|
|
The cuffs felt good. The cold metal pinched his skin, reminding John exactly whom he was dealing with. She was good with the cops. He could hear the hysteria in her voice as she recounted the story. The embellishments were perfect, just enough for her to play the helpless victim. John Barber looked around the backseat of the police car. For a moment he thought about trying the door and making a run for it, but that was just his natural stupidity talking. The one true gift he possessed according to his grandfather, the absolute ability to make the wrong decision at every turn. He shifted in the seat, trying to find a position where his arms were comfortable, but since they were forcibly pulled behind him, it was an empty exercise. The car smelled, he decided, like cheap mini-market coffee and drug store cologne. There was heat hanging in the air that crawled inside his clothes and died. Breathing in the spicy air made him gag. How did the two cops outside spend hour after hour in this car, he thought, while closing his eyes looking for sleep. All he managed to see were the next few hours. If Grandpa Dan would bail him out, he would be in his own bed until morning. If he wouldn't, he would spend the night in a cell more pungent than the inside of the police cruiser. He turned to see what the cops were doing. If they didn't get him down to the station soon, his one phone call would be a waste of time. Once eleven p.m. came around, Dan Barber's eighty-five-year-old bones were asleep and couldn't hear the phone ring. The doors to the car opened, cooler air sneaking in to wash over John's face. He watched the tall thin cop bend himself into the passenger seat. The stockier, older man squirted neatly behind the wheel. Neither of them looked back at their prisoner as they buckled up and put the car into gear. The tall one radioed that they were bringing John in. The revving of the car's engine sang to the three men as they started the eight-mile trip. John's head was down but he felt odd. When he looked up he saw the older cop watching through the rearview mirror. "You all right?" the cop asked, his voice an exacting grumble. "Just great," John replied while lowering his head again. "This is the third time you've harassed Mrs. Barber. She had no choice but to press charges this time." John bristled at hearing her name. She had been his dad's second wife. That shouldn't give her the right to use the name. Then John laughed. He hated his father, so why did it bother him? "What's so funny?" the older cop asked. "She had other choices," John said. "You want to elaborate?" "We have a history, me and her," John said, turning to look at the cop for the first time. "You wouldn't understand and you don't really care, so I'm just going to shut up now." "Look, if there's some kind of extenuating circumstances, tell me. Maybe I can help you." John shook his head. "Forget it. She got what she wanted." ***** Johnny had been waiting by the door for his father to pick him up, but Henley Barber was over an hour late. He heard his mother Ruby call him and fill the phone line with swear words. He kept glancing out the window expectantly even though he knew his father was still at home. Then the kitchen went quiet. He thought his mother had hung up until she spoke again, angrily but in control. "Damn you, Henley. He's your son. He waits two weeks for these weekends so he can see you, and you do this to him. You do this to an eight-year-old boy, your own son, so you can bang the latest piece of trash you picked up at the bar. Damn you." Then Johnny heard the phone click. He looked out the window at a car rolling past. It was Mrs. Thiapolis on her way home. Johnny felt his mother approaching him. He almost leapt from his chair to ward her off, but instead let her hands wrap around his shoulders, their heaviness sinking into his bones. "He's not coming," she said, a bubble of rage still present under her voice. "Why?" he asked, his eyes never leaving the street, still searching for his father's SUV. "Something happened to a friend of his, and he has to help them out today. He tried to get out of it, but . . ." "He tried, huh?" "Yes." "What does he have to do? Maybe I could help." Johnny looked at his mother for the first time, hope limning at the edge of his eyes. "You could drive me over to his place. It's not that far." Ruby ran her left hand through his hair, brushing strays away from his eyes. "You can't help with what he's doing, John." "How do you know? Did you even ask him?" "I know what he's doing, and it's not for little boys. Now go unpack your overnight bag. Make sure you put those clean clothes back in their drawers. Don't just throw them on the floor." Ruby walked away quickly before the tears forming actually fell. Eight-year-old John Barber continued sitting at the window, watching. It couldn't hurt to give his dad a little longer. ***** The cruiser's door opened and the tall cop grabbed John's arm to lead him out of the car. John's six foot, two inch frame unfurled, kinks popping out of compressed muscles. He stood perfectly straight, angular shoulders sloping down to meet a dense chest and ropy arms. His eyes locked onto a familiar sight, the front door of the Blazemore Township Police Barracks #2. He did a quick calculation in his head and came up with six times he had been brought here. There were also two arrests in Hubbard County. John was a semi-professional disturber of the peace and an amateur public drunk. He was also a few others things he never got caught for. "Let's go," the older cop said, motioning for John to follow him. The cop walked fast in short choppy steps. John's long legs kept up with no effort. Once inside it was all procedure. Fingerprints, mug shot, statement, sign the report, make his phone call to Grandpa Dan, endure the old man's deep sigh, and sweat out the wait to see if he would come bail him out or not. John had leaned hard into the wall waiting for his answer, his left hand pulling at his stringy, brown hair in frustration. "I'll be down," Dan had growled like a bear awoken early from hibernation. In the meantime, John was put in a holding cell with another customer. The man was John's height only wider. He wore no shirt but a colorful array of tattoos, most of which were in flames. While his head was bald, his chin was overcome with a goatee gone wild, hanging at least six inches below the jaw line and jutting in several different directions. John sat on his bench, leaning back against the wall, biding his time until Grandpa Dan dragged him home. His new friend sat across the room, bent forward, staring intently at John. "That's
a nice jacket you're wearing," the man said in a voice decidedly
higher pitched than John would have thought. |