Adam Henry Carrière

Officer Friendly

 

The instant Zeke pulled up to his Spanish-style bungalow, Ariane became gripped in panic and Roque had a terrible foreboding. Both emotions rippled through the evening air into Roque’s baby sister, who was sitting on his lap. She began to cry.

 

Like many two career families with only one car, Zeke had been continually harassed with the inconveniences of negotiating between different work schedules and job demands. A cerveza-fueled bitch session with another instructor at the city’s police academy led to an off-the- record loan of a clapped-out but still reliable patrol cruiser from the academy’s pool. Zeke was in his glory, free to come and go from the academy as he pleased. Cutting his commute time nearly in half simply by hitting the HOV lane was an added bonus.

 

(Zeke might have prevailed on any number of male relatives who were all automotive specialists of a certain sort, but he didn’t want to risk any dealings with them getting back to either the department or any of his cadets especially. If Rose’s old boss hadn’t been appointed mayor, he would’ve never gotten his bump to sergeant or the plum gig over at the academy, the nature of which itself put him on the fast track to making lieutenant. No matter what the ‘terms’ of finagling another car out of his kin might’ve been, it wasn’t worth the potential bullshit. Besides, Rose would’ve gone loco over him driving anything remotely hot. And he hadn’t talked to most of his felonious family in years, with little love lost on either side.)

 

The only downside to having a squad car to himself was being peppered with questions or asked for help when he was off the clock, that and the occasional effect it had upon a lot of people when Zeke would screech up to the curb and get out of the cruiser in full uniform, wearing the face of someone who’d had a bad day and was about to make theirs worse on account of it.

 

“Where’s your damn nana?”

 

Rosita stretched out from Roque’s arms as soon as she saw her father striding toward the porch. Roque answered, “She had to go home early, Papi. Something at her church tonight. I dunno, she didn’t say much else.”

 

It took about ten seconds of Zeke whispering a Mexican lullaby into Rosita’s ear to have the two-year old cooing contentedly. Rose’s mother was getting on Zeke’s last nerve. He paid half the old bitch’s rent for her to babysit her only granddaughter. Another fight looming on the horizon, he growled to himself. 

 

“Where’s Doll Boy?” he asked. Roque’s half-hearted shrug was a bad sign. His boy was the last kid in the time zone to be at a loss for words. When he was, it meant he was seriously upset about something, way past whatever fresh snit Ariane was obviously in. “OK,” Zeke sighed tiredly, “what’s up? Tell me.”

 

Before the teenagers were finished with their disjointed narrative, Zeke’s mind was already weighing different possibilities. Sebastian was by far the most independent-minded of the three, the one most likely to go off and do something on his own without the others, though by all accounts he was every bit as devoted to them as they were to him. He was just wired that way, Zeke reflected. When he started looking in on Graham, he told the other two only after he’d already been doing it for over a month. Zeke liked that in the little guy.

 

But where would he hide, if in fact he was hiding? Zeke knew Sebastian was crazy about going to the movies, and there had to be at least two dozen theaters a short bus ride away or within walking distance of their high school. He could easily sit through a triple feature any day of the week, and would be perfectly happy to live on hot dogs, hot buttered popcorn, Raisinettes, Good Humor ice cream bars, and giant cups of diet soda for days on end. 

 

Hell, Zeke thought with a grin, he could be holed up in one of the old movie palaces he loved so much, waiting until they closed so he could tear through every nook and cranny of the joint, looking for a row of old file cabinets in a dusty storeroom that he imagined were filled to bursting with posters from all the films the theater had screened over the last half century. The boy had had a dream about it. He had it all planned out: Zeke would wear his uniform and declare a premises check on the theater while he and Roque got all the posters out to their station wagon parked in the alley. 

 

“The hell you gonna do with a thousand old movie posters, wallpaper the airport with ‘em?” Zeke had teased, during the intermission between two old monster movies Sebastian treated as a personal birthday gift from Universal itself. 

 

Roque loved those, especially the Mummy films, even though the local TV channel’s ‘Creature Features’ were on so late he always fell asleep before any of them ended. Sebastian was a big Frankenstein fan, though he preferred the British series his mom introduced him to (and British films in general). Ariane of course found monster movies silly, but if she had to choose, she favored vampires.

 

On their way to the revival theater earlier that summer, she had given a lengthy soliloquy about how all the mad slasher films had ruined the horror genre. Sebastian agreed; blood and guts bored him. Rose hadn’t let Zeke take Roque to any, which only made the boy want to see one even more.

 

“Did you guys have a fight or some shit like that?” 

 

Roque and Ariane looked back at Zeke in surprise, then hurt. Neither of the young teens were dim. It was clear to them Zeke was wondering aloud if maybe Sebastian hadn’t just made a new friend or two at school and was hanging out with them instead. 

 

“Let’s get you home, miha. Roque, go grab Rosie’s blanket.” Zeke tried to cuddle Ariane out of her thorny mood. She enjoyed the contact but couldn’t stop from thinking about Sebastian. “We’ll surprise your pop. Rosie always loves to see Daphne.”

 

To all three kids’ delight, Zeke hit the cruiser’s rooftop lights as they swung into Ariane’s driveway. He then gave Mo’s new Jaguar a love tap to the bumper with his cruiser’s crash grill, setting off its car alarm. 

 

Mo sailed out of the front door and was met by a burst of laughter. He nearly screamed, “You’re out of your jurisdiction, Lieutenant!”

 

“The locals are right behind me with the warrant, shyster!”

 

The warm dusk hid Zeke’s grim reaction upon seeing Mo decked out in one of his fancy designer three-piece suits. 

 

Mo’s bitter divorce had been a liberating event for him, his ex, and their daughters all. However, his contentious departure from the studio where he had been head of production had aged him a good ten years. And the complicated ongoing litigation over the credits (and royalties) from the last picture he greenlit was on the verge of bankrupting him. 

 

Yet, there he was, still dressed as if to go to the overpriced office space in the ritzy burg not far from the old studio. He’d stopped leasing it over a year ago but maintained the pretense he was still a working producer to his daughters.  It saddened Zeke to see Mo reduced to putting on such a front.

 

While Daphne and Rosita paddled their feet in the saltwater pool out back, Roque and Ariane breathlessly updated Mo on the Sebastian situation. Meanwhile, Zeke used Mo’s small office to call Rose downtown. He wished he hadn’t. One daffy bitch of a mom in the ER, another kid maybe AWOL, or worse. Mother of God, Zeke thought. No wonder so many officers he knew drank so much.

 

“Who wants to hit my burrito stand for supper?” Zeke was a true believer in the power of comfort food to ease tensions. De-escalation was a good cop’s middle name. All three kids shouted their assent; the baby followed their lead. “Come on, counselor. Let’s get some chow for the troops.”

 

As soon as they were safely outside, Zeke growled to Mo, “You’re not gonna fuckin’ believe this shit, but…”

 

*

 

Rose put her daughter to bed while Roque, weighed down by one too many fried taquitos, struggled to stay awake long enough to finish his homework. Rose thought Zeke’s impromptu burrito run to settle everyone down was a great idea, and she was enjoying the carry-out he’d gotten for her. Still, it was all she could do not to pepper him with a hundred questions about what the hell was going on with Sebastian. Not with Roque sitting right there.

 

Rose could see her husband was in a state of high distraction and not just being his usual uncommunicative, after-hours self. Frustration turned to worry when, rather than put on his raggedy sweats and plop down in front of their new TV set, Zeke instead changed into his weekend casuals and headed back out, mumbling something over his shoulder about ‘meeting some of the guys.’

 

Roque looked up in surprise from his textbook and notes. “I thought Papi liked to hit the saloon after work, not before bedtime. It’s kind of late now, isn’t it?”

 

“One of his cadets probably wants a sit-down with him,” Rose replied, trying to sound unconcerned. “I’m sure he won’t be gone long.”

 

Rose doubted her own words. She caught a glimpse of the uneven bulge on the inside hem of Zeke’s khaki slacks. His ankle holster was usually the first thing he took off when he came home for the night. She tried to put the thought out of her mind and picked distractedly at her second burrito. 

 

Wherever Zeke was headed off to, it was on foot.

 

*

 

The turn-of-the-century doorbell peeled throughout the ornate Victorian like the chimes of Big Ben in miniature. 

 

There wasn’t a light on in the entire Haunted Mansion-looking place. Zeke had already nosed around out back, using the moonlight to navigate the frankly spooky garden but nothing seemed amiss, there or up the side drive, around the tarped up Rolls Royce occupying it, or in the rest of the fenced front yard. 

 

Graham had once been an enthusiastic night owl, but that was a long time ago. Knowing his current state, it was possible he might already be in bed - or had never left it in the first place and was ignoring any callers. Or, he had just flown the coop without anyone the wiser. 

 

Zeke pressed the doorbell a second time and waited with his eyes closed, sharpening his hearing. About a minute later, Graham cracked open the heavy oak front door. He gasped, then swung the door back and tried to smile at his neighbor, whom he hadn’t seen in over a year. 

 

The street cop side of Zeke helped hide his shock. Graham had always been a cheery, freckled punk and born wiseass. Hale and hearty if a little on the reedy side, which his height accentuated. And white as the driven snow. Now? He looked downright gaunt, like a once shiny balloon without enough helium to float away. In the darkened vestibule, the effect was almost vampiric.

 

Still, Zeke breathed a tiny sigh of relief when he detected a faint twinkle in Graham’s eyes, peeking out from the disarray of his billowing ginger curls.

 

“I didn’t do it, officer.”

 

Graham did it with your little brother (and one of his pals) in the conservatory with a candlestick, some rope, and a jar of poppers. 

 

Despite the swarm of bees now buzzing in Zeke’s bonnet, the policeman managed a short if hollow laugh and gave the haggard twenty-something as gentle a smile as he could. “Yeah? I’ll bet your skinny white ass you did some fuckin’ thing!” 

 

Graham was holding a two-foot high candlestick holding an unlit tapered candle. It hit the parquet floor with a dull clunk as he lurched into Zeke’s open arms, not caring if he made a fool of himself like some graveside widow in a bad ‘40’s melodrama.

 

*

 

“So, the power’s shut off, huh? Phone, too? Jesus. How ‘bout the water and gas?”

 

Graham shrugged his bony shoulders. His sky blue button-down hung loosely on his thinned-out frame. “I sent ‘em all some money a while ago, last year I think, maybe longer. Hard to say. Guess the over-pay’s finally run dry. Water’s still good. Made some soup a little earlier.” He tried to joke, “Hey...maybe Sebastian’s been paying those and didn’t tell me.”

 

Zeke took a bite of his warm boysenberry cobbler ala mode, trying not to react. Like he needed a pig-out dessert after his loaded burrito dinner. Graham was only nursing his third cup of coffee and some measly rye toast. The sight of it was making the policeman hungry.  

 

“You need money now?”

 

Graham shook his head as he chewed on some toast. “Nah, money I got. At least I did. Hope so.”

 

“I’ll call in tomorrow. The two of us, we’ll get all your shit straight.”

 

The sleepy graveyard waitress set a bloody t-bone and a basket of rolls in front of a startled Graham. 

 

“But I…”

 

“Shut up and eat. No more tea ‘n’ toast ‘til you get your color back.”

 

As Graham dug in, Zeke peered at the accompanying mound of mashed potatoes, thick gravy, and side of carrots on the platter. Fuck it, he thought. He gestured for the sleepy woman to bring him one for himself.

 

Graham’s hooded eyes filled again when he touched one of Zeke’s balled-up hands. “Thanks for the dinner date, Lieutenant,” he croaked.

 

“Yeah, yeah. Gimmie one of them rolls.”

 

Adam Henry Carrière is the author of Miles and Shant, as well as the poetry collections Faschingslieder and Rhododendrons of the Sea. Officer Friendly is excerpted from The Throwawaze, coming from Hammer & Anvil Books this summer.

​

​