Bruce: V-Day Blues
Feb. 14th, 2015 11:12 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
drewkittyBruce: V-Day Blues
As a very unlicensed private investigator, I have come to dread V-D Day with the kind of hatred shared by florists, taxicab drivers, and ER nurses. Busy, nasty and not much fun while everyone else is having fun.
Some poor schmuck always wants 'proof' that his lover is cheating on him. Such proof is notably easy to obtain, generally requiring some skill with a telephoto camera and a sense of timing.
I dislike clients as much as I dislike everyone else, so I normally freelance. Technically this is a no-no, but nobody cares. The people who take the client's money are licensed. They just cut me in for a small chunk, for getting them the critical piece of evidence.
In this case, piece of ass, I think as I frame the body part in question in the telephoto and rapid-fire the shutter. I can't think of a better reason for being awake at the ugly cow-milking hour of 6 AM, except maybe tapping a bit of that myself.
Done now, I turn to leave, and encounter two big beefy gentlemen in cheap business suits - one on each end of the view corridor of the not-so-cheap hotel. Their blazers could be mistaken for hotel security, but clearly they have muscles and work out.
"Hey, asshole," one growls. Or maybe just take steroids.
"Nice camera," says the other.
This is going to be fun. I let them close the gap about half way, reach into my camera bag and allow my hand to just rest there.
They pause. It is my turn to growl.
"I'm a guest here," I assert boldly as I swiftly pull out -- a hotel card key for this hotel. I save them, you see, part of my cover, and this one absolutely does not work today. "Are you hotel security?"
They ignore my question. "Nice camera," the goon repeats a second time, then follows up his point. "Delete the photos, take a walk. Or you lose the nice camera."
That's what I was waiting for. I slide my hand back into the camera case and twist a snap-lock, breaking it. My hand comes out, not empty, and swivels to cover the man who just spoke.
He immediately backs up, raising his hands. His partner sees this, starts to rush forward, and I point my hand -- and what is in my hand -- dead center at his torso.
He stops like an invisible wall and also puts his hands up.
"Gentlemen, you are trying to rob me. Back the fuck away from me or I am going to kill you, right here, right now."
I have the means in my hand, too.
They keep backing up. The one who has not talked about stealing my camera does not expect me to run past him. So I do.
Lumberingly, they start to give chase. I just barely have time to put the piece out of sight as I go into the next set of corridors.
Of course, that's when the real -- overweight, underpaid, slow on the uptake -- hotel security guard makes his appearance, in that next corridor. "Help, they tried to rob me," I say as I run past him too, headed for the service corridor. He wrinkles his nose, puzzled.
I know the hotel rather better than the security guard does. It is the work of a moment to rush out on the loading dock, past the employee smoking area, and to one of three bicycles I have conveniently parked, unlocked, against this contingency.
I ride off into the sunset.
Actually, I get about two blocks before dumping the bicycle into some bushes, going into a nearby commercial building, ducking into the stairwell (which does not have cameras, not by accident) and elsewhere in the building, reluctantly dumping most of what I am carrying: a jacket and pants I had been wearing, a small handgun I'm fond of, an expensive SLR telephoto camera minus its memory card, and the camera case from which both camera and handgun had come.
Underneath I wore an athletic top and jogger's shorts. The pockets contained $40 or so in loose bills and taped-together change. No IDs or phone - I'd known this was going to be a rough gig.
The sirens on emergence from the building told me what I needed to know -- the thugs in question had enlisted the dubious cooperation of the guard, who in turn had called Tree City PD, and reported some unlikely tale in which I tried to rob them at gunpoint.
The digital memory card was now inside a tied-off condom. The package was now in the one place where I could be guaranteed not to lose it, and it would require the help of a medical professional to lawfully search for it.
So I wrapped the small hand towel around my neck and resumed my jog. This lasted about three blocks or so until the BRAP-BRAP of a police horn interrupted, from a cruiser pulling up behind me.
"Bruce, stop where you are and put your hands in the air," the officer said over the PA.
There is something to be said for having a reputation. I complied, taking my chances on turning around.
Oh, great. Officer Kemper.
She was confident enough in her skills that she did not bother having a gun out. She merely got out of her cruiser, stepped a bit to the side and said, "Bruce, put your hands palm down on the hood of my squad. Not a request."
I did so. She frisked me for weapons and came up almost empty. But even in jail I could keep _that_ one.
"You're being detained because you match the description of a robbery suspect at the Hyilton Hotel. What are you doing?"
"Out jogging. Great morning for it."
"So you didn't pull a gun on two licensed bodyguards working for Mr. Smythers, and you haven't set foot in the Hyilton Hotel today."
"And I have no idea what you're talking about, but if you're going to mistake me for a robbery suspect, let's get this over with."
"Get what over with?"
"The line-up where the alleged witnesses come view me, mistake me for their suspect, so you arrest me, I call my lawyer and bail out ... and you spend the next four hours doing paperwork instead of getting off shift in thirty minutes."
She blinks and says. "Seriously? Why don't you come over to the hotel and help sort this out? Only take a few minutes?"
"Because I know my rights. You can detain me for suspicion but you can't make me go anywhere without PC. You can ask your witnesses to come look at me -- and I will give them shit, just because -- and they will lie and say I'm the suspect. Then the paperwork monster eats your hot date. So to speak."
She frowns. Then she really frowns.
"I hate you. Take a seat on the curb."
Damn. And here I was hoping she'd go for it.
About twenty minutes or so later (no watch), a hotel shuttle turned up driven by the hotel guard and carrying two burly gentlemen. Several other Tree City PD units had shown up to observe and mayhaps report, either my victory or my deserved come-uppance.
"Hey, Officer Jones," I stage-whispered.
Officer Horace Jones knew me, and owed me a favor. He was also a right bastard and hated all women, but especially his jealous wife, who was convinced that he was sleeping with every female officer on the department.
"Yeah, Bruce?"
"Any way you could cut Kemper loose?"
"Fuck no. She can do her own time. I've got a date too."
From the smile on his face, clearly not with the wife.
Great. Everyone's got a date on Valentine's but me. Well, except maybe with Booking.
The gentlemen identified me as the man who had been lurking in the corridor and threatened them with a gun when they asked what desperately perverted thing I was doing in the corridor while they were innocently doing their jobs.
The guard was puzzled.
"Yeah, this was the guy who got robbed," he said, pointing at me.
"You mean, this guy is the robber."
"Oh, no, this is the guy who got robbed. He was running and these guys were chasing him. Camera on the loading dock shows the whole thing."
I kept a dignified silence instead of answering questions, except for one brief outburst.
"These two nitwits are accusing me of a felony. I've got nothing to say without a lawyer so please stop asking."
The cops huddled and compared notes. They ignored the guard's impassioned plea for them to come look at the recordings on his loading dock camera.
Ultimately, the sergeant came up for air and walked over to me.
"Bruce, you're free to go. We know where to find you."
With that I turned wordlessly and walked away. As the outraged howls began from the two erstwhile bodyguards, I heard a familiar female voice shout, "GUN!"
I immediately sucked pavement.
Apparently, in their flatulent flailings, one of the bodyguards had allowed his jacket to rise up, exposing his holstered revolver worn under the left shoulder of same.
He found himself at gunpoint from several Tree City police officers standing in a half circle. They loudly demanded his ID and his permits; he explained that as an off-duty police officer from Nevada he did not need any permits; and they explained that they had PC to arrest him for unlawfully carrying a loaded, concealed firearm unless he did in fact show ID.
I stood up again, ignoring my bruises, and resumed jogging.
It took tight sphincter control to hang on to my ill-gotten photographic gains. They'd had guns too. That could have gone... poorly.
Several miles later, I reached a friend's house. I uploaded my photos to my client using my friend's computer, took a shower, changed clothes and went to the flower shop.
"Valentine's Day order?" the clerk said dubiously.
"Yes, I'll deliver it myself. Just throw something together."
Thus it was that Officer Kemper found herself the recipient of a Valentine's Day bundle of flowers, tucked into the windshield wiper of her personal vehicle while she was stuck doing reports inside. (I'd worked out how to get into and out of the police secure garage _long_ ago.)
The note read, "From Horace Jones ... I love you."
And to think I've still got most of the day ahead to find a date. As long as I go nowhere near the Hyilton Hotel.
As a very unlicensed private investigator, I have come to dread V-D Day with the kind of hatred shared by florists, taxicab drivers, and ER nurses. Busy, nasty and not much fun while everyone else is having fun.
Some poor schmuck always wants 'proof' that his lover is cheating on him. Such proof is notably easy to obtain, generally requiring some skill with a telephoto camera and a sense of timing.
I dislike clients as much as I dislike everyone else, so I normally freelance. Technically this is a no-no, but nobody cares. The people who take the client's money are licensed. They just cut me in for a small chunk, for getting them the critical piece of evidence.
In this case, piece of ass, I think as I frame the body part in question in the telephoto and rapid-fire the shutter. I can't think of a better reason for being awake at the ugly cow-milking hour of 6 AM, except maybe tapping a bit of that myself.
Done now, I turn to leave, and encounter two big beefy gentlemen in cheap business suits - one on each end of the view corridor of the not-so-cheap hotel. Their blazers could be mistaken for hotel security, but clearly they have muscles and work out.
"Hey, asshole," one growls. Or maybe just take steroids.
"Nice camera," says the other.
This is going to be fun. I let them close the gap about half way, reach into my camera bag and allow my hand to just rest there.
They pause. It is my turn to growl.
"I'm a guest here," I assert boldly as I swiftly pull out -- a hotel card key for this hotel. I save them, you see, part of my cover, and this one absolutely does not work today. "Are you hotel security?"
They ignore my question. "Nice camera," the goon repeats a second time, then follows up his point. "Delete the photos, take a walk. Or you lose the nice camera."
That's what I was waiting for. I slide my hand back into the camera case and twist a snap-lock, breaking it. My hand comes out, not empty, and swivels to cover the man who just spoke.
He immediately backs up, raising his hands. His partner sees this, starts to rush forward, and I point my hand -- and what is in my hand -- dead center at his torso.
He stops like an invisible wall and also puts his hands up.
"Gentlemen, you are trying to rob me. Back the fuck away from me or I am going to kill you, right here, right now."
I have the means in my hand, too.
They keep backing up. The one who has not talked about stealing my camera does not expect me to run past him. So I do.
Lumberingly, they start to give chase. I just barely have time to put the piece out of sight as I go into the next set of corridors.
Of course, that's when the real -- overweight, underpaid, slow on the uptake -- hotel security guard makes his appearance, in that next corridor. "Help, they tried to rob me," I say as I run past him too, headed for the service corridor. He wrinkles his nose, puzzled.
I know the hotel rather better than the security guard does. It is the work of a moment to rush out on the loading dock, past the employee smoking area, and to one of three bicycles I have conveniently parked, unlocked, against this contingency.
I ride off into the sunset.
Actually, I get about two blocks before dumping the bicycle into some bushes, going into a nearby commercial building, ducking into the stairwell (which does not have cameras, not by accident) and elsewhere in the building, reluctantly dumping most of what I am carrying: a jacket and pants I had been wearing, a small handgun I'm fond of, an expensive SLR telephoto camera minus its memory card, and the camera case from which both camera and handgun had come.
Underneath I wore an athletic top and jogger's shorts. The pockets contained $40 or so in loose bills and taped-together change. No IDs or phone - I'd known this was going to be a rough gig.
The sirens on emergence from the building told me what I needed to know -- the thugs in question had enlisted the dubious cooperation of the guard, who in turn had called Tree City PD, and reported some unlikely tale in which I tried to rob them at gunpoint.
The digital memory card was now inside a tied-off condom. The package was now in the one place where I could be guaranteed not to lose it, and it would require the help of a medical professional to lawfully search for it.
So I wrapped the small hand towel around my neck and resumed my jog. This lasted about three blocks or so until the BRAP-BRAP of a police horn interrupted, from a cruiser pulling up behind me.
"Bruce, stop where you are and put your hands in the air," the officer said over the PA.
There is something to be said for having a reputation. I complied, taking my chances on turning around.
Oh, great. Officer Kemper.
She was confident enough in her skills that she did not bother having a gun out. She merely got out of her cruiser, stepped a bit to the side and said, "Bruce, put your hands palm down on the hood of my squad. Not a request."
I did so. She frisked me for weapons and came up almost empty. But even in jail I could keep _that_ one.
"You're being detained because you match the description of a robbery suspect at the Hyilton Hotel. What are you doing?"
"Out jogging. Great morning for it."
"So you didn't pull a gun on two licensed bodyguards working for Mr. Smythers, and you haven't set foot in the Hyilton Hotel today."
"And I have no idea what you're talking about, but if you're going to mistake me for a robbery suspect, let's get this over with."
"Get what over with?"
"The line-up where the alleged witnesses come view me, mistake me for their suspect, so you arrest me, I call my lawyer and bail out ... and you spend the next four hours doing paperwork instead of getting off shift in thirty minutes."
She blinks and says. "Seriously? Why don't you come over to the hotel and help sort this out? Only take a few minutes?"
"Because I know my rights. You can detain me for suspicion but you can't make me go anywhere without PC. You can ask your witnesses to come look at me -- and I will give them shit, just because -- and they will lie and say I'm the suspect. Then the paperwork monster eats your hot date. So to speak."
She frowns. Then she really frowns.
"I hate you. Take a seat on the curb."
Damn. And here I was hoping she'd go for it.
About twenty minutes or so later (no watch), a hotel shuttle turned up driven by the hotel guard and carrying two burly gentlemen. Several other Tree City PD units had shown up to observe and mayhaps report, either my victory or my deserved come-uppance.
"Hey, Officer Jones," I stage-whispered.
Officer Horace Jones knew me, and owed me a favor. He was also a right bastard and hated all women, but especially his jealous wife, who was convinced that he was sleeping with every female officer on the department.
"Yeah, Bruce?"
"Any way you could cut Kemper loose?"
"Fuck no. She can do her own time. I've got a date too."
From the smile on his face, clearly not with the wife.
Great. Everyone's got a date on Valentine's but me. Well, except maybe with Booking.
The gentlemen identified me as the man who had been lurking in the corridor and threatened them with a gun when they asked what desperately perverted thing I was doing in the corridor while they were innocently doing their jobs.
The guard was puzzled.
"Yeah, this was the guy who got robbed," he said, pointing at me.
"You mean, this guy is the robber."
"Oh, no, this is the guy who got robbed. He was running and these guys were chasing him. Camera on the loading dock shows the whole thing."
I kept a dignified silence instead of answering questions, except for one brief outburst.
"These two nitwits are accusing me of a felony. I've got nothing to say without a lawyer so please stop asking."
The cops huddled and compared notes. They ignored the guard's impassioned plea for them to come look at the recordings on his loading dock camera.
Ultimately, the sergeant came up for air and walked over to me.
"Bruce, you're free to go. We know where to find you."
With that I turned wordlessly and walked away. As the outraged howls began from the two erstwhile bodyguards, I heard a familiar female voice shout, "GUN!"
I immediately sucked pavement.
Apparently, in their flatulent flailings, one of the bodyguards had allowed his jacket to rise up, exposing his holstered revolver worn under the left shoulder of same.
He found himself at gunpoint from several Tree City police officers standing in a half circle. They loudly demanded his ID and his permits; he explained that as an off-duty police officer from Nevada he did not need any permits; and they explained that they had PC to arrest him for unlawfully carrying a loaded, concealed firearm unless he did in fact show ID.
I stood up again, ignoring my bruises, and resumed jogging.
It took tight sphincter control to hang on to my ill-gotten photographic gains. They'd had guns too. That could have gone... poorly.
Several miles later, I reached a friend's house. I uploaded my photos to my client using my friend's computer, took a shower, changed clothes and went to the flower shop.
"Valentine's Day order?" the clerk said dubiously.
"Yes, I'll deliver it myself. Just throw something together."
Thus it was that Officer Kemper found herself the recipient of a Valentine's Day bundle of flowers, tucked into the windshield wiper of her personal vehicle while she was stuck doing reports inside. (I'd worked out how to get into and out of the police secure garage _long_ ago.)
The note read, "From Horace Jones ... I love you."
And to think I've still got most of the day ahead to find a date. As long as I go nowhere near the Hyilton Hotel.
