Clown Girl - Monica Drake [39]
I was in the spotlight, sharing it with Jerrod. Did I like standing next to that kind of power? I wasn’t sure. But the power was there. Who else could leave a good car idling in Baloneytown? Nobody but a high-ranking gangster or a cop. Jerrod had the keys. The position.
He ignored the neighbors, the whole street of peepers, and asked, “You got a key for that garage? We could put this thing away.”
And get us put away, the whole house, sent up for Herman’s operation.
“I’d need to a…to…” I tried to imagine whatever script Herman would want me to follow. “To see a search warrant,” I said.
“Sheesh! Nobody trusts an officer anymore.”
“I trust you,” I said. “I just trust that you might be working.”
Herman cursed again, under his breath. Apparently, I had the script wrong. With a rattle and crash, he dove over the side railing, ponytail flying. Jerrod whipped his head around, reached for his gun.
I touched his sleeve. “A cat. Spooked by my dog.” Chance beat against the glass. A flowerpot spun and fell over the rail into weeds.
“Sounded like a pretty big cat.” He looked down the block.
“I better go look for him. Herman gets testy when he hasn’t been fed. Listen, we keep the mower out here, in the yard.” I pushed the mower to the side of the shed. “Right here. It’s done.”
Jerrod looked at me. “Leave it outside, it’ll get stolen. Even an old lawn mower. I had a call the other day, about two blocks down from here, somebody had their lawn mower…stolen…part of a big break-in…”
He said, “As a matter of fact,” and he crouched down. He took the side of the lawn mower in his hands and tipped it up. His mouth tightened. His eyes shifted in that quiet way, narrowed into a new sadness.
I said, “We never have any trouble. Been keeping it out here for ages—”
“How long have you had this?”
I said, “Oh, since, at least…”
Before I could finish my own short lie he said, “You couldn’t have had this mower more than a day, Sniffles. Look, right here.” He tipped the lawn mower over on the grass to show me a metal tag. “Robertson,” it said on the tag. Below that was a row of numbers freehand etched into the metal.
“Sniff Robertson,” I said. “Part of the clan?”
He cut me off: “I filled out the incident report myself.”
I stepped back and said, “I bought that lawn mower today, used. About ten minutes ago. Right before you showed up. It wasn’t mine before today.” How fake and weak the truth sounded! Nervous, I asked, “I bought stolen goods?”
He rose, brushed grass from his knees. He took a tiny notebook from a pocket. “And from whom did you say you bought this mower?”
Ah! The syntax, the notebook—my heart jumped. The bees buzzed against my brain. “A man, on the street. I didn’t get a name.”
“Have you seen him in the vicinity prior?”
“Sure. Maybe a week ago? He had…a different mower with him then. Shit. He wanted to mow my yard.”
“Can you give me a description?” His pen was poised.
“About my height,” I started. “Sweaty, with a boil on his lip. Soaked.”
“A sweaty man with a boil…” Jerrod moved slowly as he put his notebook away. He pulled out my clown card and read the card again, like the card might hold a clue. He cleared his throat. Across the way, on his porch, our neighbor sipped a Yoo-Hoo. Jerrod looked at me, his eyes pale blue, quiet and sad. He said, “I hate to do this to you, Sniffles.”
“What?”
“I wish I had another option.”
“What?”
He said, “It’s policy. It’s got to be enforced. It’s not my place to make selective decisions.”
“Let’s not be indiscriminate,” I said. “Policy?”
He said, “I need you to take a little ride, with me.”
That ride again! “Later, OK? Another time.” I was ready to run, to limp off. But where to go when I was already home?
“Those numbers on the side of your mower?” he said. “That’s probable cause. Stolen goods.”
“What?” I said, “I’m being arrested?” I tugged on my sun hat, straightened my glasses.