Tranquility’s Limit
by Gary Clifton
“Right there, Rook. Pull over!” Wafer ordered.
Probationary patrol officer Rose Garcia whipped the old Dodge to the curb.
Wafer managed to spill coffee only on the floor when he stepped out. A large, dirty man was whaling away on an abandoned payphone with a brick.
Officer Tom Wafer, who had spent twenty years patrolling the area, sighed and then snapped out curtly: “Low Ball, I can and will kick your doofus ass. That phone hasn’t had a coin in it in years.“ Then Wafer added: “Whatcha doin’ up anyway?”
The man stammered, “Sleepin’ in that dumpster out back. Damned garbage truck near swallowed me. Man’s gotta eat.” He gestured to the telephone.
Wafer waved a dollar bill. The man approached and snatched it. “Dollar won’t buy a cup of coffee, Wafer.”
“Then give it back... Or The Golden Arm soup kitchen will front ya breakfast.”
* * *
Garcia, a native of the festering slum immediately north of downtown squeezed back into morning traffic. “Sir, why not bust him for—?”
Wafer sighed and explained: “Rook, he only paroled out a couple weeks ago. Pounding on a defunct payphone isn’t enough to violate his parole. You watch; two weeks and he’ll screw up enough to be right back inside.”
“But—?”
“Rook, I spilled my coffee. Pull ’round back o’ The Golden Arm. Go get us a cup. I gotta take a leak in them bushes out back.”
Garcia crunched the Dodge over the gravel alley behind The Golden Arm and disappeared inside. When she returned, balancing two Styrofoam cups and a pair of biscuits, Wafer was standing enveloped in shrubbery.
“Wafer, I told Mama Jean that Low Ball might come by. We screwed up. She said she tossed him out couple days ago after he took a swing at her. She operates that homeless shelter on pennies. Little food from a couple of neighborhood groceries, maybe some neighborhood churches. Sometimes puts up with a load of crap from her clientele.”
Wafer slid back into the Dodge. “That guy’s bad news.”
“Sir, as you well know, Mama Jean is a jewel among folks around here. Come Christmas and Thanksgiving, she’s sometime all that lots of folks have. Through it all, she’s always the picture of restraint and diplomacy.”
“Yep.”
Garcia pulled into traffic. “I gave her my cell number. Told her to bypass 9-1-1 if she has a problem. ”
Wafer nodded. “Low Ball shows his ass, I welcome the chance to take care of it. No woman is up to gettin’ physical with that oversized creep. Mama Jean don’t weigh a hundred and ten.”
“Sir, she spent time in the military, I heard. Might be pretty salty.”
“Prolly hadda clerical job. Women ain’t fighters, Rook.”
Garcia huffed, “Sir, I’m one-ten and I did very well in physical combat in the Academy.”
“Make-believe stuff, Rook. Real world’ll learn ya’ soon enough.”
* * *
Dispatch enriched the pot: “Fifty-two Charles. Disturbance at Krug Park. Caller says one victim down with serious head injury.”
“Fifty-two Charles responding,” Wafer replied into the microphone. “Rook, you know where—?”
“Yessir.”
People were standing around a man lying prone in the dust, but they scattered at the sight of the patrol car.
“Rook, order an ambulance.” Wafer knelt over the victim, obviously a wino. A gaping cut over his left ear was bleeding profusely. He was breathing regularly and conscious.
“Fat Arnold, can you talk? Help’s comin’. Who did this?”
The man managed a whisper. “Low Ball, Wafer,” he gasped.
Garcia knelt beside Wafer. “Dammit, Wafer, if we’d locked Low Ball up when—”
“Now we got reason to lock him up on somethin’ serious. He’s meaner than usual today. I’ll fix that.”
An ambulance arrived, then a second marked squad car. Dispatch could be heard calling Fifty-two Charles on the Dodge radio. Wafer reached the microphone.
“Fifty-two Charles, caller reports a disturbance at The Golden Arm shelter on Fourteenth. Handle Code 3.”
* * *
“Low Ball!” Garcia exclaimed. As she slid the Dodge to the curb, she saw Mama Jean, red hair disheveled, shove Low Ball out the front door. He landed sitting on the sidewalk, then sprang up and charged his diminutive opponent.
Wafer bailed out and struck Low Ball across his back with a baton. Lowball whirled and caught Wafer with a full right to the left side of the head. Wafer sprawled on the sidewalk.
A crowd gathered, cheering Low Ball on.
Garcia hustled around from the driver’s side and tackled Low Ball behind his knees. Both fell to the sidewalk. Mama Jean delivered a solid kick to Low Ball’s jaw. The big man exhaled with the sound of a beached whale and settled face down on the concrete.
Garcia handcuffed the prisoner’s hands behind him and stood up. Low Ball was out cold, lying limply on the pavement. A round of applause sprinkled through the rapidly expanding crowd.
A voice wafted in, “Big bad Wafer got his ass whipped. The girls hadda save him.”
Wafer, blood showing on his scalp, struggled to his feet and leaned groggily against a utility pole. ”Sucker got me with a lucky punch.”
Mama Jean, out of breath, said, “You gonna be okay, Wafer?”
Wafer nodded and said reluctantly, “Uh... pretty good job, girls. Uh, Mama Jean, where the hell did you learn to fight like that?”
Mama Jean, her greasy apron now flecked with blood, smiled. She snapped to attention in military style, and saluted. “Sir, Master Sergeant Norma Jean Smith, Twenty-five years in the Corps, sir. Last assignment, Eighth Marines out of Camp Lejeune, fourteen months in Iraq, sir!” She added extra emphasis to “sir”.
“A combat unit?!”
She continued her military bearing. “Sir, yes, sir, but I never could have handled this mope without assistance from Officer Garcia here. She’s meaner’n hell, and combat ready, sir.”
Wafer remained leaning against the utility pole but managed a broad grin. “You’re absolutely right, Mama Jean. Guys, suppose you could save me one more time and help a broke-down old cop who just got his butt whipped load this mope?”
The crowd applauded again.
Copyright © 2022 by Gary Clifton
