The only area of concern was the boss himself, a monster steroid freak whose combustible mood swings had prompted several of his own officers to leave their holsters permanently unsnapped, just in case. Some days Pedro Luz was reasonable and coherent, other days he was a drooling psycho. The news that he had chewed off his own foot only heightened the anxiety level on the security squad; even the potheads were getting jumpy.
Which is why Diamond J. Love did not wish to be late for work on this very important morning, and why he reacted with exceptionally scathing impudence to the mild-mannered inquiry of a black state trooper who had pulled over his car on County Road 905.
“May I see your driver’s license, please?”
“Get serious, Uncle Ben.”
From there it went downhill. The trooper was singularly unimpressed by Diamond J. Love’s expired NYPD police badge; nor was he particularly understanding on the issue of Diamond J. Love’s outdated New York driver’s license. Or the fact that, according to some computer, the serial numbers on Diamond J. Love’s Camaro matched precisely those of a Camaro stolen eight months earlier in New Smyrna Beach.
“That’s bullshit,” suggested Diamond J. Love.
“Please get out of the car,” the trooper said.
At which point Diamond J. Love attempted to speed away, and instead felt himself dragged by the collar through the window and deposited face-first on the macadam. Upon regaining consciousness, Diamond J. Love discovered Plasticuffs cinched painfully to his wrists and ankles. He further was surprised to see that he shared his predicament with several other security guards, who had apparently encountered the highway patrol on the pre-dawn journey to the Amazing Kingdom of Thrills. There sat Ossie Cano, former Seattle robbery detective-turned-fence; William Z. Ames, former Orlando patrolman-turned-pornographer; Neal “Bart” Bartkowski, former sergeant with the Atlanta police, currently appealing a federal conviction for tax evasion.
“The hell’s going on here?” demanded Diamond J. Love.
“Roadblock,” Cano replied.
“A one-man roadblock?”
“I heard him radio for backup.”
“But still,” said Diamond J. Love. “One guy?”
By sunrise there were nine of them handcuffed or otherwise detained, a row of sullen penguins lined up along County Road 905. Basically it was the Amazing Kingdom’s entire security force, except for Pedro Luz and one other guard, who had spent the night at the amusement park.
Trooper Jim Tile was impressed by the accuracy of Joe Winder’s intelligence, particularly the make and license numbers of the guards’ personal cars—information pilfered by Carrie Lanier from the files of the Personnel Department. Jim Tile was also impressed that not a single one of the guards had a clean record; to a man there arose problems with driver’s licenses, expired registration stickers, doctored title certificates or unpaid traffic tickets. Each of the nine attempted to slide out of the road check by flashing outdated police ID—”badging,” in cop vernacular. Two of the nine had offered Jim Tile a whispered inducement of either cash or narcotics; three others had sealed their fate by making racial remarks. All had been disarmed and handcuffed so swiftly, and with such force, that physical resistance had been impossible.
When the van from the Monroe County Sheriff’s Office arrived, the deputy’s eyes swept from Jim Tile to the cursing horde of prisoners and back again.
The deputy said, “Jimmy, you do this all by yourself?”
“One at a time,” the trooper answered. “A road check, that’s all.”
“I know some of these boys.”
“Figured you might.”
“We lookin’ at anything serious?”
“We’re considering it.”
From the end of the line came an outcry from Diamond J. Love: “Dwight, you gonna let this nigger get away with it?”
Jim Tile gave no indication of hearing the remark. The deputy named Dwight did, however. “Damndest thing,” he said in a hearty voice. “The air-conditioning broke down in the paddy wagon. Just now happened.”
The trooper said, “What a shame.”
“Gonna be a long trip back to the substation.”
“Probably gets hot as hell inside that van.”
“Like an oven,” Dwight agreed with a wink.
“Fuck you!” shouted Diamond J. Love. “Fuck the both of you.”
The phone bleeped in Charles Chelsea’s apartment at seven-fifteen. It might as well have been a bomb.