Chris Brady writes historical pulp and crime fiction. His latest story “Necropolis” will be available in Starlite Pulp’s Review #5. He lives in Nebraska where he teaches history at a small college.
Marquis walked down the snowy sidewalk, looking at the houses along the way. Most were old bungalows in need of remodeling and repair. But this time of year, they were decorated for Christmastime. Multi-colored strands of bulbs, clipped onto gutters and roof rakes, hung around their exteriors. Thick garland wrapped around porch columns. Wreaths hung from front doors.
To Marquis, the hood looked cozy.
From behind him, tires crunched through ice. He stopped his stroll as the sound put him on alert, interrupting his silent night.
From his jacket pocket, he pulled out a pack of cigarettes and put fire to one with a green Bic. He dragged deep while waiting to see who was rolling up.
A black and white squad car crawled by. Its brakes whined as it parked next to the curb ahead. The light bar pulsed before the megaphone squawked a familiar voice.
“Step over to the car, please.”
The passenger window rolled down.
Marquis stuck the lit cigarette in his mouth, letting it dangle from his lips. He walked over cautiously, trying not to slip on the icy ground.
He looked in and saw officers Beal and Lawrence, two patrolmen assigned to the Near North Side District. They knew about his smalltime dealing and fucked with him from time to time.
“Merry Christmas,” Officer Beal greeted from behind the wheel.
Officer Lawrence asked what Marquis was doing, walking around at night.
“Ah, you know. Looking at the lights and shit. This is my time of year.” The cigarette’s cherry bounced up and down as Marquis he spoke.
“Christmas?” Beal asked.
“Hell yeah. Wish I could see all the lights around town.”
Lawrence asked what was stopping him.
“Damn car don’t start when it gets this cold. ‘Sides, I wouldn’t drive on these slickery-ass streets, anyhow.”
Beal nodded.
“Makes sense.”
Marquis took a last pull off his smoke and pitched what was left into the street. Before the butt hit the ground, the cruiser’s doors popped open. He knew right then that he’d just fucked up.
Beal shined his Maglite into Marquis’ eyes while Lawrence pulled the handcuffs from his belt.
“Littering’s a misdemeanor,” Lawrence said. “Up against the car.”
“This is bullshit,” Marquis protested as he nestled his chest against the cruiser and put his hands behind his back.
Lawrence clicked the cuffs on, not too tight, before searching through Marquis’ jacket pockets.
From the right one, Lawrence pulled out the cigarette box. He opened it and discovered two thin joints hidden inside among the other smokes. He held the roaches up into the flashlight beam.
Beal jeered, “Looks like a possession felony to go with the littering.”
Marquis scoffed, “Man, for two pinners? Get the fuck out of here if you think that’s gonna stick. They wouldn’t even put my ass on probation for that bullshit.”
Beal began reciting the Miranda warning while Lawrence checked Marquis’s other pocket. Inside was a map with Omaha’s Tour of Lights printed on the front fold.
“What’s this?”
Lawrence turned Marquis around.
“Told you, I like the lights. Map tells you where the best ones are around the city.”
Lawrence told Marquis to stay put. Then he walked around the car to chat with his partner.
After a few hushed moments, he came back. Then he opened the back door and guided Marquis into the backseat, making sure his head didn’t hit the doorframe. Beal and Lawrence got back inside, too.
Lawrence looked over his shoulder at Marquis.
“Want to exchange gifts?”
“Say what?”
“You tell us who sold you the weed, we take you around to look at all the lights you want.”
Marquis thought about the offer. He’d gotten the weed from a cousin who hustled the shit up from a Missouri dispensary to sell in Nebraska where it was still illegal. Giving him up wouldn’t hurt too much. They weren’t that close.
“I want to see some shit first. Like the big ass houses in the Happy Hollow hood. Take a cocoa, too.”
Beal looked back at Marquis through the rearview.
“Scooter’s?”
“Starbucks, motherfucker.”
“Ho, ho, ho,” Beal said as he shifted the car into gear and pulled away from the curb.
~ fin ~
Chris Brady writes historical pulp and crime fiction. His latest story “Necropolis” will be available in Starlite Pulp’s Review #5. He lives in Nebraska where he teaches history at a small college.
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