#spittin toten

[the1weird1pencil]

Day 3: Cinnamon Springs I love these creatures, they have such fun designs

[mymysticbouquet]

Ole’ Sinkers and the Hoodoo Brothers

Ole’ Sinkers and the Hoodoo Brothers

By David Holly

 I parked in the department’s visitor parking space, showed my press card from the Blower to the desk sergeant, and followed the blue line painted on the floor. Tracking the thread of paint through the decrepit building, I climbed the crud-encrusted stairs to the detectives’ bullpen.

Seated in the pen, Monty Biscuit dwarfed his metal desk as he read a pile of fan-folded paper. A prehistoric computer panted forlornly beside him.

“Does that damn thing burn coal, Monty? When are you people going to update?”

Monty glanced around, reached into his drawer, and pulled out a carrot. He bit off a piece before he answered.

“You kidding, Melrose? I’ll have you know that the Department gave us new saddles for our nags, and one of the guys in bunko got updated to a flivver.”

“No shit?”

Sinkers Sly shuffled down the aisle carrying a familiar box. He saw me and offered a doughnut.

I patted my hard-won abs. “No, Sinkers. If I started wolfing those things, I’d soon look like I’d strapped them around my midsection.”

Sinkers patted the antique thirty-eight police special strapped to his midsection. “Yeah boy. I been toten’ ole’ Nelly since nineteen and forty-eight. She’s saved my ass a lot o’ times. Did I ever tell you ‘bout the time three ole’ hoodoo boys from Tarpon Springs come roarin’ down to Clearwater? Twere ‘bout ‘54, iffn I recollect. Tarpon was filled with googly-eyed hoodlums in them days, and these-here hex brothers run down alternate 19 and leave their truck runnin’ in the middle o’ Cleveland Street.

“Here they was, spittin’ gonorrhea goobers onter the sidewalk and jinxing the chastity of our womenfolk. I come out o’ the courthouse and seed ‘em wringin’ the tit on the parson’s wife.

“Course I told them hoodoo rascals to move along, polite-like, though my trigger finger were itchin’ to beat the band. Needless to say, I was a wearin’ my uniform and badge.

“Showin’ no respect fer the authority o’ my badge or the majesty o’ the law, one o’ them buggers dropped behind me. Them other two Tarpon conjure boys pushed me backwards over top o’ him, so’s I landed on my ass in the street. Drawin’ ole’ Nelly, I winged the varmint who’d done hoodwinked me. Them other bamboozlers powdered me with goofer dust, jumped inter their vehicle, and drove off leavin’ their fallen brother in the street.

“I was hurryin’ toward the call box to summon reinforcements when I seed ‘em comin’ fer me again. That ole’ driver was given’ me the evil eye and his brother was jammin’ pins inter a hoodoo doll as fast as he could stick ’em. They made a swing fer me, drivin’ onter the sidewalk they was so eager to run me down. I unleashed the old lady again, poppin’ a slug through their windshield. But the goofer dust had spoilt my aim.

“Nonetheless, the conjure boy’s hoodoo doll failed him cause he done fell outer the window and fetched up against a lamp post with a satisfyin’ splat. Howsomever, that driver’s charms was up to snuff. The bullets with his name on ’em zigged when they should have zagged. He went down the street and slammed on the brakes. He hopped out and throwed the hood I’d winged inter the back o’ the truck.

“Ole’ Nelly was spittin’ lead fast as I could pump ‘er, so’s I didn’t notice the one who’d hit the post weren’t dead none, being a zombie conjure boy to begin with, but come limpin’ up and flopped inter the truck all by his own self. Them hex-hoods beat tracks up the road, and Clearwater didn’t see no more unwanted visitors fer a considerable spell.”

I’d sat through Sinkers’ story in a state of wild inference. The old detective’s mental connections were acutely disarrayed. At long last, I got my chance to speak.

“Sinkers, I wasn’t referring to your sidearm. I meant the doughnuts.”

“Oh, you want one?”

“Thanks, Sinkers.” I bit into the lemon filled doughnut.

Sinkers Sly wandered aimlessly in the general direction of the crime lab. Maybe he’d get those doughnuts analyzed. Meanwhile, I gave his case my most profound professional judgment.

“The old guy’s totally crackers, Monty.”

“I suspect Alzheimer’s,” Monty confided. Like he was a medical expert! “See, he remembered the details of a crime that occurred sixty-five years ago. Chief Don Fine keeps him on the payroll because the city didn’t have retirement for cops during most of his career. The poor old codger’s lived too long.”

“Monty, is his revolver loaded?”

The question had never occurred to Monty Biscuit.

“I guess so,” he admitted with a puzzled tone. “He’s on duty. He’s supposed to keep it loaded.”

I leaned back in the swivel chair I’d pulled away from another detective’s desk. I looked up at the ceiling where the green paint was peeling in cancerous patches. “Don’t you think Sinkers’ mental state might present a danger. I don’t like the way he keeps fingering the trigger.”

“Sinkers is a professional law enforcement officer, Melrose. I’d trust him with my life any day, just I would these other officers.”

Back at the Blower, I told my editor Hampshire Greene that I’d like to write some editorials about police culture. “They cover for each other.”

“They’re supposed to,” Green shouted. “It’s the Blower’s policy to support the police, no matter what. You stick to reporting crimes, Melrose. That’s your job.” He stopped for a breath. “Now have you got something to report?”

“I’ve got something.”