Free White Death by Philip C. Baridon

he had hoped for.
    Ortiz puffed up a little and said, “This is a time-sensitive business we operate. We can make or lose a lot of money based on our ability to supply these parts when needed. Because delays could be so costly, I will give you and your friend one-hundred dollars for late-night refueling. If you both show, to avoid arguing, then it is fifty dollars each. A deal?”
    “Yes, sir!”
    “Now, I need to jot down your name and phone number, as well as your friend’s name and number if you have it.”
    “Yes, sir. I can give you both.”
    “Please don’t brag to your friends, or I may need to reconsider our exclusive arrangement.”
    With the deal sealed, such as it was, Ortiz departed for the last640 miles. Soon, he could pick up several coastal navigation aids. Twenty miles out to sea he dropped down to two hundred feet and reduced his speed a little, while crossing the coast. Valkaria airport was easy to find. Although physically exhausted and tired of pissing into a bottle, Jorge Ortiz was elated. He had flown a dream plane more than thirteen-hundred miles with one fuel stop. He called Marcus: “It was easy.”

Chapter 12
The Crime Beat
    Washington, D.C., July 1969
    “Pull to the right, stop the car, turn off the ignition, and put your hands on the top of the steering wheel,” said the imperious voice through the loudspeaker mounted in the grill of the cruiser. Mike Jansen had pulled over a drunk driver at 2:30 a.m., no doubt trying to find his house after the bar closed. The case required a pile of paperwork and at least two court appearances. Mike would be in court most of the morning, try to get some sleep later, and begin the next shift.
    D.C. did not permit the results of breathalyzers as evidence, so the drunks had to urinate in a bottle back at the station. This was not always easy. I was doing paperwork on a stolen car and prohibited weapon in the basement when I heard Mike having trouble with his lockup. I listened to the following conversation between them.
    “How ’bout filling this bottle for me?”
    “Fuck you.”
    “Hey, you really
are
drunk.”
    “I ain’t drunk.”
    “Doin’ some tastin’ but not drunk, huh?”
    “Yeah.”
    “Well the only way to
prove
you ain’t drunk is to piss in this bottle.”
    The drunk eyed the bottle with suspicion. “So, this will prove I’m not drunk.”
    “That’s right. Just fill it about halfway.”
    “But I gotta piss bad.”
    “Fill it halfway, and I’ll take you to a bathroom.”
    “Okay.”
    With the drunk feeling relieved, Mike used the desk next to me to start filling out forms.
    “What do you have?” he asked.
    “Operating a stolen car and possession of a prohibited weapon,” I replied. “This knife is seriously ugly. Watch this.” I held the nine-inch knife in front of him and pressed the button. The blade shot out of the shaft with such force that I almost dropped it.
    “Holy shit! I’ve never seen anything like that.”
    “The kid here is seventeen with a juvy record as long as your arm. Says it will pierce a two-by-four board, and I believe him. All you need to do is hold it against the ribs near the heart, press the button, and walk away. I called Homicide to see if they have any unsolved cases fitting this M.O.”
    We worked in silence for a while, with the usual questions for the lockups. I finished before Mike and turned to go.
    “I’ll see you in court in the morning. Just another night in paradise.”
    We locked eyes and smiled.
    Unambiguous Language
    Fate sent me to the 6200 Club twice on the same evening. Preacher and I had the power shift –6:00 p.m. to 2:00 a.m. The 6200 Club was the secondary lesbian bar in the precinct, and a hangout for lowlifes of all species. I enjoyed working with Preacher; he never got rattled and was supremely skilled at breaking up what criminologists call, “the degenerating cycle of violence.” It’s sort of a game in which each side understands the rules and decides how