Without me noticing him, a rag tag old drunk had approached my car from the rear. He had been reeling along the sidewalk when he had suddenly collapsed against the side of the Jag. I jerked away involuntarily and then, realizing that he posed no threat, watched as he slid silently along the hood trying to find his footing. Then, just up ahead, I spotted three young gangbangers slide, like hungry sharks in a murky sea, from the deep shadows of an apartment building. They angled cautiously towards the drunk and my Jag. There was no rush—easy pickings. I watched as they jacked each other up in their black hoodies and low slung baggy jeans. One kid had a length of bike chain sticking from his pocket. All of them were doing quick visual scans for witnesses or bigger sharks. But really—who was going to own up to seeing anything in this place? This was an easy—two fer—the Jag and a drunk—thank you Santa Claus. They appeared to be in no hurry as they got ready to make their move. The drunk wasn’t going anywhere, and they hadn’t spotted me slouched behind the tinted windshield of the low slung car.
When they had closed to within eight feet or so, I started the Jag’s powerful engine and flashed on the car’s high beams. The young guys were surprised, and that more than anything else, made them turn and run—animals from fire. The drunk was just as surprised, but he was in no condition to do much about it. He must have spotted the kids when I flashed on my lights because he started back in the direction from which he had come. The old guy shot me an uneven finger as he wobbled past the passenger’s side window. He had no sooner managed to navigate himself to the small open parking lot off to the front and side of Mia’s apartment building than she was jumping back into the car with yet another large straw bag filled with God knew what.
“Let’s go,” she said followed by a wide smile. The apparent despair of earlier had been entirely replaced by a fresh and unexplained excitement. Her mania was so extreme, that, with the cynicism of an experienced cop, I wondered if perhaps she was on drugs. An “upper” taken in her apartment would have done the trick. That kind of thinking is clearly the downside of being a cop. Inherent optimism is too quickly replaced with cynicism, sensitivity with callousness. Maybe getting all those old cop feelings back wasn’t such a good idea.
“What about the drunk?” I asked reasonably. I was still puzzled by her new attitude.
“What drunk?”
I told her about what had happened while she had been looting her apartment.
“Nothing you can do—unless you want to baby-sit the old fool all night,” she told me pointedly. “Those young guys will roll him for any money he still has, but I don’t think they’ll really hurt him—he’s probably related to at least one of them. He won’t be able to get as drunk for a few days, and that will probably be good for him. I think it is called survival of the fittest.”
“Okay then Ms. Pragmatist, I guess we should just get the hell out of here.” I really didn’t want to get out of the car—let alone babysit some crazy old drunk.
As I pulled slowly away from the curb, I could just make out the shapes of the kids reassembling for another foray into the street. There was nothing I could do. The old guy was toast—buttered on both sides.
“Okay Short Cakes, let’s go, but I have to tell you that my rooming house, as Clearwater Beach quaint as it may be to me, is no royal palace either.”
“Well, maybe we could go to a motel for tonight and worry about the other stuff later.”
“I may be a bit slow,” I said quietly as I weighed the meaning of what she had said, “but is the motel idea you just mentioned—is that like the seducing me into helping you that I heard about only last night? Is it also the—we can get back to that later when we don’t have an audience—you mumbled to me when we were kissing on the beach earlier?”
“I do believe it was,” she said and laughed as she watched me respond with my own wide smile. The Jag suddenly picked up speed.