Senile Squad: Adventures of the Old Blues (4 page)

“Yeah,” Bud said. “Hundreds of miles of sewer pipes had to be fixed.”

“Well,” Ben said, “Dan’s spearheading the specially designed sewer network—not one but four that have an amazing resemblance to tunnels, so wide a couple of golf carts could easily drive the length of each. When the improvement to the city system finally reaches us out here, the plumbing will be ready to immediately link up to the city.”

“And, of course, the city planners and inspectors were ecstatic,” Bud drawled.

Ben smiled at the memory. “Absolutely. No charge to the taxpayers,” he murmured to his companions. “Always the magic words.”

Downstairs, far below the public face of the project was the main supply room. Solid steel doors declared: Restricted—No Admittance. Washing machines lined one wall; janitorial and indoor maintenance supplies sat in adjacent cabinets.

“’Bout time you three got down here.”

Delighted that he’d managed to induce the Sarge to head up the operation, Ben smiled and strode over to shake his hand. With a nod of approval at the tall, white-haired man, Ben turned to introduce him to his associates.

“Sarge,” he said, “our compatriots in this venture: Bud and Frieda Williams. Bud and Frieda, Sarge.”

The Sarge, tall and imposing in retirement, grasped each person’s hand in turn to shake it. Ben remembered his introduction and the firm grip of a man who still worked out and kept in shape.

The Sarge pulled his well-chewed but still unlit cigar from his mouth, his brows knitting. “You mean the insurance gods?”

Ben, Bud, and Frieda laughed. “I wouldn’t go that far,” she said.

“No wonder this place is so James Bond,” the Sarge said. His frown disappeared and a smile lit his lined face. “This plan is genius. It’s gonna be great!”

“So who have you chosen to run this particular area?” Ben asked. “The Sarge says the supply room is the key to everything: secrecy, uniformity, and general success.”

The Sarge scratched behind his ear and cocked his head. “Paps and Jerry are my pick. They were responsible for the supply room at headquarters and ran the weapons room for riot teams when we were on the job.”

“That’s fine for paperclips and smoke grenades,” Bud said, “but this is going to be much bigger. It’ll be the heart of your command center.”

“Yes,” Frieda added. “What we have in mind isn’t only equipment, but research and development of surveillance, intelligence, light weaponry, and an entire staff of dedicated research and development personnel to tap into the local corporations for funding.”

“We want the best and brightest lab technicians in the surveillance industry,” Bud said. “There’s an entire network of bomb shelters and tunnels under this facility, and it’ll have the latest equipment, labs, testing ranges, and—”

“A supply room maybe?” Sarge asked. Stuffing the stogy back between his lips, he strode to a desk and lowered himself in what looked to be a custom-made recliner.

He pointed a long index finger at a startled Ben who knew from the first moment that this grizzled veteran of the streets was needed for his power and command. Even so, Ben wasn’t used to being pointed at and ordered around.

“Look,” the Sarge said. “Paps and Jerry ran that program tighter than anyone I worked with in twenty-five years. You have no idea what it takes to keep an updated inventory of every piece of equipment from paperclips to smoke grenades. Paps and Jerry do.”

Ben stared at the tough, blunt ex-cop and reminded himself why he’d courted the Sarge for exactly this job. Sarge was the linchpin. Ben knew nothing about police work, surveillance, or catching the bad guys. Sarge could bring their plans to fruition. The Bureau could put all the bells and whistles they wanted into this structure, but without the right people, it would end up a money pit. Ben let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding and pressed his lips together. “They sound like the perfect duo,” he said.

The Sarge smiled and pointed at Ben once more. “Good. Now unclench your butt cheeks; you’re crushing your checkbook,” he said around the wad in his mouth.

Bud exchanged a disbelieving look with Ben and Frieda. “The Sarge knows his stuff,” Ben said in a low voice. “That’s why I chose him—begged him—to head up our operation.”

“Guess he never heard that discretion is the better form of valor,” Bud said.

“Or the one about flies and honey,” Frieda said.

“Listen and learn,” Ben said. “I know nothing about this stuff, do you?”

The threesome took seats across from the Sarge. “Go ahead, Sarge,” Ben said. “Enlighten us.”

A smile split Sarge’s face. “Right. How are those butt cheeks?”

Ben couldn’t help it; he laughed out loud. The Sarge might be a gruff old bird, but he was also honest and forthright to the point of bluntness. Exactly what they needed for success.

Bud and Frieda each fought back smiles, and the tension disappeared.

“Okay,” the Sarge said, leaning forward. “These guys had to not only keep an up-to-date inventory, they organized and ran the entire police supply room. It was huge and they were unbelievable. They knew the expiration dates of all types of equipment—when it had to be replaced and where to get it. They regulated which personnel could go into their supply room and who could walk more than two feet inside. They went eight to ten hours in a windowless room forty hours a week, and they were as sharp at the end of shift as they were at the beginning.”

The Sarge tapped his fingers on his desk and leaned closer to Ben. “You have any idea how hard it is to find one guy like that, let alone two? And it didn’t matter your rank; you didn’t have proper authorization, you didn’t get in. Sergeant, lieutenant, captain…even the chief himself…they didn’t care—believe me on this. Guys like that are always the backbone of any police facility with any type of equipment or weapon. Everything needs to be secure, and with what we’re gonna have behind these walls.” He thrust a wide thumb over his shoulder. “I wouldn’t trust to anyone except Paps and Jerry. Whatever we have— security, organization, and the sheer know-how to keep this operation functioning smoothly—needs to be in their very capable hands.”

“Wait a minute,” Bud said. “Are you asking us to relinquish full control to you? You can’t be serious. This will be hundreds of millions of dollars worth in—”

Ben exchanged a glance with him and shrugged. “We’ll give you a year of control,” he told the Sarge. “If we like the results, we’ll turn everything over to you; if we don’t like the results…” Ben let the threat hang in the air a long moment. “Then we’ve built an excellent retirement center and everything else goes away. Deal?”

The Sarge gnawed on the still-to-be-lit smoke. After a long moment, he gave them a curt nod. “Deal.”

Relieved, Ben settled into the leather chair. If the Sarge and his men knew what they were talking about—and it looked like they did— they’d achieve the outcome they wanted for the city.

Ben stood to leave; Bud and Frieda followed suit. “One year,” he said. “Got an address on those two?”

The Sarge scratched the names and addresses for Paps and Jerry and handed it to Bud. “Give ’em the same sales pitch you gave me.”

Ben smiled and gave the older man a quick salute. “Will do.”

A month later, there were Ol’ Blues manning the renovated Ol’ Blue Precinct. It was still in the initial phases of development. Ben Mitchell had persuaded Paps and Jerry to come out and tour the special retirement home for police officers. Paps and Jerry walked into the former vets’ home and exchanged a puzzled look with each other and their escort, Ben Mitchell. “You sure this is the right place, young man?” Paps asked.

“Yes sir,” Ben said. “Just walk inside. I think you’ll like what you see.”

Paps and Jerry did so. There was a large reception area with a beautiful white-tiled floor. There was a dark wooden information desk with a young lady talking on the telephone. From the reception area there were four different brass double-door exits that obviously went to different branches of the facility. Above each was a plaque that had writing.

Ben sensing that the men were trying to figure out the exact layout of the building pointed to the door on the left. “That corridor leads to the medical and educational wing,” Ben said with a nod in that direction. “The large one in the middle leads to the precinct and the other two on the right…well, that one—” he indicated the closest to them, “goes to the state offices, and that one goes to the supply area.”

“Supply area?” they asked in unison.

“Yep,” Ben said with a smile. “Let’s get you settled in.”

Paps and Jerry were briefly shown around the wings and then taken down the hallway that said
The Precinct.

“Strange name for a retirement wing, don’cha think?” Paps said in a stage whisper to Jerry out of the corner of his mouth.

“Can’t wait to see the rooms,” Jerry muttered back. “They probably have steel bars.”

The two friends chuckled. Approaching two large wooden doors, Ben hopped two steps in front of them, glanced over his shoulder, and pulled the door open with a wide smile. Sounds they hadn’t heard in years greeted them. A soft click-click-click tapped through the air. In a nod to safety, once the doors completely opened, they stayed open until physically pulled close or someone inside the precinct pushed a button to do so.

Paps and Jerry froze and stared in open-mouthed amazement. “That almost sounds like—”

“Typewriters!” Jerry interrupted.

Ben stepped back and gestured with his arm for the friends to enter. “Please, gentlemen, after you.”

Paps and Jerry walked through the doors. Retro typewriters, old electric fans, and men involved in indiscernible conversations enveloped the room. Two steps inside Paps and Jerry stopped and stared from one side to the other and back again.

Ben watched their lined faces light up as though they’d stepped into a fog of youthful memories. Paps cast his gaze from the north wall to his left where a series of black metal file cabinets rested. On top of those an antique electric fan turned just fast enough to create a light breeze. One blade clipped the outer protective cage in a rhythmic squeak. A large chalkboard specified the local neighborhoods and announced the names of officers assigned to each. BOLOs—Be On the Look Out—clamped to clipboards hung down. Black-and-white mug shots of tough-looking criminals with small chalkboards sporting names, descriptions, and assigned inmate numbers stared out.

Sunlight flooded the room from wide windows. With no fluorescent lighting, bulbs from hooded fixtures hanging from the ceiling bathed the room in a golden glow. “How long has it been since you’ve seen a typewriter?” Paps asked Jerry.

“A million years—give or take,” his friend replied.

White-haired officers were perched behind wooden desks scattered throughout the room. “How many do you think are working here?” Jerry asked Paps.

“Twenty max,” his friend said.

“The uniforms…” Paps said. “Wow.”

Each officer sported the blue hat and Omaha Police uniform. No one bothered looking up. The typing continued. “Are they writing up reports?” Jerry asked.

“And forms,” Paps added.

“Look,” Jerry pointed at a vintage rotary telephone. “Dials.”

Paps gave a long, low whistle. “Wow.”

Seated at a large desk higher than the others Paps and Jerry spotted an elderly officer with a wizened face and understanding smile. Reaching down he pressed a button and glanced back at the two guests.

“Looks kinda like the old precinct on Tenth Street before they tore it down,” Jerry said.

“Kinda?” Paps asked. “Looks exactly like it!”

“Paps,” Jerry said in a bad stage whisper. “They’re not wearing pants.”

Paps spun around to the working officers. “What?”

“They’ve got the hats and shirts but no slacks,” Jerry said.

Instead of regulation-issued pants, the men wore hospital gowns. Their shirts covered the top but trousers were nonexistent. It was abundantly clear to anyone standing behind that some displayed adult diapers and others exhibited boxer underwear.

“Oh, jeeze,” Paps said. “Their shoes!”

Black patent leather gleamed up at them. Suspenders wrapped around the lower leg holding up each man’s socks.