In God we trust, YOU pay cash.
All characters are adults.
*****
'The Yukon Yankee Yodeler' wasn't high on my list of movies I wanted to see but my target was Canadian, and that's where he led me. He sat close to the screen, I sat behind and across the aisle from him. I was steeled for two hours of boredom. But it didn't happen.
An hour before show time the theater ran non-stop commercials and previews of coming attractions. It's all deafening and mind-numbing. Canadians can't get enough. About the time I thought it was about over, and the movie would start, a guy walked to one of the emergency exit doors and opened it. Two guys came inside through the door and stood in front of the audience.
All pulled pistols out of the jackets and screamed in a language I couldn't understand. Then they opened fire on the audience. It was too dark to see their targets but my guy collapsed on his seat.
I'm a cop. I pulled out my pistol, took aim at the shooters, fired, and dropped two of them. The third shooter fled out the exit door. I followed and caught up with him as he was driving away in a Cadillac Land Yacht. I shot him through the driver side window. He had no ID on him. No problem. I took his gun and got his tag number and phone, then I left because I didn't wanna deal with a shooting investigation by the Feds, state, and my agency. "Why invite a three ring cluster fuck into my life?" Is what I thought.
I caught the case anyway when dispatch got my location and knew I was close to the movie complex. Mostly I passed out business cards, collected names of potential witnesses, and kept the tv crews and lookie-lou's outta the auditorium while the criminalists and medical examiner worked. I planned to run the tag number back at the office. My guy was dead. His wife, Audrey Smith, called me the next day.
The dead were Anas Ahmadi, 20, and Sami Nasser, 21; I never learned the full name of the mystery shooter. The car was registered to a female named Judy Kauffman. Kauffman was a prominent local bleeding-heart and member of all the organizations that hate America and love its enemies. I paid her a visit after she called Yaseen's phone.
The phone chirped. I said something like, "uhhh?", and she replied, "Yaseen? I need my car!" I got her cell number. I got her address from the car tag, and I went to see her. No one was home. I let myself in and waited for her. No burglar alarm. Judy's not OCD enough for burglar alarms. I looked through her underwear but found squat.
She unlocked the door and came inside around eleven pm. After she flipped on the light and saw me, I asked, "Tell me about Yaseen." I showed her my shield. She didn't care.
"Get out! I don't talk to cops. You got a name for when I call your boss to raise hell and get you fired?"
I handed her a business card.
"Now get out!"
I hadn't found any evidence of Yaseen in her house. I stopped at the Night Owl Diner for a later supper or early breakfast. It was midnight. The server was a gal named 'Dolly.'
"The usual?" She asked. She meant sliced roast beef on white bread, with gravy, mashed potatoes, green beans, and a Hawaiian roll.
"Sure," I replied.
She was back in less than ten minutes. "Busy Friday? Brad is going hunting."
"Meet me at Ruth's Chris Steakhouse at seven." I don't do steady girlfriends and romance. What works for me are married girls who want a good steak, plenty of booze, a fuck, and some cash. Usually when daddy is outta town. The girls go home with all their important places full of steak, booze, cum, and money. It's unlikely Bradley ever took her out for a good steak or a good time or a good anything.
My name is Cole H. White My middle name is spelled Hartliss on the old census records. Hartliss is what's on my birth certificate. But it's spelled many ways. I'm six feet tall, one hundred eighty-five pounds, gray eyes, dark brown hair. Thirty-five years old. I joined the cops fifteen years ago, I've been a detective five years. I work for a tranny faggot named Glenna Beck, formerly known as 'Glenn'.
I got home about one o'clock and went to bed. I was at work by seven. I did paperwork and Audrey Smith called me around eight-thirty. Wanted me to stop by to talk to her. We made a date for noon.
In the meantime Glenna wanted to talk to me. I guessed Judy Kauffman complained already.
"Judy Kauffman phoned me," she said.
"How is she?" I asked.
"She says you were in her house when she came home last night."
"She got home about eleven o'clock and I was outside in my car. She's confused or upset because her car was used in the ISIS shooting. She refused to talk to me and I left. Maybe she'll talk to you about the dead terrorist in her car. Besides, the FBI will pay her a visit soon enough." I spoon-fed him my yarn.
Glenna then talked out her ass for fifteen minutes and I left when we both knew she was fulla shit. She knew I went inside Kaufmann's house to look around before she came home. She knew Kauffman and she knew me. It wasn't like doing horoscopes. Kauffman had to explain the dead terrorist in her car. She was Glenna's friend and she was toxic to Glenna's career.
My part of the shit sandwich was done. The terrorists were dead and the FBI would do the rest. They'd wanna know who killed them, mostly to give the Washington nigger counters some work. But few got a look at me, and I don't use my official weapon to send souls to Jesus.
Audrey Smith was a better looking woman than what I expected. Fifty, one hundred twenty-five pounds, five-three, blonde hair, contacts. Smoker. Drinker. I smelled alcohol on her breath when I picked her up. I wanted to spend the afternoon fucking her. She looked interested when she saw me, and her skirt was short. Audrey Smith reminded me Donna Reed in one of those thin diaphanous cotton blouses popular with cock-teasers back in the 50s. The skimpy cranberry colored bra inside the blouse attracted plenty of attention, too.
"We'll talk at lunch," I said.
In the car I told her to light up if she wanted. She did. She didn't act like a grief-stricken widow, on the way or during lunch. She let me buy her meal and her booze. She sat close and at the end of lunch I slipped my hand up her leg. We did little talking. Something else was up with us. My dick, for one.
"Is this standard police procedure?" She asked.
