A Couple of Dicks


The vehicle idled quietly as the midday sun beat down on its jet black roof.

  “God damn” one of the men inside the car said, obvious exasperation heavy on his voice, “Did no one tell Davidson that cops die in hot cars?” He shuffled awkwardly in the burning leather seat. The interior was as hot as the sun bleached pavement outside, hotter, perhaps, and the musty smell of confinement hung thick in the air.

  “You’re not a cop anymore, my friend” said his companion, a measured calm to his voice that only thirteen years on the meanest of streets could bring. Whilst the veterans partner – fresh from the beat not one month ago – moaned and grumbled he remained vigilant, his eyes on the same door they’d been watching since nightfall yesterday. It was a simple door, its paint job having started to peel away long ago. The building that framed this entrance was in a similar state of disrepair, with large chunks of what used to be a beige gravel finish having fallen away a long time ago, revealing the boring grey cement underneath.

  Alphonso had entered approximately fifteen frustrating hours ago. He hadn’t been seen since. A goon had left at one only to return a half hour later with four Burgertown bags in one hand and a tray of soft drinks balanced precariously in the other. Not your typical mob-boss diet, but then again Alphonso was far from your typical mob-boss. The muscle had banged on the door with his head and been granted entrance, and that was the last movement the building had played host to for the following eleven hours.

  “This has been too damn quiet for far too long” the vet said. Something big was going down, he was sure of it, but no matter how much his noodle stirred it couldn’t come up with any reason as to why. The deal was supposed to have gone down in the early hours, but the building had remained quiet as a tomb since burger-boy returned. 

  “So can we go now?” the rookie whined, “I’ve got far better things to do on a day like today.”

  “No. We can’t go now,” the vet replied dryly, already exhausted with his new charge. Maybe, he thought, some simple psychology would get through to the him. “your father didn’t crack the Cabbage-patch case in ‘83 by going anywhere.”

  “Give the guy a medal,” the kid said sarcastically, “oh wait – they already did.” The vet couldn’t help but smile. The patriarchal disdain was far too obvious to ignore, but bringing up the constant shadow that no doubt dogged the young detectives career, seemed to do the trick. He shut up for an hour, professional as you like.

  The vet finally cracked when he reached into the backseat for the thermos full of coffee only to find it empty.

  “Okay, we’re through here,” he snapped, tossing the flask back where it came from.

  “Finally,” his partner replied, “I’m officially well done.” He buckled up, ready to head back to the station. His heart sank, however, when he glanced across at the vet to see him sliding the gun out of his holster and checking it, sliding the clip out of the grip and glancing at the bullets.

  “No,” he simply said. “Nuh-uh.”

  “Seriously?” the vet replied, “You’re going with nuh-uh?” he grinned at him, a bit inanely. Probably hopped up on adrenaline by now, the kid thought, the stupid idea already lodged in his head, unbudgeable.

  “I’d suggest,” the vet said, tapping his window with the barrel of his pistol and pointing at a diner on the corner, “you skip in there, take a leak, and come back prepared. I don’t want you to piss your pants and bail on me if bullets start to fly.”

  “Look man-“ the kid started to reply.    

  “Don’t make me kick you in your ovaries, rook,”

  There was a brief silence between them, before the kid finally conceded with “If you get me killed-“

  “I won’t get you killed. No dead cops today. I promise.”

  “We’re not cops,” the kid said, but unbuckled anyway. “You owe me a beer.”  

Yes, the title is stolen from the working title of fairly recent police comedy Cop Out. Sue me (please don’t)

~ by Joseph Blame on July 12, 2010.

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