Shaunessy Goes West in Winter. by Edward Drobinski - HTML preview

Chapter 3

The Vista de la Feria Chief of Police took twenty-eight year old Lieutenant John Striker to the side of their cubicled open space office. Striker was on the force for six contented years, working by himself, with the exception of the first year when he learned the ropes from retiring Sergeant Anthony Armijo.

The two easy going New Mexico boys saw most things eye to eye, at least the most important ones, for one, who gets to go in the one bowl bathroom first. This was decided in an unspoken mental calculation, which took into consideration many factors and had the highest weight on degree of need and whether the trip was necessitated by a #1, 2, 3, or combinations thereof.

Mathematicians would have a difficult time defining an exact formula, but the two kindred spirits had no problem coming up with the right answer merely utilizing facial expressions.

Another important comfort zone was that each made the other aware that they liked pussy, but never discussed whose, frequency of occupation, or precisely what they liked doing with one. Striker was no dummy and had been anticipating this conversation for at least a few months, as the population growth in Vista de la Feria had brought him to the point where most of his day was spent refereeing domestic squabbles, breaking up kid’s fights and warning people about the public use of potty

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mouth. It seemed that these ill-trained, retired, doddering, refugees from “The Big Apple” had absolutely no sense of morals.

On one occasion a settler from “Sin City,” male, who looked all of 75 years of age, said “Shit” and “Fuck” to his canine companion within probable earshot of a house owned by an old time Vista de la Feria family of nice people who regularly attend Saturday service at the Seventh Day Adventist compound of worship, clean clothes, quiet ecumenism, bookstore, gym, storage facilities, furniture store and sometimes yard sale. The religious and commercial enterprises sit on a property immaculate of dog doo-doo, ensured by one full time employee assigned to the task and preventative patrol.

As a consequence of the newly imposed duties Striker had little time to police Vista de la Feria Road, the town’s two-way, one lane in each direction, main drag. The posted 25MPH

speed limit was now being violated by as much as 80 percent. He just knew that the perpetrators had to be members of the fossilized New York occupation force, who were still dumb enough to think that they had to get some place in a hurry. Witness their results. Natives knew that they weren’t going anywhere and had the sense to take their time doing it.

Striker’s 6’2”, 200 pound frame towered over the Chief and he took the initiative in the conversation, venturing; “Let me guess. I’m getting a helper.”

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The Chief’s 60 year old wizened, wrinkled and slightly chubby, cheerful face smirked and grinned before he said; “Sort of, except he, too, is going to be a Lieutenant. I’d use the word “partner” rather than “helper.”

Striker pursed his lips and thought; “Strike one.” Sorry for his giveaway facial expression, he attempted to appear unfazed and said; “What kind of experience does he have?” He quickly realized his silly assumption and added; “Or she.”

“Thirty-two years, mostly as a homicide detective. And

‘He’ is correct.”

Striker pictured himself as outgunned and thought “Strike two and shit,” potty brain still legal in New Mexico. He didn’t say anything and stared stoically at the Chief, unaware that his unease shone through as clearly as a spotlight.

The Chief slowly shook his head from side to side, forced a smile and said; “Don’t worry about it. His name is Tom Shaunessy, he’s almost my age, he’s from New York and I think his biggest interest is semi-retirement.”

Striker’s face was now truly expressionless, probably due to the numbing effect of the Novocain injection something natural in him was wise enough to administer. His mind said;

“New York!!!!! Strike three and fucking shit,” the latter two unspoken words a severe form of potty brain reserved only for the most dire of circumstances. He did his best to affect an

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outward calm, given away only by his frozen face and said; “When will I meet him?”

The half-foot shorter Chief looked up at him and replied;

“Later today or tomorrow, probably. I told him to come in whenever he got settled. A few days, one way or the other, doesn’t matter at all.”

Striker said; “Sounds good. I can use the help,” and walked back to his seat satisfied that he had ended the conversation referring to the intruder as “help.” He wasn’t certain that the wording was worth anything to him, but under the circumstances, it was the best attempt at positioning he could think of. He wondered if the Chief’s attitude would be so casual if he took a few days off to get something settled.

Striker sat at his desk and took documents from his drawers and pretended to diligently peruse them. He was blind to their significance, if any. He thought they were a good subterfuge to cover the fact that he just really wanted to think and stew.

The Chief gleaned exactly what he was doing in so painfully obvious a manner, understood his feelings, said nothing and thought that the best thing Striker could do right now was think and stew quietly.

Striker previously envisioned this day, but didn’t like to dwell on it, so it hit him full force today. Most importantly he was somewhat surprised and discouraged with learning of a

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more experienced “equal.” He thought; “No way is this going to be an improvement. Best case is a neutral relationship with jockeying for position. Worst case was out and out contentiousness with an overbearing, more experienced, nervous ass who wants to be ‘boss’. The best approach in either case is to be as surface co-operative as possible, while continually bringing to the forefront his strongest point; his knowledge of the area and its people.”

His Vista de la Feria birth and rearing made him suspicious of the outsiders flocking to the place over the last ten years, especially those from the “garden of debauchery,” New York City!

Damn greedy local farmers and politicians got in on the New York money kicking around, not caring that this would culminate in the demise of the Vista de la Feria way of life. Look at Albuquerque. His father told him that when he was a little boy it was as Vista de la Feria is today. But see it now; a mini-den of depravity, with International Sexpos, pornography shops, drugs, weapons, criminals, weirdos, gangs, illegal aliens and any other work of the devil you can identify. His father thought it would soon rival New York, populated by people with no interest in or sense of local culture. He felt confident in saying that because he shopped in Albuquerque once a week, he had visited NYC for a week twenty years ago and he regularly watched news programs emanating from both places. Albuquerque’s

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demise was not necessarily the work of only the New Yorkers, but of big city foreigners in general.

Striker got his mind back to the pressing matter at hand and decided that no matter how you slice it inevitably this new guy with more police experience would be competition. Striker’s wife had already been whining for years about his need to make more money. The conversations came from all directions and he thought she had already covered north, south, east and west and every gradation in between. Now a new ramification from the east would give her fodder for more “nuance.” His tall, lean hard body, weaned on youthful farm work, felt smaller and less relevant in the new-coming world of sophistication and standard operating procedures. He had often heard old people say that this wasn’t any more their world, but God damn it, he was all of twenty-eight.

During their dating days his now bellicose wife had a

“surprise” pregnancy, he thought only a surprise to him. Julia said she was on the pill. He did what he thought was the “right thing” and married the Catholic damsel in distress, who was adamantly against abortion. He felt like he was paying for his act of kindness ever since. The Marquis De Sade had a point.

He didn’t expect what was to come at all and at first, actually looked forward to being a husband and father. In a few years, when the second ideologically irreversible “accident” came

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along, he was already worn out from the daily, poorly veiled admonishments about the necessity of increased largesse.

Christ, she knew he was a cop all along. Did she expect him to supplement a cop’s pay with “protection” or some other kind of jail potential money? Women regularly work these days, but not her. She informed him, non-negotiably, that she had absolutely no intention of doing so, at least until the kids were eighteen.

Imprecise, rough calculations told him that with any more surprise pregnancies that could carry her to near retirement age. He thought that, under the circumstances, she ought to be glad that she lived in a decent house and didn’t have to field regular calls from bill collectors. Lovemaking had become virtually non-existent, the fuel of the ice fire constantly topped off by a mutual lack of trust in the other.

He spent the entire day shuffling papers under the Chief’s watchful eye. All of his disgruntled thoughts stayed with him until he went home at 5PM, said he had a tough day, ate and went right to bed.

The following morning, sitting alone at the kitchen table, he wolfed down the remainder of his coffee as he heard his wife, Julia, enter the room, her slightly overweight frame covered by dirty white long johns, a deep blue pullover thermal top and a sloppy light robe that had once been pink and embroidered, now

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requiring the viewer’s blind faith to appear that way. Her short dark hair was as the pillow had left it and appeared a bit lop-sided; some places puffy, some flat and some going in the wrong direction.

She flatly said; “Meeting your new partner today?” as she nonchalantly and sleepily poured herself a cup of coffee and fussed around the kitchen.

Striker rose from his chair slowly, pretending to suck the last drops from his coffee cup and trying to show her that he was in a hurry and said; “Probably, I’ll soon find out.”

“Maybe you can learn something from him.”

He saw a flash of red and thought; “Here we go already.”

He decided to take her off her course by unusually responding in a churlish fashion and offered; “And who are you going to learn something from today?”

Her shrill voice said; “What do you mean by that? What am I supposed to learn?”

“I don't know. I guess we all could stand some new information once in a while.”

She was facing the sink and as he walked by he gave her an obligatory quick kiss on the back of her neck, adding; “Gotta run, hon. I’ll see you later.” She didn’t turn to watch him go toward the door, but she was compelled to remind him; “Robert’s

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class is going on a field trip to the Acoma Pueblo. It’s one hundred dollars.”

He said; “Okay, give them a check,” and went out to the police car waiting in the driveway. “Escape,” he thought, making a mental note to cover the check with a cash advance on one of his well-used credit cards.

Shaunessy got to the police station early. Since this was his first day he did not yet have a key and waited in his car, engine running, to take advantage of the heater. It was what he would come to know as a typical slightly overcast Vista de la Feria winter morning, sadly reminiscent of New York. As he looked at the sky he was hoping for something new, but nothing got his attention until a police car pulled in and parked next to him. The driver, a young man, got out. Knowing the chief to be a much older man, Shaunessy thought this could his new partner. He got out and said; “Striker?”

“Yeah. Morning.” Perplexed and disgruntled, he incorrectly thought that the man dressed in civvies was there to file some report, so he distractedly added; “You’re a little early.”

Shaunessy thought that Striker knew who he was and replied;

“Yeah, I’ve always been like that,” and he followed Striker to the door of the station and entered behind him.

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Striker really didn’t want to get bogged down in taking some report, so he said; “Have a seat out here. Our secretary will be here any minute,” and he went through another door, closing it behind him.

Shaunessy didn’t understand the possible brush off, but did as he had been told, glancing at the wall clock which said 8:12.

He reflected on the brief conversation and concluded that Striker either openly didn’t want to see him or didn’t know who he was. The comment about the secretary suggested the latter, so he decided to attempt to have some fun.

He knocked at the door Striker had just closed and Striker called out, “Yeah?”

“I hate to disturb you, but I really have to use the restroom.”

The door opened, Striker displaying a tight lipped grin and saying; “I didn’t get your name.”

“I’m Mark Schwartz, reporter for the “Vista de la Feria Times.” I understand that a new cop is starting today and I wanted to do a little bit on him.”

Striker nodded, allowed Shaunessy into the restroom and left him there. Shaunessy ran the water a bit, flushed and quickly came out to see Striker with his feet up on his desk, staring at an open book he held in his left hand. Shaunessy could see that his new office, which he assumed he would soon be

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sharing with the younger, so far less than competently deductive officer, was going to be a twenty by twenty open space with four put-it-together-yourself pressed wood desks, the laminated faux wood toppings, peeling and absent in places. The three chairs accompanying each were all different at first glance and seemed to be former residents of some thrift shop.

Shaunessy asked; “Good book?”

Striker looked at the tall, thin, graying older man, with hair not in style anytime during his 28 years. He made a quick conclusion based on the absurd hairstyle and his stated job and thought; “A stupid liberal.” He grimaced, closed the book and said; “Nah, I haven’t seen anything good in some time.”

Shaunessy got his first inkling that he was going to have a partner who was hard-nosed and perhaps finicky. He said; “I recently liked one named ‘ Destiny’s Station, ’ written by Irradiana Oblikowski.”

“What’s it about?”

“Overcoming obstacles.”

Striker appeared not to understand and looked blankly, as if he required additional information. Shaunessy tried to elaborate in a different manner, saying; “You ever see the movie

‘ El Dorado?’”

“Yeah, as a matter of fact it’s one of my favorites. Is this book a western?”

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“No.” Shaunessy saw he was dealing with someone very literal and mulled over his next response, while Striker got that glazed look in his eyes again. Shaunessy said; “I really don't know how to describe it, without telling the whole story and that would ruin it for you. It is sort of talking about it and at the same time not talking about it, focusing on the parallel truth in something else, like David Foster Wallace. I think it’s classified as a psychological thriller, but I think it’s more of a psychological adventure.” Shaunessy realized that he had said too much, the book probably not being on Striker’s must read list and not wanting his new partner to consider him a spacy intellectual. He added; “Are you familiar with ‘The Pale King?’” referring both to DFW and his last book.

Striker dismissively snorted and snickered when he said;

“No.” He took out a pen and wrote something on a notepad, adding; “I’ll check it out,” wanting to sound somewhat polite, but having no intention of doing so.

Shaunessy correctly interpreted that as “end of interest or end of conversation,” so he changed the subject, saying; “Well, what can you tell me about your new partner?”

“He’s from New York,” saying the last words with more than a hint of disgust. Catching himself in the strong inflection he had given in an unguarded moment, Striker wanted to correct any impression taken as many of today’s Vista de la Feria residents

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were from New York and Mr. Schwartz might be one of them. He quickly added; “Not that I have anything against New York. It’s just a bit of an impediment as it means that I’ll have to teach him all about Vista de la Feria and New Mexico.”

Shaunessy said; “Well, I’ve got something against New York, I hate the fucking place. That’s why I moved here.”

Striker put the probabilities together in his head and said; “You’re not.....”

Shaunessy extended his right hand and said; “Yeah, I’m Tom Shaunessy. Good detective work.”

Striker smiled, rose to shake his hand and said; “You son of a ........See, you already almost got me using objectionable words.” He outwardly laughed, but his second thoughts were more complex. Was Shaunessy being sarcastic with him about the “good detective work?” Maybe he should have suspected who the man was from the get-go. He also wasn’t completely comfortable with his new partner starting out their relationship with a game.

He kept those thoughts to himself as he showed Shaunessy the office highlights and his new desk, right there across from his own.

Chief Kerry and Rhonda Armijo, the secretary, walked in together. The Chief , who Shaunessy thought looked twenty years older than his photo on Facebook, said; “I see you two have met.

Good. Rhonda, go get Mr. Shaunessy his new uniform so he can

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start earning his paycheck.” He evinced a broad grin on his deeply wrinkled sixty year old fleshy face as he shook Shaunessy’s hand, saying; “And you let me know if this youngster gives you any trouble.”

Shaunessy returned the grin, saying; “I’ll do that,” taking the conversation as mere pleasantries, but noting that Striker’s face displayed a look which could have said; “Nobody told me that he’s my boss and he’s not.”

Not very much later Striker announced that he would show Shaunessy some of the area, grabbed his coat and went right to the driver’s door of the police car. As he opened it he facetiously said; “Mind if I drive?” and sat down.

Shaunessy waited until he was in the passenger’s seat to reply, saying; “Of course not. You know the roads better than I do. But do me a favor. Turn up the damn heat. It’s freezing in here.”

Striker complied and entered the main road. He said; “All right. Beginning of your Vista de la Feria education. See the kids waiting for the school bus?”

“Yeah?”

“See that guy approaching them?”

“Yeah?”

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“That’s Bobby Ortega,” as he indicated the short, chubby, sloppily dressed Spanish man with his left index finger. “His family owned a lot of property here and he’s the one who got screwed out of the money. He stays drunk most of the time and walks around in circles, never getting too far from the bar.”

“Public intoxication?”

“No. I don’t care about that. Hell, if we started enforcing that law, half the town would be in jail. We just wanna make sure he’s not looking for a young friend to tell his troubles to.”

Shaunessy drew the intended inference and was surprised, not expecting to run into this sort of thing right out of the gate. To nail down the possibly oblique phraseology, he questioned; “Child molester?”

“Oh, no. At least not yet. We just don’t want him to bother any kids. He seems like a good guy, but he’s got a pile of problems.”

Striker pulled the car onto the dirt shoulder and got out, saying; “Hey, Bobby.” Shaunessy got out and observed the exchange.

Bobby said; “Hey, Striker. How you doon today?”

Striker replied; “Fine, Bobby. I’m just a little worried about you though. Isn’t it a little early to get started?”

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Bobby laughed and said; “Yeah, it is. Rough night, you know?”

“Family crap?”

“Always. My sister won’t let me have any money.” Striker had heard enough about the family situation to know that Bobby’s sister had control of Bobby’s money, “for his own good.”

“What do you need it for?”

“Everybody’s moving here and you know I’m a builder.” He staggered to his right foot and added; “And a good one, too.”

Striker said; “Yeah, I know it, Bobby. Hey, I want you to meet somebody. This is my new partner, Shaunessy.”

Bobby and Shaunessy shook hands and Bobby said; “Shaunessy?

What kind of name is that?”

Shaunessy said; “Irish.”

Bobby said; “I know that. Don’t you have a first name?”

Shaunessy had forgotten he had one some time ago. Even his wife called him Shaunessy. With a raised voice, resulting from surprise, he said; “Tom.”

Bobby said; “That’s more like it, Tom. Listen, Tom, if my damn sister would give me the money that’s rightfully mine, I could make a fortune in this real estate market. Nobody thinks I can do anything except drink. That’d show ’em.”

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Shaunessy was rendered speechless by Bobby’s self-awareness and his propensity to see the drunkard’s position. Striker interjected; “Ah, you might lose your ass, too.”

Bobby said; “Oh, come on.”

Striker slapped Bobby’s shoulder and watched him rock back four steps before coming to a balanced halt and said; “I know you can. But you’ve got to get yourself steady first. You know what I mean?”

Bobby drew out; “Yeah, I know.” He laughed at something no one else will ever know and added; “I think I could use some more fortification, right now.”

Striker said; “Don’t kill yourself, buddy, I’m rooting for ya’.” He went back in the car and Shaunessy followed him, waving “Bye” to Bobby and feeling strangely sad.

After they watched Bobby stumble down the road, they drove away and Striker said; “He just needs somebody to talk to and it’s better that it be us than some little kids.”

Shaunessy, who, due to his college education in an era when few cops had one, had always been a detective, never a beat cop, had never before performed this type of “police work” and thought about it. When Striker first stopped Bobby, he was thinking; “Why bother this man? He’s committed no crime.” Then later in the conversation he thought Striker was acting more like a psychologist than a cop. He settled in on a mindset of;

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“I’ve got a lot to learn about small town life. This is what I wanted to see. Give it a chance. Maybe this is how one ‘keeps the peace.’”

Striker knew by Shaunessy’s silence that he was mulling over something that was new and unusual to him, but glad that he got no complaints or commentaries about how this was not done in the Big Apple. As he drove he’d periodically look at Shaunessy out of the corner of his eye to see the man craning his neck around, taking in the local sights. He decided to be direct and said; “Not standard operating procedure in New York, I bet?”

Shaunessy said; “Frankly, no, but I like it. So far, so good. I think that in New York we’ve got too much actual crime to get involved in prevention.”

Striker replied; “We’ve got our share of ‘actual crime’

here, too.”

Shaunessy regarded the comment as being that of one unaccustomed to daily stabbings, rapes and murders, but didn’t want to appear contentious in bringing that up. Instead, seeking further education, he asked; “What are the big crimes in Vista de la Feria?” expecting not to hear anything impressive.

Striker calmly said; “Methamphetamine, outlaw bikers, gang activity, theft, illegal alien trafficking..... I could go on.”

Shaunessy was surprised at the answer and suspected that it was an exaggeration, at the very least, in the implied degree.

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He didn’t expect to find any major problems in his new “safe”

home.

Striker pointed up a side road and said; “Little Manny lives there. He’s the head of the Bandidos.”

“Bandidos?”

“Bike gang that controls the local meth business, among other things.”

Shaunessy thought; “Okay, he wants to show the New Yorker what a bad ass he and the area is and are. I’ll have to filter everything through that. Silly, retarded game people I knew stopped playing at around age fourteen. Hope it’s not endemic.”

He said; “You know that and he’s not in jail?”

Striker replied; “Can’t prove it. He’s slick.”

Shaunessy grimaced and said; “Can’t you get any of the cunts who work for him to turn?”

Striker said; “You’ll learn more about it in time.”

Shaunessy thought; “What’s to learn? Police procedure is police procedure,” but he didn’t press.

The rest of the day was spent introducing Shaunessy to Vista de la Feria business owners, talking to local eccentrics, meeting some of the relocated geriatric set at the Senior Center, none of whom seemed to be holding any concealed weapons, though some of the language used over the pool table was ribald

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and giving out a couple of traffic tickets for non-moving violations.

Shaunessy got home as darkness started to set in. He said;

“Hey, Margaret. How’d you like your first day alone in nirvana?”

Imagined pleasant response.

He caught himself, turned on all the lights and did a cursory inspection of each room, hoping not to find a landlord or a landlord’s relative. When reasonably assured that he had no “guests”, he continued talking to Margaret.

“That good. Meet anyone new and interesting?”

Imagined negative laugh.

“Ah, maybe tomorrow.” .....“What did you do all day?”

Imagined shoulder shrug. He tried to picture what she might have done under the circumstances and drew a blank.

“Maybe there’s a book club that reads something other than rehashed mysteries and romance novels.”

Imagined smile, culminating in a small laugh.

“I thought you’d like that one. My day was pretty exciting, too. My new partner, Striker, is trying to convince me that this place is the crime capital of the country.”

Imagined concerned response.

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“Yeah, I’ll be careful. After I eat, I’m going to go out and buy a few things. I saw a store in town with genu-wine New Mexican items, some made last year in Texas, some from India.”

Imagined derisive laugh.

“Ah, when in Rome. They’re a mixture of traditional, Spanish and Native American motifs, with crummy paint jobs.”

Imagined interested response.

“Yeah, likewise. So cool, we don’t care. It’s so bad it’s good and all that kind of stuff.”

Imagined cautionary response.

“Ah, try it. If you don’t like it, I’ll bring it back or get rid of it. It’s not expensive.” .....“Besides, it’ll give us something to talk about.”

Imagined encouraging response.

Shaunessy spent the next few, bitterly cold weeks learning more about his new duties. More interesting observations were provided by his partner, Striker, who Shaunessy thought he was beginning to better understand and respect. “He’s an extremely practical man and despite that seems to have a tendency to think he’ll encounter negative, unexpected events, though he tries to anticipate them. Some things must have gone very wrong for him.”

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Margaret didn’t raise any vehement objections when Shaunessy brought home furniture and bric-a-brac of a Southwestern flavor. She was the calmly accepting, though at times discerning person he had known and loved, for what seemed, sometimes, as long as he could remember, or at least as long as he wanted to remember. Rather than deluge her, he’d return with an item or two daily. He thought; “Sometimes it takes a while to get comfortable with new things.”

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