Senile Squad: Adventures of the Old Blues (9 page)

Tiny didn’t wait; he launched an attack by springing on the biggest pawn in the group! Earnest stared in wide-eyed disbelief.

“What the hell is he doing?” Earnest wondered. Like a crazed psycho, Tiny started swinging his nightstick. The speed and ferocity of the attack made the youngsters pause. They each froze at the sight of the little cop slashing, first into the skull of the biggest, mouthiest young man, then directly into the one to his right.

In a heartbeat Earnest’s two young gorillas lay on the ground, blood trickling from a gash in each scalp. Moans of pain drifted to Earnest standing in the shadows. Three of Earnest’s lunks remained, and they should’ve been enough to finish anybody off. Once the initial shock wore off, they tackled the little man and swung wildly at him. Sirens wailed in the distance. Earnest willed them to pound Tiny into the pavement and run.

The attackers turned toward the sound of backup and then to Tiny. One brute caught the small cop from behind in a chokehold, and Tiny bit a chunk out of his forearm. The youngster jerked his arm back with a scream and ran into the night. The last two exchanged a panicked look and eyed the cop. Tiny spat a chunk of bloody flesh onto the ground and hurled a string of obscenities at Earnest’s last two men. “I will beat the holy living—”

In almost choreographed unity, they’d turned and run into the darkness just as the summoned cruisers turned the corner.

In the next week, word of the attempted beating spread to the streets. Earnest had tried to set Tiny up and not only failed miserably but ended up creating a professional persona that everyone respected and feared—on both sides of the law. “Don’t mess with the short cop,” Earnest would hear them whisper. “He’s crazy!”

Once that reputation was made, Earnest couldn’t budge his associates to make a move against Tiny again. The memory of the whole incident gnawed at Earnest through the years. Even now a renewed resentment filled his being. Instead of getting even, Earnest made him a legend!

To make things worse, Tiny had always seemed to know Earnest’s game, all his setups. One beautiful fall evening, Earnest stood on the front porch of his pregnant girlfriend’s house. Reclining against the railing with his back to the street, Tiny’s soft-spoken but stony words floated toward Earnest.

“Thought you’d get me, didn’t you?” Tiny taunted Earnest.

Earnest whirled around scanning the yard for his nemesis.

Across the street, Tiny waved from his patrol car, his face slightly above the open window. “Now it’s my turn. You’ll be in prison or the grave—doesn’t matter which to me!”

Smiling at Tiny, Earnest had stuck his hands out from his sides and shrugged in an I-don’t-know-what-you’re-talking-about move.

“Don’t lie to me punk. I-will-have-you!” Tiny bit off each word and punctuated the last one with an index finger pointed directly at Earnest.

Heat crept up the back of Earnest’s neck, and he tamped down his growing rage. Somehow, Tiny had known who set him up. All the hustling he’d done, all the secret empire building and money laundering would be no more. He was a sitting duck; the ferocious little cop intended on ruining him. Instead of running across the lawn and putting his fist through Tiny’s face, Earnest turned on his heel and walked into the house.

Earnest left the door open and Tiny watched as a female—probably his girlfriend, and pregnant by the looks of things, approached him. With a point toward the door, she said something to Earnest. A quick slap shut her up and she stumbled back, a look of shock on her face. Tiny clenched his teeth, his hand flying to the door handle and intent on a domestic intervention.

At the same time, the girl stepped into the open doorway. Her hand covered her cheek where Tiny knew there’d be a bruise tomorrow. In an oh-so-brief moment, she locked her gaze with Tiny’s before closing the front door.

Tiny slumped back in his seat and exhaled. What a gift! The girl was the key to putting Yates away. A smirk pulled at Tiny’s lips.

Over the next weeks and months, Tiny secretly contacted Earnest’s girlfriend, always making sure to talk to her when he observed a bruise or any evidence of physical abuse. In turn, she’d told Tiny about Earnest’s hustling. Tiny always knew where to catch him and took special delight in tossing his keister in jail.

In five short years, Tiny had nabbed Earnest for two major felonies and ten serious misdemeanors. Earnest hadn’t spent much time on the outside and little to none with his girlfriend. Evidently that was the way she’d wanted it. With Earnest in prison, she and her child could live a happier life. Tiny was only too happy to help the two of them out.

Earnest slammed his fist on the table in front of him, rattling the chess set and knocking over the pieces. Those last two felonies had gotten him fifteen to twenty-five years to be served consecutively. What Earnest wouldn’t give for the chance to even things up with the cop who’d always been in the right place at the right time, always able to catch him, always able to nail him.

Karma just handed him the perfect setup. Earnest now knew where Tiny lived. Twirling his opponent’s pawn between thumb and forefinger, Earnest smiled. “And I have the perfect patsy for the job.” Lips drawing up in a cold smile, he glanced at the back of Clubba’s head. “Just perfect.”

The game was on.

“HEY, CHELINI BROTHERS!” THE SARGE CALLED OUT TO two men across the room that buzzed with activity. Equipment and machines hummed between stacks of papers and reports. Telephone conversations droned under it all. “We got a surveillance and security detail I want you two to handle.”

Pauli Chelini, son of Italian immigrants born in the 1950s, glanced up. Olive complected with a still thick shock of hair more pepper than salt, he had a widow’s peak that Dracula would’ve envied. “Yeah, Sarge.”

Tony, younger by thirteen months, carried the same stocky frame of their younger days. Both brothers shared dark brown eyes and bushy brows, but where Pauli had thick hair slicked straight back, Tony was chrome-dome, shiny bald. “Coming,” he called out.

Both men dropped their reports and walked over to their superior. “What is it, Sarge?” Tony asked.

“Looks like that hood Clubba plans on having his ex-girlfriend and her sister whacked because they testified against him. That prick doesn’t like any loose ends,” the Sarge said.

“Probably juice up his goons with wet and let ’em loose,” Pauli said. “No tellin’ what kind of ruckus they’ll cause.”

“Where are the girls staying?” Tony asked.

“One of those three-story jobs at Sixtieth and Etna, right?” The Sarge yelled into the air at nobody in particular.

“Right Sarge.” A Blue replied from behind him. “First-floor apartment with Grandma.”

“Got it?” Sarge asked.

They nodded.

“Word is he has his bangers looking for them; it’s just a matter of time before they find them. His usual MO is to have his gang prowl around so the victim sees ’em before making their move. Terror’s the precursor to the violence with these mopes.”

“Clubba’s the one who loves the terror. Likes people to be scared of him. He’ll wait till he’s outta prison and finish those girls his own way. That way he keeps the respect of his community and his other pallies,” Tony said. “You sure he doesn’t have some Italian in him?”

The Sarge cracked a grin. “You may be right; he’ll just keep ’em terrified to step outside and avoid any new charges. He’ll leave the bashing for himself.”

The Sarge clicked his tongue. “I love hating that punk. Well—” he yelled into the air again, “we ain’t gonna let that happen will we, boys?”

A chorus of grunts and cheers of agreement filled the squad room.

“Pauli,” Sarge called out when things settled down. He slid off his chair and walked to the middle of the tiled room.

“Yo!” he replied.

“Set up an over/under surveillance on this. For the over, get an apartment above the grandmother’s—the closer the better. Keep the windows dark; set up the audio and video equipment with a full view of the courtyard surrounding the apartment.” The Sarge paced between the desks. “The under will be you two harmless old Italian men playing chess in the courtyard. Can you still speak Italian?” he asked the brothers.

“Grandma Chelini’ll haunt us for sure if we don’t,” Pauli said with a wink at his brother.

“Good,” Sarge said. “You can waltz around the grounds with your special hearing aids specifically designed with video recorders and directional microphones that can pick up anything within fifty feet. You’ll be transmitting to the audio-visual center in the over. All anyone wearing these things has to do is look in the direction of the subject and everything they say gets recorded.”

“Mama mia, I love this stuff!”

Sarge took a deep breath and sighed. “I want everything Clubba’s punks do and say recorded when they’re in the area. Get it all set up for the gang unit to cuff ’em and stuff ’em.”

“Got it, Sarge,” the brothers said simultaneously.

“Tiny!” the Sarge barked over his shoulder en route to his office. “Fill out the forms for the equipment we need and get it to supply. The Ol’ Blues are gonna be loosed on those punks—finally.” He bit the last word off through gritted teeth.

Surveillance at the apartment on Etna ran as smoothly as the Sarge could ever want. A new crime spree in South Omaha now held his attention—standing in front of a big-screen television where a local news anchor, looking particularly serious, read her teleprompter. In the background over the anchor’s left shoulder a picture featured a woman on the ground raising her hand and pointing toward two robbers in dark clothing running away with her purse in tow.

“A rash of these thefts has hit the metro area,” the reporter stated. “Police tell us the gang unit has been assigned. As you can see in that security video, the male suspects approach the victim, speak briefly to her before knocking her to the ground and grabbing her purse. This woman and several others have been hospitalized.”

The female reporter added, “Unfortunately, there is no concrete description of the assailants. They have been described as white, black, and Latinos. After knocking their victim to the ground and taking her purse, they run to a waiting vehicle for their getaway. Anyone with information about these suspects is asked to please contact the Omaha Police Department.”

Sarge watched the two surveillance videos released to the public through narrowed eyes. “Can’t see anything from those angles, but there’s a different vehicle at each scene. Sometimes a sedan, sometimes an SUV.” The Sarge took his cigar from his mouth. “Smitty!” he bellowed into the precinct war room.

“Staff took him; they’re doing somethin’ with him, Sarge!” A Blue in the precinct office said. “I think the staff is bathing and changing his piss ’n shi—er…I mean—uh, ah,” the anonymous voice stuttered. “Poop bag. Sorry, Sarge. I know ya don’t like cussin’. He should be finished pretty quick; they took him away about forty-five minutes ago.”

“Fine. Have him report to me soon as he gets back,” he snapped. Sarge re-ran the surveillance video several times. “If anybody can get anything outta of this, it’s Smitty.”

The Sarge and William Smith had joined the force together in the late sixties. They’d kept in touch through the years but didn’t socialize together much. Smitty loved the graveyard shift and worked it for twenty-five years until he was gut-shot chasing two punks who robbed a liquor store. As they fled, one turned and fired. The shot hit the ground three feet in front of Smitty and ricocheted up. The bullet splintered and damaged his colon, and he ended up wearing a colostomy bag and riding the front desk at headquarters for the remainder of his career.

He was the quintessential cop. Married three times, his life was typical of too many police officers. Wives hardly survived their spouse working midnights, drinking too much, missing birthdays, anniversaries, school programs, and recitals let alone living with the hard-nosed cop attitude Smitty wore like a second skin. Everybody lies! Only believe what you can verify and only half of what you see, he’d always said. That worldview worked wonders on the street but not in a marriage.

Out of three marriages, Smitty had two daughters. One hadn’t spoken to him in nineteen years and still didn’t. The other, Brittany, adored him. At twenty-nine she was a gorgeously stubborn redhead with a fiery temper. Guys stared at her, but she always had other things to do besides date. She was a criminal justice major at the University of Nebraska at Omaha and—in Smitty’s mind at least—taking entirely too long to get her degree.

Along the way, she’d become a Mormon. Smitty didn’t mind; they didn’t drink or smoke, and he actually admired those young guys in suits. Even Smitty admitted they were a cut above. If anyone seemed honest, it was those guys although Smitty never quite admitted it out loud. Five years back, Brittany caught the missionary zeal, quit college against her father’s wishes, and served an eighteen-month mission in Africa. Working the refugee camps, she helped refugees from South Sudan who’d escaped their war-ravaged country.

Surprisingly, she picked up the language quickly. She’d become a local celebrity with her red hair and milk-white skin. Sudanese children and women loved to touch her hair and would press her arm and squeeze. Once they let go, capillary filling occurred, and they’d watch in awe as her skin would go from white to pink. They’d never seen anything like it and never tired of the new game.

Brittany was the only person who really understood her father, other than Sarge, and she was also the only one who could talk sense into him. Smitty had the uncanny ability to see little details everyone else missed. Having worked the streets all those years, little details were important to him, and Smitty was the one who could always figure out what any bit of information meant.

Before retirement, the Sarge had made daily mail runs to headquarters that always included a stop by Smitty’s desk. If he had a particularly troublesome case, he’d run it by Smitty to get his take on things. Nothing was one hundred percent, but Smitty was a good ninety-nine percenter—exactly why Sarge had chosen him as one of the first in the Ol’ Blue Unit.

Within fifteen minutes, Smitty walked up. Tall at over six feet, his flowing white hair still bore a touch of the deep brown on the sides… remnants of a more youthful time. “Hey Sarge. What you got?”

Smitty was still in his classic hospital robe—no back. Sarge suppressed a hearty grin and smart-aleck remark. It was all part of the precinct façade. They all hated it and would rather wear regulation clothes, but that wasn’t happening. This was the mother of all undercover work, and they had to dress the part. No more blue uniforms for street officers or shirt and tie for detectives. There’d almost been a full-scale riot over the issue.

Patients, the medical staff explained, wore the medical robes; the cops demanded professional attire. Eventually the Sarge negotiated a compromise. Cops wore the top of their uniforms specially built with snaps in the back for easy opening, but the bottom had to be the robe.

Uniform shirts were worn over the robes, but the bottoms were those awful tush-exposing cotton things. The Blues called them indignity bottoms. Baring an adult diaper or occasional urine bag or two wasn’t all; their skinny legs, black shoes, and black straps holding up their black socks also saw the light of day. Uniformed officers kept their hats on with their matching shirts. The arrangement had been going for a couple of months, but it still made the Sarge chuckle to himself at the sight. The precinct was a hub of activity with officers scurrying around, yelling back and forth as if the whole scene was completely normal.

Smitty, too, wore his cop uppers and his indignity bottoms. Sometimes, Sarge thought, you just have to bow to the absurd.

“Good grief, Smitty! What did you do?”

Smitty had several pieces of toilet paper attached to his face, each with a red speck dotting the middle. Obviously, in his haste Smitty tried a quick shave after his bath.

“Oh, this.” He touched a spot and grinned. “Trying to stay pretty for Boss Nurse.”

Boss Nurse, as she was known to the Ol’ Blues, was actually nurse Betsy Carroway. A large woman at millimeters over five foot eleven, she weighed three hundred pounds if she weighed an ounce. Raised in Mississippi, she could speak with the sweetest gentility and in the next breath, if needed, verbally assault an unruly patient. Her pointed Southern drawl, quick instruction, and wide-eyed stare made every cop in the unit jump.

If an officer didn’t want to take a shower and tried to argue, her eyes got wide, hands went to her hips, and a barrage of rapid-fire words flew out of her mouth, starting with, “Wha’d you say?” Or “Get your diaper-wearin’ self up to that shower right now, you hear? Or I might just join ya’ll.”

Everyone took his shower.

“I’m sure she’ll be duly impressed, Smitty,” the Sarge said with a wide grin.

Smitty echoed his good humor. “The last thing I want is her mad at me. I heard she actually picked up a Blue and shoved him in the drink, clothes and all. She’d make a pretty mean cop, don’t you think?”

“That she would.” Finished with the small talk, Sarge clicked on the DVD. “Here’s what we got on those South O snatchers.”

Smitty watched intently. “I heard about this. There’s been a slew of this stuff recently.”

Sarge pointed to the split screen. “This is surveillance on two of them; the department isn’t sure if they’re related or not. The news makes it sound like they’re different groups of guys, possibly different gangs that are randomly hitting victims around town.”