“You want me to tell you you’re pretty?”
“Fuck off, Washington.”
“You’re so pretty!”
I laugh, “For the love of God, stop!”
“Cocky Cop! Oh man, that’s good.” He wipes his eyes. “I’m not gonna let you forget that anytime soon!”
“Alright, enough! It’s a very old, very used nickname for my entire family that started way before me, so don’t lay the claim at my feet.”
“I’ve met most of your family, Wyatt! You earn it more.”
Watching the road I adjust myself, getting comfortable. “You’ve met my cousin Caden. He’s cockier than I am.” After a second I admit, “Nah, I’ve got him beat. Ethan, now there’s a guy…oh, I take that back. He’s calmed down since he got married. You should have known him when he was single and got that first patent. Oh oh oh! I know who! Elijah! If you met my Senator cousin, Elijah, you wouldn’t say I’m—”
Cutting me off with a snort, Washington demands, “Are you comparing levels of arrogance? Is that seriously what you’re doing right now? You are ridiculous. And I keep forgetting your cousin is a Senator.”
“Last election.”
“I know. I was there when it happened. You never talk about him.”
“Nothing to say that hasn’t been said by the papers. My family’s proud of him, but he’s not the first politician we’ve had, or the first Senator, and it was sort of inevitable.”
“You’re not that close to him.”
Cutting my partner a look I correct him, tone serious. “I’m close to all of them.”
“That ain’t possible, man. There’s too damn many of you.”
I flatly shoot back, “Doesn’t matter,” as I stare out my window at Krispy Kreme on Ponce de Leon Avenue. Nothing better than one of those bad boys fresh out of the oven, glaze all melty and dripping down my fingers just like sex. But cops and donuts are such a cliché we never stop to get one. Not in uniform.
He’s right, not that I’ll admit it to him.
I’m not close with Elijah.
My cousin went away to college, spends most of his time in DC where he now lives, politics his whole life. The only one he’s tight with in our family is Gabriel, his twin. But with Gabriel being one of the top rockstars out there, always touring, I don’t know how often they see each other.
I’m lucky my brothers Nicholas and Nathan, and our sister, Zoe, stayed and made homes for themselves here where we’ve been our whole lives.
Especially Nate, one year younger than me and my best friend since his birth. He’s a firefighter now, serving the city like I am.
If he were in DC and I lived here, I’d probably transfer and that’s the truth.
Don’t know how the twins spend so much time away from each other. They’ve gotta feel even more connected than Nate and I do.
It doesn’t matter though because close to Elijah or no, if any of my cousins needed anything from me, I’d be there, no questions asked.
I drove up when Lexi and Hunter were in jail, helped them out even though it wasn’t my precinct. There was never even a question of if I’d do that or not. Got a date out of the deal, too.
If I needed any of them, it’d be the same reciprocal loyalty.
A few quiet blocks later and Washington mutters again, “Cocky Cop. That’s so funny it won’t get old.”
I rub an itch on my knee, midnight-blue uniform snug. “I noticed they didn’t make a group about you. Probably should work on that belly.”
“Hey man, I diet.”
“On beer and burgers.”
“Best things on the planet!” He cuts me a glance. “Other than a woman, that is.”
“Truth.”
Little Five Points, one of Zone Five’s neighborhoods, our beat. No matter how many times we come here, every time I see that alley it brings me back to the night with Lou and Toby.
There’s always foot traffic here thanks to shops owned by locals, hip restaurants with great food like the Vortex, my favorite, and the ever-present street-vendors beckoning locals and tourists to buy stuff they probably don’t need.
The sellers are artists, either creative or con, with foldout tables perched on uneven sidewalks offering passerbys a peek at what could be theirs.
Washington studies the left of Euclid Avenue N.E., the main drag, while I scan the right, my relaxed gaze lingering on the theater before I drag it over each and every pedestrian.
Under my breath I grumble, “I don’t like my focus split. My eyes are peeled for cameras pointed at me now.”
“I was just thinking the same thing.” His eyes lock and hold on something outside. “A couple of shady motherfuckers right over there.”
I follow his stare, my voice deepening with my heightening instinct. “They’re new.”
“Yep.”
“That’s a lot of jewelry.”
“Not your normal trash,” he mutters with his lips barely moving. “They’re clocking us.”
The two shifty men watch our slow spin of thick tread tires. Crooks don’t realize how obvious they are. Works in our favor. They get nervous and the trained can tell.
Washington double-parks as we calmly stare back to amp their anxiety.
One is frowning while the other behaves extra casual, like it’s no big thing. But his hand is jittery when it wasn’t before.
The time is now.
We get out, stand on newly repaved asphalt at the same time, shutting our doors in sync.
Pedestrians watch as Washington greets the two guys with an unignorable baritone, “Gentleman.”
The frowning one is more confident, and he nods, “Afternoon Officers.” He’s the leader of the two. A follower never speaks first.
Washington motions to the jewelry as I stay trained on the men. He asks, “You have a permit to sell here?”
“Why aren’t you asking anyone else for one?”
My voice is steady as I point out, “Who says you’re not the first? We just got here.”
They rummage through their pockets like a permit might magically appear, same one taking the lead. “Guess I left it at home. We’ll pack up and be back tomorrow with one.”
Washington fingers a necklace and lifts it high enough that ruby-red stones wink in the southern sun.
