(II)
“Hey, Pappy Halm!”
Trey called out just as he stepped out of his cruiser in front of
the Qwik-Mart. “What’choo think you’re doin’?”
The old proprietor
stopped, cane in one hand, dragging the large front garbage can
with the other. “I’m takin’ out the fuckin’ garbage, ya moe-ron.
What’s it look like?”
“Looks like an old
codger tryin’ ta pull twice what he weighs. Let me take care a’
that for ya.”
“Aw, fuck you, ya
young fuck!” the old man railed. “I was bustin’ beaver when you was
a tadpole in yer daddy’s sack. Back in my day I could haul ten of
these, with you on my back.”
“I’m sure ya could,
Pappy. But that was back when Roosevelt was in office. Teddy Roosevelt. So why don’t ya let me take
that?”
Old man Halm jerked
on the big can a few more times, grunted, then gave up. “Fuck it!
My taxes pay your salary, so you empty
the sucker!”
“My pleasure, Pappy.
You can gimme a free coffee once I’m done.”
Halm waved his cane
in the air. “Yeah! I got’ cher free coffee for ya right here, so
you come ‘n’ get it!” And then he grabbed his crotch and hobbled
back into the store.
Sergeant Trey laughed
at the old man’s spunk. A tightwad pain in the ass, but Trey liked
him. Pappy Halm was a black-and-white, commonsense kind of fella,
and Trey felt that he himself was too.
What he was doing
right now, for instance . . . it made sense, and no, it had nothing
to do with giving the old man a hand taking out the store
garbage.
The point was the
contents of the garbage can.
If I don’t do it, someone else will.
Trey knew he was a
lousy cop deep down, but he felt confident that that didn’t mean he
was a lousy person. It’s all give and take.
Dog eat dog. Shit, I‘m a decent guy
mostly. I pay my bills, provide for my wife, even go to church at
least twice a year. . . . Perception was interpretive and
abstract. Trey arrested bad people, so that was good, right? He
helped make the world a little bit safer by submitting to an
ungratifying and often sordid job. He and Marcy never had
kids—because, after knocking up a good dozen gals before tying the
knot and paying mightily for abortions, he got a vasectomy. See,
one thing was for sure: he sure as shit
didn’t want kids. Marcy wanted kids bad, but he never told her
about his trip to the doctor, because if he had she never would’ve
married him, and back in her day she was one hot number. Trey
wouldn’t stand for her marrying anyone else, especially as good in
bed as she was. So that was the short version. He lied. He let her
marry him believing he would give her children when in fact he was
shooting big-time blanks.
Which was beside the
point.
The point, relative
to the true nature of Trey, was that if he did have kids, he’d be a
decent father. He knew that. He wouldn’t neglect his kids, wouldn’t
beat ‘em, and would make sure they always had food in their
bellies. Period. And as far as husbanding went? The same.
I’m a good husband, damn it, he felt
sure. He kept a roof over Marcy’s head, kept food in the fridge,
and never slapped her around, even when she mouthed off. Five years
after they got married, her looks went to shit in a handbasket,
legs turned to cellulite tubes, tits dropped down to her belly like
a couple of limp sacks full of flour, but even with all that, Trey
never cheated on her. Oral sex on the side wasn’t cheating (it was
a Southern law: “Eatin’ ain’t cheatin’,” and by God, Trey was a
Southern man) because it lacked the intimacy of intercourse, that
parameter of closeness that coupled the body and soul, so a few
blow jobs per week from hookers and bar tramps hardly constituted a
breach of the covenant of matrimony. So, yeah, Trey was a faithful
husband to boot.
And as for certain
private activities that he might engage in on occasion . . . did
that make him a bad person?
No, he felt determined. No
way.
He had some
connections—all cops did. Ain’t no force on
earth can stop the drug trade. Better me makin’ some cash than a
dealer. After all, he’d spend the money more responsibly,
wouldn’t he? Once he dragged that big garbage can around to the
back of the store, it didn’t take too much plowing around before he
came up with the tackle box full of crystal meth that Chief Sutter
had dropped in there yesterday.
Yes, sir, Trey thought.
He tossed the box in
the patrol car, emptied the garbage, and brought the can back
around. Fifteen more minutes, he
thought, looking at his watch, and I gotta go
pick up the chief. He was about to go in the store for a
quick coffee, just when his cell phone rang.
“Sergeant Trey
here.”
“You recognize my
voice? Just say yes or no.”
“Sure
do.”
“Good. Don’t say my
name.” A pause. “You recall our previous conversation? About the
backup plan?”
“Sure do,” Trey
said.
“Things aren’t
working as well as I’d like. So I’m going to implement that plan.
Are you up for it?”
Trey smiled. “Sure
am.” Then he remembered what he’d tossed into the patrol car a
moment ago. “And you ain’t gonna believe what I just pulled out of
the trash. . . .”