gandalfsgoodboy: I’m guessing it doesn’t mean pounds per square foot.
gandalfsgoodboy: Adding location doesn’t help.
Me: Maybe it isn’t a location. Maybe it’s an event. Something happening today?
gandalfsgoodboy: Fuck, putting in today’s date brought up the Pecan Street Festival. Haven’t been since I was a kid. If I remember correctly, it practically takes over downtown. Lots of family-friendly activities.
Me: Shit. What can you get me on seedyarmedandready?
gandalfsgoodboy: Looking into that now.
God, this is a nightmare. Worse, spürsfan_2020 has joined the conversation.
spürsfan_2020: This qualifies as a high-probability threat. Per the bylaws, we need to bring in APD.
Me: I don’t even know what this guy looks like.
spürsfan_2020: Not ideal, but they’ve got officers all overdowntown and can send out warnings while we get you the details.
Wellshit. I’m on APD’s shitlist for a small misunderstanding with a bar owner last year. I maintain he was selling MDMA to teenagers, but the cops saw it differently.
Spürsfan_2020’s word goes, though, at least if I want to maintain my good standing with the group.
Cursing, I pocket my smartphone and pick up my burner, thumbing out 9-1-1.
“9-1-1, this is Charlotte. Please state the nature of your emergency.”
“I have credible evidence that someone is at the Pecan Street Festival with a high-capacity firearm.”
“Do you have a description?”
“No. Not yet.”
“Sir, this is not the time for pranks. We take every single one of these calls seriously.”
“I understand. And I’m telling you I have credible evi?—”
“Sir, I’m going to put you on hold and patch you through to our Event Safety Coordinator.”
Shit. By the time they get their thumbs out of their asses, he’ll have mown down a dozen people. She clicks off the call, and I set the phone to speaker, wedge it in the unused ashtray, then put my car in drive.
I’m not that far off from downtown and am several blocks closer before I remember that—goddammit—the streets are blocked off. I pull to a stop right before the Congress Avenue bridge, get out, and then hop the barricade.
A uniformed officer blocks my path. “Sir, you cannot park there.”
I’d rather handle this myself, but spürsfan_2020 was right. This officer can get a message out to dozens of LEOs already watching over the festival.
“I know.” I hold up my hands, displaying the burner while aiming for cooperative citizen. “I’m on hold with 9-1-1. I monitor several gun and ammo chat groups, and someone is about to open fire with a high-capacity weapon?—”
“Oh, you monitor gun and ammo chat groups?” he asks with a little more snark than is totally necessary. His grunt is dismissive as he points at my car. “Sir, I need you to move your vehicle and?—”
“And I need you to believe me, man. This is a credible?—”
“Officer, what’s going on here?”
I turn to find…huh. The handsome detective who arrested that Brantley asshole last night is flashing his badge. What the fuck is he doing here?
The officer straightens his posture, gesturing to my car. “This man has illegally parked in the middle of the street and is going on about someone with a gun.”
