Take it out in Trade

James checked one last time his appearance in the dresser mirror. He was getting ready for work and was making sure everything was in place; his radio, his badge, his gun, his taser, his cuffs, his baton, and most importantly his hair. Preparedness was everything including his appearance.

He had been an Atlanta police officer thirteen years now and was assured his good looks and immaculate presentation had played a part in relating to people, criminals and suspects and everyone else he came in contact with. Public relations were mostly what cops did, and they needed to be good at it. With the right attitude and words, you could thwart a potentially violent situation, a fight or some idiot resisting arrest. You could defuse a domestic dispute with a reasonable tone of voice. Only in situations where a person was high on meth or flakka, or a forty-nine (mental patient) was it necessary to get in a fight with them or use your baton or taser.

James had frequently charmed women and men to calm down and cooperate with an investigation. People on the street and shop owners were glad to see him working as he was so friendly and funny. And also, James enjoyed the attention, especially from women. Everyone had a reaction to cops; men were either envious or threatened, women were usually turned on by the uniform and cop paraphernalia, and this reaction usually encouraged a desperate woman to make deals to stop their arrest and being taken to jail.

On many arrests of women, James had rolled his eyes when the woman suggested they take a detour somewhere and forget about jail. He had never given in especially since criminals had nothing he wanted and were considered lower class. But his ego always swelled a bit when the flustered women would try. He had come to expect it. Many of these busts were hookers working the ghetto areas of Atlanta at night, and they had to be swept off the streets to keep them from annoying the tourists of the hostess city of the South. James felt good about cleaning up the streets, and he had grown to love the huge city with its southern history and Bible belt charm.

It was 2:15 in the afternoon, so with one last check James got in his patrol car and left for the Atlanta Police Department, looking forward to seeing his friends at work. They all shared the same conviction: Make Atlanta a better place to live and enjoy the power when you can, all in a day’s work. James enjoyed afternoon shift because you had half a day and half a night, two different worlds to work in. The daytime work was usually busier, but nighttime was more stimulating and enjoyable. After people had worked all day, they’d go home and drink and get into fights at home.

James admired himself at being able to stop a domestic before it went too far. Nighttime business robberies were exciting, especially the one where a hearing aid store was broken into, the front plate glass being broken loud enough to alert the business next door. When James and his partner had arrived, they carefully stepped in with guns drawn, expecting to find a brazen criminal waiting behind a door to assault them. Having switched on the lights, half-way into the store they noticed a shoe visible under a display desk in the middle of the room. Approaching it carefully, James yelled for them to come out, and the shoe didn’t move. His partner then kicked the shoe and they heard a yelp of pain.

Slowly, a woman backed out from under the desk and stood up and faced them, a pack of hearing aid batteries in her hand. When they ordered her to turn around and put her hands on the desk, she then touched the top of her ear and then her chin with her finger, and speaking in the monotone voice of the hearing impaired said, “I’m deaf.” She read James’s lips when he slowly told her to turn around and put her hands on the desk. It was only then the two partners smiled in amusement. Work could be fun.

Arriving at Precinct Two, James drove around behind the building and filled his cruiser with gas. He then walked into the building and into the briefing room where role call was always held. Greeting his fellow cops, including the “deaf girl,” partner, he took a seat on one of the metal folding chairs. His work wife officer, Jay, sat down beside him, and they began to talk about home life, the police gossip and such.

Impulsively, Jay asked, “Aren’t you a little pale? You alright?”

James replied quickly, “Yeah, I’m fine. Not enough sun.”

The sergeant walked in and took his place behind the podium at the front of the room. James found from here he was to ride alone tonight, no partner, no rookie, just him. That was alright; he’d find something to amuse him. Whether it was a homeless person begging for money or a drug dealer denying the deal James had just seen, there’d be something; there always was.

After a few laughs with his partners, James drove into the late Atlanta afternoon toward his usual area. It was a downtown area where lots of drugs were sold and prostitutes worked. “What circus are we working tonight?” James wondered as he cruised the streets, looking for anything out of the way.

The first arrest was a scraggly, middle-aged man selling drugs in broad daylight, barely hidden in an alley. When James drove up, the customer had run off, leaving the inebriated drug dealer standing in the alley startled. Run of the mill bust, take him to the detention building, sign him in and leave to do it all over again. James enjoyed his job, but sometimes it was boring and mundane.

Murders seemed like more substantial police work, but he didn’t wish for murders, just some excitement. Like the huge Peachtree celebration where James had run into the man whose house he had bought a couple years ago. At the closing, the idiot had announced he was a comedian, building his appearance circuit, traveling around the country, and wanted to try out some jokes. Most of his jokes were about the “damn police,” and James had smiled with amusement, not letting on who he was. At the peak of the flimsy jokes, James made his move and said, “The worst part about the damn police is you never know where you’re gonna run into one!” pulling out his badge and flipping it open on the table.

The horrified jokester had said awkwardly, “Oh, you’re Atlanta PD,” trailing off into silence, making everyone in the room snicker that much more.

At the next Peachtree drunken street party James was working, somebody had yelled for help and James ran towards a fight, but it was more like a man on the ground being beaten by two other men. The two doing the beating had darted off into the sea of people and, incredibly, the would-be comedian was slowly standing up from the sidewalk, roughed up and in pain.

“Go get ‘em!” he had shouted at James, to which he calmly replied, “There’s three thousand people out there, you go get ‘em!”

The battered man said in a flustered voice, “I sold you your house, didn’t I,” and James quipped, “No, I bought your house.”

Eventually the flustered man walked off into the crowd, muttering something about the, “damn police.” Moments like this amused James, and he let out a little chuckle as bystanders grinned at him for staying so calm.

“Okay Atlanta, what ‘cha got for me tonight?” James thought with a sigh. The sun was beginning to set, and he knew the other types of crimes were about to start up; the hookers, the muggings, the pick-pockets. “Bring it on, “he thought, “just doin’ my job.” He had begun to feel a little lightheaded and knew he needed a drink of the right stuff, but knew he had to wait until after work, never on the job, even though his pale skin had been noticed in roll call. James was a good cop, never breaking the rules, never abusing his power, always at work.

He cruised around in the patrol car, up this street, down that street, making a police presence, assessing everything and everyone. At just the right shade of darkness, he noticed a hooker here and there; trashy dressed, heavily made-up girls, probably addicts, slowly prancing up and down the sidewalks, swinging their hips, bopping along waiting for johns to approach them.

James slowed down in the street next to one of them and rolled his passenger window down. “Out for a stroll?” he called out to her in a sarcastic tone, and the miffed hooker gave him a dirty look and hurried into a store.

That was usually enough to shut them down for the night, knowing they were noticed and might have to go to jail. Sometimes James could catch one making a deal with a john, and then he could arrest them, and he saw that was about to happen down the street under the awning of a clothing store, pretty much hidden, but not to his experienced eye. Nearly stopping in the street, he turned on his camera and filmed the couple long enough to establish they were making arrangements for a hooker date. Pulling into a parking space, he got out of his cruiser and walked directly up to the apprehensive couple when suddenly the man ran down the street and across, disappearing between the buildings. With experience, James knew that chases were usually a waste of breath, and he still had the video, so he’d turn it over to his sergeant later, hoping to catch the guy with facial recognition tech.

Turning toward the scantily clad and garishly made up twentyish girl, he asked, “What were y’all talking about?” he started with a fake seriousness, and the young woman replied, “We know each other, just talkin’.”

James continued with the same sing-song seriousness, “How long have you known John?” a smile spreading across his face.

James knew this was an inevitable bust and she did, too, beginning to lose her patience with the smart-ass cop. “Just arrest me and shut up,” she thought, accepting her fate as had happened several times before, except for the times she had been able to deal her way out of it. Some Atlanta cops could be plied with the promise of a personal favor, and she certainly would try it again; anything to keep from being booked and having to bail out of jail, a big hassle.

James finished his torture by saying with a smile, “I’ve got a video, it’s over. Turn around and put your hands behind your back,” which she did reluctantly, and he clicked on handcuffs and led her by the arm to the back door of his cruiser.

After a brief pat-down, as she was not wearing enough clothes to conceal any weapons or drugs, he opened the car door and she got in and sat down with a sigh. He read her the Miranda rights. She knew she maybe had a way out. She’d bide her time and wait for the right opportunity.

It was then James noticed her pendant, a sterling silver triangle with one of the points pointing downward, no other marks. He had seen it before and thought about that memory as he walked around to the driver’s side of the police car and got in. Atlanta was full of all kinds of people, and he had met some local people with that specific type of jewelry before. He debated asking her about it and decided not to; he was on duty.

James started to drive to the jail and glanced up several times in the rear-view mirror at his sullen prisoner. He checked to make sure his camera was turned off. Usually, he didn’t make conversation with his arrestees unless they started it, but he was intrigued by this girl, so he asked, “You work this area often?”

She replied quietly, still gazing out the window, “Work? I was window shopping.”

James suppressed a chuckle. Then, she continued matter of factly, “I usually window shop in this part of town.

“What about the red light district, as they say?” he asked slowly, watching her reaction in the rear-view.

Her eyes met his in the mirror and held the look for a few seconds, expressionless. She began to think this was the opening she had hoped for; it didn’t happen often, but tonight it just might.

She began innocently, still looking in his eyes, “I’ve walked around the red district… oh, um the red light district, I meant to say,” the last words coming out slowly and quietly.

James chuckled, “It sounded like you said the red district,” and looked deeper into her eyes.

“I guess I did,” she added coyly with a small smile. “Whatever made me say that?”

Now they shared something more than just a cop with a prisoner. They both knew what was about to happen and both anticipated it with pleasure.

She completed the thought by saying playfully, “It’s no fun being in jail, so if you asked for a favor I wouldn’t be offended.”

Glancing at her pendant again, he felt the old weakness in his muscles nagging at him. Just this once at work, it’s a good situation, just do it.

With a grin he said, “I like your necklace,” and this made her smile with genuine pleasure. “How ‘bout we find a private place to talk about it?”

She laughed and said, “That’ll be alright.”

Turning down a street and pulling in behind a strip mall, avoiding the street light, James opened the passenger door and took her arm and helped her out. He took off her cuffs and smiled sweetly at her, the way a man smiles at a woman on their first date. She took his arm and they walked over behind a dumpster in the shadows, no one there but them in the Atlanta nighttime, their date about to get under way. His weakness was still there, but he knew it wouldn’t be there much longer.

She sat down on a plastic crate and James took his place standing in front of her, his heart beating harder at the thought of the intense pleasure he was about to experience. With their eyes locked, relishing the moment, she picked up the triangle from her chest and carefully positioned it on her wrist, pushing the sharp point into the flesh until blood emerged from the small wound.

Offering her hand up to him, he took it in both of his and began to partake of the warm elixir of life, drinking swallow after swallow of her blood, feeling his strength building back in his muscles. She knew this ritual all too well; when a hooker deal wasn’t available, sometimes she could find the rare red district trick to turn. It left her weak, but it was an option. Avoiding jail was payment enough tonight.

His face began to return to pinkness, and after a few moments of feeding he stopped, not wanting to weaken her too much. When he had finished, he wiped his mouth of blood. She was leaning against the dumpster, a bit lightheaded, but she knew how to deal with it. Since becoming a donator, she knew the weakness wouldn’t last long, just eat some red meat and she’d be fine in a few hours.

They were silent in the darkness, and finally he said, “I can’t take you back in the cruiser, will you be alright here?”

Bracing herself on the dumpster, she slowly rose as he helped her and said with a grateful smile, “I’ll be fine.” She noticed his eyes were bright and his face was flushed.

James took a $20 bill out of his wallet, and handing it to her said, “Find a steak house, and don’t try to hook again tonight.”

The weakened hooker replied, “Oh no, once a week is about all I can do.” She began to walk toward the street and turned to him and said, “Have a good night.” He smiled after her.

After getting in his police car, he was about to drive off when his back tires began to spin in the mud with a loud wet scraping noise. He opened the door and looked behind him. Seeing the problem, he walked to the back of the car. She turned back to watch him take hold of the bottom of the back of the car with one hand and effortlessly lift it a foot off the ground, shifting the back tires out of the muddy patch. He returned to his driver’s seat. They exchanged one more bright smile, and James turned out onto the street, returning to being just a good Atlanta cop, nothing more.