Page 11 of The Attercop

The other paramedic shook his head. “We’ll check him in under the name you gave us. They might need a bit more information for the paperwork when you get there.”

The ambulance pulled away and the pair of policemen approached Mickey. They both seemed as though they’d been in the service for a long time. One had a close-cropped beard and a substantial belly. He wore the insignia of a sergeant. The younger one, a constable, was tall—over two metres in height.

The older one said, “Just need some information on the victim. He didn’t have any ID on him. Any idea what his name is and how old he is?”

“Might be twenty-four or twenty-five. Definitely over eighteen,” Mickey replied. “He’s a street kid, and most of them don’t have standard ID. His name is Angel, but I can’t even be sure that’s his real name.”

“But he works for you, doesn’t he? Here at the bar?” the younger cop asked.

“He helps out where he can. He tidies up at the end of the day. Cleans the restrooms, that sort of thing. I pay him in cash.”

“Do you know where he lives?” the sergeant asked.

“Not specifically. I give him a ride home when the weather sucks, but that just means driving him to the corner of 36th Southeast and International Avenue at an all-night convenience store. He may crash there, or some place near there. I don’t know.”

Mickey wasmostlytelling the truth. At least enough to keep the cops happy. He knew that Angel lived in a flop house across town. Like most of the Kids who worked on-and-off at the bar for cash under the table, Angel may or may not have turned tricks for survival money. That was none of Mickey’s business. He didn’t judge people for what they did to survive.

The sergeant looked over at the constable, then turned back to Mickey. “We suspect this is little more than another gay-bashing. Here.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a business card. “If you hear anything else, give me a call.”

That’s it then, Mickey thought.Just like another parking ticket for these guys.

“So, you’re all done here?” Mickey asked.

“I’ll just get your name and contact info and, yeah, that about wraps it up.”

As the cops headed back to their cruiser, the constable turned to Mickey. “I hope your friend’ll be okay.”

“Sure.”

As the police car headed off, Mickey took one more look around the dumpster for any clue as to who might have done this to Angel, but there was nothing. He locked up the bar and headed to his truck for the drive to the hospital.

Maybe the police were right—maybe this was just a random gay-bashing, but deep in Mickey’s gut he knew that wasn’t true.

Chapter Seven

“If we don’t drum up more business,” Declan shouted from his office, “we might as well just lock the doors.”

Mrs Beckerman sat at her desk and sighed. It was early Friday morning and she could tell that Declan had just checked next week’s schedule. Charlie poked his head out through the door of his office. She held up her hand to suggest that he should just stay put. She would handle it.

Mrs B made her way to Declan’s office door. “They can’t all be earth-shattering cases. I remember a time when we got along quite happily on the little ones.”

Declan stared at his desk calendar.

“You know what the big problem is, don’t you?” she asked.

“We need better clients, with better cases, that pay better,” he replied.

“No,” she shot back.

It was like dealing with a petulant child.

“The cash flow is actually up from last year at this time. The problem isyouhaven’t been in the press lately and you’re not used to it. Here,” she said, handing him a file. “It just came in. It’s not a kidnapping or a murder—not even an unlawful dismissal, but it could be interesting if you want to do the work.”

“What is it?” he asked.

“Well, you’ll just have to read it to find out, but they asked for you specifically,” she replied.

“I’ll take it if he doesn’t want it,” Charlie called out from his office.