Dukkha Unloaded. Loren W. Christensen
of you keeping a low profile.”
My new mantra: Keep a loooow profile.
“You know Angela Clemmons and Steve Nardia?”
“Angela, just to say hello. Steve has been in a couple of my in-service classes. Funny guy as I recall. Coincidentally, I talked to him about Intelligence about six months ago. Said he liked it.”
Rodriguez nods. “Sharp guy, knows what he’s doing, Angela Clemmons is a good cop—tough woman, very race conscious. Lost her mother and father to homicide about eight years ago, in Chicago, I think it was. Anyway, we just got a vacancy in Intel. You’re the replacement.”
“Thanks, sir. Appreciate being considered for the job. The last few weeks have been a rollercoaster of …” I’m not sure where I’m going with this so it’s time to shut up.
He looks at my personnel file. “You’ve been on, what? Fifteen years, coming up on sixteen.” He lays the file down and looks at me for what seems like a half minute, though it probably just feels like it He sniffs, and says, “I’ve been on twenty-five. In my third year I killed a mother and her daughter.”
What?
“I was racing to an accident on I-5, going way too fast and zipping between cars like I was in a video game. Clipped a Volkswagen Bug and sent it into a cement pillar. Killed both occupants.” The lines around the Chief’s mouth deepen and you can see in his eyes the sad place he visits too often. “Witnesses said she jerked her car into my lane as I was passing. Officially, it was her fault, but in my mind, the fault was mine. Still believe it. I was racing to a car accident and there was no need. It had already happened. No need for me to drive over the speed limit with lights and siren. It startled the poor woman and she turned left instead of right, and I slammed into her. It wouldn’t have happened if I hadn’t been hotdogging.”
“I’ve never heard about this, Chief. So sorry.”
He nods, as his eyes come back to mine. “I’ve never heard a bad word about you, Reeves, but I have heard lots of good. I trained in the martial arts myself when I was younger. Brown belt in judo.”
“Very good, sir.” Hard to say something nice to a deputy chief without it sounding like you’re kissing up.
“This is a good opportunity to get yourself back on track.”
“Thank you.”
He smirks. “So don’t fuck it up.”
“Don’t fuck it up. Copy that, sir.”
“All right. Head on down to twelve and have a chat with Lieutenant Sherman.” He looks at his watch. “Today’s the first day of the new pay period. It’s ten fifteen. You’re already two hours and fifteen minutes late for duty.”
I stand. “Thanks, Chief.”
“I think you’ll be a good fit. Any problems, let me know.”
“Yes, sir.”
Karen is on the phone so we just wave at each other and she gives me a thumbs up as I pass. She probably already knows I took the assignment.
I go into the restroom before taking the elevator down and splash cold water on my face and behind my neck.
Dang, I just accepted the assignment. These past few weeks I’ve been all over the map as to what to do. Resign and expand my school? Move to Saigon? Take up sheep herding? I smile remembering when I ran into Tom Bashman in the hall after he had signed his retirement papers. When I asked what he was going to do, he said, “Gonna be a sheep herder, Reeves. Wear a robe, walk with a staff, and if one of them goddamn sheep go astray, fuck it. I ain’t going after it.” It was clearly time for Tom to retire.
Maybe it’s time for me too. I can take the elevator all the way down to the lobby, drive home, and call Rodriguez and tell him not only am I not taking the position, I’m resigning.
I won’t though. I’m going back to work. I don’t know why but I know it’s my destiny. Saying it sounds corny, but it’s what I’m feeling. When my father told me in Saigon he believed my destiny was to return to Portland, I don’t think he was talking about me being a grocery bagger or a mail carrier.
What about not being able to shoot again? Don’t know. Have to wing it, I guess.
* * *
The elevators swoosh open to the twelfth floor and I nearly bump chests with Clarence Sanders who is one of the academy training officers. He’s a black man, early fifties, slight build, greying hair, and wears horned-rimmed glasses that, combined with his facial structure, give him the hangdog look of a younger Woody Allen. Many a street hoodlum made the mistake of thinking he was a pushover. I’m approaching thirty years in the martial arts; he’s got close to forty.
“Sam! How the hell are yuh?” he says, extending his small, fragile-looking hand. Earlier in his martial arts career, Clarence was known on the tournament circuit for breaking stones with these gentle-looking hands.
“Good to see you, Clarence,” I say slapping his shoulder. When I was working in Detectives, he was always badgering Mark to free me up for an afternoon to help him teach defensive tactics to new recruits. Mark let me go whenever my workload allowed. Clarence is an excellent DT instructor with black belts in several fighting arts. We always had fun teaching together. “What’s going on? How’s the Training Division?”
“Excellent, man. Just had coffee with Steve Nardia. Said the rumor was you’re going to be working with him. He really likes it there.”
“I am. Just going in to meet up with the lieutenant now.”
“BJ is …” He pauses, clearly picking his words carefully, then, “A good administrator.” Interesting thing to say. “Steve’s great. Angela? Well, you got to tiptoe around her a little. She might be a good-looking sister, but she’s got some attitude. If this were nineteen sixty-eight, she’d fit right in with the black power movement.” He shrugs apologetically. “I don’t like to say anything bad about anyone but take my comments as a heads up.”
“Gotcha, Clarence. Well, I better get in there. BJ knows I’m coming down from Rodriguez’s office.”
“Rodriguez, huh? How was it?”
“It went pretty well, actually. The rumors about him ripping out your intestines have been exaggerated.”
“Good to hear. Never had any dealings with him but I’ve heard the rumors. Hey, you want to come help with a class when you get settled in?”
“Sure. It depends on BJ now.”
“My lieutenant’s tight with him. I’ll make it happen. Get settled in and I’ll give you a shout in a couple three days. Good luck with the new gig. Crazy stuff happening out in the mean streets, I hear.”
I tap on the glass and Steve Nardia, sitting at the closest desk to the window, buzzes me in the door.
“Norris, right?” Steve says, walking over to shake my hand. He’s about six feet tall, one seventy, mid-forties, greying hair. “Chuck Norris?”
Steve and Clarence have been best buds for years. Clarence is a martial artist and Steve has made a name for himself playing violin with the Oregon Symphony Orchestra. Friendship is a magical thing.
“How are you doing, Steve?”
“I’m doing awesomely.” He gestures to the room. “Welcome to, uh, this place.”
It’s a small, mostly beige office, in which are crammed six desks, each with a PC, and surrounded by file cabinets. The only wall adornments are vintage World War Two posters. Two are close enough for me to read. One depicts a parrot and the words, “Free Speech Doesn’t Mean Careless Talk.” The one beside it depicts a desperate hand and part of a face sinking below a choppy sea. It reads, “Loose Lips Sink Ships.”
“BJ and Angela went over to Records but should be back