Free On The Beat (Goosey Larsen Book 3) by James Vachowski Page A

afterglow from all that late-night Chinese food, or maybe it was the fact that showing up at work gave me a solid excuse for not having to see Katie two nights in a row. Whatever the reason, I honestly felt like doing my job for a change! That’s an unusually rare sensation for me, since I normally like to burn my excess sick time on Friday nights or Monday mornings.
    I should have known that feeling wouldn’t last, though. The promising thought of enjoying a relaxing evening in the city came to a screeching halt just as soon as I pulled up through the garage and into my usual parking space. Curly Wilds was there as always, but something was definitely amiss. He had this dirty little ragpicker backed against the wall in a modified chokehold, using all his strength to bend the poor stiff’s body backwards over the ledge. If the bright red shade of his ashy brown face was any indication, Curly was mere seconds away from flinging the bum off the roof in a fit of rage. “Where is it, Barry? Damn it, I know you know something!” His furious shouts echoed out across the concrete structure as he shook the bum without mercy.
    The street gypsy was unable to muster more than a wheeze. He gasped for air as he squirmed, struggling to pull his skinny black neck loose from Curly’s death grip. “Ah don’t know, Offisuh! I al’ready done tol’ you!”
    I threw my car into park and dashed out, leaving the door wide open and the engine still clanking away behind me. My hope was that if I could only stop Curly from killing the poor bastard, I could save what was left of his career while keeping myself from having to write a witness statement. “Curly!” I screamed. “Let him go, man! What’s gotten a hold of you?” I pried his flabby arms off the bum’s neck and wrestled him back a few steps. Even with the hundred or so pounds that Curly had over me, it was easy enough to move him around since he was so winded. The bum seized his golden opportunity, taking a precious second to catch his own breath before dashing off towards the stairwell. The little crackhead moved so fast that I swear, all I saw was this dark-skinned blur. That dude was gone in an instant, only leaving behind a sweet, lingering odor of Wild Irish Rose wine.
    Curly pulled hard against my grip, so I let him go free before I strained a muscle. “Kinloch!” he shouted out across the city’s rooftops. The only response was the clatter of footsteps as they echoed up from the stairwell. “I know you know something!” Curly threw one hammy fist into the air, shaking it in a show of violent impotence. “I swear, if I ever catch up to you!” His words hung there for a moment while the color began to drain from his face. He turned to me with murder in his eyes, clearly searching for his next victim. “And you, Larsen! Damn it, Goosey, what the hell is your problem?”
    My face scrunched up in confusion. Curly seemed seriously pissed off, but I knew there was no possible way I could be in hot water since my shift had only begun thirty minutes earlier. I held my look of bewilderment just long enough to let Curly simmer down, then did my best to act casual. “What’s shaking, Wilds? Everything okay in your world, big fella? You look kind of upset about something.”
    Curly shot me one of his fiercest glares but I was ready, squaring my shoulders and meeting his gaze without fear. I suppose he must have intended the stare to show how upset he was or something, but I simply didn’t take any notice. To tell the truth, I could really only concentrate on the unique way that both his eyebrows seemed to join together directly above the bridge of his nose. Whenever his dark forehead wrinkled with creases of anger, it almost seemed as if a huge black caterpillar was trying to wriggle a horizontal path across his dome.
    “Look around, Larsen!” he finally shouted. “You see anything different about this here parking garage tonight?”
    I humored him by taking a quick