The chief wrapped up assignments for the day and paired me with Robert Ignacio. Most of us just called him El Gruñón, Spanish for grouch. And if he heard you use his nickname, he’d purse his lips and furrow his brows – more so than usual – and respond in Spanish. Some of the other officers who speak Spanish confirmed that his responses were always of the upmost respect and full of delightful kindness. Just like El Gruñón.
As we all filed out of the meeting room, Robert matched my pace and offered to drive. And I think I remember almost seeing him smile as he looked down at my newly gifted supply box. We split ways as I made my way to the locker room and he left to pull the Ford Interceptor around front. After stowing my gifts away, I walked outside and climbed into the suburban. We drove to the beach accompanied by the sounds of Herb Alpert and Andrés Segovia.
The first two hours at the beach went as you might expect. The sun was hot, our uniforms were navy, and the belt and vest don’t get any lighter with time. We asked kind citizens to place their liquid summer in paper bags, helped kittens out of trees, and held the hands of seniors crossing the hot sands. Okay, really just the first one.
We did run into an older man with ebony skin and peppered grey hair making snowflakes appear out of thin air. A group of excited children and parents gathered around him, and a growing mound of cash sat in a makeshift offering tray made out of a cereal box with the front panel ripped out. I almost dropped a few bucks in. Magic was hardly ever predictable enough for continued and safe use. At least it seemed safe enough. He even ended the show by making a large snowflake into the form of the Chicago flag. Two rectangles enclosing four stars. I really should have dropped a few bucks in – but I didn’t get the chance.
“Hoo, boy. This guy again,” El Gruñón grumbled before approaching the old man. At least he waited for the end of the performance – apparently ruining the children’s fun taxed the limits of his crankiness.
“Amigo, you got that permit I talked to you about on Friday?” Robert asked once he got close. I stood back and listened to the old man’s excuses and Robert’s stern warnings. In the end, the man shoved the offerings into his pockets, picked up the cereal box, and walked away. Robert turned to me and shrugged. “He was here all last week, too. Asked him to leave each day. What’s so hard about getting a permit?”
Our radios piped up before I could answer. We got notified of a drunk causing a ruckus at Castaways, a local bar shaped like a boat and built on the beach. A happening place for the younger crowd. We hopped back in the Interceptor and drove slowly down the beach. It was a better way to travel than the segues some of the other officers had the privilege of driving.
When we arrived at the bar, the manager met us out front. “He’s on the second floor. We got our guests to come downstairs, but we can’t get this guy to leave – he’s hopped up on God knows what, and I don’t. I don’t know what to do,” he said, motioning up toward the upper deck.
“We’ll take care of it sir,” I told him in a voice that sounded a bit too casual. Apparently, I had lost my practiced police voice over the past few months. I’d have to work on that.
As we made our way to the stairs, I caught a glimpse of one of the bar’s muscle men holding a bag of ice to his head. Dried blood smeared from his nose to his chin. A good omen.
When we got upstairs we saw the bar’s other muscle – two young men keeping their distance from the assailant. The kid could not have weighed more than a hundred and sixty pounds. Tall and wiry, backed into a corner, he held a broken bottle in one hand and a smart phone in the other. Later, we found out the kid was streaming the whole thing. Which was as impressive as it was insane.
“We’ve got this,” Robert barked as we approached the kid. The muscle backed away and let us do the work.
“Put the bottle down, son,” Robert said, a hand placed on the canister of mace in his belt. He held the other hand up towards the perp in the universal sign language for “Stop it before I stop you”. I placed a hand on the holster of my taser just in case.
The kid’s faced twitch, and without a word, he charged forward with the bottle. Robert stepped out of the way, upholstered the canister, and sprayed a generous amount of mace on the kid. The kid took a deep breath and turned back around. I shot my taser and watched as the cord extended out in front of me and missed the target by two feet. This wasn’t how things were supposed to happen.
The boy turned towards me charged. I grabbed my flashlight and hoisted it up in an arc as I turned to avoid the sharp end of the bottle. The flashlight caught the young man under his right jaw. The bottle skimmed my left arm. I heard a crack and watched as the kid and the broken pieces of my flashlight fell to the ground. He was out cold, and I was out a flashlight. And a shirt sleeve.