Free Saving Room for Dessert by K. C. Constantine

hands.
    Then he cuffed the boy’s free wrist to the other one and took him back into the duty room, where he retrieved his pistol from
     the gun safe, holstered it, and hustled the boy toward the door.
    “I’m takin’ this one down the juvey center, Vic. Maybe somebody there knows him.”
    “Hey I wouldn’t dawdle, Rayford’s havin’ more fun with the U.N.”
    “Already? Jesus. Those people made him crazy yesterday. Good God … c’mon, whatever-your-name-is, let’s find out if anybody
     knows you.”
    Whatever-his-name-was was suddenly acting as though he didn’t have a care in the world.

U NTIL HE’D poured and drunk his first coffee from his own vacuum bottle, Rayford didn’t even drive within two blocks of the United Nations,
     staying off the entire lengths of Bryan Avenue and Jefferson and Franklin streets. Then he waited another half hour before
     driving past the Scavellis’ house on Franklin.
    In the meantime, he’d been listening to B.B. King’s latest CD on his portable Sony and checking out the radio traffic, such
     as it was, between Reseta and Canoza and civilian dispatcher Vic Stramsky. Reseta had caught a kid fight at the Rocksburg
     Middle School, and Canoza was trying to pop the lock on some lady’s Toyota in the Giant Eagle lot. Canoza’d need some good
     luck. Toyota locks were tough. Rayford had stood next to a locksmith for twenty-two minutes once while he tried to pop the
     lock on his ’87 Toyota. Watched him use about a dozen different Slim Jims before one worked.
    But otherwise, it’s beautiful so far, Rayford thought. Let’s let it stay this way, people. Let us aaaaall remember a slightly
     different version of the immortal words of the prophet Rodney King: let us aaaaaall continue to get along. Lock your keys
     in your cars, tha’s awright. Beat on your little school buddies, that’s awright too. Bend some fenders, the babies of bodymen
     need shoes too. But let us do no real harm, people, Polish, Eye-talian, Russian, Ukrainian, whatever your flavor, let us looooooove
     one another, every-got-damn-body say a-men and hal-ay-fuckin’-lu-ya, awwwwright.…
    Now why’d Nowicki put me down here again? Didn’t I have enough grief yesterday? He knows I did, the man knows I had enough
     grief with these people to last me two careers. Had enough last night to last me the next ten years.
    These people. She-it. Niccola Scavelli and his seriously ugly wife, Mary Rose. Occupants of 101 Franklin Street on the corner
     of Bryan, yessir, if ever there were two people fit the description of “occupants” these two were it. These two people were
     not the work of amateurs, no thank you ma’am; these two were seriously fucked up by some heavyweight pros. Been to this house
     twice a year—at least twice—every year since I’ve been in this department. And when they hand me that piece of paper says
     I have been promoted to sergeant, and that other one says I have been promoted to detective, I am still goin’ be comin’ to
     this address till these crazy motherfuckers kill each other or go into a nursin’ home, whichever comes first, a-men. Motherfucker
     oughta be in Mamont right now, many times as I carried his sorry ass up to Mental Health? Catch the dago by the toe, eenie
     meenie minie mo, hold him a month and let him go, eenie meenie minie mo. She-it. Three times now. Motherfucker is stone craaaaa-zy.
     But not at his hearings, oh no. At his hearings he’s cool as Johnnie Cochran. But yesterday? The man stone topped out. With
     all that fries shit?…
    “Sir, did you smear dog crap all over Mr. Hlebec’s doorknobs?”
    “Do you want fries with that?”
    “Excuse me?”
    “I said do you want fries with that?”
    “Sir, try to answer my question—”
    “I’ll answer your question when you answer my question—do you want fries with that or not?”
    “No, sir, I do not want fries with that. Or with anything else either.”
    “Alright, now we’re goin’ places. Hey,