Hey Kid, Where’s The Cop?


Suffering from a mild case of blogger’s block, so today I offer you all a retread from The Book.

Stop looking at me that way.

I mean it.

STOP IT!

Geez, what a bunch of vultures. New stuff tomorrow, I promise.

I have discovered that whether an address actually exists is a detail of only minor importance to dispatchers. If it isn’t on the map, it isn’t a part of their known universe. If it is on their maps, it must exist and you can’t find it, it’s your problem.

“Uh, Dispatch? This is the third time we’ve been down this street. There is no number 168. The house numbers end at 160,” I explain patiently, for the third time. “Can you get a callback number, or maybe have someone flag us down?”

“Stand by, Unit Three,” the dispatcher replies curtly.

Boy, Satan’s Minion sounds a little pissy. Perhaps we’re interrupting today’s episode of General Hospital.

The radio crackles again, and the dispatcher speaks slowly, as if she’s giving instructions to a retarded twelve-year-old. “Unit Three, the address showing on the 911 map is 168 East Mitchell. It was called in via radio by a Podunk Police officer. If you’ll just follow the street down to its end, you’ll see the pretty blue and white car with the lights on top. The patient should be somewhere nearby.”

When this call is completed,. I’m coming back to the station and whipping your fat ass. That’s the last time you pop off to me on the radio. I know hitting women is a no-no, but in your case, I’d need to do a chromosome check to see if you really are a woman…

Seeing the look on my face, Dinosaur Partner takes the radio mike from me and answers, “10-4, Dispatch. I think we can find it.”

Up ahead, we see a police cruiser parked in front of a house on a side street.

Dumb bitch. That house isn’t even on East Mitchell, it’s on Hartley. Either the cop is retarded, or you are. I’d bet on you.

The house looks familiar as Dinosaur Partner and I climb out of the rig. I grab my medic bag and leave DP behind me to bring the stretcher.

Maybe one of our frequent fliers lives here. I’m pretty sure I’ve been here before.

I knock briefly on the door and announce, “Ambulance!” before I open it. There is a little boy sitting on the floor, playing Nintendo.

“Hey kid, somebody here call for an ambulance?” I ask him. He just stares at me, bewildered. Impatiently, I snap, “Okay, so where’s the cop?” Wordlessly, eyes wide as saucers, he points down the hall.

Damned kids these days! Probably had his nose buried in that video game and doesn’t have a clue. The house could burn down around him and he wouldn’t notice until the power went off.

I fling open the door at the end of the hall and ask, “Okay, so what’s such an emergency that you needed – ” the words freeze in my throat as I realize where I am. There is a black man scrambling naked from the bed, and he’s reaching for a pistol on the nightstand. I hit the floor and scoot backward into the hallway.

Oh, fuck. No wonder this place looked familiar! This is Tony Michaels‘ house! I went to his housewarming party! That kid is his son!

Tony Michaels is a Podunk Police sergeant, built like an NFL linebacker, and a lot meaner. More importantly to me, he’s a crack shot, and can run a helluva lot faster than I can. But I have momentum and the fact that he has to put on his underwear on my side. I hit the living room at a dead run, vaulting over Tony’s son and bolting through the still open door. The kid barely even looks up from his game.

“Sorry about that, Tony!” I call over my shoulder. “Wrong house!”

Behind me, I hear his enraged bellow of, “What the fuck?” I vault onto the running board of the rig and holler at DP to drive before I even have the door closed. Bewildered, she complies, peeling rubber and spurting gravel as we roar up Hartley Street toward East Mitchell.

“That was the wrong house,” she informs me unnecessarily as she drives. “The cop who called it in is supposed to flag us down when we get close.”

I say nothing as I breathe a sigh of relief to see Tony’s pursuing form dwindling in our rear view mirror. He has his service automatic in his hand, but I was wrong about one thing. He didn’t pause to pull on his underwear.

Browse by Category