“Unruly and rowdy, as only Mitch can be.” Then, temporarily shaking off thoughts of his next face-to-face with his friend, he placed his hand on Beth’s distended abdomen. “How’s the little fellow treating you tonight?”
“He kicked in protest when you left us to answer the phone. He knows your touch.”
“Give me a break. My hand is bigger and heavier than yours, that’s all.”
“He knows you.”
“You think? Really?”
“Um-huh.”
Pleased, he said, “I wouldn’t mind him coming out asking, ‘Where’s Dad?’”
Beth smiled and drew him down to her. Against his lips, she whispered, “And you’ve actually got people believing you’re a badass.”
The following kiss was deep, long, loving. When he broke it, he nuzzled her neck and snarled, “I am a badass, woman, and don’t you forget it.” Laughing softly, she pushed him away.
But John’s playful mood didn’t last. As he got up, he said, “I definitely need to be one this morning.”
The midsummer humidity of Louisiana could drain an individual of all vitality within minutes. In Auclair, which was virtually surrounded by bayous and swampland, the heaviness of the atmosphere also lent an aura of somnolence to the streets of the small city.
Along John’s route to work, few homes gave any indication that the residents were up and about yet. Even the breeze was desultory, barely disturbing the stringy gray moss that draped the far-reaching branches of stately live oak trees.
But this seemingly lazy Sunday morning was a deceptive harbinger of what the day would bring. John knew that all hell was about to break loose.
When he arrived at police headquarters, personnel who’d worked the graveyard shift were drifting out; the day force was coming in. He bid greetings to those he passed on his way up to the CAP unit, but didn’t stop to talk with anyone except for Patrolman Clarence, who answered a few terse questions John put to him.
There really wasn’t much more for the young cop to report except that Mitch’s invectives had turned increasingly abusive before he’d finally settled down.
John thanked the officer for the update, went into his office, and called the police superintendent. He caught him sleeping in, but he had wanted to inform him of Mitch’s misbehavior before the grapevine could beat him to it.
“It’s your department, John. I trust you to deal with him as you see fit.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
After signing off, John took the stairs down to the basement and briefly consulted the three officers on duty in the jail. He was told that only one cell was occupied and was pointed toward the last one in the row.
John left them and approached the barred cubical enclosure.
Mitch was half reclined on the bunk, propped up in the corner formed by pitted concrete walls. His feet were planted on the stained mattress, his head bent over his knees, which he was hugging to his chest.
Whether he had heard John’s arrival or merely sensed his glowering presence, he raised his head and said sourly, “About time.”
Upon hearing that, the cops on duty stopped whatever they were doing. Mitch seemed either not to notice or not to care that the two of them had an audience, although John was keenly aware of it.
Mitch lowered his stockinged feet to the floor, stood up, and gave a shudder like a dog coming awake. Placing his hands in the small of his back, he arched it and stretched. He popped his neck, rolled his shoulders, then ambled over to the bars separating him from John.
A trail of dried, crusty blood extended down from his earlobe onto his neck and the collar of his rumpled shirt. His eyebrows were drawn into a frown that hooded his eyes. Piercing blue and sniper sharp, they managed to project hostility and insolence despite being bloodshot.
He said, “Took you long enough. Didn’t they call you?”
“Yeah, they called me. Told me they had a drunk and disorderly asshole in the tank. A repeat troublemaker who might have gone too far this time.”
Mitch snorted. “Oh, like you’ve never been shit-faced. Many a time when you and Jose Cuervo were like this,” he said, crossing his fingers, “I had to come along behind and scrape you off the floor. Remember?” When John didn’t respond, he huffed and said, “Whatever, bro. Just get me out of here.”
John held Mitch’s surly stare for so long, the officers watching became uneasy. There was a shuffling of feet, an exchange of wary glances, a quiet cough. Finally, John motioned the officer at the desk to remotely open the cell door.
The mechanism squeaked, and steel clanked against steel as the door slid open. “That needs some WD-40,” Mitch said as he walked out of the cell. Sidestepping John, he yawned and said, “Man, do I look forward to grabbing some z’s in my own bed. See you tomorrow.”
