” I asked. I knew Jimmy Mutz had a couple of patrol cars out
on the street in the district. He wouldn’t have a problem getting Mrs. Klinger to St.
Bonaventure.
“No need, Mr. Welles,” she said with another forced smile. “I am sure I will be fine.”
She turned and walked out of the office. Her legs were a little shaky, but she was holding
herself together.
I heard Cynthia say something to her through the open door. The hallway door opened and
closed. A moment later, Cynthia stuck her head in the door. “Charlie?”
“It went about the way you’d expect,” I said softly, looking down at the case file folder on the
table. “Shut the door please, Cynthia. I’ll let you know if I need anything.”
The door closed behind me as I walked back to my desk. There was a sealed bottle of gin in
the bottom drawer. I sat down, broke the seal on the cap, and took a long pull from the bottle.
Then I recapped the bottle, put it back in my desk, called Browne and Poole to pick up MaryAnn
Klinger, and went home.
A fair number of cops go through an boozer phase. You deal with the sharp edges of
ugliness all day, you want life to be smooth and fuzzy when you get home. Some cops like it
fuzzy so much that the drinking becomes a lifestyle. Or maybe it’s the other way around. Maybe
they don’t like it fuzzy. Maybe they just don’t like it sharp anymore.
Gin and I go back a long way. When I was drinking, I was always looking for
something I liked the taste of enough to get plastered. Beer made me want to piss. Vodka didn’t
taste like much of anything. Bourbon gave me a headache. Scotch made me gag. Then I
stumbled on gin.
I liked the taste of gin. The juniper berries gave it a clean taste, almost medicinal. My short
boozer phase ended when Sgt. Jimmy Mutz smelled that fresh, medicinal scent on my breath at
lunch one day, took me out back behind the diner, and smacked the shit out of me. But I’d
always retained a fondness for gin. I didn’t drink often, but when I did, I drank gin.
I started drinking about five minutes after I came through the door of my apartment, and
after almost eight hours, I was almost at the bottom of the quart bottle of gin I kept in the house.
While I drank, I concentrated on the taste of the gin, savored each mouthful. Otherwise I
tried not to think. What’s the point of ruining a good drunk with a lot of unhappy thoughts?
I guess I was pretty far gone when they kicked in the door. My memory of that night is kind
of broken, more like a series of still images than an actual memory. I did recognize Ray Holstein
as one of the three guys coming through the door, and I seem to recall holding up the bottle and
offering him a drink.
They all had their pistols out, and one of them hit me in the jaw with the butt of his gun.
Maybe Holstein. I don’t remember.
I went down. Lights out.
Chapter Seven
The night passed slowly. When you spend the hours being beaten into unconsciousness,
revived, then beaten again, time does drag.
The fact that I was boozed up at the beginning probably didn’t help. If anything, it focused
my mind on the pain as they slapped, punched, and kicked me. It also made me vomit all
over myself, which only annoyed them. They dragged in a hose from the standpipe in the hall,
gave me a good washing down, then resumed the beating with an extra fury.
There was something strange about the whole thing, though.
In my day, I’d manhandled a few prisoners. Shoved them, pinned them against the wall, that
kind of thing. I never went any further, though there were times I wanted to. But I also wanted to
keep my badge, and in the end, you always get caught.
Holstein said that the rules and regulations were more relaxed, so I guess losing their jobs
wasn’t an issue for these guys. They could
On the other hand, considering what had happened to her daughter, there was something to
be said for McCray’s opinion.
“Can I arrange a ride for you?” I asked. I knew Jimmy Mutz had a couple of patrol cars out
on the street in the district. He wouldn’t have a problem getting Mrs. Klinger to St.
Bonaventure.
“No need, Mr. Welles,” she said with another forced smile. “I am sure I will be fine.”
She turned and walked out of the office. Her legs were a little shaky, but she was holding
herself together.
I heard Cynthia say something to her through the open door. The hallway door opened and
closed. A moment later, Cynthia stuck her head in the door. “Charlie?”
“It went about the way you’d expect,” I said softly, looking down at the case file folder on the
table. “Shut the door please, Cynthia. I’ll let you know if I need anything.”
The door closed behind me as I walked back to my desk. There was a sealed bottle of gin in
the bottom drawer. I sat down, broke the seal on the cap, and took a long pull from the bottle.
Then I recapped the bottle, put it back in my desk, called Browne and Poole to pick up MaryAnn
Klinger, and went home.
A fair number of cops go through an boozer phase. You deal with the sharp edges of
ugliness all day, you want life to be smooth and fuzzy when you get home. Some cops like it
fuzzy so much that the drinking becomes a lifestyle. Or maybe it’s the other way around. Maybe
they don’t like it fuzzy. Maybe they just don’t like it sharp anymore.
Gin and I go back a long way. When I was drinking, I was always looking for
something I liked the taste of enough to get plastered. Beer made me want to piss. Vodka didn’t
taste like much of anything. Bourbon gave me a headache. Scotch made me gag. Then I
stumbled on gin.
I liked the taste of gin. The juniper berries gave it a clean taste, almost medicinal. My short
boozer phase ended when Sgt. Jimmy Mutz smelled that fresh, medicinal scent on my breath at
lunch one day, took me out back behind the diner, and smacked the shit out of me. But I’d
always retained a fondness for gin. I didn’t drink often, but when I did, I drank gin.
I started drinking about five minutes after I came through the door of my apartment, and
after almost eight hours, I was almost at the bottom of the quart bottle of gin I kept in the house.
While I drank, I concentrated on the taste of the gin, savored each mouthful. Otherwise I
tried not to think. What’s the point of ruining a good drunk with a lot of unhappy thoughts?
I guess I was pretty far gone when they kicked in the door. My memory of that night is kind
of broken, more like a series of still images than an actual memory. I did recognize Ray Holstein
as one of the three guys coming through the door, and I seem to recall holding up the bottle and
offering him a drink.
They all had their pistols out, and one of them hit me in the jaw with the butt of his gun.
Maybe Holstein. I don’t remember.
I went down. Lights out.
Chapter Seven
The night passed slowly. When you spend the hours being beaten into unconsciousness,
revived, then beaten again, time does drag.
The fact that I was boozed up at the beginning probably didn’t help. If anything, it focused
my mind on the pain as they slapped, punched, and kicked me. It also made me vomit all
over myself, which only annoyed them. They dragged in a hose from the standpipe in the hall,
gave me a good washing down, then resumed the beating with an extra fury.
There was something strange about the whole thing, though.
In my day, I’d manhandled a few prisoners. Shoved them, pinned them against the wall, that
kind of thing. I never went any further, though there were times I wanted to. But I also wanted to
keep my badge, and in the end, you always get caught.
Holstein said that the rules and regulations were more relaxed, so I guess losing their jobs
wasn’t an issue for these guys. They could
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