Free Hose Monkey by Reed Farrel Coleman

faces were familiar and definitely unwelcome.
    Detective Hoskins pounded on the door. “Outta the truck, shithead.”
    Joe complied, full documentation in hand. “What the fuck?” He handed the paperwork to the detective who, in turn, handed it to Kramer.
    Kramer smirked, nodded and began strolling around the truck.
    “Gotta love Suffolk County, they even make Homicide detectives do traffic stops. I guess they want you to earn that hundred grand plus, huh?”
    Serpe knew he should just keep his yap shut, but couldn’t resist. The disparity in pay between city cops and Suffolk cops was a real sore point. Though it was only about thirty miles from the Queens border east across Nassau to the border of Suffolk Count—they might as well have been light years apart. They call the NYPD “New York’s Finest,” but they’re paid like New York’s finest migrant workers. Suffolk cops, on the other hand, were the highest paid police force in the state, maybe in the nation. It was perverse, almost inversely proportional to the threat level faced by the members of each force.
    “It’s bad enough that I have to listen to that horseshit from my neighbors on the job in the city, but at least they’re cops,” Hoskins barked. “From the likes of you …” He spit on Joe’s boots.
    Joe was tempted to wipe the spit off on Hoskins’ polyester pants by thrusting his boot into the detective’s groin. He couldn’t afford to be weak, not this time. Serpe didn’t need to be a theoretical physicist to figure out the mechanics of what was going on, that Ken Bergman from the group home had dropped a dime on him.
    Joe knew he was taking a risk by freelancing, but he didn’t figure he’d get ratted out in less than twelve hours. It dawned on him that if he intended to take this thing any further, he was going to have to be more cautious, maybe even get a little backup.
    “All right, guys, I get the point,” Joe surrendered, figuring to speed up the process of intimidation. “I fucked up. I shouldn’t have stuck my nose in.”
    “What the hell you talkin’ about, Snake?” Hoskins chided. “Hey, Kramer, you know what this guy’s talkin’ about? We’re stoppin’ you for violations. Then, when
we’re
done writin’ you up, we’re gonna give you a police escort over to the D.O.T. checkpoint on Wicks Road. Over there, they’re gonna write you so many violations on this piece a shit you call a truck, both you and your boss are gonna have to take out second mortgages.”
    The D.O.T., a trucker’s worst nightmare. The cops were hairy enough, but getting stopped by the Department of Transportation was the ultimate bureaucratic cluster fuck. They went over every inch of your vehicle: from tire tread to turn signals, from air horn to air brakes, from mirrors to manifolds. Then they ran your license, inspected your paperwork, matched your trip sheet against your bills of lading. Since 9/11 it had only gotten worse. The government had made a point of cracking down not only on vehicles that carried hazardous materials, but also on the men and women licensed to drive them.
    “What you got, Kramer?” Hoskins was getting impatient. “Big stuff, Tim,” Detective Kramer called back to his partner. “Oh yeah, like what?”
    “Better come see for yourself.”
    When Hoskins and Joe Serpe got to the back of the truck, Kramer was fanning himself with three tickets.
    “These are for you,” Kramer said, handing the three citations over to Serpe.
    Joe scanned them and laughed. They were all trumped up bullshit, but he found one of the alleged violations particularly amusing. “Dirty taillights, huh?”
    “Yup,” Kramer answered trying hard to keep a straight face. The detective walked up and wiped his fingers across the taillights on the rear of the tank. “Filthy,” he said, showing Joe his dirty fingers. “How’s a vehicle following close behind you going to see if you’re turning or coming to a full stop? We must endeavor to