Макс Коллинз - Shoot the Moon (and more)

“I don’t envy you guys on night duty when there’s a lunatic running loose. You work in pairs, surely?”

“Nope. Can’t afford to. Ain’t enough men to go around.”

“One man to a car? You have a small force, huh?”

“Yeah, the wages for a cop ain’t worth crap.”

“Pay is low, huh? That’s the trouble everywhere. It’s a wonder they find decent guys like you to take the job, fella.”

“Thanks, pal.”

“When a town pays low wages to cops, lots of times it attracts scum. You know, some nut who wants to wear a uniform and a badge. And carry a gun and a club.”

I turned around on my stool and looked the guy over. A short guy in a brown suit, with small blue eyes in an oval face and receding gray-brown hair. Little punk.

I said, “I don’t mean to be nasty, mister, but don’t put cops down, okay? They get paid nothing while they work their tails off for the public. Jesus, the b.s. people hand out to cops! How would you like to be a cop where there’s a psycho loose? You got some nerve, buddy, some nerve, you and all the others who don’t appreciate what cops do for you. Police brutality, police brutality, that’s all we get from Mister Public. Why, it wouldn’t be safe to walk the streets at night without us suckers in blue to do the dirty work for John Q. Citizen.”

The guy was sort of shaking now, spilled a little of his coffee. “Look... look... I didn’t mean anything... I just think you guys should get paid better, that’s all. That’s all.”

I smiled at him, both rows of whites. “Want sugar’n cream in your coffee, pal?”

He nodded nervously. I passed them to him and he poured a touch of each into his cup, then started in stirring, still nervous-like.

“I always take sugar’n cream in mine,” I said. “Can’t stand coffee black. Too damn bitter.”

My breakfast came and I started in on it, three pancakes, two sausages, some scrambled eggs, milk, and coffee. The guy next to me went through a hamburger and fries. Or tried to anyway. He was so damn nervous he could hardly swallow a bite. I convinced him to stay on with me for another cup of coffee. After a bit we started in walking out of the diner together, having gotten more palsy with each other.

Out in the cold night air he put a hand on my shoulder and said, “You seem like a decent guy to me, officer. I didn’t mean for you to take offense back there or anything. I just meant for you to see how I felt about cops getting paid bad. I mean, they should pay you guys more and keep out the riffraff, is what I mean. Those guys that just want to be a cop so they can hurt people and get away with it, you know, wear a blue suit and badge and carry a gun. No offense, right?”

I said sure. Did he want a lift?

“Well... my hotel’s just a couple blocks, officer.”

“Come on, I’ll take ya there.”

“Well... oh hell, okay.”

He climbed into the front seat of the car. He fiddled around with the call box under the middle part of the dashboard like a kid in a toy shop. I began to think he’d had a little to drink or something, the way he fooled with things and the way his mouth was slack. But I couldn’t tell for sure. Anyway, I got in and started the car.

“I’m staying at the Carleton, officer.”

“My name’s Harry. Wish you’d call me Harry.”

“Sure, Harry. Mine’s Joe, Joe Comstock. Salesman. Never been here before.”

“We got a nice little town here. Friendly.”

“Say, uh, Harry, I’m at the Carleton.”

“Yeah, Joe, I know that.”

“Well, uh, that’s the other way... down the street that way...”

“I thought maybe we’d go riding for a while, Joe. I sure could use a little spot of company. Nothing wrong with a little ride is there, Joe?”

“Oh... no. Okay. Sure. Hell, I got nothing else to do.”

He lit a cigarette and we drove in silence for a while. Then he came up with the best yet:

“You know, Harry, I been thinking. About this low pay for cops bit? Why, hell, Harry, what with the low pay luring the kooks and sadist-types, these eight rapes you’ve had here over the past few months? Guy in a bar told me about them this afternoon, you know. Those eight rapes?”

I kept my eyes on the road. “Yeah?”

“What with the low salaries and all, the rapist, don’t you think he... well, hell, he could even be a cop.”

I didn’t say anything.

“I don’t mean anything against cops, mind you, Harry, you know that, I explained that... But don’t you think that could be possible?”

I braked the car.

“What are you stopping for?”

“Get out of the car, Joe.”

He opened the door and climbed out; I got out and walked around the car and motioned him over toward the bushes. He started looking around but he didn’t see nothing but trees and bushes and empty highway and night. I went over and clutched him by the arm.

“Now, Joe,” I said, nice and friendly like, walking him along, “let me tell you the real reason I brung you out here. You look like a fella I saw on a wanted circular at the station the other day. Now since you seem like a right guy, I brung you out here where you ain’t likely to be embarrassed. So now talk to me like a brother and tell me who you really are.”

His mouth dropped open. “Hell, Harry, I’m just a salesman.”

“The truth...”

“Harry... hell, Harry...”

“Put your hands in the air.”

He shrugged and put them up. I swung a hard right to his groin. He rolled up into a little ball and made crying sounds. Then I got him by the scruff of the neck and dragged him behind the clump of bushes, where we wouldn’t be seen if a car happened by on the highway. He kept on crying as I’d hit him pretty hard and I proceeded in to kicking him a few times while I fished out my big revolver. I spent a good five minutes whipping him with the gun butt. He made some sounds but didn’t say anything, except “Jesus,” once, just before he died.

The rest of the night was quiet.

That was my last shift of night duty before the weekend, which I got free. I’d be back to days starting Monday, always got a free weekend after working seven nights straight.

I stopped in at the station to see the chief. It’s not much as stations go, really, just one room in the city hall basement. It’s a white-walled room with lots of dirt rubbed in; only part that doesn’t show the dirty white walls is the part covered by the big bulletin board with the wanted posters and the like plastered to it. The chief sits in one corner behind a desk piled high with papers and a file cabinet on each end like two big bookends holding him in. That’s about it for our station, except for our traffic officer who’s got a real small office all to himself and the tons of unpaid tickets. Also there are a few cells adjoining the one main room. Otherwise, there’s only Jim Oliver, a guy who is a technician of some kind out at the hospital and tries to help with our “scientific methods” since our force ain’t exactly crime lab size. Mostly Ollie has been a joke with us.

Anyway, I stopped in to see the chief.

“Hiya, Ralph,” I said, both rows of white on parade.

“Hi, Harry.” Ralph didn’t look up from the paper he was reading. He was in his TV cop mood today, I could tell right off. Chewing on a cigar and not smiling. Rubbing a hand over his bald spot and tweaking his bulbous nose once in a while. Maybe he pictured himself like a TV cop, since he had an actual case on his hands for the first time. The rapes, I mean.

“Got anything on the raper yet?” I asked him.

“Nope. Not a damn thing. Ollie tried looking around that place the other night but, hell, he doesn’t do any good. I wish some of the state cops’d help out.”