~ Monterey Madness: Mr. One Pocket ~

by

L. C. Wright

“I’ve been known to make a mistake or two,” I told the review board. “However, those times are usually alcohol related, and I don’t see what they have to do with the matter at hand.” Of course, it became quite clear—when they told me I was suspended—that they didn’t appreciate my sense of humor. And now I have the next ninety days to “Get my act together” or, they made it very clear, the ninety days would be extended permanently.

When I was in the first grade, I thought my teacher said I was a disturbing elephant. Later, I found out that she meant disrupting element. Apparently, I hadn’t changed much and my bosses had gotten tired of my lack of respect and underwhelming social skills.

Ah…what the hell. I haven’t really liked being a cop for the last couple years anyway. Maybe it’s time for me to do something else. I always wanted to try fishing for a living. Or maybe get my pilot’s license and run a little charter business flying the California coast and telling strangers about the wonders of the Golden State.

Who am I kidding? I’ve been a cop for over twenty years; investigating crime is what and who I am. Taking down bad guys can be such a rush. The only problems I have are the friggin’ bureaucrats and politicians. For whatever reason, they are of the opinion that they know more about how to bring down criminals than I do. Anyone who knows me will tell you how stupid that assumption is.

Oh, by the way, my name is Adam Shaw. Most everyone knows me as Samson and it isn’t because of my biblical qualities. Rather, at six-six and two hundred thirty pounds—not to mention long reddish-blond hair to the middle of my back—most people don’t know anyone bigger.

I live on a small “gentleman’s farm” in Carmel Valley, California, which consists of a garage that could be used for overhauling an eighteen-wheeler—but no truck—and a three-stall horse barn with no horses. The only animals I own are a cat with no manners and a black lab that can’t decide if he’s a dog, cat or human.

I do have two loves in my life. The first is my wife, Jill. She’s a brazen southern belle from Texas who will not put up with my shit. Not that she ever has to deal with anything from me. For her, I only offer the best. But just in case she would at some time in the future ever have to deal with such behavior, she reminds me on occasion that size doesn’t matter and small packages pack a powerful punch. She’s a tough woman with a heart the size of her home state.

The second love I have is my Hawg. Now for those who are not familiar with motorcycle lingo, a Hawg—in this case—is a 1948 Harley Davidson pan head chopper with a thirty-inch extended Springer front fork. It has a 74 cubic-inch engine, a hard tail, peanut tank and chrome out the ass. It’s my baby. I bought it when I was seventeen years old as a basket case. Actually, if I am to be accurate, it was actually two baskets, three boxes, assorted shopping bags and stray parts. Three years later, I got it running and wrecked it for the very first time.

It was love at first bandage.

~ * ~

I was starting my third day of suspension when I got the call from Sam. He was at the police station and I was not feeling my best. The ringing of the phone was much louder than I could ever remember.

“I need your help,” were the first words I heard. Maybe there was more said before that, but 7 a.m. came way too early for someone who had been up drinking ‘til three o’clock in the morning.

“You and me both,” was all I could muster in reply. My head felt like someone had used it for batting practice and my teeth felt like they were wearing sweaters.

“This is serious, Samson. You are the only person I could trust calling.”

“Who is this?” I was trying my best to clear my head. Something was happening on the other end of the phone and I couldn’t even remember my own name ‘til the caller said it.

Speaking now in a very slow and deliberate manner, he said, “Samson, this is Sam Reynolds. I am at the police station and I need you to get down here and help me out. Someone was killed at the pool hall last night and the cops think I had something to do with it.”

My head hung from sheer weight, and I had to admit, when someone says something like that, it totally takes away the buzz, if not the hangover, very quickly. “Who’ve you talked to?” I asked with an unwilling tongue.

“There’s a Sergeant Ramos and someone named Bennett. They have been grilling me since four o’clock this morning. And the way their questions have been going the last hour, it seems like they think I had something to do with the murder.”

“Who’s your attorney?” I asked.

“The only attorney I know is Larry Burgess and he only does real estate. I’ve never needed an attorney for criminal action so I don’t know who to call.”

“Okay,” I said. “I’ll make a couple calls and see what I can find out. I know a couple guys that are real good at criminal law and we’ll take it from there. In the meantime, keep your mouth shut and wait ‘til someone shows up. I’ll get there as soon as I can.”

~ * ~

I know what you’re thinking. This guy claims to be a cop and yet he tells a suspect not to cooperate. But you need to know something about me. I don’t believe the customer is always right. And I don’t believe every suspect is guilty until proven innocent. Besides, Sam is a friend of mine, and though I don’t know Bennett very well, I can’t stand that pompous prick Carl Ramos. As far as I can tell, he would have half the city of Monterey in jail just to make sure the prospects of crime would diminish by fifty percent. He doesn’t need a reason to arrest. His perspective is to go for the most likely suspect, regardless of guilt, and then let them prove otherwise.

As far as attorneys were concerned, there really was only one I needed to call. Bill Wiseman was by far the best. And even though we had locked horns on so many cases I couldn’t begin to count them all, I knew him to be a man of integrity, and, once he got a hold of a case, he was like a junkyard dog with a ham bone. Letting go was never an option for him.

I made the call to his home. He told me he would take care of all preliminary work and would get to the jail by eight o’clock. I hung up from Bill and called the precinct to find out as much information as I could before heading to town.

Deputy Tommy Billings—tall, skinny, with a honker you could set your drink on—answered the phone. “Damn, Samson” were the first words out of his mouth when he recognized my voice. “In all the years I’ve been here, you were never up at this hour.”

“Don’t give me any shit this morning,” I said. “My head hurts and I’m too tired to try sparring with you right now.”

“Enjoying your vacation, I see.” I could hear the humor in his voice and it was pissing me off. I had known Tommy since he’d joined the force six years ago and he was a good kid as far as I knew. We didn’t work the same areas so our contacts were only when certain cases came up that I needed to help him with. But everyone liked him and he seemed to have a good head for the job.

“Look, Junior.”

I knew that would get his attention because he hated the name. His father, Thomas J. Billings, Senior, was a very successful real estate mogul and complete asshole. Tommy loathed the man for that and other reasons too numerous to mention. “I need to find out what’s going on with the Sam Reynolds case. He’s a friend of mine.”

“You know I can’t do that, Samson,” he lowered his voice. “You’re on suspension and the captain would have my shield if he found out.”

We both knew the drill. He had to tell me what he couldn’t do. I had to tell him he would be okay and nobody would ever find out. Then after several minutes of going back and forth, he would tell me what I wanted. He knew it. I knew it. But it’s an unspoken rule that had to be followed for those of us who covered each other’s backs.