Down the Road: The Fall of Austin Read Online Free PDF Page B

his
nerves, at least for a while. But it was a brave new world out
there—a world with cellular phones.
    Mike sighed before replying, “Saw III, huh?
So what did you think?”
    “I think I could come up with some better
devices.”
    “What do you mean?” Mike asked, taking a sip
of coffee.
    “Whoa. You mean you haven’t seen it?” Derek
asked. He turned into William Cannon, en route to the same location
Mike was headed.
    “Not much for horror movies. Give me a
chick-flick any day.”
    Derek took a bite from his Snickers bar and
talked with his mouth full. “This guy picks on people who make
really bad choices and forces them…” he took a moment to swallow
the rich nougat, peanuts, chocolate, and caramel concoction. “…He
forces them to make hard choices that costs them or other people
their lives. Anyway—”
    “You notice something strange tonight?”
    “What?”
    “I’ve counted at least four military hummers
out-and-about,” Mike said. “I’m talking mounted guns and all,
driving up 35.”
    “You heard the all-call at four o’clock,
right?”
    “What all-call?”
    “Dispatch called and mentioned that Homeland
Security would be
    leading some relief exercises around
town.”
    “I didn’t get that memo.”
    “I heard it loud and clear over the
walkie-talkie.”
    “Aw, shit,” Mike said. “I turned mine down
when I was talking to the mechanic at Jiffy Lube. That was around
four.”
    “What were you doing at Jiffy Lube?”
    Minding my own business , Mike thought,
but instead said, “I think they fucked up the oil filter on my
truck last week. I wanted to know if they were going to charge me
to return it and fix it.”
    “Why didn’t you fix it?”
    “They messed it up. They need to fix it.”
    “Mike, Mike, Mike. I love ya man, but you’re
a gee-golly naïve sort of fellow. Just because they should fix it doesn’t mean they can’t talk circles around
you instead.”
    They pulled in at their destination, Quates
Liquor, within seconds of each other. The small, narrow alley
behind the store had a growing reputation of being a regular
hangout for drug users and dealers, and this was at least the third
time Mike and Derek had been called here.
    They stepped out of their cruisers and
clicked on their flashlights. The clouds tonight were thick and
gloomy, like a heavy crocheted blanket of black and gray yarn
spread across the sky. The concentrated beams from the flashlights
danced on the pavement and walls of the liquor store like drunken
specters.
    “864 to dispatch. We’ve arrived at Quates
Liquor. William Cannon and Congress. Over.”
    Dispatch buzzed back. “Roger, 864. Use
caution.”
    Mike and Derek turned the corner and spotted
two white males sitting on overturned trash cans. The first man
immediately raised his hands in an unconscious show of guilt and
obvious experience with police, (or having watched too many
episodes of Cops ,) while the other jumped up and started
running.
    Derek was already chasing after him. He
shouted, “Stop!”
    Mike shone his flashlight beam directly at
the first suspect’s face. “Stand up, sir.” Familiar with this
routine, the man obliged with no more encouragement. Mike secured
his compliant suspect on the ground, face down on his belly, while
Derek was in the process of tackling his own suspect some twenty
yards up the alley.
    Mike and his suspect waited in awkward
silence as they listened to the scuffle. Mike was reminded of a
time when he was a child and was sleeping over at his friend’s
house next door—in particular, the time when his friend broke the
cookie jar—and Mike had had to sit in his friend’s living room
while the parents gave his friend a drawn-out spanking in the
garage at the end of the hall. The yelping was certainly
similar.
    Within moments, the familiar crackle of
Derek’s tazer could be heard. The man on the ground in front of
Mike cringed.
    “Don’t taze me, bro,” the man said with a wry
chuckle.
    Mike sighed.