Sweet Tooth

Plans were being made for a round-up of the crack dealers at Rose and Sharsandra's apartment complex. Cam and Shari, the informant couple, had already relocated to another "problem complex" across town, and within a few short days, they had lined up a long list of dope dealers to target. JR and I went to the CI's apartment and met with two of the managers. They were asking for help. The informants had a rent-free apartment and we had the run of the place. In exchange, we would try to rid the complex of the problem tenants and their visiting dealers. They would get more than they bargained for in the end...

The massive complex was made up of over 850 apartment units that sprawled across nineteen, oak covered acres. From the exterior, the complex was very attractive; large clubhouse, indoor and outdoor, Olympic-sized swimming pools, large health club, indoor/outdoor tennis courts and two full-court, indoor basketball courts and a multi-purpose gymnasium. It was a sport buff's "Mecca". There was a cancer growing within the perimeter though, and the middle and upper class tenants, the "marketed" folks, had begun to take notice, and as a result, were fleeing the resort in record numbers. Dope had reared it's ugly head and management was feeling it's repulsive wafting at the back their necks.

Donte and Lavon were 16 and 17 year old "identical" brothers. If the brothers stood without speaking, you couldn't tell them apart. The distinguishing characteristics were prodigious though; Lavon walked with a limp, the result of a gunshot to the calf, and he wore a gold "L", a "slip-on" initial on his left central. Tooth "bling" in the 90's. Donte worked for Lavon and he took all the risks. "You probably won't get to Lavon, we've never seen him touch the stuff, but it's his dope and he makes Donte sell it," Shari proclaimed, having already "reconned" the duo - probably while scoring crack for Cam. JR was ready to get the party started, "Well get 'em up here then, and we'll see what Precious can do with 'em." With that, Cam's eyes lit up as he anxiously clicked his dental appliance, "How much you want?," he asked nervously. "We'll decide that when they get here," JR answered. JR knew Cam would try to work an angle on him if he gave him the slightest opening. Cam shot out the door; he was "jonesing" for the bonus pay he'd get for the introduction, if he could convince Donte and Lavon to sell to us.

Cam returned within a few minutes, out of breath and being followed by the "twins". Donte walked in first and came straight to the corner unit where I sat. Cam had obviously primed him for the sale. I stood, to get out of my disadvantaged position, and to acquire an angle on Lavon. Donte wasted no time in pitching his wares, "I got some tens and some twenties." These guys seemed to be strictly business - no BS talk, no ass grabbing or anything like that - just "get down to what you want" types. "Lemme see the twenties," I said, "if they're big, I'll take two." Donte reached into his left pocket and pulled out a few rocks of crack cocaine, neatly packaged in tiny ziploc baggies. "And how much you want for that," I asked, pointing to the "Atomic Fireball" that had come out with the dope.

He was just a kid; candy and crack in the same pocket. Lavon pretended to play with Cam and Shari's kid, but he watched every move Donte and I made. He needed to be punished. Donte sheepishly grinned as he put the piece of candy back into his pocket, then he picked out two twenties. "You want these two?," he asked, handing me the baggies of crack. "I can't do $20 on these, got any heavier ones?," I asked. Donte shrugged his shoulders and briefly looked at Lavon, "That's it fool. They all the same." I toyed with the baggies and lightly tossed them up and down in my palm. "Naw, you gotta get bigger pieces if you want my money." Cam's face went ghostly white. His "payday" was gettin' screwed 'cause I wasn't buying Donte's crack. "Damn, Tony - those are the best you're gonna get here." Cam was trying to salvage the deal, but JR glared at him and gave him a "STFU" look. JR wasn't too sure of what I was doing either, but he didn't need Cam interjecting his "snitch" philosophy at this point. Donte joined me in staring at the dope in my hand, like we were waiting for the rocks to grow. "What you goin' do?," he asked. "I'm going back to where I was gettin it before I came here," I replied, "unless you wanna give me three of those for fifty... and throw in that piece of candy?" Lavon couldn't stand by any longer; the time of indecision was costing him money. "Lemme see them damn rocks!" Lavon took the crack cocaine from me and held the bags in his hand, tossing them up and down in the same fashion that I had just seconds earlier. "Naw fool, they right - you ain't gettin three o' these fuh fitty!"

Cam and Shari were in mourning - deflated - feeling broke. They had brought in some good dealers and I was pissing away their hard work. I toyed with the idea of walking away from the deal, doing something different for a change. That would give JR something to evaluate me on. There was a calculated logic to all the drama, though. "Fuck it, I'm already here, lemme have 'em." Lavon dropped the crack rocks back into my hand; expanding his chest - puffy, feeling that he had exercised his authority and taken control. In reality, all he had done was earn himself a date with the judge. "You probably won't get to Lavon..." Punished.

I handed Donte $40 and closed the deal, "You still gonna throw in that piece of candy?" Donte forced a small grin and gave me a peculiar look, "Man, is you crazy?," he asked, while he handed me the jawbreaker. "Yeah, I'm crazy - Crazier than a shit-house rat..."

She's Havin' Second Thoughts - Again

Two months into the job and I was beginning to blend in real well with the vermin of the drug trade. I had the obligatory goatee and the hair was growing at record pace - beginning to flip up in the back, the old "DA" look. It was great. I could get up in the morning and not have to worry about what to wear. I had already stocked my locker with "throw down" clothes, extra shirts, jeans, boots, and just general stuff that I didn't wear off duty anymore. I never really trashed out, but I wasn't clean cut anymore, and I knew I was morphing into the culture by the way I was being received in public. I started noticing the extra "browsers" in department stores. Salespeople went to of their way to "help you find anything." I always spotted the "theft prevention" folks, the ones pretending to shop for everything that I was looking at too. So, while missing the unspoken respect of the general public, I knew I was finally achieving the look of a "scrote bag"; the endearing, affectionate term used by local law enforcement when describing a shit head. The sack of the scrotum - the neighbor of the sphincter. You get the idea...

I was in the office researching Poison's background a few days after the buy at the bar. I had identified her based on her association with Terry. "April"(real name) came from a very respectable family in the same town I lived in, as a matter of fact, her parents lived just three blocks from my house. April's father was a member of the Lion's Club and the Noon Optimist's Club, among other associations, plus, he was a succesfull business owner and avid supporter of the Police Department.

I was immersed in the computer screen when my attention was suddenly shattered by the vibration of the Motorola pager on my hip. Fresh batteries were a bitch! I saw the "code" to "call home asap." It had to be something; the Falconette was great about not paging me for "a loaf bread" and random menial stuff. I called the house and was promptly informed that my pre-schooler's teacher had called. "Mrs. McAnally said YOUR daughter is tackling the boys on the playground and calling them 'dirt bags'!" Falconette was pissed! "I've told you before; she hears every word you say and she loves to mimic you!" I had already been chastised before for taking my shirt off outside and spitting snuff in the flower beds. I didn't help matters any when I covered the phone to tell Thunder that everything was OK, that the page was just to tell me that my kid was "busting" her friends on the playground. "I'm sorry honey. Ahem. So... what did Mrs. Mac say?" I tried my best to be serious, but I kept picturing my kid in her tidy school clothes, throwing "little Johnny" to the ground and dropping a knee in his back. "She also said that YOUR daughter called Preston a scrote, and that when she asked YOUR daughter what she was doing, she said: "That's what my daddy does. He kicks the door to people's houses, and he goes in and takes their TVs and VCRs, and sometimes he goes to jail!"

I was in sheep dip; but somewhere along the way, I missed the part where I had become a single parent. Falconette was not happy, and she had started to cry; not a sad cry, but a mad, hurt, "I can't believe you've done this to me" kind of cry. She was pissed to the highest level of "pisstivity". "It's not that big of a deal!," I pitched a half-argued point, "Why are you so mad?" That's when the Falconette went off like Mt. St. Helens, "They think you're a fuckin' burglar! They're calling the Police!" Ouch! Falconette had used the "F" word. She hated that word, and anyone that used it in her presence. "Call 'em back and tell 'em I'm coming up there," I said, "I'll explain it to the staff and tell them that she's only playing out what she's heard me talk about when I come home. I'm gonna have to tell 'em all about the search warrants, busts and stuff, and hope they can relate." I dreaded going to the school and having to dumb-down the aspects of the job to present it in a politically correct manner that the staff would understand. "Well, you better hurry; they have her in the office and their bound to be asking her a million questions!" I wasn't laughing any more. "Hey," I said, defending myself and the little one, "she's just doing what she's been told. When I took the narc assignment we both told her she couldn't tell anyone that he her dad was policeman." Falconette responded with a shot to the gut, "Well... I'm not so sure I like your new job anymore..."

I arrived at the school less than five minutes after the phone call. I saw the School Resource Officer parking his car in the fire lane and walking to the main entrance. He had a designated parking space at the school, so I figured he would be leaving soon. I waited in my car for a few minutes because I didn't feel like explaining the whole thing to him and I didn't want to put him in the position of having to act like he didn't know me. Several more minutes passed but the officer was still inside the building, so I decided to go in to see what kind of reception "the burglar" was going to receive. I walked into the school office and saw the officer casually leaning in the principal's doorway. He turned when he heard me ask for Mrs. McAnally, and when he saw who the visitor was, he busted out laughing. "Oh no - it's you! Mr. P, you don't need me here - you're in good hands with this guy." The SRO and I exchanged jabs and he briefly explained that he had been called to the school to ID a real "crook". "They said a kid's dad was coming and that he sounded like he might be trouble. I'm glad it's only you... have fun explaining that to these people."

Mr. "P" came out of his office to meet me. I showed him my creds and gave him a brief run down of my assignment. Mr. P was relieved to hear my explanation but he was particularly interested in knowing why I went to jail all the time. "I sometimes go to jail along with the scro, uh, the defendants in an attempt to help protect my cover." He promised to tell only those that needed to know. He invited me into his office and that's when I saw the future - my kid. She was sitting on a padded bench with her feet swinging back and forth - dangling well above the floor. She was immersed in a "Dr. Suess" book and she wasn't at all bothered by all of the grown up stuff taking place outside. She didn't look up until she heard my voice; "Hey Punkin - you OK?" "DAAAAA-DEEEEEEEE! Look, Mr. P! It's my DAD!"

Ask me again why I do what I do.

Narc Frustrations - Pick One

I'm going way off focus today - diverting from the mission, so to speak. I'm throwing another log on the fire... literally. I don't need an excuse to use my fireplace, but it IS 47 degrees this morning, my house is quiet, and there's a special aroma in the air; the blend of fresh coffee and burning oak that accents the "safe harbor" appeal of my den - my favorite room in the house.

I've already put in 62 hours this week so, I'm only going to the office later to pick up my check. I'm one of the few that doesn't use "direct deposit". I need to hold that piece of paper for a few minutes, I need to see the fruits of my labor; the "results" of missing a million meals at home, missing my kids' games, not being here for my family when a crisis hits home, forgetting promises that I made at 2:00 A.M. while reaching to answer one of three cell phones that I carry, crawling into bed at 3:00 A.M. after watching an out-of-state mini-van that never moved during 12 hours of continous surveillance - only to find that it left sometime before I returned at 7:00 A.M....

I started this blog to remember and re-live some of the "highlights"; events and cases that I experienced and lived through while performing my duties. I never expected to make or even have "friends", drop-ins, other bloggers checking to see what I had written. Then one day, TRASHMAN left me a comment and linked my blog on his site. I started getting referals from the link and soon GRACE appeared, then MARTINE and SEX@STARBUCKS, and others came from unknown sources, and lately a few "suspicious" visits from "known" sources. I've tried to link to all of you in return. Thanks.

My intentions were to write only about the past; old cases and investigations that couldn't and wouldn't be compromised in any way by anything I wrote. My goal was to write about the events in the chronological order that I experienced them. Some of them, POISON comes to mind, were slow to develop. Some needed to be revisited when the time came to kick their ass. Even though they occurred over a span of a just few minutes, sometimes hours, sanitizing them for the interest of my colleagues' sake, took hours and hours of editting.

So, today I'm fast forwarding 14 years to the present. I'm gonna bitch today. Then tomorrow, well... maybe next week, I might resume with my intended mission.

One of the first things my unit's Commander told me, when I was a "Baby Narc" in 1990, was: "Have Fun. Be damn careful, but have fun doing it." I haven't referred to my old Commander yet, he's in the cards though. What he didn't tell me, but JR did, was that there were going to be a lot of things that I would see and hear that were going to frustrate me; push me to the point of "breaking cover". I'd have to let things go; not act like a street cop anymore. There have been a few instances where I've broken cover to protect a bystander or a victim. Undercover or not, I refuse to stand-by while a woman or a child is physically abused. I alluded to my first "fuck-up" in one of my earliest posts, "Rose's or Red's". I'll take days off as punishement or risk being "found out", but a defenseless woman or a child has my help if it happens in my presence. "F" 'em - I signed on to be a cop, to "serve and protect" in the first place - Narcotics was a by-product, and it's lasted 15 years.

So, the bitch. Last week, at about 11:00A.M. one day, we saturated a neighborhood with unmarked vehicles, stationary and mobile surveillance posts, even a helicopter. We had very reliable information that a vehicle loaded with Cocaine was preparing to leave for a destination in the East. I had already met two of the suspects in an undercover meeting and I didn't need to be seen in their "hood", so I kept a safe distance but remained close enough to react to any movement or trouble. I chose to wait on one of about fifteen streets that intersect the main thoroughfare into the neighborhood. It just happened to be at a four-way stop. So I sat there, listening to the secure radio and the Nextel chatter, occasionally hearing the "pop" of the chopper blades when the wind blew just right, and watched car after car run the stop signs. Some stopped - some slowed down but never actually stopped as defined by law. A few never slowed at all. I sat back and daydreamed about how easy it would be to sit in a squad car in the same spot and fill book after book of stop sign citations. I actually chuckled as I remembered the joke about the traffic cop pummeling a stop sign violator; "You want me to STOP or SLOW DOWN!?!?" Like shooting fish in a barrel - someday, I may end up back in uniform and I'll come back to this spot and easily fill my...

My daydream was interrupted when I saw something I haven't seen in YEARS. A hispanic girl, maybe in her early 20's, rolled her white Maxima through the stop sign without stopping. OK - One out of 50 cars so far. The kicker to this particular violator was that she had a toddler, barely old enough to stand, perched in her lap and he was holding on to the steering wheel as she sped by. ANY contact with another vehicle or another object and that kid is history. Dammit! Do I go after her and get her stopped? I pulled out of my spot and tried to find the car, but she was nowhere in sight. She could gave gone down any of the side-streets while I contemplated my move. OK. Hope she drives half-way safe and little Julio doesn't get blown away by the airbag. I can't be in two places at the same time, besides, traffic enforcement isn't my job. Go ahead -make yourself feel better. Justify NOT doing something sooner.

The surveillance lingered; the crooks never left (while we were there anyway) and about 2:00A.M. we "called it", go home. We met back at the office, put away some equipment and pondered the next course of action. I left around 2:30 and pointed my sled toward home. Tired, hungry, ass numb and I'll be back in a couple of hours to resume the surveillance. I pulled up to a red light and the only other vehicle on the street pulled up beside me. No. Not the chica in the Maxima. A couple in a Ford Expedition. Nice. Gold 2004 model. Hubby cracked the driver's window as he lit a cigarette while momma played with Junior, a baby, who she had standing in her lap. I reached back into my turn-out bag and pulled the red and blue strobe out, then barely plugged it into the cigarette lighter so it was ready to go but not powered up yet, then I dug for my badge. Get a gun out before you get their attention. They don't know you're a cop. I eased up a few feet and plugged in the light. The dim intersection was immediately doused in red and blue. I get "frisky" when that happens. Momma turned to look at me. I raised my badge case and motioned for her to lower her window. She pushed junior down into the floorboard and turned to look at her "prize" husband. Hubby glanced at me briefly then turned away, puffing on his Marlboro. "Get that kid in a car seat!," I yelled across the short distance. "Fuck you!," Momma shot back while flipping me the bird. Hubby laughed and pulled away from the intersection, running the red light. "Fuck ME?" I shut off the lights and followed them while I called for a marked squad. Within seconds, (late night guys LOVE to get called by the Narcs) four squad cars descended upon the Expedition. I haven't written a citation in over 14 years, so I had to ask a rookie for some help. "Hot damn! This is neat! I can write more than one violation on the same ticket!" "Unrestrained Child". "Running a Red Light". "Where's the box for "Being A Dumbass in a No Dumbass Zone?" I wasn't even pissed at Momma, until I saw the child carrier in the back seat... safely protecting a twelve pack of Bud Light. Hubby went to jail for seven (7) outstanding traffic warrants. Momma got several sermons and was eventually let slide on the "pissing off the po-leese" charge.

Sleep well, Junior... A nosey Narc got a second chance tonite, and may have saved your life in the process.

The Capture

I tipped the DJ $40.00 to skip Poison's turn in the rotation, then I gave Poison what I thought she might have made if she had danced; well... probably more. Poison figured that Terry would be eager to make the sale and that he might come early. "If he gets here soon, I'll make him leave as soon as we're done, then you can take me home." Great. How does a guy in a topless bar turn down the hottest stripper in the entire place? I turned up the beer bottle without answering. Poison questioned my indifference at her offer to take her "home", "What's the matter? You don't want to take me home?"

Out of all the men in the bar, and a few of the women, 97% would have jumped at the chance; the abstaining 3% were Narcs. No coitus - No copulation - No booty for us.

"I'm going to change!" Poison strutted away; Pissed off - Irritated at the thought of possibly getting turned down. "Every now and then you gotta take one... for the team - you know?," Thunder offered his condolences. I hadn't said "No" yet, I had to wait until Terry delivered, then I'd have to come up with a reason. It just wasn't fitting, though. How many kids would walk out of candy store without taking a piece of free candy? How many women would walk out of a shoe store without taking a pair if they were free? Yet here I was, in the depths of an abysmal den full of sinners, passing up a piece and a pair.

Poison's "old man" finally arrived. It was the same Terry - Thunder's Buick-boy from earlier. Terry made his way to the bar and struck up a conversation with the female bartender, periodically turning to look over the crowd. Poison reappeared from the dressing room wearing a white, lacey, bra and panty set and thigh-high leather boots. The footwear showcased her taut, competent legs and served as a pedestal for her perfectly round bottom. "Mmmm - Like a golf ball perched on a tee." Terry spotted Poison and called out to her about the time she reached our table. Poison set her cigarette case down and then went to meet Terry. After a few minutes Poison returned and sat in the chair next to me; she wasn't sprawling across my lap while Terry was in the bar. "I need $40," Poison extended her turned-up palm. "You told me they were $3 apiece," I feigned protestation of the price. Poison countered, "He'll knock it down to $3 if you buy more than twenty." "Fuck it - Take $40." Poison slipped the money into her cigarette case and returned to Terry's side. "You're half-way there, dumbass... But, you left the money on the table." Poison was evidently running her own game. She didn't take the money to Terry. She would probably give him $30 later; thinking she was screwing me out of an extra ten bucks. Like $10 was going to queer this deal...

Terry repositioned himself at the bar so he could keep an eye on our table. Thunder cussed the hostess for making him leave his cowboy hat at the front desk. He shifted around behind Jasmine, using her as a cloak while he peered through her wispy hair. Thunder kept an eye on Terry while trying not to let Terry see him. JR abruptly stood from his seat and called out to a chubby stranger. JR introduced "Chris" around the table and told him to pull up a chair. I offered Chris Poison's chair instead; setting the scene for her return. Chris was a balding 24-25 year old; cocky, loud, and he had a strange desire to cap every statement with a fake "saleman's laugh." He turned out to be the first person I have ever truly disliked within the first minute of meeting them. I envisioned a "train-wreck" in our future. Chris was already in trouble though; he was JR's target for the evening.

Thunder, meanwhile, was forced into pulling double duty; keeping and eye on my deal with Poison and Terry, and JR's deal with pudgy Chris. He was tasked with memorizing the finite details of two simultaneous transcations. He would be instrumental when it came time to write the prosecution reports. Thunder was more than capable; he had, after all, memorized about a thousand "silver screen" quotes and he could recall the title, year and the actors without fail. I expected to hear a few "new ones" on the way home, providing Poison wasn't in the picture...

Poison returned to the table to find pudgy Chris sitting in her chair. I pushed away from the table and pulled Poison into my lap while sneaking a peek at Terry. The "chess game" had started, although Terry pretended not to play from his perch at the bar. Poison felt a little rigid this time; a little uncomfortable with Terry watching. "Well?," I asked as I looked up into Poison's seductive blue eyes. "They're in a cellophane wrapper in my boot," she said, "I'll get them out in a minute." I checked to make sure Terry was still watching, "That's OK - I'll get it." I slowly slid my hand up and down the length of Poison's rigid thigh, then down into the top of her boot. I took the wrapper from Poison's boot and slipped it into my back pocket. Pudgy Chris was still being loud and obnoxious; he couldn't take his eyes off of Poison, and he had seen me pull "something" out of her boot. "DAMN - I ALREADY LIKE YOU GUYS!," Chris blurted out with bugged out eyes and a huge school-boy grin on his face. "Thanks, Fat Boy... Anybody that wasn't watching us before is probably watching us NOW!" Poison sighed, expressing her disgust with the stranger, "So, what do you want me to tell him?" She was persistent - to the point that it had finally paid off; Poison had bought herself a trip to court on a First Degree Felony - Delivery of LSD. My price was going to be steeper than that.

Goin' Gets Tough - Tough Gets Growing

Poison had her cigarette case and a small coin purse in her hand when I returned to the table. She had slipped into an over-sized, pale blue, men's business shirt - crisply starched - sleeves neatly folded up above the wrist. She looked damn sexy. Stunning - strangely enough, even "more" with clothes on. "Going somewhere," I asked. "Yeah - outside to the payphone. I'm calling Terry." Poison's eagerness for an ass-kickin' hadn't subsided while I was gone talking to Thunder and JR. "Let's go then." Decision made. I didn't look for JR's "glance of approval" this time. I was on my own now.

Poison and I made it about halfway across the room when she suddenly stopped. "Oh! This is one of my favorite songs!" Poison set her stuff down on an empty table in a dimly lit corner and turned a chair facing outward. "Sit down - I gotta dance for you to this song." "I Wanna Sex You Up" had just started playing. Poison shed the over-sized shirt and caught the beat in mid-stride. "Lean and Mean" barely describes the flawless composition of muscle and flesh gyrating just inches from my own. Poison leaned closer with each stanza; draping her hair across my face - shielding me from the other patrons. Poison's breathing grew slightly heavier as the song played through. I fought the urge to stare at any one particular region - so many attributes to evaluate. "I want you, Tony - I want you to f*** me tonite..." Poisons eyes locked into mine. I tried to win the "contest" by not looking away. "Oh girl... If you only KNEW - I'm gonna f*** you alright, but neither one of us is going to enjoy one bit - mainly, YOU..." "You liked that didn't you?," Poison smiled as she slipped back into her shirt. "It was... alright I guess." Poison flirtatiously slugged me in the stomach, "Just 'alright'... by the looks of 'things' I'd say you liked it ALOT!"

We walked out of the bar and headed to the payphone. I looked up and spotted Goliath watching us from his lime-green Taurus. "Dammit! This bitch is setting a trap!" I subconsciously slowed my pace as I peripherally kept watch on Goliath's vehicle. Poison quickly walked ahead a couple of steps; it almost seemed as if she was trying to create some distance between us - a "safe" separation. Images of John Dillinger and the Lady in Red walking out of the Biograph Theatre quickly played through my mind. Goliath's door opened and I watched the behemoth start unfolding from the driver's seat. "Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! She's doin' me." Poison looked back over her shoulder and saw that I had almost stopped walking. BITCH! I'm killing you first! "You still having trouble walking, Tony?" Poison stopped and struck a pose, popping her "trademark butt" out a tad, while she waited for me to catch up. "Did I dance a little bit TOO good for you?," Poison smuggly laughed. I never answered her question; I watched Goliath walk into the bar." Poison wasn't a traitor. It wasn't a set-up. She wasn't a bitch. Nevertheless, she was about to step off the edge.

"Hey; What are you doin?" Poison pressed her forefinger to her lips signalling me to be quiet. I listened while Poison "sold me" to Terry; lying to him about how long I'd been coming to the bar, how everyone there knew me, and the usual crap to make him commit. She pulled me tightly into her side and whispered in my ear, "How many do you want, baby?," not wanting to let Terry know I was right there with her. Poison's eyes took on a provacative stare; gleaming a naughty look at me as Terry babbled on the other end. "BABY? Shit! - That's gonna leave a mark... " I closed and opened my hand twice; "Five - Five". "Bring at least twenty; he'll take ten and Candy will take the others." Poison hung up on Terry. "Done! Let's go back in." "Just like that?," I asked, " No 'Bye' - 'I love you' or anything?" "Nope. I don't love him, so why should I say it? "Well, you should have told him to kiss your ass, then." Poison took my face in her hands and held it so I couldn't turn away - like a mom holds her kid when she's about to make a serious "point". "YOU can kiss my ass - We both know you want to."

Deliver Us From Evil

Poison started outlining the aspects of Terry's drug business; How much he bought - Where he bought it - How much he sold - How long he had been dealing. She seemed nervous, but simultaneously excited as she recalled the time Terry almost sold to “an undercover narc...” Poison volunteered a lot of free information; Except she left out the "one thing" that I really wanted to know: Does he drive a black Buick that has a smashed right window? I leaned in to listen to Poison's offerings; interested in hearing more, but at the same time, hoping that she'd move on to another subject. "Lie to me about how you're working your way through college or how you only dance because it keeps you thin, something, anything, but forget about selling me dope." I was having a hard time discerning whether Poison was "bragging" about her old man or trying to get him busted. Maybe she was just trying to fit into the group. She knew Mary was selling Meth to LT and JR. Who knows - she was cleaning out the closets, though; throwing all of Terry's skeletons out on their collective asses.

Poison tossed up another home run ball, "I can get him to sell to you - I'll tell him that you come in here all the time and that I know you're cool." I could have driven it out of the park, but, I tried to dissuade her from the topic, instead; "I don't know him. You said he almost sold to a narc once. What if he "did" get busted and now he's working with a cop or something?" Poison pressed on, "I promise - I swear to God he's cool." "I don't know," I said, "We'll see. What time is he coming?," I asked. "One of these days you'll look back on this, and I just hope you remember that it was YOU that kept pushing the issue." "Midnight, but I can call him and have him come earlier if you want - Let's go to the payphone and I'll call him." Poison still hadn't made any mention of money. I had never been around a dancer that didn't try to get into my pockets within the first five minutes. Is she doing "this" to get her share? "Does he give you any of the money he makes?," I asked. "Nope - I don't need his money - I make more in here than he does out there." "Then you don't need to help him sell that shit!," I shot back, hoping to end the discussion. "I'm not helping him. I like you, Tony... I wanna help YOU." "Lead me not into temptation; I can find the way all by myself."

I had no way of knowing if Poison's boyfriend was the same guy that had sold to Thunder. I asked Jasmine to let Thunder breathe for a few minutes while we stepped over to the bar. I briefed him on what we had been discussing. "Damn Precious, I thought you wuz proposing to that little Nissan, as serious as you two were acting over there. Just buy a house and give it to the little bitch." Thunder; always handy with a wisecrack. Thunder got serious long enough to school me on the fact that if this was the same Terry, we wouldn't get an additional delivery case because it would be seen in court as a continuation of the earlier transaction for fifty (50) hits. Both transactions would occur within the same calendar day and I had been with Thunder on the earlier buy. "Fuck 'em! Do him - just wait 'till after midnight, then it's a different day - a completely separate charge." "Damn. Makes sense... But I don't really want a case against her". "You sure you wanna do her?," Thunder asked. "Damn! Am I thinking out loud or are you a comedian AND a mind reader?" Thunder didn't care if we did Terry again, but the "womanizer" in him showed a little remorse for tagging Poison with a felony delivery case. Thunder was more interested in finding out if Black Buick Boy was banging Poison. "Let's do it - How much you gonna buy?" Back then, LSD was the cheapest felony case you could make. One (1) hit of LSD, for the average price of $3, bought the defendant a first degree felony. "I don't know - Let me talk to JR first," I said, hoping Poison would be called to the main stage before I went back to the table, "We're up here to do his buy anyway - that comes first." Thunder had a parting shot, but it wasn't one of his classic one-liners: "They're gonna eat her ALIVE in the joint..." "Literally - Thanks."

I went to JR, hoping his deal was happening soon so we would get tied up with that. Fat chance. JR had some of the same questions that Thunder had, "Terry's bought and paid for. He's the source. We're trying to work "UP" the ladder here. What do we gain by doing her?" JR seized the opportunity to administer another test. "If it's a different guy, you come out of this with two new defendants. If it's the same guy, yeah, you might add another case, but you can explain that it was set up by her, the conspiring girlfriend." JR was steering me in the direction he knew I should go, but he wasn't actually telling me how to get there. "You wanted to be a narc - now, make a decision - this is all part of it. Either way, you're gonna send her to prison."

Still No Hockey Fix!

12:25pm; Duty pager goes off: House explosion - possible drug lab - respond ASAP

12:51pm; Arrived at crime scene. Dodge TV news cameras to enter lab site.

1:00pm; Begin processing evidence.

6:45pm; Release scene to Fire Dept. / Head to office to log evidence.

6:48pm; Call home - Missing another dinner/evening with Ms. Falcon.

7:00pm; Pause to contemplate life undercover...

7:02pm; Pause to wonder who's sitting in my seats for hockey game.




This is what's left of a $1400 side x side fridge/freezer after the "chilling" acetone mixture flashed and exploded inside fridge, blowing the doors off and igniting the fire. Meth Cook and 4 freaks last seen running to car with soot covered faces and smoldering clothing. No reported deaths. Lucky bastards.

Why do you think they call it DOPE?

I'm Ill... Off Topic - Not A Title - To Be Deleted Soon

I'm currently suffering from a very rare ailment that appears every now and then, only this time it's lasted longer than ever before. Experts from all over the world have attempted to find a cure for it, and a cure "does" exist, but there seems to be a "hold" on the funding; it always comes down to money, which I have, just not enough to cover what it would cost to cure me.

I've been motoring along just fine, strolling down memory lane, drafting and editing future posts, making a little progress, then this morning it hit me full-force, no symptomatic hints, just a sudden, full-fledged attack, and then I crashed.

I realized I had "it" when I opened my homepage to read up on my friends. I stared at the links in my "Little Black Book" and my vision started to blur. The more it blurred - the more I squinted; the more I squinted - the more obvious it became. I'm sick - I have "it". There's a long, un-pronounceable name for "it", and it takes too long to explain, so I just say; lack-o-hockey, not to be confused with, and certainly not nearly as devastating as lack-o-n**kie. So... What triggered this malady, this affliction, this enervation, this impotency, uhhh... bad choice, this depraving, incapacitating beast?

The shape formed by my links somewhat resembles an upside-down... Stanley Cup!


(C'mon Grace, work with me here...)

Should I re-arrange the links? - Naaa, too much editing. Should I drop a couple of bloggers? - Naaa, Y'all are my homies. Sometimes you just gotta say W-T-F! I'm beating this thing! I'm gonna work through it!

So, this week-end I will take on the role of a Doctor, and I will self-medicate, cost what it may. I'll slip out out to Frisco and catch a Texas Tornados hockey game. Not a cure - just a treatment.

Ahhh... I feel better already! I should be able to post the next installment by late this evening... (First I have to wine & dine Ms. Falcon and take preventative measures against that "other" ailment...)

Trippin' Without My Luggage

It's been ten years this month, and I still regret going back to see Poison that day.

Thunder was a tall, lanky cowboy, known for his wide array of one-liners. He would randomly recite lines from hundreds of movies, but he favored John Wayne and Marlon Brando. He always had a line ready for whatever the current conversation might be, and he would quote it, once, twice, a hundred times - or until you acknowledged that you had heard him. I ragged him for wearing crisply starched Wranglers and button down western shirts everyday. "You lookin' to mount somethin' at lunch-time, Thunder?" Thunder was a three time divorcee, and he was always on the prowl, dressed for dancing or a "nooner," whichever opportunity arose. "I ain't never gettin' married again - I'm just gonna buy the bitch a house, instead!" Thunder reminded us daily that he had lost three homes to three ex-wives. I never saw him wear a casual pair of shoes, shorts, or a broken-in pair of Levi's. One of the perks of working narcotics is that you can wear whatever the hell you want. Jeans, t-shirts, tennis shoes, boots, shorts, sandals... whatever the "story" requires and the weather will allow. But Thunder dressed the same - everyday, with the occasional exception of his two favorite t-shirts: a black, Harley-Davidson t-shirt that had an image of a howling Wolf on it, and a gray t-shirt that had a huge dollar bill on the front, a bull's head in place of the president's image, and the phrase, "Sounds Like Bullshit To Me", underneath. Regardless of what shirt he wore, Thunder always wore starched Wrangler jeans and Justin Ropers. Now, that's pretty much what I wore on "my" time, off-duty, so I wasn't knocking his choice of clothes, but this was work and I dressed accordingly. So, I always wondered if Thunder's attire was really conducive to buying dope. Most of us bought dope three or four times a day, everyday. Thunder's buys were spread out... to about once a week.

Thunder liked to make his dope buys on Mondays, that way he could cruise for the rest of the week. But he was always available to cover whoever needed help. He kept pace in the stats, plus it was easier being the cover guy; less paperwork. On this particular Monday, Thunder asked me to cover him on an LSD buy. We hopped into his truck and drove to a convenience store across town. Thunder was meeting "Terry" to buy fifty (50) hits of acid. Terry was waiting for Thunder when we pulled into the parking lot. Thunder got out and walked over to Terry's 1988 Buick Regal, a black 2-door with a black trash bag covering the passenger door's window, the obvious result of a current rash of General Motors vehicle thefts. I kept an eye on Thunder, but the plastic kept me from seeing what Terry was doing. That was just as well - he couldn't see me either. Thunder and Terry exchanged small talk about the broken window and eventually completed the transaction: Fifty (50) hits of acid for $150.00. Another Felony charge for Terry. Thunder had bought smaller amounts of LSD from Terry on two other occasions. This was supposed to be his last buy before filing for secret indictments. We headed back to the office, wrote our reports then took the evidence to the property room on our way out to lunch. An easy day so far... "maybe I'll get home early tonite."

Late that afternoon, as I got ready to head home, JR came back to the office and said he had set up a buy at the bar and he needed cover. JR, Thunder and I rode together - 20 miles to the bar where I had previously met Poison, Mary, Satin... and Goliath. "I wonder if Poison's working tonite?" I nervously anticipated seeing her again. I don't know why - I knew I wasn't getting involved with her, but I had to play the part, and that meant toeing the edge if things went in that direction. We walked in and waited for our table to be cleared. JR went straight to the raised, glass booth and greeted the DJ while Thunder and I scanned the scenery, looking for "our girls." I figured that Poison wouldn't remember me and I dreaded having to repeat the whole routine with a "new" girl. "One out of a thousand guys that she's probably played like a fine tuned guitar." But she hadn't played me; not for drinks or lap dances, other than the money that I dropped at her feet after my run-in with Goliath. She hadn't "worked" me like dancers are inclined to do, making "that guy" feel like he's the only one - that is, until his wallet's empty. It's a game - you just have to understand the rules: They're there to make money, you're there to "whatever" and everybody goes home alone when the lights come on. "It's all fun and games - till somebody gets poked in the eye till somebody sells dope to a narc."

I felt the nudge of two soft lumps on my back; warm breath on my neck as cold fingers covered my eyes. "Mmmmm - Guess who?" A mysterious hardbody was moaning while she softly bit my ear. I knew exactly who it was by the scent of her hands; Bath and Body Works' Vanilla Bean lotion. An instant aphrodisiac by any measure! Poison had found me first. I turned around and Poison pressed hard into my chest. "Where have you been?" she asked. "Aw..." I shrugged, "a nasty little dump called The Orchid," knowing that Poison knew it was another strip bar. "Well, you don't have any reason to go back there anymore." "Let the games begin." We went to our table and were soon joined by the regular crew; Mary - the waitress, Satin - pouting cause Biker Tom didn't come along, and Thunder's girl - Jasmine. "Bada Boom Bada Bing - She's pickin' out china patterns!," Thunder spouted his favorite line as Jasmine plopped into his lap.

"What have you been up to today?" Poison asked while stroking my hair. "Just hanging out with these clowns. What about you... makin' any money today?" Poison shook her head, "Not a good day." Poison stared at me with her hypnotic eyes; scanning every detail of my face. "What do you do?" Damn - Just like that? Not a particularly difficult question, except that she was actually looking at me while she waited for a response. I was more used to the typical strip-bar BS where, after asking the same question, the girls usually looked away, searching the targets - weighing their options before you could answer. And always, the typical response to any answer; an emotionless, un-interested, mundane "Oh - really?" It didn't matter what you said: "I'm a brain surgeon" / "Oh - really?," "I build houses" / "Oh - really?," "I kill people" / "Oh - really?" So, it was difficult, cause Poison was actually acting interested in whatever BS I was concocting for an answer. She was actually listenening. "You know what I do," I answered, trying to remember how much we had talked during our first encounter. "Yeah, I know, but it's not everyday is it?," Poison asked, her voice hinting a fine line between doubt and concern. "Most days," I said, "sometimes every day - sometimes just once a week." "My old man sells dope." DAMN! Poison was getting to the point, today! "Your old man? As in 'dad' or 'husband'?" "My boyfriend, Terry. He's coming up here later tonite if you wanna buy some acid?" Dammit girl! I told you not to try to sell me any dope! "Naw, that's kiddy stuff isn't it? - I don't mess with teenagers too much." I couldn't believe I was passing up a chance at another easy case but damn, I didn't want to body-slam Poison... Not my girl! Not legally, anyway. "Wait - hold the phone - did she say T e r r y ?"