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| Disclaimer - I look at this like a library - they're not mine, but I'm borrowing them and I'll give 'em back as soon as I can. | |||||||||
| Revenge will be sweet if I ever get out of here... | |||||||||
| Former Detective Mike Logan crossed his arms over his chest defiantly. They weren't going to get the best of him today. He wasn't going to kick open the door and fire a warning shot into the air to make them scatter. He wasn't going to grab one of them by the throat and shake him like a ragdoll. It was that kind of thing that got him in this piss-poor situation in the first place. | |||||||||
| Bad enough he got sent to Staten Island for punching that obsequious little cock-knocker of a politician in the first place. He'd accepted that - watching that gay-bashing murderer Crossley reel had been well worth it. They could've sent him to the Bronx and he would've eaten it with relish. But the lieutenant at the 1-2-6 had a personality disorder - specifically a lack of one. They'd locked horns the minute he got there and from then, Logan could count the days until he was uniformed again. And transferred to the 1-2-8 on the comparatively pacified South Shore. And here we are... | |||||||||
| Never mind he was in uniform again after giving how many years to the NYPD. Never mind he'd be pissing the rest of his career away in this suburban nightmare. Now, he was pulling high school duty. He sat in the little enclosed scooter in front of Tottenville High School day after day, making sure the students could see him and would rethink cutting class for the day. Ditch Patrol. This has to be the ultimate indignity. I should call my PBA rep. Something stinks here. And this morning, as it had been every morning since having to step back into the ill-fitting blues again, when the bell rang for first period class, he'd steeled himself for a morning of hell. | |||||||||
| It was like they poured out of the woodwork - the burnouts that never had any intention of strolling through the front door of the high school. They flocked around like seagulls and he'd made the mistake of trying to truant them in one day. They were fearless cockroaches, not budging. And once Logan had made his presence known to them, they'd found their target, descending on him with a chant he was sure he'd hear in his nightmares for years to come... | |||||||||
| "COP-IN-A-BOX!" | |||||||||
| The three-wheeled scooter rocked back and forth as the local potheads, most of them looking about twenty-five years old, stood on either side of the thing and just pushed, rocking him back and forth like he was in a rowboat in a thunderstorm. They didn't tip him over - that would've been the end of it. He'd tie 'em to the bumper like a deer carcass and drag 'em all to the Tombs himself. The world outside just seesawed wildly around him as he sat stonefaced. They'd get tired of it, eventually, and move on. A grim smile crossed Logan's face. Today, he'd follow them when they left. There had to be a stash of drugs that would make Bolivian cartels drool. A bust like that would get him out of this uniform, out of this box, and out of this stinking hole of a borough. Maybe even back to Manhattan and the 2-7. That'd be sweet. He could see a car pull up in his rearview. There was a bubble light on the dashboard. Hallelujah. Back-up. | |||||||||
| *** | |||||||||
| Detective Lennie Briscoe leaned back in the passenger seat of his partner's car with a broad smile on his face. This was priceless. He and Detective Rey Curtis had trekked all the way out to Staten Island to hook up with one of the local precincts on a case that had deposited a victim on his shore. He wasn't surprised to find it had something to do with a case started by his previous partner who'd managed to get himself deported here. He was a little surprised to find Mike Logan demoted all the way back down to beat cop. Whatever he'd managed to do to deserve that must've been historic. And when they'd searched him out and found him running a beat in Huguenot... well... Lennie had to stop himself from laughing out loud as he watched a battalion of drugged-out losers rocking the scooter back and forth like a cradle, with Logan's unmoving form planted firmly in the cab. He was glad he couldn't see his former partner's face. That alone would've sent him into hysterics. | |||||||||
| "Lennie?" Curtis asked, a little bewildered. "Isn't that Logan?" | |||||||||
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| END (for now) | |||||||||
