The Next Accident - Lisa Gardner [156]
Pinching a man for driving under the influence meant more paperwork, a trip to the South Boston barracks (now in the middle of rush hour traffic, when no one respected anyone’s right-of-way, let alone a trooper’s), and another altercation with the rich ad exec when he balked at entering the holding cell.
The ad exec had a good fifty pounds on Bobby. Like a lot of guys confronted by a smaller opponent, he confused superior weight with superior strength and ignored the warning signs telling him otherwise. The man grabbed the doorjamb with his right hand. He swung his lumbering body backward, expecting to bowl over his smaller escort and what? Make a run for it through a police barracks filled with armed troopers? Bobby ducked left, stuck out his foot, and watched the overweight executive slam to the floor. The man landed with an impressive crash and a few troopers paused long enough to clap their hands at the free show.
“I’m going to fucking sue!” the drunken ad exec screamed. “I’m going to sue you, your commanding officer, and the whole fucking state of Massachusetts. I’ll own this joint. You hear me? I’ll fucking own your ass!”
Bobby jerked the big guy to his feet. Rich exec screamed a fresh round of obscenities, possibly because of the way Bobby was pinching the man’s thumb. Bobby shoved the man into the holding cell and slammed the door.
“If you’re gonna puke, please use the toilet,” Bobby informed him, because by now the man had turned a little green. The rich executive flipped him off. Then he doubled-over and vomited on the floor.
Bobby shook his head. “Rich prick,” he muttered.
Some days were like that, particularly in November.
Now it was shortly after ten p.m. The rich ad exec had been bailed out by his overpriced lawyer, the holding cell was washed down, and Bobby’s shift, which had started at seven a.m., was finally done. He should go home. Give Susan a buzz. Catch some sleep before his alarm went off at five, and the whole joyous process started once more.
Instead he was jittery in a way that surprised himself. Too much adrenaline buzzing in his veins, when he was a man best known for being cool, calm, and collected.
Bobby didn’t go home. Instead he traded in his blues for jeans and a flannel shirt, then headed for the local bar.
At the Boston Beer Garden, fourteen other guys were sitting around the U-shaped bar, smoking cigarettes and nursing draft beer while zoning out in front of flat-screen TVs. Bobby nodded to a few familiar faces, waved his hand at the sixty-year-old bartender, Carl, then took an empty seat a bit down from the rest. Sally brought him his usual order of nachos. Carl hand-delivered his Coke.
“Long day, Bobby?”
“Same old, same old.”
“Susan coming in?”
“Practice night.”
“Aye, the concert. Two weeks, right?” Carl shook his head. “Beautiful and talented. I’ll tell you again, Bobby—she’s a keeper.”
“Don’t let Martha hear you,” Bobby told him. “After watching your wife haul a keg, I don’t want to think of what she could do with a rolling pin.”
“My Martha’s also a keeper,” Carl assured him. “Mostly ’cause I fear for my life.”
Carl left Bobby alone with his Coke and nachos. Overhead, a live news bulletin was reporting on some kind of situation in Revere. A heavily-armed suspect had barricaded himself in his home after taking potshots at his neighbors. Now, Boston PD had deployed their SWAT team, and “nobody was taking any chances.”
Yeah, November was a funny kind of month. Wired people up, left them with no defenses against the oncoming gloom of winter. Left even guys like Bobby doing all they could do just to hold the course.
He finished his nachos.