6
No Greens for that man.
There is a very cliché saying used in almost every action movie or cop drama out there. At some point in the movie, someone looks at one of the main characters and asks the man why he is a police officer, to which the man always responds with the same line…
‘All I ever wanted to be was a cop.’
At that point, the character would elaborate and reveal something personal or intimate about his life and his motivations.
Sgt. Timothy Grates, his friends called him Tim, was not a cliché. He distinctly remembered a wonderful time in his life when he was 4 years old were he wanted to be a dinosaur. After that, around 13, there was a point where he wanted to be Batman, and he thought it was totally legitimate to put on a costume and run around at night beating the shit out of people for the sake of humanity.
One day around 16 years old, Tim’s English teacher, Mr. Howell, sat him down and explained to him he was living in a fantasy world and that if he wanted to fight crime the closest he would get to being a superhero was to become a cop. Tim smiled, seeing a dream he could finally attain. With renewed purpose, he moved forward with his new goal.
Now, Tim hated Mr. Howell because this was nothing like being Batman. Not even in the ballpark.
Not even the same sport.
So, with a serious disinterest in his current life, Sgt. Timothy Grates climbed the stairs to his fourth story, bug infested, shithole of an apartment which was his only reward after a double shift including, but not limited to:
- Tasing a drunk driver;
- Paperwork;
- Stopping a domestic dispute involving two coke heads and five children under the age of eight;
- Paperwork;
- Doing lines of cocaine in the men’s bathroom with the confiscated cocaine from the aforementioned domestic dispute;
- More fucking paperwork;
- Etc.
Tim pulled the keys from his pocket and had a hard time getting them into the lock through the smoke from the cigarette that hung from his mouth. He missed the lock and the door cracked open with the touch of his hand.
Awesome.
Being a seasoned cop he should have drawn his firearm and proceeded into the apartment with caution, maybe even called for backup, but these would have been signs of a man who cared.
Tim hadn’t cared in years.
Tim shoved the door open, speaking loudly, “If you’re still here and you’re robbing the place you must have realized that I don’t have anything to steal. If you’re here to kill me, just remember two to the chest, one to the head. Stop a man cold and drop him dead.”
Tim ended his speech and flipped on the lights finding an interesting surprise. “Hello Patty.”
Patty stood across the room, leaning against the wall of the barren rundown apartment which held nothing but a small TV, mini refrigerator and a mattress on the floor. She looked up at the average sized Tim Grates. Tim’s hair was brown with streaks of gray, earlier than his time being that he was only twenty-eight. He was still in his uniform, which was unbuttoned, showing his white undershirt. His eyes were blood shot and the smoke in his mouth was almost to the filter. He looked, as usual, like hell.
“Grates.” Patty responded. She had always called him by his last name instead of his first.
Tim released some air and entered the apartment, shutting the door behind him. “Want a beer?”
“When don’t I?” Patty responded in her unintelligible Irish English.
Tim walked over to the refrigerator and pulled out two cans of cheap beer. He tossed one to Patty. “So, what’s the Muppet want? Unless, of course, this is a social call but I don’t think I’m your type.”
Patty popped the can top and then proceeded to drink the can in one go. Tim watched, amazed. No matter how many times he saw her drink, it always impressed him. She finished ten seconds later after a series of gulps. She then crushed the can in one hand and with a sigh of satisfaction, she returned her gaze to Tim.
“You’re not my type, I’m on the job.” She said.
Tim raised his eyebrow, “Who’s Bob?”
Patty gritted her teeth, “JOB!!! You horses ass!”
Tim decided not to make a comment about how whenever Patty said ass it came out like the stereotypical Irish ‘arse’.
“Alright, what do you need from me?” Tim asked her, getting a bit more serious.
“I need you to look someone up in your data base. Someone by the name of Margaret Oats. Probably goes by the name Maggie.” Patty spoke as she handed Tim a picture of a full figured woman with dark blood red hair and brown eyes.
Tim chuckled, “Alright, I’ll find some info on her, for the usual price.”
****
Control.
It’s something on which The Cook had always thrived. Control and, of course, compliance. Once the Cook put his gun in their faces, most marks turned to jelly, becoming slaves who were willing to do anything to not have him pull that trigger. The fight left them.
How could he have been so stupid?
The Cook had made a miscalculation out of arrogance. He had assumed that after betraying Mr. Tomec she would return to her house only for a second to grab some things, then be on the run. He had not expected that she would already have found protection.
“Can’t say that I am a fan.” Creegan spoke and it snapped The Cook out of the daze he was in.
The stranger with the gun raised an eyebrow. “What?”
“Salads,” Creegan explained, “you said that you hoped I liked salads before jamming that huge gun in my face.”
The hit man nodded, “So I did.”
Creegan continued, “And I’m saying, I can’t say that I am much of a fan of them.”
The Cook became crestfallen, “bullox, that is a pity. Well it's not like I have much of a choice here. Let me ask you this, have you ever had a really good salad?”
Creegan looked confused. “Well no, because I don’t like salads.”
The hit man frowned. “Come now, that’s a very broad generalization of a rather large genre of food. What if the ingredients were all handmade?”
“This is really bothering you, isn’t it?” Creegan asked.
The Cook shook his head. “I’m just saying, I don’t think you have tried enough salads to really say that you don’t like them as a whole.”
“Well, maybe not.” Creegan was starting to get frustrated. “But that would be because I don’t like salads. It tends to keep me from continually trying them until I find one that I like. Now, if you’re going to shoot me, shoot me, but don’t question my food choices.”
The Cook sighed in defeat. “Well if you insist.”
Creegan gritted his teeth as The Cook took aim.
The Cook had taken too long and lost control. Before he could fire, Maggie leapt at him from behind, using both hands to push The Cook’s hand down. The Cook squeezed the trigger and three, three round bursts, went into the floor. The Cook cursed under his breath, pulled his arm away and delivered a quick and precise elbow to Maggie’s face. She staggered and went down, holding her nose.
The Cook turned and brought the gun back up but Creegan was on top of him now, catching the arm with both hands in order to control the gun. The two men struggled, kicking over the coffee table and almost falling over the couch. Slowly but steadily, the stronger, more powerful Creegan was turning the gun on its master.
The stranger wasn’t stupid, he had to cut his losses or be killed by his own gun. He released the weapon and the gun dropped to the floor. Creegan went for the gun and The Cook went for him. A quick stomp to the top of Creegan's foot made him yelp in pain. The smaller, quicker hit man teed off with a series of well placed palm strikes to Creegan’s abdomen and solar-plexis. Creegan coughed and staggered.
The Cook spun, reaching for the gun now, having stunned Creegan. Jim knew he had to move, and fast, or he would be dead. Creegan fought through his lack of breath and the pain and lunged forward. As The Cook brought the gun up, Creegan stepped past it, once again catching his arm and delivering and thunderous forearm to The Cooks hawk-like nose. The Cook dropped the gun again and staggered backwards. Creegan forgot about the gun and advanced on the hit man.
Creegan wrapped his hands around the back of The Cook’s head and brought his mid section down into Creegan’s rising knee. The Cook gasped as he was rocked by the blow. Creegan wasted no time bringing another wide forearm into the side of The Cook’s head.
The Cook reeled as Creegan followed the other arm with another forearm, but The Cook ducked the blow and came up with a brutal inside uppercut. The blow connected with Creegan’s jaw and sent shock waves through his head. Creegan staggered and launched his leg out on the back peddle.
Creegan's forceful front kick caught The Cook in the chest. The power behind Creegan’s desperate move sent The Cook off his feet, backward, crashing through the widow. The hit man’s legs caught on the widow sill and sent him flipping backward into the night with a rain of glass.
Creegan fell backward to the ground, breathing hard and rubbing his jaw. The damage caught up with him now and he took a second to just be in pain. He felt his bruised ribs and his traumatized mid section, however, the guy was trained. He had only hit Creegan three or four times and done serious damage, even though he was shorter and weaker than Creegan.
Maggie was standing now and moving toward the gun. Creegan scrambled to his feet and caught her hand as she reached down for it. Her face was shocked at first, then she grinned at him. Her lip was bleeding slightly from where the hit man struck her.
“You really don’t trust me, do you?” She asked playfully.
“Of course not,” Creegan answered. “But that’s not why I stopped you. That guy is a contract killer, which means that is a murder weapon. You don’t want to put any physical evidence of yourself on it.”
“Mmm” Maggie smirked, “Sure…”
Creegan kept hold of her hand and moved toward the door. “Time to go. He may have had back-up.”
Maggie had a quick and small passing feeling of regret…
That salad did look good…
-speechless- thank you..... that is all...
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