‘We’re really not at liberty to reveal the source at this time,’ West said. ‘You just need to be aware, keep your eyes and ears open.’
‘If there’s nothing further?’ Hammer said.
There wasn’t.
Then I do have two commendations to present and I believe both people are here.’ Hammer smiled. ‘Communications Officer Patty Passman and Officer Rhoad?’
They came forward. Hammer handed each a certificate and shook hands. Applause was weak.
‘Communications Officer Passman, as you know, handled a nine-one-one last month that saved a man from choking on a hot dog,’ Hammer said. ‘And Officer Otis Rhoad issued three hundred and eighty-eight parking tickets last month. A department record.’
‘Booooo!’
‘Yeah, a lot of ’em on our cars!’
Passman glared at Rhoad.
‘He wins the prize for talking on the radio!’
‘Rhoad Hog!’
Passman bit her lip, her face an angry red.
‘Rodeo!’ Fling had to toss in, although the aspersion made no sense.
‘That’s enough,’ Hammer said. ‘I’ll see all of you back here on Friday.’
The Ford Explorer’s turn signal was beating like a panicking heart as its driver, who had already missed his exit, tried once again to ease in front of Bubba. Bubba accelerated and the Explorer swerved back into its lane, where it belonged. The cop was still on Bubba’s bumper and Bubba slowed to send the message that he wouldn’t tolerate tailgaters no matter who they were. Bubba was a cowboy herding cattle on the open prairie of motoring life.
‘Unit 2 to Unit 1.’ Honey was sounding increasingly concerned over the two-way.
Bubba was too busy to talk to his wife.
‘Smudge,’ he got back to his good buddy, ‘Queen Bee’s buzzing, got a city kitty tailwind, and a sixteener with a low seater’s trying to wipe my nose.’ Bubba spoke in code, letting Smudge know that Bubba’s wife was trying to get hold of Bubba, he had a city cop riding his ass and a 4×4 driven by a punk was trying to swipe in front of him.
‘I’ll leave ya lonely.’ Smudge signed off.
Throwin’ ya back. Catch ya later, good buddy.’ Bubba signed off, too.
By now, the kid in the Explorer seemed challenged and might have become violent but for the cop one lane over. The kid decided to default. He got in the last word by laying on his horn and giving Bubba the finger and mouthing Fuckhead. The Explorer disappeared in the current of other traffic. Bubba slowed to communicate to the cop one more time to get off his rear bumper. The cop communicated back by flashing his red-and-blue emergency lights and yelping his siren. Bubba pulled over into a Kmart parking lot.
CHAPTER four
Officer Jack Budget took his time collecting his silver anodized aluminum Posse citation holder and dual clipboard. He climbed out of his gleaming blue-and-red-striped white cruiser, adjusted his duty gear and approached the red Jeep with the Confederate flag rear bumper sticker and BUB-AH vanity plate that he had been staring at for miles. Its redneck driver rolled down the window.
‘Am I to assume you go by the name Bub-ah?’ Budget asked.
‘No, it’s Bubba,’ Bubba said rudely.
‘Let me see your license and registration.’ Officer Budget was rude, too, although he might not have been had Bubba not started it.
Bubba pulled his nylon wallet out of his back pocket. Velcro ripped as he opened it and got out his driver’s license. He fished around in the glove box for his registration, then handed both proofs of identification and ownership to the cop, who studied them for several long minutes.
‘You have any idea why I stopped you, Mr. Fluck?’
‘Probably because of my bumper sticker,’ Bubba stated.
Budget stepped back to look at the Jeep’s rear bumper, as if just now noticing the Confederate flag on it.
‘Well, well,’ he said as images of white pointed hoods and burning crosses violated his mind. ‘Still trying to win that war and round up Negroes to pick your cotton.’
‘The Southern Cross has nothing to do with that,’ Bubba indignantly said.
‘The what?’
‘The Southern Cross.’
Budget’s jaw muscles knotted. It had not been so long ago that he had been bused to one of the city’s public high schools and had watched seats empty one by one as other black kids got locked up or killed on the street. He had been Buckwheat, Sambo, drone, porch monkey, Uncle Tom. He had grown up in the niggerhood. Even now on some calls, white complainants asked him to go around to the back door.