Senile Squad: Adventures of the Old Blues (13 page)

Big Whitey pointed toward the door. The game over, Earnest quickened his pace and walked out. He threw Clubba a glance from the corner of his eye signaling
we’ll talk later.

“Shocking insolence,” Clubba said to Big Whitey as Earnest passed. “Absolutely preposterous! In my country that behavior would get his tongue cut out or a hundred lashes minimum. People know their place over there and act accordingly, but here? I mean really.”

Big Whitey seemed fascinated by everything the African said. “Never agreed on nothin’ with a black man.”

“I understand the racial nature of American prisons,” Clubba said, “and from the reaction of that particular person, I’d have a rough time of it if not for the services I provide each gang.”

Big Whitey caught the gaze of a several Aryan brothers. With a jerk of his head, he signaled for them to come over. Three tattoo-laden Aryans surrounded Clubba. Two of them glanced at Big Whitey as though looking for instruction.

He shook his head as in we ain’t gonna hurt this guy. Pointing to Clubba, he asked, “What kind of services?”

“Services?” This was Clubba’s game, and he played it with gleeful anticipation. “Where should I begin? Oh, my manners, gentlemen.” He glanced between two Aryans. “Te’quan Koak, at your service. A pleasure to meet you.”

They frowned and exchanged a confused glance before looking at Big Whitey.

Again the almost imperceptible shake of the head to signal no, don’t hurt him. “Services.”

“My family is from the Sudan. I’m sure you’re aware of the war with those horrible Muslims,” he said, referring to the most recent minority for American scorn.

Big Whitey nodded

“After we escaped,” Clubba continued, “I was educated in England and my family sent me to America for additional education and to see about moving here.”

The Aryans set their jaws in steely unison as though they didn’t like the idea of yet another immigrant, let alone black, family moving in.

Clubba sensed the brewing agitation. “After being here for a year, I realized, who do we think we are to just move to this country?”

Three shaved heads bobbed in agreement.

“I mean it’s a wonderful country, but realistically it’s a white man’s land, especially after they conquered the aboriginals and all. We have no more right to move here than white men—no offense,” he swept his hand in an arc in front of the Aryans “have moving to Africa. Don’t you agree?”

The trio of tattooed heads nodded full-fledged assent.

“After getting pissed one night, I got into a spat with a bloke on the street and hit him with a bat. That’s why I’m here. After that, they called me Clubba and the nickname stuck.” Clubba doubted the white gangs talked to the black ones at all, and that played into his best interests. They didn’t need to know he was an actual associate of all the major black gangs in Omaha. Unless and until he wanted it known.

Big Whitey looked directly at Clubba. “What do you provide the blacks?”

The Aryans exchanged a glance as though their patience was being tried. Clubba took the clue. “It seems,” he said quietly, “that no one here speaks Sudanese—not the guards or the administration. I have a cousin who visits several times a week. I pass information in Sudanese, and he takes it back to their crews in Omaha. Faster, easier, and more secure than sending coded messages or paper that’s going to be seized. Harder to catch as well.”

A moment of silence passed while they digested what had been offered. The Aryans glanced from one to another eventually settling on Big Whitey. “And you’d do the same for us?”

Clubba pressed his palm over his heart. “Exactly. Mister?”

The two Aryans snickered because he didn’t know that he was talking to the leader of the Aryan Brotherhood. Let ’em laugh, Clubba thought. As long as he got what he wanted, let ’em laugh.

“They call me Big Whitey.”

“Apropos,” Clubba said. “Let me know what you want sent and when.”

Big Whitey grunted and turned back to his cleaning.

His covert work successfully concluded, Clubba went back to scrubbing stainless steel. A self-satisfied smile turned up the corners of his mouth. With the Brotherhood in his pocket, he’d woven his influence everywhere. Life was good. They were all his for the taking.

“BUT WE WERE HERE LAST MONTH!”

“Yes, Chief, we were,” Lt. Thorp said, as she drove the Chief and Jake, “but that was for the initial phase of the retired officer program. This is like their grand opening. Everyone who’s anyone in local government will be there—including you. These days we need your face in the media for as many positive stories as we can get.”

Lt. Thorp drove the car through the main gate.

“It’s awesome,” Jake said. “They’ve got like fifty retired officers living there now that it’s up and running. When it was first mentioned in the news, I thought it was a great idea. Now it’s a great facility. Did they actually rebuild an old precinct?”

Lt. Thorp nodded. “Down to the minute details. It’s the coolest thing you’ll ever see.”

The trio drove up to the imposing brick building, and the Chief surveyed the lawn and outer areas. Beautifully manicured with walking trails on the periphery and benches dotting the well-sculpted lawn, it was a place a golf lover would envy. News crews flitted through the area filming outdoor clips and preparing for the tour inside. Community representatives, neighborhood watch groups, and civic leaders rubbed elbows with state officials and an antigang group.

Approaching the main entrance and parking lot, Lt. Thorp pointed to a group of reporters approximately thirty yards south of the main doors.

“I’ll handle it,” Jake said. “I’ve got a brief statement about the Chief recognizing that these retired officers have a great deal of experience to impart through community outreach.”

“That ought to play well with the citizen organizations here,” she replied.

“Right,” Jake said. “I’ll also mention the officers’ wealth of knowledge about crime and the city in general. Hopefully we’ll get a good shot of the Chief and his staff entering the main doors. That should avoid any awkward front door cramming with cameras in our faces and five reporters shouting questions at him simultaneously. You agree?”

“Completely,” the Chief said. “And I’ll give a brief statement afterward.” The Chief liked the way Jake caught onto difficult situations before they happened and always seemed to have a quick solution for them. “We’ll let you off here,” the Chief said.

Jake opened his door and hopped out. The car moved toward the portico, and the Chief turned around. His PIO hollered to the press who immediately called to their camera crews and sound people who gathered around for his prepared statement. Jake spoke directly to the cameras and pointed toward the doors where the Chief and Lt. Thorp would exit.

“Wow,” Lt. Thorp said. “He’s handling the media better than I ever thought he would or could. Looks like he’s got knack for this stuff.”

“That he does,” responded the Chief. “I’m glad he’s with us. That was a good call.”

Lt. Thorp flashed a cheeky grin.

“Don’t let it go to your head.” In full uniform, the Chief stepped out when the driver stopped. Once Thorp joined him, they walked side-by-side to the main doors. Several facility supervisors met them. True to Jake’s prediction, the media didn’t crowd the entryway, and they got a nice camera shot of the procession.

Jake finished his statement and joined them.

“This is absolutely the most impressive teaching and medical treatment facility in the region,” said Dr. Wicker, director of the physicians, nursing, and medical training unit. “With the State of Nebraska Health and Human Services in the adjacent wing, we can quickly resolve any medical or social service needs for the, ah…” Dr. Wicker pointed to the closed doors of the Ol’ Blues precinct, “patients.”

The Chief noted his pause and stifled a chuckle at the particular challenges of having such an unusual population of clientele. If there was anything he knew, it was the cop personality. This collection of hard-nosed ex-officers was like nothing these doctors and nurses had ever seen. “I take it these Ol’ Blues aren’t the easiest group of people to work with?” the Chief asked with a smile.

“You could say that,” Dr. Wicker said. “The hardest part is convincing them that they’re actually patients.”

The Chief exchanged a glance with Lt. Thorp who raised a brow in obvious agreement.

Before Dr. Wicker could say more, a reporter caught up with them. “Chief, we need a good shot of you entering the precinct.”

He plastered on a well-practiced smile and turned to the reporter. “No problem,” he said. Catching Jake’s gaze, he motioned him forward. “Now that you’re here, we can go.”

Jake stood behind the Chief, and they turned toward the Ol’ Blue Precinct.

“Oh, dear,” the doctor said in a low, worried tone.

It hit Jake that there might be a problem with bursting directly into the precinct without knowing exactly what was happening on the other side of the entry doors thirty feet away.

The Chief started forward, and the media readied their cameras. “I understand that you let them wear specially designed uniforms.”

“Well…ah…y-yes, Chief,” Dr. Wicker said.

Something about the way the doc diverted his gaze and kept glancing out the corner of his eye toward the media cameras didn’t sit right with Jake. There was more going on here than any of them knew.

The doctor cleared his throat. “There were…well, there still are some disagreements about how to allow that and still maintain correct medical procedures.”

Jake focused on the doctor’s face instead of his words. There was definitely a problem here, and whatever it might be, the doctor was stalling. The media, the Chief, and the entire entourage edged closer to the precinct doors. An entire room full of retired cops who didn’t like being told what to do by civilians met modern medical protocols. If anyone knew how to make the medical staff sorry, it would be the Ol’ Blues. A definite recipe for disaster.

Jake skipped ahead of the group. Twenty feet from the entrance, he grabbed the Chief ’s elbow. “I think you should start the tour of the state offices first,” Jake said in a low tone.

He’d hoped the Chief caught his warning.

He didn’t. He eased from Jake’s grasp and continued toward the door and continued his conversation with the doctors.

Exasperated, Jake shot Lt. Thorp a look he hoped said
stop him
.

She squinted at him quizzically. Ten feet from the entrance her eyes widened in recognition. “An excellent idea, Jake,” Lt. Thorp said. She stepped in front of the Chief, blocking any chance of entering the precinct. “The…ah…staff in the state offices are waiting.”

“Nonsense,” the Chief said. “I want to see the Ol’ Blues and—” he reached for the door handles.

Jake held his breath. He didn’t know what waited behind for them, but he doubted it was good. The Chief was two feet away…one foot… and then it was too late.

“—so do the people of Omaha.” The Chief smiled and nodded at the eager media.

Jake surveyed the medical staff milling around. They exchanged worried, no, terrified gazes. The Chief swung the doors open wide. The press obtained a great over-the-shoulder shot of the Chief and shifted their focus into the Ol’ Blue Precinct.

For a moment, everyone froze. Jake, Lt. Thorp, and the Chief surveyed the surroundings.

“It’s like going back in time,” the Chief said.

“Way back,” Thorp agreed.

Officers perched behind desks in the traditional blue uniforms, complete with hats and patches. Vintage fans hummed from the top of file cabinets. “Like in the days before air conditioning,” the Chief murmured.

Several men clacked away on actual typewriters, the sound echoing throughout the cavernous floor. “I’ve never heard that before,” Jake said absently.

“It’s like something out of a black-and-white movie,” Lt. Thorp said. “Back in the old days when a precinct office was noisy and you had loads of investigations going on at the same time.”

None of the officers even looked up.

The Chief smiled and spread his arms out as though he wanted to embrace the entire group. “Will you look at this,” he said. “It’s fantastic.”

The Sarge glanced up. Recognition of the Omaha Police Chief lit his eyes.

Jake noticed Dr. Wicker’s face. His gaze locked with the sergeant’s, and the doctor seemed to be pleading
whatever you’re planning, don’t do it—please!

Cameras readied, the media and medical staff stood behind them. Jake couldn’t shake the aura of tension zinging up his spine.

The Sarge yanked a chewed cigar out of his mouth. “The Chief is on the floor,” he called out.

Typewriters stopped. All activity halted. Every Ol’ Blue shifted his attention to the group at the entrance. Chief Williams smiled and brought his hand up in a salute. In the same moment, the sergeant stiffened. “A-ttention.”

Most of the old cops snapped upright; others eventually, slowly, drew up in the same stance. The Chief ’s eyes widened and his mouth dropped. His hand froze in midair never making it to a full salute. A deafening silence fell over the room adding to the apparently total shock of the visitors.

Dr. Wicker covered his face. A soft, “oh, no” leaked through his lips.

The Chief stayed frozen as though trying to comprehend the scene before him.

It was Jake who immediately understood. He nudged Lt. Thorp who spared him an incredulous glance.

Before the visiting dignitaries, media, staff, and police command, dozens of retired officers stood in their uniformed uppers and their indignity bottoms. They all faced different directions.

Some looked forward, their short medical robes stopping at their knees revealing black shoes, socks, and suspenders. Others stood half-turned away from the entrance; a few adult diapers were in plain view while others sported baggy underwear with catheter tubes running from an insertion point to a urine bag attached by a belt on their leg. A few let it all hang out—no underwear at all.

Cameras rolled and flashed. Not that anyone there would need to review anything. This moment was permanently burned into the memories of every visitor there.

Ten minutes passed in complete silence on the drive back to Omaha headquarters. From the backseat, the Chief broke the quiet. “You were trying to stop me, weren’t you, Jake?” he asked matter-of-factly.

“Yes, sir, I was,” came his muted reply.

A hush fell over the interior of the vehicle again.

Lt. Thorp pulled to the side of the road and plunked the vehicle in park.

“What—” Jake began.

“Yeah,” said the Chief.

Both palms covered her face and her shoulders shook.

“Monica?” the Chief asked with a worried note in his voice.

Snort. Snort.
The sound leaked through her fingers and filled the car.

“Monica!” the Chief said.

Her hands fell away from her face. She collapsed in paroxysms of uncontrolled laughter. “Admit it,” she got out through another spasm of mirth. “That was the funniest thing you’ve ever seen!”

Jake couldn’t help it. He snickered and clamped his lips together trying to stifle his urge to join her.

“Dear heaven,” she said and dissolved into a renewed fit of giggles. “I have to sit here for a minute or I’m gonna pee my pants!”

Jake couldn’t hold it together any longer. He disintegrated into his own chortles of merriment.

The Chief glanced upward. “I’m surrounded by idiots,” he said and joined in the levity of the others.

Monica composed herself and settled the car into drive again.

The trio fell silent for another minute or two. “So,” the Chief said, “other than that, Mrs. Lincoln, how was the play?”

The car came to a stop once again.