Over the Darkened Landscape - By Derryl Murphy Page 0,34
the captain and then at Simone. Munro just leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, but Simone was staring hard at Mike, almost glaring. Finally he shrugged, looked at her with what he hoped was an apologetic face, and said, “I’ll do it. I can’t turn down this chance to prove I can handle it.”
Simone stood up, threw up her hands. “You stupid prick. You’ve only been on the job a couple of days. What the hell do you think you need to prove?”
“That’s enough, Perez,” whispered the captain. Even that quiet Mike could hear the threat in his voice. “You’re going to get a bump up as well, go back up to detective.”
Back? thought Mike.
“It’s not about a promotion, captain,” protested Simone, but he waved her off.
“You have a suit?” he asked Mike, whose thoughts jumped back to the situation at hand.
“Yes, sir. In my locker.”
“Right. Go downstairs and get changed. I’ll meet you at Sarge’s desk with your new badge and the keys to your car. You too, Perez. Make it fast.”
Mike stood, saluted, and left the office, Simone right behind him. In the squad room, a dozen faces all turned to look at them, but no-one said a word. A telephone rang, but everyone ignored it at least until the two of them had crossed the room and were through the door to the stairwell.
The car was a ratty old Buick, probably the worst one in the garage. But at least it was his own, and he thought it went well with his shiny new badge and his brown, slightly dilapidated secondhand suit, slacks hanging by mismatched suspenders while they waited for a chance to be taken in. Simone sat in the passenger’s seat this time, sullen, staring out the window, looking quite snazzy in her beige outfit.
He reached the edge of Templeton in about fifteen minutes, pulled the car to the curb and just sat there, staring at the Line and gripping the steering wheel tight enough for his knuckles to go white. Several squad cars sat at the edge, as well as one ambulance, but the officers were just milling around, nobody willing to step over. Looking through the thick fog of the Line, he could see only the vague shapes of buildings; no-one over there liked to approach it unless absolutely necessary.
“Ready?”
Simone turned and looked at him. “Fuck no. But it’s your decision, isn’t it. And since I’m your partner . . .” She gave a weak smile. “Let’s go.”
Mike stepped out and pocketed his keys, then flashed his new badge at the first cop to approach him. The officer, a guy he recognized but didn’t recall ever meeting, shook their hands and led them over to the sergeant standing at the edge, hands on his hips and staring down at the road.
“Sergeant Dickson,” said the patrolman. “Gordini and Perez are here, the detectives we were told about.”
The man reached out a big meaty paw and shook Mike’s hand, then Simone’s. “Detectives. You got a radio?”
Mike blinked. “Uh, no,” he said, pretending to pat himself down. “Got my sidearm, got my badge, didn’t think to grab a radio.”
“Dewey, grab the man a radio so he can go in!” Another patrolman ran and pulled a portable radio from a car and ran it over. Mike took it and hooked it to his belt, trying to hide the bulge under his jacket.
“Ready?” asked Simone, squeezing his elbow.
“Guess so,” he finally said, and turned and, after a brief moment of hesitation, crossed the Line.
Instantly he felt tired, run ragged, but soon that feeling was overwhelmed as he crossed out of the haze, was replaced by something approaching claustrophobia. Everything was as he remembered, but his short time out in his new life had served to change his perspective.
To his right he heard the click of a lighter being closed, smelled the sweet smell of the tobacco that they sold on this side of the Line. “I was wondering if they were gonna sucker you into coming.”
Mike turned, smiled in spite of the turmoil he was feeling inside. “Hiya, Danny.” His old partner, Danny Glaus, stood leaning against a light pole, taking a drag on his smoke, looking up at Mike. He wore a light blue short-sleeved shirt with suspenders, a black beret with “TPD” emblazoned on it, and jeans with runners. His heavy black baton hung loose from a holster on his pants.
He walked up and shook Mike’s hand. “You a detective already? Way to go.”