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Calhoun slumped back against the seat.
“Thanks, Charley.”
“Okay,” McFadden said.
Ninety seconds later, Calhoun announced: “Charley, I got to go to the toilet.”
“Fuck you!” Martinez said. “Crap in your pants, you dirty cocksucker!”
“What the hell is the matter with you, Martinez?” Calhoun asked. “What did I ever do to you?”
“You were born, is what you did to me,” Martinez said, and then seemed to warm to the subject. “I don’t like dirty cops, is what’s the matter with me,” Martinez said. “And you know—you’re a goddamn narc—what that shit does to people, and you were selling it. Stealing it from drug people, and then selling it! Probably to kids! You are the lowest of the fucking low, Calhoun!”
“Ease off, Jesus,” Charley said.
“Fuck you, ease off! What I would like to do to this miserable shitheel is shoot him with a .22 in both knees, and make him crawl to jail.”
“I’m telling you to ease off, goddamn it!”
“With that damned Rolex watch shoved up his ass!” Martinez went on, undaunted.
“Charley, unless I get to go to the toilet, I’m going to crap in my pants!” Calhoun said plaintively.
“I don’t give a shit!”
Two minutes later, Martinez turned off 222 into a Cities Service complex, a large service station with two rows of pumps, a store offering tires and other automotive accessories, and a restaurant.
He pulled the unmarked Plymouth up in front of the restaurant and jumped out of the driver’s seat. He took his identification folder from his pocket and opened it so the shield was visible, then pushed his jacket aside so that his holstered pistol was visible. He waved his badge around at shoulder height.
“Nothing to worry about, folks. We are police officers!”
That, of course, caught the attention of everyone within fifty feet, including several people seated at tables inside the restaurant.
“Let him out, McFadden!” Martinez ordered.
Charley reached over Calhoun and opened the door.
Calhoun made his way awkwardly out of the backseat.
Charley slid across the seat and got out after him.
“You go set things up in the restaurant,” Martinez ordered.
“I’m not going to leave you alone with him,” McFadden said.
“You don’t think I’d shoot him right here, do you?”
“I’m not going to leave him alone with you, Martinez,” Charley repeated.
“Suit yourself,” Martinez said, and walked into the restaurant, where, from the door, he repeated the “Nothing to worry about folks, we’re police officers” routine.
By the time Charley marched the handcuffed former police officer Timothy J. Calhoun through the door of the restaurant, the eyes of everyone in the restaurant were on them, and Calhoun was so humiliated Charley thought he might actually cry.
Charley marched Calhoun past the fascinated restaurant customers to the men’s room. Martinez preceded them, and ran a frightened-looking civilian out of the place before he would permit Charley to lead Calhoun inside.
Charley marched him up to a stall and turned him around.
“Aren’t you going to take the cuffs off?” Calhoun asked.
