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“White guy. Successful. Tall. Very pretty.”
On a side note, if I were Petticoat, it would drive me nuts that heterosexual men describe me as pretty. I also despise talking to Howard when he’s drunk, which is more and more these days. He thinks his drunken, sophomoric humor stops even the most stiff-legged individual in his tracks and sends him into fits of roaring laughter. It’s amusing enough when I don’t need something. When I do, I can barely stop myself from slugging him in the solar plexus to get him to vomit up all that expensive booze. I immediately start thinking of ways to put the hurt to him.
I crush out my smoke as hard as I want to smash Howard. “Are you going to get your head out of your ass and answer my question or do I need to call you tomorrow morning at seven a.m.?”
He gives me a ha that sounds more like a raspy huff: “You know I don’t wake up until one p.m. or so, Richard. I won’t answer.”
“You know I’ll let it ring until you get up to disconnect the line.”
“You know I’ll just do that tonight before I go to bed.”
“You know you’ll forget as soon as we hang up.”
“You know—damn it, Richard. Don’t call that early. I get the worst fucking migraine when I wake up hung over that early.”
“Answer my question then.”
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“Yes!” he shouts, superbly annoyed. “Yes, I remember Gillispie!”
“That’s not the question.”
“Yes, it was!”
“I asked—” A tone chirps in my ear. Graham Clevenger beeps in. “I’ve got to go, Howard. I’m calling you tomorrow at seven. No. Make that five.”
“Richard! You fu—”
I click over.
Howard Michigan was the first generation of hard-drinking, hard-fighting cop on the force. I was the second. The difference between Howard and I is that Howard was a terrible cop and I was good. When I was labeled as unfit for service, excused and “allowed to medically retire,” I had been partnered with the third generation of cop. Graham Clevenger. He didn’t drink hard. He fought hard, but never “went overboard” like Howard and I were always accused of. Graham was simply a professional. We are not partners anymore, nor have we been for some time. But if I were to consider the words best friend, or really, only friend, Graham Clevenger gets the title.
“Evening, Graham. Thanks for getting me off the phone with Howard Michigan.”
“Sure, Richard,” he says. Sounds tired. I’m rubbing my eyes from the frustration with my old trainer. Now I have to get up early to call him and send his entire day into a flaming tailspin just out of spite.
I ask, “Ever heard of a guy named Clarence Petticoat? Real estate monster here in town?”
“Yes.”
“He’s backed the money truck up to my front door so I’ll find a rapist from the early ’90s. I might need your help getting some DNA out of the records unit. Do you mind?”
“I’ll be off work for a few days,” he is slow to say. “I’ll actually be needing your assistance...”
“Off work? Why? Painting your house?”
“No.”
I do a double take at the clock. Almost 2300 hours. Clevenger doesn’t call this late for shits and giggles.
“Graham, what’s wrong?” I ask, instinctively shrugging on my jacket.
“I need you to meet me at 3917 Bending Boulevard. North end of the city. Now.”
“On my way. I assume this is about giving someone some help.”
Giving someone some help is our code phrase for fucking up someone. If a man can’t stop himself from beating his kids, I consider it help to break that man’s back. It’s harder to punch a child when you have to lean over a wheelchair to do it.
