Free Under a Raging Moon by Frank Zafiro Page A

their weapons in the lock-box outside the door. Kopriva walked Maxwell into the officer’s booking area and O’Sullivan handed him a booking slip.
    “Rousse is all done, except for the report number.”
    “Thanks, Sully.”
    Battaglia nudged Kopriva. “You better check his work. Sometimes he forgets and he writes shit in Gae l ic.”
    “Better than Italian,” O’Sullivan fired back. He shook his head at Kopriva. “I can’t tell you how many times we’ve come in here to book someone named Mamma Mia.”
    “Hey!” Battaglia said. “Leave alone my mother.”
    O’Sullivan smiled. “Italian boys and their mothers.”
    “Irish boys and their dresses.”
    “They’re kilts, not dresses.”
    Battaglia rolled his eyes and clapped Kopriva on the shoulder. “Good pinch, Stef.”
    The two officers left, tossing insults at each other on the way out the door.
    Kopriva filled out the booking slip for Maxwell and completed Rousse’s. A jailer brought out Maxwell’s warrant. Kopriva told Travis to read it to Maxwell.
    Officer James Kahn stood in the corner of the small booking area. He looked up from his paperwork at Kopriva. “What’d you get, hotshot?”
    “Warrant. Some meth.” Kahn was a hard-charger and Kopriva respected that. On the few calls he’d been on with him, though, Kahn had exhibited almost zero compassion. “What are you here for?”
    Kahn cocked an eyebrow at him. “You know what’s a bad day? It’s a bad day when a policeman shows up at your doorstep at midnight with two Child Protective Services workers. He takes your kids and places them with CPS, then arrests you and your wife for warrants right out of your living room. That’s a bad day, man.”
    Kopriva waited, knowing there was more to come.
    “You know what’s a good day?” Kahn asked. “It’s a good day when you’re a cop and CPS calls you to go to some meth maggot’s house to place his kids in foster care. You go there and turn his kids over to CPS and then you arrest him and his skanky wife right out of their living room on some drug warrants. That is a good day.”
    Kopriva laughed. “A very good day.”
    Kahn returned to writing his report. Kopriva gathered up his own paperwork. The jailers returned their handcuffs, they retrieved their weapons and left jail. Even though Kopriva had a report to do, it was still early enough to get into some more action.
     

FOUR
     
    Thursday August 18th
    2309 hours
     
    Pyotr Ifganovich thanked the customer for his business as he handed over the change. He preferred to go by the English version of his name, Peter. At varying times, depending on the government in power, it had been a popular name in Russia.
    Here in America, he’d discovered with some surprise that Peter had also once been a popular name. He had not been so foolish as to believe all the lies the Soviet government told the Russian people regarding this n a tion, once his enemy. Neither had he been naïve enough to believe the myths of unsurpassed riches whispered out of KGB earshot.
    When he arrived in River City, he found some of both. Of course, it was the riches he noticed first. He r e called the first time he stood in a Safeway store and struggled not to weep at the shelves bulging with food, coffee, and toilet paper. America was wealthy indeed.
    He quickly enrolled in English classes and studied for his citizenship along with Olga, his wife. Their son, four-year-old Pavel (they called him Paul now), didn’t remember Minsk and as he grew older, his appreciation for America obviously did not mirror that of his parents. Now ten years old, Paul spoke English better than both his parents and without an accent.
    America was good to him and his family. He could apply for any job he wanted and the best applicant usually got the job. His work as farmer in Minsk didn’t qualify him for many jobs here in America. The conve n ience store provided a great opportunity for him. More importantly, his son could go to an American