Homeboy by Seth Morgan

Author:Seth Morgan
Language: eng
Format: azw3, epub
Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media
Published: 2015-05-13T16:00:00+00:00

BUTTERFINGERS

“What the fuck you mean you havent been able to follow Tarzon?” the baby voice was pitched at tantrum decibels.

Quick Cicero swung the big Mercedes around a stalled bus and reached to adjust the rearview. He wanted to monitor his boss’s temper. But all he could see was a jiggly morass of talced blubber. The Man in the Moon’s face would fit in that little mirror before Baby Jewels’s. What Quick needed was one of those convex jobs like truckers use.

“It’s like he knows we gonna try n tail him. He uses a coupla state police cars for screens. But now with the election just a few months off, the Governor and Attorney General need every state unit for their campaigns. No way SFPD is going to cover him, even if they could keep up with that crazy motherfucker … No,” Quick shoved out his lower lip to nod with a confident grimace, “he’s naked now, boss. I’m on his spic ass … And another thing, I got a date with the younger zip brother this evening.”

“That’s good news indeed.” Baby Jewels settled back with a wheeze as pressurized as a leaking tractor tire. Shortly he began drumming his fingers, dangerously blinking his rings, reminding Quick in the rearview of gumballing police lights. The baby voice lilted with wheezy coquetry: “We’ve fallen behind, Quick. Now we must play catchup. You know how to play catchup, dont you?”

Hands clasped behind his back, Captain Reilly rocked on his heels, scowling out his office window. The flagpole at the center of the Admin lawn was naked. It was the third time he’d come on watch this month and the colors weren’t flying. The younger officers couldn’t comprehend his vexation. Whether or not the colors were raised with the sun every day seemed of small consequence to them. They couldn’t understand what it had to do with institutional security. They didn’t see that something is done the same every day because it’s supposed to be. They couldn’t grasp that when basic procedures weren’t followed, a general breakdown in order followed. It might be gradual, a slow erosion of attention to detail, a rotting of security consciousness; but, however trivial and slight the individual lapses might seem, their cumulative result was always cataclysmic.

Captain Reilly had picked up a term for the malaise at a recent penology seminar. The speaker, an oldline captain like himself, called it “correctional anomie.” Captain Reilly thought this was something that grew in the ocean until he looked it up and found it was something growing right in the Coldwater Muster Room.

The desk intercom buzzed; he yanked his eyes from the slender white portent of chaos and angrily punched the button. “What?”

“It’s your wife, sir, on one …” came his clerk’s electrific lisp. “And C.O. Savage is waiting to see you.”

“Tell that yoyo to cool his heels, I’ll be with him in a few minutes.” Captain Reilly lowered himself in his chair with a deep, composing breath and pressed the blinking button.

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