'One of you block the Chevy.'
'You got it.'
Officer Prasko picked up his binoculars again. The curtains were drawn across the picture window of 138-Why the fuck do you suppose they put in picture windows? Nobody ever looks out of a motel room, and if you did, all you would see is the other part of the motel-and there was no sign of activity. The blonde in the front seat of the Hertz Chevy was lighting a fresh cigarette from the butt of the old one.
Three minutes later, the radio went off again. He couldn't hear what was being said.
'Repeat,' he ordered.
'Turn the goddamn volume up!'
'I just did.'
'Bingo, here comes our friends. Light blue new Olds 98. Tell me when he gets inside, and we'll come in halfway. '
Officer Prasko scurried across the balcony, keeping low so that he wouldn't be seen.
He saw the Blue Olds 98-well enough to recognize Amos Williams sitting beside the driver-enter the motel area and drive toward the rear. And stop.
'He stopped halfway to the back,' Prasko reported.
'Being careful,' Officer Grider replied.
Mr. Williams was careful for three minutes, which seemed like much longer, and then the driver's-side rear door of the Olds 98 opened and Marcus C. aka 'Baby' Brownlee, black male, thirty-six, six-one, 240 pounds, thirty- two previous arrests, got out, looked around, and walked very quickly toward room 138.
'Baby Brownlee going to the room,' Officer Prasko reported.
He dropped his binoculars to the Chevy. The blonde was not in sight.
Probably dropped onto the seat. I would if I was a good-looking piece like that and saw that mean-looking dinge walking my way.
'Knocking on the door,' Officer Prasko reported, and added a moment later, 'He's in.'
'Wait,' Officer Grider replied.
Baby Brownlee was in room 138 for two minutes forty seconds, which seemed like much longer.
'Door opening,' Officer Prasko reported. 'Baby's coming out. Moving toward car.'
'Five?'
'Ready.'
Five was officer Timothy J. Calhoun, and he was apparently driving the unmarked police car.
'At the car,' Officer Prasko reported. 'Getting in.'
Baby Brownlee was in the Olds 98 for fifty seconds, which seemed like much longer.
The blonde's head appeared in the Chevy. She took a look around and then dropped from sight again.
Christ, I'd like to jump the bones of something like that.
'Car's moving,' Officer Prasko reported.
'Five?'
'Car's turning around,' Officer Prasko reported.
'Just say when,' Officer Calhoun replied.
'Car's stopped. Now facing toward exit,' Officer Prasko reported.
'What are they doing?' Officer Grider inquired.
'Getting out of the car. Baby's out. Amos is out. Opening trunk.'
'And? And?'
'Baby's got a beach bag.'
'Go! Go! Go!' Officer Grider ordered.
Officer Prasko stood up and walked as far as he could toward the stairs without losing sight of the Olds 98, the Hertz Chevy, and the door to room 138.
The van came in first, tires squealing, the rear door already open and stopped in front of the Olds 98. Half a dozen plainclothes police officers, weapons-four pistols, two pump-action 12-gauge shotguns-at the ready, jumped out.
Officer Calhoun's unmarked car skidded to a stop in a position blocking the Hertz Chevy. Calhoun and another plainclothes officer, revolvers drawn, jumped out of the car.
Prasko descended the stairs as rapidly as he could, considering the fucking binoculars were banging on his chest, and he had to be careful holding the walkie-talkie, otherwise he'd drop the son of a bitch and have to pay for the fucker.
As he reached the ground floor, Prasko stooped and drew his snub-nosed. 38 Special-caliber revolver from its ankle holster.
This act coincided with the appearance, at a full run, of an individual black male, twenty-five to thirty, five- ten, 150 pounds, noticeable scar tissue left cheek, who had not obeyed the orders of the other police officers to subject himself to arrest.
Just in fucking time!
'Freeze, motherfucker!' Prasko ordered.
The individual almost visibly debated his chances to evade Prasko and then apparently decided attempting to do so would not be in his best interests.
He stopped running and raised his hands above his head.
'Up against the wall!' Prasko ordered, spinning the man around, then pushing him toward the wall.
'Oh, shit, man!' the individual responded.
'Spread your legs!' Prasko ordered, as Calhoun appeared around the corner.
'I got the bastard, Timmy,' Prasko said.
'Put your left hand behind your back,' Prasko ordered, then looked at Calhoun.
'You want to cuff him, please, Timmy?'
Calhoun placed handcuffs on the man's left wrist, then grabbed the other wrist, which caused the man's face to fall against the wall.
'Shit!' he exclaimed.
Calhoun finished cuffing him, then performed a perfunctory search of his person to determine if he was armed.
'Clean,' Calhoun informed Prasko.
'Do him,' Prasko requested.
Calhoun emptied the man's pockets onto the ground beside him, but no controlled substances or any other illegal matter were discovered.
'Nothing,' Calhoun reported.
'I'll bring him. You want to take my walkie-talkie?'
Calhoun took Prasko's walkie-talkie, and then, at a half-trot, ran back around the building.
Prasko dropped to his knees beside the pile of items and picked up the man's wallet. It contained his driver's license and other documents, a color photograph of a white female performing fellatio on a black male (not the individual), and seven hundred and sixty-three dollars in currency, five hundred of it in one-hundred-dollar bills.
Officer Prasko became aware that his heart was beating rapidly, and that he had to take a piss.
Prasko put two of the one-hundred-dollar bills in his pocket, replaced the rest of the currency into the wallet, and then placed the wallet and other material back into the man's pockets.
'Turn around,' he ordered.
The man turned around with some difficulty, being cuffed, and looked at Prasko with what Prasko believed was mingled loathing and contempt. Prasko believed he understood why. It had to do with the criminal justice system and their relative compensation. The guy was almost certainly aware that since he had been apprehended without being found in possession of controlled substances, or a firearm or other deadly weapon, he could reasonably expect to be released from custody on bail within a matter of hours.
He was also aware that he made more money in a day than a policeman made in a week. Or ten days. Or two weeks. Or maybe even a month, depending on how valuable he was to Amos Williams.
Prasko gestured for him to start walking back the way he had come. When they got there, they found Amos Williams, Baby Brownlee, and two other men under arrest, their arms handcuffed behind them.
