dashboard. As if to make travel that much
more terrifying, the passenger side of Flake’s old white Beetle wasn’t fitted
with a seat belt. So Sanchez actually felt somewhat relieved when they arrived
at the police station. Flake steered the car down the wrong side of the road
for a hundred yards or so, before pulling a completely unnecessary handbrake
turn which spun the car around and pulled it perfectly into a parking spot
directly out front of the station.
Throughout the manoeuvre Sanchez
had gripped the dashboard so tight that his fingers had gone white. He was also
stuck with a wide-eyed look of terror imprinted on his face. It was a look that
would take a few seconds of deep breaths to shift.
Flake switched off the engine.
‘Come on, Sanchez,’ she said. She gave him a gentle shove on the arm as if she
thought he was faking the look of terror.
‘I think we just travelled back
in time,’ Sanchez muttered.
‘You’re so funny,’ said Flake, slapping
his arm once more. ‘Come on. Stop joking around and let’s get in there before
it’s too late.’
Sanchez definitely wanted to be
out of the car. He knew that much. But he didn’t particularly want to be
walking up the steps to the police station. As the blood began to flow back
into his fingers he peeled his hands back off the dashboard and reached over to
open the door. Flake was already up and out of the car by the time he had
hauled his ass up out of the seat. Closing the door behind him he took a deep
breath and with his left hand reached slowly around to his back. He started to
rub it slowly and pretended to wince in pain.
Flake looked genuinely
concerned. ‘Are you okay?’ she asked.
‘Old war injury,’ said Sanchez
grimacing. ‘Not sure I’ll make it up them steps.’
Flake’s face dropped. ‘Oh.’
Before she could add anything
else, a police officer came rushing down the steps from the front of the
station. He was a rugged fellow in his mid-forties with a full head of neatly
combed brown hair. And he was dressed smartly for a cop too. He had on a pair
of black trousers and a white shirt with a black waistcoat over it. Sanchez was
surprised to see an officer in such good shape, considering the obligatory diet
of donuts that all the local boys in blue stuck to so rigidly.
The officer yelled at Flake as
he approached her. ‘You got a license for that vehicle miss?’
Sanchez recognised the officer.
It was Dan Harker, a fairly decent, hard-working detective who had never really
made it as far up the ranks as he should have. If memory served correctly he
was one of the less corruptible cops, not as easily open to bribes as most of
the others. He’d dropped by the Tapioca numerous times to question Sanchez
about various unsolved crimes.
At the sound of his voice Flake
turned around. ‘Hello, Mr Harker,’ she said. She knew him too. The Ole Au Lait
wasn’t exactly crime free either.
‘Flake, you drive like a
freakin’ lunatic. I could book you for dangerous driving and illegal parking
right now!’ Harker said, shaking his head.
Sanchez nodded in agreement with
Harker, although he brought the nodding to an abrupt end when he thought Flake
had caught sight of it out of the corner of her eye.
‘I’m sorry Dan,’ said Flake
smiling. ‘We’ve come to sign up for the police force and I was hoping to
impress you with my driving skills, you know? I’m good in a high speed
pursuit.’
Dan Harker’s look of disapproval
vanished. ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘Good. I mean, excellent. You’re the first two to come
and sign up. Come on in. I’ll get your forms filled in.’
‘I’ve got a bad back,’ said
Sanchez, once more rubbing his back and wincing.
Harker ignored him and spoke to
Flake, ‘There’s a thousand dollar incentive for the first two people to sign
up.’
Sanchez perked up and looked
around him. There were a few other people milling around in the street. No
sense in waiting for one of them to race up the steps and get
more terrifying, the passenger side of Flake’s old white Beetle wasn’t fitted
with a seat belt. So Sanchez actually felt somewhat relieved when they arrived
at the police station. Flake steered the car down the wrong side of the road
for a hundred yards or so, before pulling a completely unnecessary handbrake
turn which spun the car around and pulled it perfectly into a parking spot
directly out front of the station.
Throughout the manoeuvre Sanchez
had gripped the dashboard so tight that his fingers had gone white. He was also
stuck with a wide-eyed look of terror imprinted on his face. It was a look that
would take a few seconds of deep breaths to shift.
Flake switched off the engine.
‘Come on, Sanchez,’ she said. She gave him a gentle shove on the arm as if she
thought he was faking the look of terror.
‘I think we just travelled back
in time,’ Sanchez muttered.
‘You’re so funny,’ said Flake, slapping
his arm once more. ‘Come on. Stop joking around and let’s get in there before
it’s too late.’
Sanchez definitely wanted to be
out of the car. He knew that much. But he didn’t particularly want to be
walking up the steps to the police station. As the blood began to flow back
into his fingers he peeled his hands back off the dashboard and reached over to
open the door. Flake was already up and out of the car by the time he had
hauled his ass up out of the seat. Closing the door behind him he took a deep
breath and with his left hand reached slowly around to his back. He started to
rub it slowly and pretended to wince in pain.
Flake looked genuinely
concerned. ‘Are you okay?’ she asked.
‘Old war injury,’ said Sanchez
grimacing. ‘Not sure I’ll make it up them steps.’
Flake’s face dropped. ‘Oh.’
Before she could add anything
else, a police officer came rushing down the steps from the front of the
station. He was a rugged fellow in his mid-forties with a full head of neatly
combed brown hair. And he was dressed smartly for a cop too. He had on a pair
of black trousers and a white shirt with a black waistcoat over it. Sanchez was
surprised to see an officer in such good shape, considering the obligatory diet
of donuts that all the local boys in blue stuck to so rigidly.
The officer yelled at Flake as
he approached her. ‘You got a license for that vehicle miss?’
Sanchez recognised the officer.
It was Dan Harker, a fairly decent, hard-working detective who had never really
made it as far up the ranks as he should have. If memory served correctly he
was one of the less corruptible cops, not as easily open to bribes as most of
the others. He’d dropped by the Tapioca numerous times to question Sanchez
about various unsolved crimes.
At the sound of his voice Flake
turned around. ‘Hello, Mr Harker,’ she said. She knew him too. The Ole Au Lait
wasn’t exactly crime free either.
‘Flake, you drive like a
freakin’ lunatic. I could book you for dangerous driving and illegal parking
right now!’ Harker said, shaking his head.
Sanchez nodded in agreement with
Harker, although he brought the nodding to an abrupt end when he thought Flake
had caught sight of it out of the corner of her eye.
‘I’m sorry Dan,’ said Flake
smiling. ‘We’ve come to sign up for the police force and I was hoping to
impress you with my driving skills, you know? I’m good in a high speed
pursuit.’
Dan Harker’s look of disapproval
vanished. ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘Good. I mean, excellent. You’re the first two to come
and sign up. Come on in. I’ll get your forms filled in.’
‘I’ve got a bad back,’ said
Sanchez, once more rubbing his back and wincing.
Harker ignored him and spoke to
Flake, ‘There’s a thousand dollar incentive for the first two people to sign
up.’
Sanchez perked up and looked
around him. There were a few other people milling around in the street. No
sense in waiting for one of them to race up the steps and get
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