Dave Barry - Big trouble

Henry turned the radio back on.

… point is that all these Gators ever do is talk trash, and then when they lose, you don't hear a peep out of 'em.

Well, I'M a Gator, OK? I'm a Gator, and I'm talkin' to you right now, so what's your problem?

My problem is that you weren't calling until I SAID no Gators were calling. THEN all of a sudden there's all these Gators calling.

I would of called before. I'm not afraid to call.

But you DIDN'T call. You're calling now, but before I SAID there were no Gators calling, there were no Gators calling, including you.

OK, but I'm calling, OK? You hear me on the phone now, right? I'm a Gator, and I'm…

Henry turned the radio back off.

"Those guys need a hobby," he said.

"Maybe they should jack off more," said Leonard. "If that's possible."

"Seriously," said Henry, "do you think any of those guys could name the vice president of the United States?"

"Hah," said Leonard, who in fact was not certain that he could name the vice president, either. He knew it was a guy in a suit, but he wasn't sure which one. The car was silent for a moment, then Leonard, who did not handle silence well, said, "Your face rook Ed Zachary rike your…»

"Shut up," said Henry.

The door to the Jolly Jackal had opened. Arthur Herk was coming out.

"There's our boy," said Henry. "Looks like he developed a limp."

Puggy came out next, lugging the suitcase.

"Who's that?" said Leonard.

"I believe that's Tarzan," said Henry, silting up.

"Who?" said Leonard.

"Guy who jumped on me from the tree at our boy's house," said Henry.

"What the fuck's he doin' here?" asked Leonard. "And what's in the suitcase?"

"We are definitely gonna find that out," said Henry.

Snake limped out, holding the gun, followed by Eddie.

"Great idea, panty hose on your head," said Henry.

"Whyn't they just wear a big sign that says 'Armed Robber. "

The four men went to Arthur's Lexus. Puggy, with Snake directing, put the suitcase into the trunk. Then they got into the car — Arthur driving, with Snake next to him; Puggy and Eddie in the back, with Puggy behind Arthur, where Snake could watch him. There was a moment of discussion, and the car started moving. Five seconds later, Henry put the rental in gear and followed.

"Where you think they're going?" asked Leonard. "Our boy's house?"

"Ed Zachary," said Henry.

Miami police officer Monica Ramirez could feel the pout vibes radiating from her partner, Walter Kramitz, as they patrolled westbound on Grand Avenue in their police cruiser. Walter was pouting because of what had happened forty-five minutes earlier, when they were eating dinner at the Burger King on 27th Avenue.

What happened was, Walter finally made his move. Monica knew he was getting ready, because he'd been displaying his biceps even more than usual, which was a lot. Walter had very large biceps; he kept them inflated by doing hundreds of curls per day. He rolled up the already short sleeves of his uniform shirt so their whole studly bulging masculine vastness was on display. At the Burger King, he was giving Monica a good view of them, flexing them when he raised his Whopper to his mouth, as though it weighed fifty pounds.

"So," he said, with elaborate casualness, "I was thinking maybe you and me could get together sometime?"

"Walter," she said, "we're together all the time. We're together now."

"You know what I mean," he said.

Of course she knew what he meant. He meant let's have sex. Monica had discovered that's what guys always meant when they said, Maybe we could get together. Their other favorite way of putting it was, Maybe we could get to know each other better. What they'd like to get to know was how you looked with no clothes on. But they could never just say it, just come right out and say, Hey, let's have sex.

"No," said Monica, "I don't know what you mean. What do you mean?"

"I mean, we're, like, in the car all the time, and I been thinkin' maybe we could get to know each other better."

Monica sighed. "Walter," she said, "do you want to have sex with me?"

Walter stopped in mid-chew and stared at Monica, trying to figure out if this was really happening, if Monica was going to let him take the shortcut straight to paradise, if he had somehow found the wormhole in the universe that guys had been seeking for aeons, the wormhole that would enable him to bypass all the talking talking talking and just do it. He thought hard about exactly how he would phrase his response to Monica's question.

Finally, he said, "Yeah."

"Well," said Monica, "I don't want to have sex with you."

Walter stared at her. It had been a trick!

"It's not personal," Monica said. "You're a good partner, a good police officer. But you're married."

"The thing is, me and my wife…»

"Walter, I don't want to hear about you and your wife. I don't care if you and your wife are having problems. I don't care if she doesn't understand you. I don't care if you've been thinking seriously about a separation. All I care about is, you're married, and I'm not going to get involved with you." Monica was glad Walter was married, so she didn't have to go into any of the other reasons she didn't want to get involved with him, such as the fact that he had the intellectual depth of mayonnaise.

"You know," said Walter, "there's plenty a women think I look pretty good." It was true. A police officer like him, good shape, tight uniform, big arms, did not have trouble finding women willing to meet him somewhere at the end of the shift; or, if he had an understanding partner, during the shift.

"I know that, Walter," said Monica. "You're an attractive man" — even though your head is shaped like an anvil and you wear enough Brut to kill small birds — "but with you being married, and us having to work together professionally, I just think it's a bad idea. But we're still partners, right? And we can be friends, OK?"

"OK," said Walter, though in fact this was devastating news. Walter had spent over two months in the cruiser next to this woman, who he could tell had an excellent body, which he wanted desperately to see without a uniform on it. That possibility, that vision, had given him a sense of purpose, a goal, a reason to look forward to the working day. And now it was gone. Yet he was still going to be in the car with this woman hour after hour, day after day. What was he supposed to do now? Just talk to her? Get to know her? Jesus, what a waste.

So it was not a happy cruiser that was patrolling westbound on Grand Avenue. Neither Monica nor Walter had said a word since they'd left the Burger King.

It was Monica, at the wheel, who spotted Andrew up ahead, running out of the alley next to the five-and-dime, carrying a pistol.

"Man with a gun, your side," Monica said, stomping the accelerator. "Call it in." As the cruiser surged forward, Walter grabbed the radio microphone. Ahead, Andrew raced straight out of the alley, across the sidewalk and into Grand Avenue. He turned left, heading directly toward the cruiser. Monica slammed on the brakes, jammed the gearshift into park, opened her door and slid out onto the street, crouching behind the door as she unholstered her Glock 40 semiautomatic pistol. Walter, having radioed for backup, slid out on his side. Both officers rose up partway behind their doors with their guns aimed at Andrew.

"Police!" shouted Monica. "Stop and put down the gun right now."

"FREEZE!" shouted Walter.

Andrew stopped, blinking into the cruiser headlights.

"FREEZE!" shouted Walter, again.

"Put down the gun," said Monica.

"It's not my gun," said Andrew. "Some guy was…»

"Put down the gun," said Monica.

Andrew bent down and set the pistol on the street, then stood. By the time he'd straightened up, Walter was on him, pulling his arms behind him and slamming his face onto the hood of the cruiser. Monica carefully picked up the pistol — a cheap.38 revolver; a classic Saturday night special — and put it inside the patrol car. She radioed in that the subject was in custody.