Cahill

I could hear the din from the bar as I exited my SUV and I was still almost a block away. What a shame! I knew from long experience that would change as soon as my foot crossed the threshold. I tend to have that effect on people. I’m six feet six inches tall and I weigh an even 250 pounds—all of it broad shouldered muscle. My Body Mass Index at my last physical was less than four percent. My light brown hair is styled exactly the way it’s been for the past fifteen years—ever since I first joined the Navy. Sure enough, no sooner had I taken my first step into the bar than the noise died. When I turned left and stepped up to the bar the people there couldn’t back away fast enough. I took a stool in the middle of the empty space and sat down, waiting for the bartender to approach. “I’m not looking for any trouble.” “Good…neither am I. Give me a ginger ale.” He reached under the bar for a glass and some ice. Twenty seconds later he slid the glass in my direction. I pulled a fiver from my pocket and dropped it on the bar. He ignored it and walked away to draw a few beers and pour some wine. It looked to me like this was a pretty cheap crowd. Checking up and down the bar all I could see were longnecks and drafts. I reached into the lower left pocket of my cargo pants. Like almost everything else I was wearing they were a true deep navy blue. My heavy shoes were black as was my wide belt. My belt said as much about me as the bold white lettering across my chest. Just below the American flag over my heart were the letters that were my life—U. S. MARSHAL. On my right hip was my nickel plated .44 Magnum Colt Python, just behind two speed loaders in addition to the twenty-four rounds on the belt. On my left hip was my ASP Talon baton—every bit as deadly a weapon in my hands as the revolver. A pouch at the back of my right hip held my stainless steel handcuffs and its partner on the opposite side held my radio—my link to my backup team. I placed the photo flat on the bar as the bartender returned to me. “I’ll have another,” I said in a loud voice, continuing so I wouldn’t be overheard. “Don’t pick it up and don’t make a production of looking at it. I’ve been told that he comes here a lot. Is he here tonight? If he is and he escapes because you’ve given me away I’ll see to it that you’re arrested for obstruction of justice.” He gulped a few times but did as he was told, nodding slightly in response. I continued almost at a whisper. “If my nose is pointing to twelve o’clock, my right ear to three, the back of my head to six, and my left ear to nine, tell me where he is. Again, don’t point or do anything obvious and we’ll be fine.” He pretended to wipe the bar as he whispered, “About 4:30 with his back to you.” I picked up the reflection in the mirror then asked, “Red shirt with black and white stripes, looking away from me?” He nodded again. Now, in my normal tone of voice I asked, “Where’s the men’s room?”

Fredrick_Udele · Fantasia

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69 Chs

CHAPTER 58

Daryl gave me an unbelieving look, but I had it covered. We spent an hour deciding who we wanted on the raid. Everyone on shifts two and three were going to get three hours of overtime. I explained what I wanted to the second shift officers, stressing the need for confidentiality. Lt. Dan Powell briefed the third shift officers and I spoke to Mulvaney to ensure that we had plenty of shotguns and ammunition. I also checked to make sure we'd have someone on duty to man our three new cells.

Once I had identified three storerooms that we could clear due to computerizing our records, the City Council approved spending seventy-five thousand dollars of our recovered funds from the big drug bust for bars, sliding barred doors, and barred polycarbonate windows for each of the rooms. Adding basin/toilet combinations and plumbing was easy. I had placed five of the officers who had failed to qualify on the new standards down there, ordering Mulvaney to assist during the day shift when necessary.

We eventually decided to use personnel from the third shift for the raid with the exception of Aimee Johnstone and her training partner because we needed a female officer and Aimee was it for now. Second shift officers would continue on patrol for an additional three hours. This made the most sense; third shift officers would be fresh and alert, much more so than those ending their shift. Daryl, Dan, and I laid out the preparations at inspection that morning, insisting that everyone involved arrive at headquarters by 11:00 that evening.

We were on site by 11:45 with two officers and a sergeant stationed at the rear exit and four officers and Lt. Powell controlling the front. Daryl and I would lead the remaining eight into the bar. All of them were armed with Ithaca 12-gauge shotguns as well as their pistols and batons. I was armed with my regular pistol, baton, and my deadliest weapon—Max—as I pushed my way through the door. The noise, other than the jukebox, disappeared as soon as Max and I could be seen by the crowd. We approached the bar as my team spread around, shotguns at the ready. The owner/bartender was wiping his hands on a filthy towel as he approached. He hadn't gotten a single word out of his mouth when Daryl pulled the jukebox's plug out of the socket.

"Um…what's going on, Chief?"

"I'm closing you down, Mr. Bolt, right after I search all of your patrons."

"You can't do that. I run a clean joint."

"Clean joint, eh? How many times have my people been here because of a brawl or an overdose in the past month? I could understand maybe once, but we've had to send officers here at least twice a week on average and every time the people involved have been high on coke or meth or heroin. That's why I'm closing you down right after everyone here is searched. Now, I have no desire to actually arrest anyone tonight and I won't if everything illegal winds up on the floor. However, if we find anything illegal on your person when you're searched you can plan on spending at least a few days in jail and probably more." I passed a set of papers across the bar to Bolt as I continued, "I've taken the liberty of printing the applicable sections of the city ordinances that apply to my actions tonight. Take a careful look at Section 54, Part 4, paragraphs C through G."

By then Daryl had worked his way behind the bar to take possession of Bolt's pistol. He lifted it up to show me so I returned my attention to the patrons. "Everyone at the bar—stand up and back away. Drop anything in your pockets, underwear, boots, or wherever onto the floor. That means drugs, weapons—anything that could get you into trouble. If you drop it onto the floor you're getting a free pass tonight." Apparently, most of them believed me because several knives, packets of drugs, and even a .38 revolver found their way to the floor. Then I had them step back to the bar where they were searched.

Max and I approached one booth where I had noticed that the occupants' behavior was even surlier than I had anticipated. Sure enough, I got some lip from a short stocky guy with a shaved head and scruffy beard. "You got no fuckin' right to treat us like this. I have half a mind to stomp your ass and I would accept you got a gun and a big dog. Without them you'd be toast, Muthafucka."

"And, you would be…who?"

"I'm DeAnthony Shutt. I see you brought all your Uncle Tom's with you tonight. That's just what we need—a bunch of fuckin' Oreo's playin' po-lice man."

"Oh yeah—I've heard of you except the warden at Joliet called you 'Shit Chute' and I must say the name fits. After what the warden told me I thought you'd be a lot more, but now I can see you're just another big mouth con. So, tell me—ever have any special training like judo or karate or kendo?"

"No, why the fuck you think I would need that?"

"I spent four years in the military police with the Navy so I had the same hand-to-hand combat training that they give the Seals. Unfortunately, I am the Chief of Police and I have to exercise restraint and set an example for the community." I would have gone on, but I was called to the bar by one of the new black recruits.

"Chief, this guy has something in his crotch."

"No problem, Officer Gore; either he'll take it out or Max will." I snapped my fingers and Max moved up between his legs.

"Okay, man…okay; I'll get it. It's just a knife I carry for protection…that's all." He reached into his pants and pulled out a switchblade with a six-inch blade. Officer Gore cuffed him and led him outside to one of the waiting patrol cars. Dan Powell carefully placed him into the rear seat and Gore returned to the bar. Table by table people were led to the bar and on the way they dropped all kinds of drugs and paraphernalia. There were four more knives and two pistols that were taken by one of the officers, unloaded, and placed into a tote bag.

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