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

sideways glance at my surroundings. The roof level seemed just as quiet and empty as always, with my car and his truck being the only things in sight. “Nope” I said, with a shrug of my shoulders. “Why? Should I?”
    He let out a deep, huffing breath of frustration as he swung a hairy arm down at the empty parking space next to my little Tercel. “You want to maybe explain where my cooler and beach chair might have wandered off to? Huh? Damn it, Goosey, I trusted you with those! And didn’t I even remind you to lock them to the railing before you went home last night?”
    My heart sunk in my chest, and now it was my turn to feel deflated as I reached behind my back to confirm my mistake. Sure enough, my handcuffs were nestled securely in the beat-up leather pouch on my duty belt, which was exactly where they didn’t belong. I guess I’d been in so much of a hurry to make it to The Great Wall that I’d completely forgotten to secure Curly’s portable office before leaving. Christmas must have come early for some lucky bum, and all because of my stupidity. That Coleman cooler and reclining beach chair were probably already serving as a living room suite for some urban camper’s cardboard box.
    “Damn it, Curly. I’m so sorry, man.” It was a sincere apology, one that I offered partly out of sympathy for his loss but mostly because I now had one less place to hide out during my shift. I’d spent many a chilly evening just laying back in that chair and staring out at the night sky, while sipping on a cold store-brand soda and listening to the sound of drunk college kids down below me on Church Street as they stumbled their way through harmless, inebriated fistfights. To make matters worse, the damage done by the theft was even greater seeing as how summertime was just around the corner. I’ll bet I could’ve gotten away with spending an entire week straight up there on the roof if I were to pick up a barbecue grill, a transistor radio and a six-pack.
    Curly took in another deep breath of fresh air and the rest of the tension finally lifted from his face. “You know what, Larsen? Just forget about it. It’s cool. I can always pick me up another patio set for free at the Harris Teeter tonight, you dig? Just try to be more careful, would you?”
    I nodded, relieved that the thought of making me pay restitution hadn’t occurred to him. “Will do, Curly. I don’t know what I was thinking last night, leaving out of here in a rush like that. Serves me right for being in a hurry to get anywhere.”
    Curly nodded back at me to signal his understanding. His was a slow gesture since his head moved just as reluctantly as every other part of his body. As I watched his chins bob all the way down to his chest I held my breath in anticipation, unsure whether they were going to bounce right back up again or if he’d simply fallen asleep standing up. Finally, and without so much as another word, Curly shuffled over to his truck at the same glacial pace. Strangely enough, the chronic gout in his legs never seemed to slow him down any once he’d checked off-duty. Curly was the true picture of a dedicated employee at all of his moonlighting gigs, a loyal and devoted servant who worked through the pain. I’ll bet that even with his checkered past, Curly could have easily endeared himself to the command staff at CPD if he ever chose to exert some token level of effort at his day job. Finally, after a painfully slow climb up into the driver’s seat, he settled in behind the wheel and cranked the engine. Curly backed the truck out of its parking space without bothering to look back, since he simply lacked the mobility to crane his neck around.
    As I shot Curly a half-hearted wave goodbye, he surprised me by coasting to a stop. After rolling the window open and lighting up a fresh menthol cigarette, he called out, “Say, Larsen. What time did you take off last night, anyway?”
    I could feel my stomach flutter. I gulped once,