Читать книгу Allied Zombies for Peace - Craig Nybo - Страница 13

Chapter 6

Raymond Bixbie liked the smell of leather seats, animalistic and musky. In full dress uniform, he sat in his squad car: a 1967 Reliant K, fast and durable, white. He looked good in his dry-cleaned uniform but felt full of worry. He glanced outside at his skeleton crew of patrolmen.

Smash Williams and Fern Lenoy, partners, leaned against the side of their cruiser, talking, smiling. One of the first things Bixbie had heard come out of Fern’s mouth upon being transferred to Columbus was: “I was never prejudiced until I moved to Ohio.” That single statement had inspired Bixbie to assign Fern to a black partner: Smash Williams. If anyone could cure a bigot, it was Smash; hell, everyone liked Smash.

Due to the devastating act of Officer Greer in the parade of ’67, Commissioner Stillman had ordered the police out of the festivities. The usual motorcycle force, a formation of flashing cruisers and motocops, would not march today. Bixbie had however stationed a half-dozen men at the end of the parade route to keep the peace in case of holiday troublemakers.

Bixbie couldn’t blame Commissioner Stillman; officer Greer had never been stable. When Greer, having barely legitimate reasons, had drawn his pistol and shot a boisterous Nam protestor right in the middle of the ’67 Veterans Day parade, it hadn’t exactly surprised Bixbie. Internal affairs had handled the event with a hardcore shakedown of the whole department. Greer was behind bars, serving time for manslaughter. The rest of the department still reeled from the grievances of I.A.’s hard-core investigation, which had forced three officers to turn over their badges and guns.

Smash Williams laughed, his deep voice booming like a storm. Something his partner had said had tickled his funny bone. Bixbie smiled; Smash’s infectious laugh could drive even the deepest anxieties away. Bixbie leaned out the window and shouted, “Stay on your toes, boys, we only got four minutes until show time.”

“Sure thing, chief,” Smash said and tipped his eight-point service cap in Bixbie’s direction, his usual banana sized smile peeling across his face.

Smash and Fern went back and forth, arguing about who would win in a back-alley brawl, the Bangles or the Browns. Smash insisted that Jim Brown could kick Greg Cook’s butt and that those American League guys were pussies anyways. Fern maintained that Cook had a golden arm, just as good for punching as for throwing pigskin. Days later, Smash would remark that he and Fern’s argument about brawling was more prophecy than light conversation to pass the time.