It's story time

I was driving to work when I felt the boss knocking on my consciousness.

“ Jesus Christ, “ I muttered to myself, taking a final drag on my cigarette and flicking the butt out my open window. Couldn’t help but notice the clear blue sky. Damn shame, it was shaping up to be such a nice day too.

{ … let me in Allen … } I heard the old bastard’s voice echo. I dutifully opened my mind and let him in.

{ … where the hell are we … } he asked. He was losing his touch, too long off the streets, too long behind a desk. I’d have recognized the location by the bumps in the road and the faint, metallic smell of the meat packing district. I looked at the nearest street sign so he could read the names.

“ Lennox and King, “ I read aloud.

{ … glad you can make it out. Christ man, you ever consider getting glasses … }

I ignored the barb. Instead, I was curious as to why had he bothered Riding me. Technically I was already fifteen minutes late for work but Inspektors weren’t usually required to keep regular hours. And besides, with all the unpaid overtime we put in I was probably owed a month or two off anyway.

“ Listen boss, I know I’m a bit late, but … “

{ … what is that taste ? Have you been drinking … } he cut me off mid-sentence.

My tongue betrayed me and probed the roof of my mouth. Old cop trick, getting people to react before they think. He’d played me into revealing my hand, should’ve just held tight and denied it. I’d brushed my teeth thoroughly, should’ve known there was no chance of a lingering taste.

“ Just cornflakes and nicotine boss. So what’s … “

{ … listen Allen, we’ve got a bad one. I need you in ASAP … }

“ Thrill kill ? “ I asked.

{ … we don’t think so. Attempted robbery but it’s … well, you’ll see when you get in … }

“ OK. “

{ … so how far out are you … } he asked.

“ In this traffic ? “ I rolled my eyes across the cars in front of me to emphasize my point, “ Heavy but moving. Probably still twenty, twenty five minutes. “ And you’d know that if you still knew anything about this town, I thought but didn’t say out loud.

{ … O.K., check in with me as soon as you’re in. Got your gun with you … }

I reached across and patted my side so he could feel the solid weight in my shoulder holster.

“ Always. Gonna need it ? “

{ … hope not. Check in with me when you arrive … }

“ Yeah I heard you the … “ but I could already feel that his mind had disconnected from mine. Back to his balding head, middle aged paunch and world class halitosis.

So the chief had a job for me to do. That could be good or it could be bad. No way of knowing until I got there. Nothing to do but inch through the traffic and wait. I couldn’t help but taste the inside of my mouth again. Sly old devil. Still, no proof, no disciplinary action. I decided to leave my hip flask in the glovebox and lit up another cigarette instead.

Nice story.
It seems that you love L.A NOIRE very much.

Cool story bro (I mean that literally.) Have any aspirations of writing a book or something like that?

I pulled my sled into my spot in the station parking lot. Although there was nothing to mark the space as mine, it was left empty for me by deference. Another advantage of being an Inspektor. There was a pecking order that was respected in the department, official or not. I swing my keys as I entered the station, wondering what sort of a state I’d find Caffyn in. He must’ve had his panties in a serious bunch to have bothered contacting me on the way in to work. It was unprecedented.

I gave a curt nod to the Desk Sergeant, Lardner, who nodded back. If there was a downside to the pecking order, this was it. Although it provoked camaraderie between peers and a kind of awed respect from those on their way up, it brought a different mood from those who had risen as high as they ever would do, and it wasn’t as high as they’d hoped. There was still a necessary show of respect there but it was grudging, more show than substance. The Inspektors resided in the police station, but we were just barely a part of it.

The door to the Inspektor’s office swung open with a nudge from the toe of my shoe. Crossing the threshold was like entering different world. This was where I belonged. A number of voices called out greetings as my fellow Inspektors looked up from their desks, newspapers and morning coffees.

“ Hey Double Down, you been teaching skydiving lessons ? “ a voice rang out over the others.

“ Jam it up your ass, Miles, “ I called back. Miles Goldwyn was always the first guy to razz on you for anything and everything. He, like most of the department, called me Double Down. Not for anything to do with cards, but because my full name is John Allen. Some wit long ago decided that I had two first names and no family name. Hence, Double Down. I thought it was a stupid nickname, not least of which because it took longer to say than ‘Allen’ which I preferred.

“ Morning Blue, “ I said to my partner. My partner also had a nickname, which made more sense than mine as his real name was Stanislav Pryzbelowski and no one could be bothered saying the full thing, including me. I have no idea where the name ‘Blue’ came from but it was how I’d always known him.

“ You see this ? “ Blue mumbled, shaking his newspaper at me without looking up from it.

“ Caffyn wants to see us. Now. Seemed excited. “

“ Air show, “ Blue continued, ignoring me.

“ Is this what Miles was crowing about ? “

“ Probably. Skydiver at an airshow, “ Blue put down the paper and looked at me. “ Dropped, dropped, dropped. Proper position, beautiful form, dead on target. In fact, he was just a couple of feet just outside the bullseye when he packed into the dirt at terminal velocity. Half the crowd was Riding him at the time, got to see the White Light. Mothers, kids, you name it. Very traumatic. “

My past as a paratrooper in the War was well known around the department. Hell, more than half the Inspektors had seen some kind of action. But even amongst them, my time spent in recon was well respected. Respected and tastefully almost never mentioned. If it was brought up, it was usually by guys who’d stayed at home during the War. Guys like Miles.

“ Chute failure ? “ I asked. A thought that formed a hard fist in my stomach, no matter how many times I’d jumped.

“ Worse. Sick bastard did it on purpose. “

“ Suicide ? “

“ Like I said, half the crowd was Riding him at the time. They all said the same thing, never even reached for his … thing. “

“ Ripcord ? “

“ Ripcord. Yes. Didn’t make a move. Kept himself splayed out like a frog until he hit. Hadn’t hit his head, wasn’t unconscious. The witnesses Riding him said he was looking around and, get this, laughing. “ Blue shrugged. “ Suicide, sick bastard. Do what you want, but it’s a shame all them families had to see it. “

“ Yeah. Shame. “

“ Come on then, “ Blue grunted, stretching his lanky frame upright. “ Let’s go see Caffyn before the fat prick has an annerism. “

“ Aneurysm ? “

Blue shot me a dark look. He was born in the country but his parents spoke Polish at home when he was a kid and his English sometimes failed on him. I considered it a testament to our friendship that he didn’t tear my head off for picking him up on it.

“ Don’t look so sour, Blue. Come on. “

My partner stepped in behind me as we walked through the rest of the office to our Captain’s door.

You should really think about writing a book.