Read Online Sundowner Ubunta by Anthony Bidulka - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Anthony Bidulka
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guy’s face. “How friendly?” I asked in all innocence.
He had the sense to hesitate, a wee bit confused (after all, I had veered from the banal). “You just stop this business, bringing up all this crap about Ridge,” he barked. “Just forget about it and go on with your other business. It’s old news. It’s done news. It’s over. Forget about it, you hear?”
Or else?...c’mon hurry up with it.
“Or else next time won’t be so friendly,” he finished off.
I had to give it to Saskatoon; playing out like little Chicago in the forties, complete with this mafioso-lite ruffian and all. But really, how many detectives ever get rousted like this and say: “Oh, okay, you’re right, I really should keep my nose clean. Don’t worry about me, Mr. Brass Knuckles, I won’t give you any more trouble.” Well, on second thought, maybe some, but those guys aren’t in the movies.
“Soooooooo, is that it?” I asked.
Another hesitation, then the final words: “Just quit, all right?”
I was silent, flicked my eyelashes a couple of times.
“So, are ya gonna?”
I raised an inquisitive eyebrow. “Gonna…?”
The bulldog was becoming exasperated with me and not quite sure if I was just playing with him or just too dumb to know when I was being threatened. “Are ya gonna quit doing what you’re doing?”
“You actually want an answer tonight?”
“Well…yeah.”
“I’ll have to get back to you.”
34 of 170
3/15/2011 11:02 PM
“You do that!” he blasted out before thinking about what he was saying.
“Great. Well, why don’t you give me your phone number and I’ll call you.” I was having fun now.
“What?” He wavered a bit, then, “Oh, you’re a smart guy, are you? You just better pay attention to this, buster, or else next time…”
Yeah, yeah, I know, it won’t be so friendly.
“Good night,” I said as he jogged off into the dark, scary land of bad guys. He was probably late returning the balaclava to the rent-it store.
Thump. The delicious sound of the first rotten apple hitting the ground. I love when bush-shaking works.
I could have just stood there and let the dramatic moment play out and fade to commercial, but that isn’t my style either, so I took off after him…on the sly like. There were only so many places for him to go, and I was determined to find out which was his. All in all, this had been a juvenile, high school-prank-quality job and I was betting whoever was behind it was an amateur with no idea what they were doing.
Amateurs are easy to catch.
After a quick little jag down an alley, the guy skipped across 24th Street toward a parked SUV-engine running-on 6th Avenue. He ducked into the black Lincoln Navigator, on the passenger side-so he had an accomplice, probably the guy who’d hired him (or talked him into it)-and the vehicle sped off like in a Fast & Furious movie. I jogged back to PWC to the rhythm of the three-digit, three-letter licence plate number I was repeating in my head.
“I can’t believe you won’t help me on this,” I near-bellowed at Constable Darren Kirsch over the phone the next morning.
I was back in my office, he was in his at the Police Department, and we were going at it a little more vociferously than usual. We’re supposed to help each other out when we can. That is our unspoken deal (well, according to me anyway). There are certain things a cop can do that a detective can’t and vice versa-or at least do more expediently within the confines of the sometimes irritatingly restrictive letter of the law. Kirsch and I went to the police academy together in Regina. Eventually I went my way and he went his, and I think he’d hoped that would be the last he’d ever see of me. Ever since, I’ve tried to make sure his wish never comes true. A real fairy-tale love story.
Although I never let on, I know Darren is a good cop, continually rising in the ranks, honest as the day is long, a little mucho on the macho side of the scale
He had the sense to hesitate, a wee bit confused (after all, I had veered from the banal). “You just stop this business, bringing up all this crap about Ridge,” he barked. “Just forget about it and go on with your other business. It’s old news. It’s done news. It’s over. Forget about it, you hear?”
Or else?...c’mon hurry up with it.
“Or else next time won’t be so friendly,” he finished off.
I had to give it to Saskatoon; playing out like little Chicago in the forties, complete with this mafioso-lite ruffian and all. But really, how many detectives ever get rousted like this and say: “Oh, okay, you’re right, I really should keep my nose clean. Don’t worry about me, Mr. Brass Knuckles, I won’t give you any more trouble.” Well, on second thought, maybe some, but those guys aren’t in the movies.
“Soooooooo, is that it?” I asked.
Another hesitation, then the final words: “Just quit, all right?”
I was silent, flicked my eyelashes a couple of times.
“So, are ya gonna?”
I raised an inquisitive eyebrow. “Gonna…?”
The bulldog was becoming exasperated with me and not quite sure if I was just playing with him or just too dumb to know when I was being threatened. “Are ya gonna quit doing what you’re doing?”
“You actually want an answer tonight?”
“Well…yeah.”
“I’ll have to get back to you.”
34 of 170
3/15/2011 11:02 PM
“You do that!” he blasted out before thinking about what he was saying.
“Great. Well, why don’t you give me your phone number and I’ll call you.” I was having fun now.
“What?” He wavered a bit, then, “Oh, you’re a smart guy, are you? You just better pay attention to this, buster, or else next time…”
Yeah, yeah, I know, it won’t be so friendly.
“Good night,” I said as he jogged off into the dark, scary land of bad guys. He was probably late returning the balaclava to the rent-it store.
Thump. The delicious sound of the first rotten apple hitting the ground. I love when bush-shaking works.
I could have just stood there and let the dramatic moment play out and fade to commercial, but that isn’t my style either, so I took off after him…on the sly like. There were only so many places for him to go, and I was determined to find out which was his. All in all, this had been a juvenile, high school-prank-quality job and I was betting whoever was behind it was an amateur with no idea what they were doing.
Amateurs are easy to catch.
After a quick little jag down an alley, the guy skipped across 24th Street toward a parked SUV-engine running-on 6th Avenue. He ducked into the black Lincoln Navigator, on the passenger side-so he had an accomplice, probably the guy who’d hired him (or talked him into it)-and the vehicle sped off like in a Fast & Furious movie. I jogged back to PWC to the rhythm of the three-digit, three-letter licence plate number I was repeating in my head.
“I can’t believe you won’t help me on this,” I near-bellowed at Constable Darren Kirsch over the phone the next morning.
I was back in my office, he was in his at the Police Department, and we were going at it a little more vociferously than usual. We’re supposed to help each other out when we can. That is our unspoken deal (well, according to me anyway). There are certain things a cop can do that a detective can’t and vice versa-or at least do more expediently within the confines of the sometimes irritatingly restrictive letter of the law. Kirsch and I went to the police academy together in Regina. Eventually I went my way and he went his, and I think he’d hoped that would be the last he’d ever see of me. Ever since, I’ve tried to make sure his wish never comes true. A real fairy-tale love story.
Although I never let on, I know Darren is a good cop, continually rising in the ranks, honest as the day is long, a little mucho on the macho side of the scale
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