Dead and Gone - Andrew Vachss [35]
“What kind of classes?”
“It’s called Licensed for Life,” he said, a deep, rich vein of pride in his voice. “The idea is to give kids interactive information about drunk driving, try to save a few lives.”
“Does it work?”
“Well, I can tell you this, we taught thirteen hundred classes last year, all by request. And from the feedback we get from the kids, we believe they’re really taking it in. There’s no way to give you statistics, not yet. The program is too new. But there’s no question that tons of kids have contacted us after the classes, telling us about situations where they took action to avoid becoming a statistic. We don’t give grades, we’re not part of the faculty, so there’s no point in brown-nosing us. And, besides, all these years in the business, I can tell when somebody’s hosing me. They’re not.”
The highway narrowed a lane or two. Still heading north, near as I could tell, but I couldn’t see the lake anymore to orient myself.
“We’re on Sheridan now,” Clancy said. “Ahead of schedule.”
I restrained myself from saying that, the way he drove, we’d be ahead of any damn schedule.
“First class isn’t till eight,” he said, glancing at his watch. “I know a place where we can get some coffee.”
“Who pays for the classes?” I asked him, sipping my hot chocolate.
“That’s a good question,” he said, chuckling ruefully. “We live on small grants. Sometimes they come in, sometimes they don’t. It takes a long time to train an officer to give the classes. They get paid for every one they teach, but it doesn’t even cover their travel expenses—sometimes you have to drive a three-hour round trip to teach a one-hour class. Everyone who’s observed the program, everybody who’s checked it out, they all love it. If we had a way to turn promises into dollars, we’d have the endowment we need. But, for now, we just scramble and hope.”
“How come the insurance companies don’t fund you? It sounds like a great investment for them. One drunk driver alone can cost them millions.”
“We get a little from them. Not enough. Not near enough. We can’t take tax money to do it—no way to get that past the city council. What we need is a commitment,” he said, his tone saying he had already made one himself. “Some foundation to promise they’re going to give us support for maybe ten years. Long enough for them to do their double-blind studies, prove on paper what we already know from actually doing it.”
“You fancy your chances?”
“I’m Irish.” He grinned.
The guard at the school entrance smiled and waved us in … once he made sure I was with Clancy. The teacher greeted us outside the classroom. He was a middle-aged, middle-sized man who looked tired. “Detective Clancy,” he said, “thanks for coming.”
“My pleasure,” Clancy replied. “Let me introduce Mr. Askew. He’s going to be working with us for a few days.”
“Are you a police officer, too?” the teacher asked.
“I’m a filmmaker,” I said quickly, before Clancy could respond. “We’re interested in the possibilities of making a docudrama about Licensed for Life.”
“Well, that’s a wonderful idea!” the teacher said, enthusiastically. “I’ve heard nothing but good things about it.”
“I’m sure,” I said, my tone implying that I’d need to make that decision for myself.
“You think I’m standing up here as a joke?” Clancy barked at the class, reacting to some giggling over in one corner. “You think all cops care about is taking bribes and eating donuts? You need to pay attention to this. Close attention, understand? This is serious business.”
He reached in his breast pocket, took out a large white napkin that said DUNKIN’ DONUTS in big red and orange letters. He began to clean his glasses with it as he glared at the students. The first student to spot it cracked up. In a minute, the whole class was laughing.
Somehow, Clancy took them from there through a series of anecdotes about drunk drivers that started out funny and ended ugly. By the time he got to a story about a “two-car, five-body