Since the Layoffs by Iain Levison

Author:Iain Levison
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: ebook
Publisher: Soho Press
Published: 2003-03-03T16:00:00+00:00

SEVEN

And the next day, it starts.

There is a knock on the door. “Mister Skowran?”

It’s ten in the morning. I have just fallen asleep after spending all night at the convenience store. The first few knocks I just pretend I can’t hear, then I hear a police radio from a parked car in the street, and I know what’s going on right away. I act sleepier than I feel as I blunder over to the door. “Who is it?” I ask grumpily.

“Mister Skowran, open the door, please.”

I make a big show of opening the door, and four men barge in, two of them local cops and two of them plainclothes. A fifth and sixth follow.

“What the hell is going on?” I protest, knowing exactly what is going on. “I was just going to bed.”

The first man through the door hands me a piece of paper. “We have a warrant to search your apartment. Could you sign here please, that you have read and understand the terms of the warrant?” He hands me a pen.

“Search it for what?” I make a show of rubbing sleep out of my eyes.

“We’d like you to come down to the station and answer a few questions,” he tells me.

“What’s this about?”

“Please read the warrant.”

The cops walk past me and move off to various parts of my apartment, one going into the kitchen, one in the bedroom, one to the bathroom. They come back.

“There’s no one else here,” one says.

“No shit,” I say. “I could have told you that.”

“Start the search in the bedroom,” the big plainclothes officer says. “Mister Skowran, please put some clothes on and come down to the station with us.”

“Am I under arrest?”

“Not yet,” he says.

“So I don’t have to go?”

“I’d advise it,” he says. “I can have these guys search nice or search nasty. If you want to make a big show, we’ll tear your place to bits. It’s up to you.”

“All right, all right. Jesus,” I mutter, irritated, and walk back to my bedroom with a uniformed cop, who is going to watch me put my pants on. I reach for some jeans lying on the floor, and he takes them from me, and feels the pockets, to see if I have a weapon concealed in them anywhere. He hands them back to me.

“What’re you guys looking for?” I ask, still pretending to be mystified.

“It’s in the warrant, sir,” says the cop. I hate when people call me sir when what they really mean is “Fuckface.” You can tell by their attitude. “Sir” used to be a word to connote respect, but these people sneer it. Bouncers and cops do this a lot.

“Don’t call me sir, I work for a living,” I tell him. He watches me quietly as I put my watch on.

I turn to face him. “Want my hands behind my back, to cuff me?”

“You’re not under arrest, sir,” he says.

“Fuckface.” I push by him and go out the door with the detective.

In the back of the police car, I look out the window as I see my town go by.

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