Exceptional Detective Dawson digs deep for the truth. Grave Yard by Yardier A First Book Chapter contest entry

Warning: The author has noted that this contains the highest level of violence. Warning: The author has noted that this contains the highest level of language. Ya, I work the Graveyard shift.  Some call it Mids. You never get used to it. It sucks.  Nuthin’ but crack-head zombies, juicers, clap-ridden whores, and tweekin’ truck drivers.  I guarantee before the sun comes up, somebody in this town is gonna get shot, shanked, or beaten to death.  Little babies are fair game too; shake ‘em till their eyes fall out for crying too loud, then toss ‘em in a dumpster. Everybody needs their peace and quiet, right?  Don’t want to mess with anybody’s high now, do we?    Stories… we all have ‘em, mostly buried deep in the catacombs of our minds; a labyrinth of trails and tales that pretty much lead to the same sad ending; human despair, destruction, and loss of hope. But occasionally, and not nearly enough, a voice from the community says, “Thank you, detective, for… (you fill in the blank)." And then, it all seems to have been worth it. Just like the rain in Bakersfield, it’s rare, but worth it. And like so many other things in life, this rain is late.  There’s a lot of dirt and puke on the streets of Bakersfield, which needed to be rinsed away for months, if not years.  But, on this side of town, the discarded crack vials, syringes, and condoms stubbornly refuse the fresh baptism and clog the storm drains along with months of discarded fast-food trash.  Rolled-up, tossed baby diapers?  Na, not here on Union Avenue.  Nope, those will be found like fresh sprouting mushrooms on empty parking lots of discount stores and markets struggling a block or two away. I work here, but I’m not on the tab tonight; I’m working for nothing.  Why?  Because I'm a good guy and one of the few public servants that give a damn. I'm sitting in my car parked behind a twenty-four-hour stop and rob eating a drive-through meal waiting for Delmar to show with some hot info.  Delmar doesn't watch television; he only steals them, which means he won’t know I’ve been suspended for knocking one of the bruthas on his ass for spittin' in my eyes.  How was I to know he was only eighteen and on the fast track for a basketball scholarship?  He was almost a foot taller than me and tried to hit me upside the head with a forty.  He was walkin' the walk and talkin' the talk and thought he wasn’t going to jail.  He was wrong and sorta right at the same time; he had to go to the county hospital for a check-up before being booked.  I know… I shouldn't have hit him while he was handcuffed, but he spit a big green loogie into my eyes blinding me with, "I will kick your ass rage!" Shouldn’t have done it, I know.  But I think thirty days on the beach is a little excessive considering what I know about the Internal Affairs Captain and the Union Rep’s Street resume from back in the day.  Still, I’m nobody’s snitch.  I can play ball with the best of them.  Letting them stand at the press conference crowing how the department will not tolerate officer misconduct without my whining how the kid could have killed me, gives me great satisfaction knowing they are worried about my cooperation. And that’s why those Neanderthals didn't fire me.  Not only do I know the whole story, I also know the back story, you know, the one their wives don’t know about. Uh-huh, community role models and dedicated leaders of morality, alright. I intend to remain one, really and truly.  I haven’t sold my soul, and I don’t intend to.  My badge shines as bright as the day I graduated from the academy.  I work with men and women with the same commitment to truth and honor that binds us to serve others.  It’s a side benefit to be part of the hunt and catch bad guys.  We like it. Right now, though, I'm about to run out of patience waiting for Delmar.  He's late.  He’s always late unless he wants me to call his Parole Officer to straighten out some kind of mess he’s in.  It’s not like I have anywhere to go in this rain.  If I had my druthers, I'd have my elbows down on Maggie's bar and flirt with her over free beer.  But right now, I'm not welcome.  I've got to let her cool down a bit.  She's still mad at me for drinkin' with a couple of the boys down at the Top Spot.  I understand some of the rules; my ex-wife schooled me pretty good in that department.  But even after coming to understand female nuances the hard way, I was caught off guard to learn a woman’s wrath could be fired up by tavern jealousy. Delmar thinks he's pretty clever as a burglar and tries to sneak up on me.  Sad, really, he's about as sure-footed as a deer on ice.  I watch him stumble from the alley behind me and run to the passenger door.  I scold him through the window.  “Hey, you’re late.” "Open the door.  It's raining."  Delmar held a trash bag over his head. I make him squirm a bit for making me wait.  "Yeah, I know."  I turn the windshield wipers on to annoy him. He tries to open the door and hold the trash bag over his head with one hand.  "Come on, D!"  He yanks the door hard enough to jostle the car. “All right, all right, calm your ass down.  You want to be booked for destruction of city property?” A gust of wet wind blew the trash bag out of his hand, sticking it to his face.  He yanks it off and lets it sail across the parking lot.  He’s mad. I unlock the door, lean over, and open it for him.  I can't help but taunt him.  "You just gonna stand there or get in, fool?" He slides in and slams the door hard.  I think he tried to break it. He looks at me with fire in his eyes.  "Screw you, Dawson, this ain’t no city car.  No wonder your ‘ol lady left you for a fireman.  No proper woman wants to be seen in a piece of trash like this.” “Here." I try to make amends.  "Have some onion rings.  And have some respect for that poor hose dragger.  All the fire hydrants in the world aren't going to cool the hell he finds himself in with that witch.” He pushes my offer of onion rings away.  “I hate onion rings,” he said, wiping water off his face like a frustrated cat. I think he hates everything at the moment. “Just give me some fries,” he demands. I take a bite out of my cold cheeseburger.  “What’s this big news you got?” “Hey man, I’m hungry.  You gonna stuff your face in front of me?” I break the cheeseburger and give half to him.  “Thanks, there’s this dude… hey, this things cold.  Give me some fries.” "Quit your whining.  I don't have any fries.  Here’s some onion rings.” "How'd you become a cop; you don't listen so good.  I hate onion rings." “Yeah, I heard ya.  It’s all I got.  They’re the same as fries.” He takes another bite of the cold cheeseburger and, with a full mouth, asks, "They are?" It sounds like he said, “Very far.”  My cop radar kicks in.  What’s very far… this dude? “Onion rings are the same as fries?” he asks. “Yep, scouts honor, fried crap, just dip 'em in ketchup, and you won't know the difference." “Really?” He seems interested.  "Here's some ketchup.  You got something to say, or you gonna keep moochin'?" Delmar dips an onion ring in the ketchup and takes a nibble.  "Not bad." I start to run out of patience again, but I've got to milk this thing and give a little ground and recognize the pimp-daddy status he thinks he has.   I beg. "I told ya.  Don't eat 'em all.  I want some.” “They’re mine now.” He smirks.  "You gave 'em to me.” “Okay," I said with a weak voice.  "I'll get some more later.  So, what’s this info you’re sweatin’ about?” Delmar squeezes the rest of the ketchup onto the onion rings.  "I'm not sweatin' nothin'.  I'm just tellin' you he's dead." “Dead?” "Yeah, tits up dead.  You got any more onion rings?" “Na, you got the last of ‘em.  What, he forgot to pay a bill or somethin’?” “I dunno." Delmar licks his fingers.  "That's for you to find out." “Alright, so he’s dead.” “Right.” “Who offed him?” Delmar spoke to the windshield, "Like I said, that's for you to find out.  You're the po-po." I've got almost fifteen years on the department, and the hardest thing to do is not shoot someone when you can.  The same principle applies to cultivating information.  It's easy to bludgeon a source with authority and power, and at best, you'll receive a fearful or arrogant conjuring of a semi-truth, if not a complete bald-faced lie.  So ya, strike one up for the ego behind the badge, but a conviction is unlikely. Good cops know this balancing act well.  It's why we drink at private watering holes.  There we tell the truth to each other and strengthen the bond of the badge.  It has nothing to do with sexuality or race.  It’s simply a matter of understanding there is evil in the world, and good is the only buttress against it. I lean over and speak to the side of Delmar’s face, “Thanks for the reminder.  Now, who is this dude, and where is he?" Delmar gets the power shift.  "I don't know who he is.  I just know he's dead." “Okay, where?” Delmar swallows and looks out the side window into darkness.  "Union Cemetery." I couldn’t believe it.  “What..., you call me out in the middle of this rain at 2:AM to tell me there’s a dead dude at the cemetery?”  I play tough guy and shove him against the door. “Get outta my car.  I ain’t payin’ you.” I reach across his chest to open the door to throw his ass out, but he grabs my wrist to stop me. “Yeah, buried,” he said. I grip the handle, open the door a few inches, and unload on him, "You've lost your mind.  You smokin’ crack again?”  “Deep.” He struggles to stay in the car. I relax.  "Deep?" I let Delmar remove my hand from the handle and close the door. “Ya buried real deep.  Deeper than most." “What do you mean, deeper than most?” “All I know is what my mama told me what Ms. Roosevelt told her.” "Well, give it up, cowboy.” “Ain’t doin’, give me some green.” “Uh, huh. I need a trickle before you get a Nickel.” “Well then, you ain’t gonna know nuthin, Columbo.” "Yeah right, you’re playin’ in the wrong league, D. I know you know where a body is but you ain’t cooperating.  Your parole officer would love to hear how you’re covering up a murder.  You’ll be back in the joint on a  parole violation in a minute.” “Ah, come on Dawson. You wouldn’t throw that down on me…" “In a heartbeat.  Give it up or get out.” “Okay, okay.  Man, this can’t get out.  This is serious.” “I’m listening.” "Ms. Roosevelt’s husband died.  You know, the old man that dug graves at the cemetery?” “No, I don’t know everybody.  So, he dug a grave deeper than most?” “That’s it.  You’re catching on, Dawson. Before he died, he told his wife he buried two dudes, one on top the other.” “Who was it?” “Don’t know and it doesn’t matter.  What matters is who told 'ol man Roosevelt to dig the grave. And I don’t know. If I did, I wouldn’t tell ya, because someone would die.” “Now, cough up some Benjamin’s and be careful.  You’re steppin’ into a darker part of the world.  I hate you Dawson, but I don’t want to see you hurt.”   ~~~~ Recognized Author Notes Detective Dawson is a street savvy and tainted flat foot uncovering more than dirt at the cemetery for the poor.

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