Читать книгу Not Even Past - Dave White - Страница 11

THREE MINUTES.

The parking meter had been expired for three minutes. The driver, who had exited the car thirty-three minutes ago, was nowhere in sight. Bill Martin tapped twice on the steering wheel, exhaled, and allowed himself a smile.

Time to go to work.

He grabbed the summons and got out of his car. After straightening his tie, he crossed the street and stopped at the Volvo—one that belonged to a Mr. Shaun Smith. Smith—Martin loved the alliteration—couldn’t be more than a sophomore and was probably getting used to parking on campus. And by getting used to it, Martin meant not doing it. The university had one of the largest private bussing systems in the country. Don’t try to goose the meter.

People like Bill Martin were watching. And he was going to do his job.

After writing down the license plate number, Martin started to fill in the rest of the summons. The scratch of pen against paper made his smile grow even wider. None of this newfangled computer crap. Pen and paper—the right way to do things.

“Hey! Hey, wait!”

Martin looked up from the pad. Shaun Smith was running away from College Avenue toward him. Two pieces of change flew from his hand and clattered against the sidewalk. The kid stopped for a second, looked at the sidewalk, and then gave up—rushing again toward Martin.

Martin let his arms fall to his side, still gripping the pen and pad.

“Officer, please!” Smith skidded to a halt in front of Martin. “I’m just—wait a second. Are you even a cop?”

“I’m writing you a ticket, aren’t I?” Martin asked.

“Where’s your uniform?”

Martin shrugged his shoulders. He pulled his sports jacket open and flashed the badge on his belt.

“I’ve been around a long time. Wearing a suit on the job is a perk for me.”

Smith opened his mouth, closed it. Then said, “You can’t give me a ticket.”

Here we go.

“Why not, son?”

Smith ran his hand through his shaggy blond hair. “Because I was just coming back to feed the meter.”

“But you’re three minutes late.”

The kid looked behind him, then back at Martin. “I dropped my quarter back there, but I have the cash.”

“Cash for the next half hour.”

Smith nodded. “Come on, I have an exam. I’m going to be late.”

“But you didn’t pay for these last three minutes.”

Smith shoved his hands in his pockets, feeling around for another coin. Behind them, a campus bus rumbled by. Martin figured it was headed to Busch Campus. That one seemed to be on schedule.

He went back to writing.

“Come on, man, don’t be a dick.”

Martin shook his head. “I’m not. I’m doing my job.”

Smith exhaled. “Is this fun for you? Torturing college students?”

Martin tore the piece of paper away and handed it over to Smith. The kid took it and read it over. He shook his head.

“This is a blast,” Martin said.

He turned around and went back to his car. As he crossed the street, he heard Smith call him an asshole.

“Don’t forget to feed the meter in another thirty minutes,” Martin called out.

Another stream of curses followed. Martin couldn’t hold the smile back any more. Great start to the week.

Just a year after his promotion, after the shakes started, they demoted him to this job. They wanted him to retire.

And miss out on all the fun?

Hell, no.

Time to go back to the office to drop off all the tickets he’d written.