Frank Zafiro: Under a Raging Moon

“Take a break, Grizzly Adams,” she said lightly, handing him the tall glass.

Winter took it and drank deeply. Mary’s tea had always been bitter, something he’d never had the heart to tell her. Eventually, he’d grown to like the taste. Inside the house, he could hear the stereo playing and recognized a Springsteen tune, Thunder Road . He lowered the glass and let out a satisfied sigh.

“Thanks, sweetheart.”

“You’re welcome.” She smiled at him and Winter felt his heart melt. Forty-four years old, and she still made him feel like a schoolboy.

Winter remembered when he would play Springsteen songs for her on his acoustic guitar. His voice was horrible and his guitar playing barely mediocre, but he had passion. He took several rock songs and slowed them down, doing them acoustically and, he tried, romantically.

Her favorite was Thunder Road , partially because the woman in it was named Mary. Years later, Springsteen himself did an acoustic version of that song on M-TV. Winter broke his vow never to watch that channel and tuned in for the show. After it was over, Mary leaned against him and kissed his temple. He could still remember her warm breath in his ear as she whispered, “I liked your version better.”

Winter stared at her and took another drink of the bitter tea. It was cold. Mary looked back at him with a small smile playing on her lips.

“Are you going to chop wood all day?” she asked coyly.

Winter glanced at the dying sun, then back at her. He shook his head. “No. Not all day.”

Mary took the iced tea from his hand and set it on the chopping block. She gathered both his hands in hers and led him up the back steps to their house.

Karl Winter forgot all about the Scarface robberies.

Sunday, August 14th

Graveyard Shift

2010 hours

Stefan Kopriva blocked the punch and twisted to his right, snapping out a short round kick toward Shen’s abdomen. The lithe sergeant dropped his elbow, catching the top of Kopriva’s foot with the point.

Kopriva grunted in pain, but pulled the foot back and fired it at Shen’s head.

Shen leaned away from the kick, then slid underneath and swept Kopriva’s supporting leg out from under him.

Kopriva fell hard to the mat, his breath whooshing out.

Shen remained merciless, dropping next to him and reaching in for a chokehold.

Kopriva rolled out of range and stood up without using his hands. Shen pounced upon him almost instantly, flicking a punch toward his face. Kopriva blocked it with his left and countered with a straight right to Shen’s rib cage. It landed with a solid thud. Shen exhaled with a grunt and stepped back.

“Time!” yelled Chisolm.

Kopriva and Shen bowed to each other and shook hands, both breathing heavily.

“Nice work, Stef,” Shen said.

Kopriva shook his head. “Nice work? Nah, that foot sweep you made was excellent. That was nice work.”

Shen rubbed his ribs. “That last punch will stick with me for a bit.”

They thanked Chisolm for timing the round. The veteran officer winked at Kopriva. “Any chance to see someone beat on a sergeant, I’m there,” he said, and returned to the weight bench and resumed lifting.

Shen laughed. “I’m sure that’s a common sentiment.”

“Depends on the sergeant,” Chisolm said his voice straining as he curled the hand weights, “but I can’t discriminate.” He grimaced with effort, trying to affect a smile.

Kopriva walked with Shen from the gym down the hall to the locker room. He knew that some of the other graveyard patrolmen called him ‘Sergeant’s Boy’ because he sparred with Shen a few times a week. He didn’t care. They also called him a ‘Code-Four Cowboy,’ because he didn’t like calling for back-up, but so what?

Sticks and stones .

At his locker, he undressed and headed for the shower. The hot water felt good as it cascaded down his body. When he returned to his locker and began dressing, he read through the small phrases of positive self-talk taped to the inside of his locker door. They served to get him into the right mind-set for patrol every night. He always paused at the final one.

I will survive, no matter what, even if I am hit .

Below that, he had written I am a warrior, in mind, body and spirit.

Kopriva slipped his bulletproof vest over his head and secured the straps into place. A warrior’s armor .

Below the positive self-talk, he’d hung a narrow bamboo wall hanging. Painted upon the horizontal bamboo slats were a Japanese style tiger and a yellowing moon, tendrils of smoke or clouds snaking across it. It had been a gift from his sensei when he achieved his black belt two years ago. He called it “Tiger Under a Raging Moon” and said that the brooding cat reminded him of Kopriva.

Now, two years later, Kopriva still wasn’t quite sure why.

He strapped his duty belt into place and removed his.40-caliber Glock pistol from the holster. A quick check showed a full magazine and one in the pipe. He slid the gun back into the holster, closed his locker and made his way to roll call.

2100 hours

“Listen up,” Lieutenant Robert Saylor said as he stepped to the lectern at the front of the room.

The drill hall fell silent.

Saylor read through a couple of administrative memos, then paused and looked out at the assembled group of police officers.

“Last night,” he began, “we had officers fired upon by the Scarface robber. One of them was injured when a bullet struck a spotlight. That’s going to be a charge of attempted murder, or at least first-degree assault, when Scarface is apprehended. And it is one more very good reason to catch this son of a bitch.”

General agreement murmured through the room.

“El-tee?” Chisolm said, lifting his hand in the air.

Saylor nodded for him to continue.

“I believe this guy might have a military background,” Chisolm said. “He went over that fence infantry style. Besides that, he fired a shot our direction almost as soon as he landed.”

Saylor considered. “Did you get that information to Renee in Crime Analysis?”

Chisolm nodded. “I sent a copy of my report along with a note.”

“Good work.” Saylor turned his attention to the rest of the patrol officers. “That information should heighten your caution, ladies and gentlemen. This guy may not be some doped up mope who doesn’t know which end of the barrel is the working end. He may know your tactics and your abilities, so be careful.”

Saylor let his eyes flick from one face to another, holding each for just a moment before moving on. “I can’t stress this enough. Be safe. All right?”

The assembled group muttered assent.

“Okay,” Saylor said. “Then if no one has anything else, let’s hit it.”

2213 hours

Katie MacLeod wrote the traffic citation. Her pen skipped through the boxes, filling them in almost without thought. The driver had failed to stop for a red light and narrowly missed colliding with another car in the middle of the intersection. Katie had briefly considered arresting him for reckless driving, but the driver was immediately apologetic and obviously shaken up. A ticket for the red light violation would be more than enough.

As she wrote, Katie glanced up and around every few seconds. While this vigilance may have seemed extreme to the civilian onlooker, it had become second nature for her. Inattention was the number one reason officers got killed. A bit of caution went a long way.

Cautious like last night, Katie?