Read Online The Martini Shot by George Pelecanos - Free Book Online
Authors: George Pelecanos
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thing in his peeps. I knew from that empty look that it wasnât over between us, but what could I do?
I picked up my ball and headed over to Georgia Avenue. Walked south toward my motherâs place as the first shadows of night were crawling onto the streets.
Sergeant Peters
Itâs five a.m. Iâm sitting in my cruiser up near the station house, sipping a coffee. My first one of the night. Rolling my head around on these tired shoulders of mine. You get these aches when youâre behind the wheel of a car, six hours at a stretch. I oughta buy one of those things the African cabbies all sit on, looks like a rack of wooden balls. You know, for your back. I been doin this for twenty-two years now, so I guess whatever damage Iâve done to my spine and all, itâs too late.
I work midnights in the Fourth District. Four-D starts at the Maryland line and runs south to Harvard Street and Georgia. The western border is Rock Creek Park and the eastern line is North Capitol Street. Itâs what the news people call a âhigh-crime district.â For a year or two I tried working the Third, keeping the streets safe for rich white people basically, but I got bored. I guess Iâm one of those adrenaline junkies theyâre always talking about on those cop shows on TV, the shows got female cops who look more beautiful than any female cop Iâve ever seen. I guess thatâs what it is. Itâs not like Iâve ever examined myself or anything like that. My wife and I donât talk about it, thatâs for damn sure. A ton of cop marriages donât make it; I suppose mine has survived âcause I never bring any of this shit home with me. Not that she knows about, anyway.
My shift runs from the stroke of twelve till dawn, though I usually get into the station early so I can nab the cruiser I like. I prefer the Crown Victoria. Itâs roomier, and once you flood the gas into the cylinders, it really moves. Also, I like to ride alone.
Last night, Friday, wasnât much different than any other. Itâs summer; more people are outside, trying to stay out of their un-air-conditioned places as long as possible, so this time of year we put extra cars out on the streets. Also, like I reminded some of the younger guys at the station last night, this was the week welfare checks got mailed out, something they needed to know. Welfare checks mean more drunks, more domestic disturbances, more violence. One of the young cops I said it to, he said, âThank you, Sergeant Dad,â but he didnât do it in a bad way. I know those young guys appreciate it when I mention shit like that.
Soon as I drove south I saw that the Avenue, Georgia Avenue that is, was hot with activity. All those Jap tech bikes the young kids like to ride, curbed outside the all-night Wing nâ Things. People spilling out of bars, hanging outside the Korean beer markets, scratching game cards, talking trash, ignoring the crackheads hitting them up for spare change. Drunks lying in the doorways of the closed-down shops, their heads resting against the riot gates. Kids, a lot of kids, standing on corners, grouped around tricked-out cars, rap music and that go-go crap coming from the open windows. The farther south you go, the worse all of this gets.
The bottom of the barrel is that area between Quebec Street and Irving. The newspapers lump it all in with a section of town called Petworth, but Iâm talking about Park View. Poverty, drug activity, crime. They got that Section 8 housing back in there, the Park Morton complex. What we used to call âthe projectsâ back when you could say it. Government assisted hellholes. Gangs like the Park Morton Crew. Open-air drug markets, Iâm talking about blatant transactions right out there on Georgia Avenue. Drugs are Park Viewâs industry; the dealers are the biggest employers in this part of town.
The dealers get the whole neighborhood involved. They recruit
I picked up my ball and headed over to Georgia Avenue. Walked south toward my motherâs place as the first shadows of night were crawling onto the streets.
Sergeant Peters
Itâs five a.m. Iâm sitting in my cruiser up near the station house, sipping a coffee. My first one of the night. Rolling my head around on these tired shoulders of mine. You get these aches when youâre behind the wheel of a car, six hours at a stretch. I oughta buy one of those things the African cabbies all sit on, looks like a rack of wooden balls. You know, for your back. I been doin this for twenty-two years now, so I guess whatever damage Iâve done to my spine and all, itâs too late.
I work midnights in the Fourth District. Four-D starts at the Maryland line and runs south to Harvard Street and Georgia. The western border is Rock Creek Park and the eastern line is North Capitol Street. Itâs what the news people call a âhigh-crime district.â For a year or two I tried working the Third, keeping the streets safe for rich white people basically, but I got bored. I guess Iâm one of those adrenaline junkies theyâre always talking about on those cop shows on TV, the shows got female cops who look more beautiful than any female cop Iâve ever seen. I guess thatâs what it is. Itâs not like Iâve ever examined myself or anything like that. My wife and I donât talk about it, thatâs for damn sure. A ton of cop marriages donât make it; I suppose mine has survived âcause I never bring any of this shit home with me. Not that she knows about, anyway.
My shift runs from the stroke of twelve till dawn, though I usually get into the station early so I can nab the cruiser I like. I prefer the Crown Victoria. Itâs roomier, and once you flood the gas into the cylinders, it really moves. Also, I like to ride alone.
Last night, Friday, wasnât much different than any other. Itâs summer; more people are outside, trying to stay out of their un-air-conditioned places as long as possible, so this time of year we put extra cars out on the streets. Also, like I reminded some of the younger guys at the station last night, this was the week welfare checks got mailed out, something they needed to know. Welfare checks mean more drunks, more domestic disturbances, more violence. One of the young cops I said it to, he said, âThank you, Sergeant Dad,â but he didnât do it in a bad way. I know those young guys appreciate it when I mention shit like that.
Soon as I drove south I saw that the Avenue, Georgia Avenue that is, was hot with activity. All those Jap tech bikes the young kids like to ride, curbed outside the all-night Wing nâ Things. People spilling out of bars, hanging outside the Korean beer markets, scratching game cards, talking trash, ignoring the crackheads hitting them up for spare change. Drunks lying in the doorways of the closed-down shops, their heads resting against the riot gates. Kids, a lot of kids, standing on corners, grouped around tricked-out cars, rap music and that go-go crap coming from the open windows. The farther south you go, the worse all of this gets.
The bottom of the barrel is that area between Quebec Street and Irving. The newspapers lump it all in with a section of town called Petworth, but Iâm talking about Park View. Poverty, drug activity, crime. They got that Section 8 housing back in there, the Park Morton complex. What we used to call âthe projectsâ back when you could say it. Government assisted hellholes. Gangs like the Park Morton Crew. Open-air drug markets, Iâm talking about blatant transactions right out there on Georgia Avenue. Drugs are Park Viewâs industry; the dealers are the biggest employers in this part of town.
The dealers get the whole neighborhood involved. They recruit
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