Frank Zafiro - Under a Raging Moon

None of the men made any denials. The two-seated men remained still, eyeing Chisolm carefully. Pissing Man stood in place, swaying noticeably.

“Sorry, sir,” he finally said.

“Anyone have ID?” Chisolm asked.

The three looked around at one another, then each shook his head.

“No worries,” Chisolm said. He took out his note pad and asked each man for his name and birth date. They gave the information without hesitation or grumbling. As Chisolm checked the names on the data channel, he realized one of the seated men looked familiar. He stared at him for a few moments before he realized why. The transient looked almost exactly like, his old Army buddy, Bobby Ramirez.

The man shifted uncomfortably under Chisolm’s gaze. “What’re you looking at, man?”

Chisom grinned. “Sorry. You remind of an old friend.”

“I ain’t never met you before, sir,” the man replied softly.

Just like Bobby, Chisolm thought. Or at least how Bobby would look today. “So where are you guys from?” he asked while waiting for the names to come back.

“Houston,” the other seated men said.

“I,” pronounced Pissing Man, “am from… Sheer… Seeer… fucking Syracuse.”

“New York?”

Pissing Man nodded. “Fucking New York. Syracuse. Yes, sir.” He paused. “You got a problem with that?”

“None at all.” Chisolm motioned to Bobby Ramirez’s twin. “You?”

“Pittsburgh,” the man answered.

“Pennsylvania?” Chisolm asked.

“No. Pittsburgh, California.”

“Where’s that?”

“Where’s California?” Pissing Man interrupted, incredulous. He pointed. “It’s that way.”

Chisolm allowed himself a slight chuckle.

Encouraged, Pissing Man pointed the other direction, crossing his hands in front of him. “And Syracuse is that way, brother!”

“Well, thanks for the geography lesson,” Chisolm said. He returned his gaze to Bobby’s twin. “Where in California?”

He cleared his throat. “East Bay area. Sorta near San Francisco.”

Chisolm nodded. “I see.”

“Adam-112?”

He reached for his radio. “Go ahead.”

“All subjects in locally, no wants.”

“Copy.” Chisolm turned to the three disheveled men. “Well, gentlemen, the good news is that none of you have any warrants.”

“Yay.” Pissing Man clapped with exaggerated slowness.

“The bad news,” Chisolm continued, “is that I have each of you in violation of a misdemeanor. So I am facing what we call in police circles as a decision point. I could arrest you all. Or I could issue you a citation. Or I could just let it go.”

Houston and Bobby’s twin remained quiet, waiting. Pissing Man looked at each of them, then said, “Well, I vote for the letting it go part.”

“Tell you what,” Chisolm continued, pulling a quarter from his pocket. “I’ll flip you for it. Heads, I cite you. Tails, I walk away. What do you say?”

The men paused, unsure. Pissing Man let out a loud laugh. “You’re on!” He turned to the others. “Nothing to lose,” he told them.

Houston and Bobby’s twin nodded in agreement.

“Okay,” Chisolm grinned. “Gambling men. I like that.”

He flipped the coin in the air and caught it deftly. With great flourish, he slapped it onto his forearm. After giving the three of them a quick glance, Chisolm lifted his hand away.

Heads.

“Bad news, fellas,” Chisolm reported. “Let me have those bottles.”

Three bottles were extended towards him. He took the first two and dumped out their contents on the dirt alley. All three men watched the golden liquid splatter out onto the ground with mournful expressions.

“Don’t feel bad,” Chisolm said. “You were just renting it, anyway. Another half an hour and you’d have been pissing it out, right?”

The men shrugged and watched on.

“ That should be the goddamn crime,” Pissing Man slurred.

The third bottle was still unopened. He handed it back to Houston. “Just don’t drink it in public,” he told the man, knowing full well that they’d simply find a better hiding place and pass the lone remaining bottle between them.

Houston nodded his thanks.

“Are you gentlemen true gamblers?” Chisolm smiled broadly. “Want to go double-or-nothing?”

“Howzat work?” Pissing Man asked.

“Simple. I win, I get to book you on these charges. You win, you get to walk. Just toss those empty bottles in the trash.” Chisolm looked from face to face. “What do you say?”

The men nodded enthusiastically.

“Okay. Here goes.” Chisolm flipped the coin again, slapping it to his forearm. After a dramatic pause, he revealed the result. It came up tails this time.

Chisolm gave a half-bow, his eyes not leaving the three. “Gentlemen, you are true sporting men and you have won your freedom. Please don’t drink or whiz in public. Good night.”

The men returned his farewell as Chisolm walked back toward his car.

“Hey, officer!”

Chisolm looked up to see Bobby’s twin looking his way. “Yeah?”

“I really look just like your friend?” he asked.

Chisolm nodded. “Yeah. Within a stone’s throw, anyway.”

“Tell him I said hi, then.”

Chisolm smiled sadly. “Bobby served with me in Vietnam. He didn’t make it back.”

A curious quiet fell over the group. The sound of the patrol light bar rotators hissed and whizzed while the cruiser’s engine hummed, but all else was silent.

After a few moments, the man nodded his head toward Chisolm. “I’m sorry about that,” he said.

“So was his mother,” Chisolm replied, trying to keep a light tone. “And so was I. Good night, gentlemen.”

Without a word, he got back into the patrol car and killed the overhead lights. He backed out of the alley and onto Indiana Avenue, then headed west.

As he drove, he chuckled slightly. Despite the memories that man’s face brought him, or perhaps because of them, he had enjoyed the stop. It amused him to watch the surprise and enthusiasm of all three men when he didn’t act like every other cop they’d ever met. He had a couple more flips he could have given them for double or nothing until they won. Who wanted to arrest and book on those piddly charges?

Especially not when one of them could’ve been Bobby Ramirez’s brother.

Chisolm whistled along with tune on the radio. Strangely, his world felt slightly more at ease.

2150 hours

Katie MacLeod felt her patience slipping away.

“Just what is it you want me to do, ma’am?” she asked for the third time.

The complainant, a fortyish housewife, gave Katie a look of exasperation. “Well, it’s obvious, isn’t it? I want those three Bailey kids arrested for harassment. Can you do that or are you just too stupid?”

A flash of anger washed over Katie and she forced herself to wait five seconds before replying. She decided to buy some time. “Ma’am, what is your name?”

“I told you before,” the woman snapped. “Did you forget already?”

Katie removed her pocket notebook from her shirt pocket. “I meet a lot of people. I’ll write it down this time.”

“It’s Evelyn Masters. My husband works for the County.”

Good for you and your husband . Katie wrote down the woman’s name.

“Now, Mrs. Masters, tell me exactly why you think the Bailey children should be arrested.”

“Oh, it’s not just the little brats that should go. That no-good father encourages it. He should be arrested for contributing to the juvenility of a child.” Evelyn Masters gave Katie the resolute nod that is reserved for the all-knowing and the never-wrong.