Free White Death by Philip C. Baridon Page B

at the Zombies, the food was edible. We carried a radio in with us, hoping to stretch the time to eat. Cops eat too fast; it is a matter of survival. Two-man units can’t go out of service for food. If there were a real emergency and nobody answered, then wewould take the run and leave. So far, we had been lucky.
    For 7:00 p.m., the place was mostly empty. I noticed Big Carol with two of her girls in a back booth but paid no attention. I was hungry. About halfway through my meal, Preacher says, “I have a better view of your friend. You might want to take a look.”
    “Shit, Preacher. I thought you couldn’t see with those glasses. Let me wolf down a few more bites, and I’ll talk to her.”
    I walked slowly back to her table, watched the flurry of activity, greeted Carol, and told the two girls to hit the road.
    “Empty your pockets, Carol, and I mean everything.”
    “Jake, I got four years of backup time for CDW 6 and selling. I can’t go back inside, too many enemies there. If you bust me, you know they’ll revoke parole.”
    We sat staring at each other. Slowly, Carol emptied her pockets: Dexedrine tabs; “buck action” heroin caps; a small bag of white powder, and about two-hundred dollars, in mostly tens and twenties.
    “How much are you dealing?”
    “Not much. Just a little to my girls.”
    “Are you packing? If you are, I’ll bust you.”
    “No, no. I quit carrying.”
    “Let’s go to the men’s room to continue this conversation. Now.”
    As the door closed, exasperation filled my voice. “Goddammit, Carol, you’ve really put me in a bind. Didn’t you see me and Preacher?”
    “Yeah, but I needed the money, and I didn’t think…”
    “You sure as hell didn’t think,” I shouted. She was right about a parole revocation and time back in the slammer. Street people know the going rates in the court-and-correctional system better than most lawyers. If I busted someone like Big Carol, then it would cause ill will between the police and the patrons of these already tough bars. The lesbians would consider the bust as a hummer 7 or worse as a double-cross in light of my specialrelationship with Big Carol. I began to wonder why I left the food.
    “Okay, Carol, I got a deal for you on a take-it-or-leave-it basis. If I flush this crap down the toilet where it belongs, then I want two things in return. One, no more selling here or in the Zombies. Go to Bobbie’s house or whatever. Two, you owe me a big one, payable on demand – anything, anytime, anywhere.”
    Sweat poured off Carol’s face.
    “Thanks. Part two could be really rough, but I’ll take it. Deal.”
    “I want to keep the cocaine because it’s related to another issue. I’ll say it came from a CI who can’t be compromised. It won’t come back to you.”
    As I watched the last buck action cap disappear beneath the swirling water, I mulled over the reality that life on the streets requires a scorecard. Experienced officers understand the targets of police attention as law violators can sometimes negotiate their position with direct assistance or information on more serious crime. Trading down, as it’s known, doesn’t appear in police General Orders. At most it’s an entry in a pocket notebook.
    “How come you didn’t bust her?” asked Preacher as we went back into service, easing into the evening traffic.
    “I’m learning from you,” I replied.
    The night seemed to pass slowly. Tomorrow, I intended to call Detective Lieutenant John Roberts about the cocaine. Tonight, it would stay in my locker, a serious rule violation. We wrote a few traffic tickets and separated a married couple who wanted to kill each other, just the bread and butter of routine police work.
    At 1:00 a.m., I thought, “Just an hour to go.”
    “Scouts 63 and 64, a robbery shooting, 6200 Georgia Avenue, outside the Club. Look out for a black male, medium brown skin, twenties, about six feet, short afro, wearing a long suede coat. Last seen running west