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Description
Chapter 16
Misdirections in Red Leaf

Ben fumed as he stared at the report on his desk. Three days! Three days and not a god-damned thing. He picked up the top report from his undercover constable and leafed through it. He didn't bother reading it as he already knew the words. The officer had been asked to join in a special viewing of the Arabian Beauties show. The "show" then lasted four six friggin' hours. By the time the officer got out of there, his eyeballs were so strained from watching that he was useless. What was worse, it happened to every officer! Even McCallahan had her socks smoked by these women! She had personally come see him afterwards, red-faced and embarrassed about it. He had told her not to worry about it and put her back to work. Even on the streets they were nearly useless however. One of his men had complained that his partner wouldn't shut up about the lusty girls of the show for his entire shift! This was very bad, and boded ill for his investigation.
He sprang up from his chair and began pacing. He couldn't blame them entirely. Having seen the show himself, he could certainly understand the power of their allure. No man in his right mind could resist their seductive charms. Perhaps there were better ways? He surely couldn't think of them. He knew the man was dirty, but without further evidence, he wasn't going to be able to touch a damn thing. What could he do now? Perhaps the best way to catch this crook was to take a look at his customers. If he was peddling, then SOMEbody in this town had to be receiving shipments. And he had a pretty good idea who that might be.
Smiling to himself he grabbed his coat and holstered his gun. Stepping out through his office he paused by a desk. Looking down at the young officer behind it he felt his smile turn into a grin, Oh, he was going to enjoy this! "McCallahan! You look like you could use some exercise." The young blonde looked up at him in surprise. Confusion filled her face, but she quickly nodded and shut down her computer. He nodded to himself. The kid had good instincts, he mused as she slid her service piece into its holster and grabbed a couple of extra clips. She'd certainly go far. He waited for her to grab her coat and jacket before turning and marching out the door. McCallahan stayed right on his heels as he headed for the parking lot. Sliding into his cruiser, he started the car and pulled out into the street.
Traffic was light through town as he drove down the highway. He recognized several cars and waved back as the passed by. McCallahan sat in the passenger seat quietly, her eyes on the road. He could practically hear the thoughts tumbling through her head. Where was he going? Why did he need backup? What's this all about? He didn't feel in the mood for discussing things however, so they stayed wrapped in their bubble of silence as they steadily made their way down near the tracks. The neat, whitewashed houses and businesses disappeared and boarded-up windows became more common. Dilapidated housing appeared and hostile faces stared at the cruiser as it made its way down the street. MCallahan kept one eye on the road and another on the people as they passed by. Unconsciously, it seemed, her hand strayed to her hip where her gun sat. "You aren't going to be needing that yet." Ben said when he noticed. She jumped slightly and flushed when she saw what she had been doing. "Sorry sir." She muttered, embarrassed. "No problem." He replied. He then returned his attention to driving.
Pretty soon, he saw his destination: a two story, grey house that seemed to be leaning slightly as it stood. It's chimney was missing a few bricks near the top, the "fence" was a few forlorn stakes that had turn grey with age. Junk was piled around the yard in scattered clumps; a child's rusted tricycle here, a mound of soggy cardboard there. The entire overall impression was one of disuse and uncaring sentiments by the owners. It gave the entire place a forbidding feeling. Without realizing it, Ben realized he had unsnapped his holster. Well, it was always possible that this would not go as well as he hoped. It surely couldn't hurt to be prepared.
A voice suddenly bellowed across the lawn; "Hold it right there Chief! You're trespassing!" Ben tensed, his eyes darting across the face of the house. The voice had sounded like it was coming from the boarded-up window on the ground floor. Ben felt sweat roll down hi back as he realized that there was probably a gun leveled at him. Keeping his voice even, he shouted back. "Now, take it easy Hatchet. I only want to talk here, and you're biting my head off. Didn't your mommy ever tell you that keeping guests out in the cold is rude?"
A cruel chuckle came from the window. "Funny you should mention my mother, chief." The voice had an edge of malicious humor to it. "She's the one holding the shotgun." The tenseness in Ben's shoulders increased. A scattergun firing from the window would spread over a wide area by the time it got to him, making it that much harder to dodge. Unless he was using a long-range shell, in which case he would have even less chance of surviving a hit. He needed to defuse the situation, and he needed to do so now.
Keeping his hands away from the holster at his hip, he forced a smile on his face, and kept his voice calm and even. "Look Hatchet, I'm not really after you today. I just want some information about the dope trade in town." The voice came back laced with suspicion. "What kind of information?" Ben wanted to wipe the sweat from his brow, but didn't dare move his hand from his sides. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw McCallahan crouch behind a pile of rubbish and pull out her pistol. The feeling of dread in his stomach plummeted to a new low. If she pulled that trigger with him standing like a damned fool in the open… Quickly wetting his lips, he continued his interrogation. "Word from on high is that there's a new dope king on the streets. I want to know who it is."
Silence stretched until he feared his answer would be a hail of buckshot. Instead, he was surprised. "Don't rightly know meself." The voice said evasively. "I've never seen his face. Besides, I've never done nuffin' wrong." Ben shook his head. Hatchet was the biggest dope dealer this side of town. He controlled most of the distribution to the local gangs, and if he didn't know who was pushing drugs on his streets, Ben would eat his badge.
"Come on Hatchet." He said cajolingly. "I'm sure you can tell me. I won't even mention the building and health-code violations I'm seeing here." Silence. "Hatchet," he warned slightly, emboldened by the silence, "There's enough here to run you a pretty penny in fines and violations. Maybe even some jail time. I'm sure we can avoid any unpleasantries if you simply tell me who is pushing the new dope."
He was cut short by the sound of gunfire. Pings and dust kicked up around McCallahan as smoke poured from the window from the gun. His body reacted on instinct, causing him to roll to the left and behind another pile of junk, including what appeared to be the rusted remains of a pot-belly stove. Where did Hatchet even find something like this? A not-too distant portion of his mind wondered. Meantime, he was peering around the corner, trying to determine if McCallahan had been hit. His pistol was already in his hand, although he had no memory of drawing it. Movement around the pile convinced him that McCallahan was allright. Now to gain control of the situation. Sliding his pistol around the corner, he took careful aim at the window before pulling the trigger. The Remingington bucked comfortably in his hand as the .38 punched through the wood. A shriek of pain could be heard dimly, and he gave a grim smile. The shooter had been hit, at least. He didn't delude himself though. Hatchet was accounted a fair shot, and probably had a gun of his own. Firing back around the corner a couple of times, he flattened on the ground and crawled away. The sound of a police special firing told him that McCallahan was at least providing cover.
Easing around the pile of junk, he slid his legs under him. Taking off like a runner in the blocks, he pounded across the yard towards the side of the house. Wind ripped at him as a near miss tugged at his sleeve. He barreled against the door while McCallahan poured fire at the window. The door splintered under him, and he was in the house.
Inside, the lights were off, filling the house with shadows. He scanned the entranceway. Walls made a short corridor ahead of him. Two doorways on either side provided access into the rooms on either side. Further ahead was a third door that would lead into the back. The sound of bullets in the room on the right told him which one the voice had come from. However, once he had seen him sprinting towards the door, he would move…A glint of light on metal was all the warning he had. Diving to the floor, he heard the bullet whistle threw the air in front of him. As he came down, his own gun spat an answer. There was a grunt and then a thud. Spitting a mouthful of foul carpet from his mouth, Ben looked up and saw Hatchet lying on the side of the floor, his hand to his arm. Blood seeped between his tattooed fingers. "Hatchet," he panted. "You're under arrest." Hatchet simply glared at him while holding his injured arm. "Fuck yourself Chief." He snarled. They both looked up as the crunching of wood on the entryway announced the presence of McCallahan. She had a radio in her hand and was calling for ambulances.

Description
Chapter 16
Misdirections in Red Leaf

Ben fumed as he stared at the report on his desk. Three days! Three days and not a god-damned thing. He picked up the top report from his undercover constable and leafed through it. He didn't bother reading it as he already knew the words. The officer had been asked to join in a special viewing of the Arabian Beauties show. The "show" then lasted four six friggin' hours. By the time the officer got out of there, his eyeballs were so strained from watching that he was useless. What was worse, it happened to every officer! Even McCallahan had her socks smoked by these women! She had personally come see him afterwards, red-faced and embarrassed about it. He had told her not to worry about it and put her back to work. Even on the streets they were nearly useless however. One of his men had complained that his partner wouldn't shut up about the lusty girls of the show for his entire shift! This was very bad, and boded ill for his investigation.
He sprang up from his chair and began pacing. He couldn't blame them entirely. Having seen the show himself, he could certainly understand the power of their allure. No man in his right mind could resist their seductive charms. Perhaps there were better ways? He surely couldn't think of them. He knew the man was dirty, but without further evidence, he wasn't going to be able to touch a damn thing. What could he do now? Perhaps the best way to catch this crook was to take a look at his customers. If he was peddling, then SOMEbody in this town had to be receiving shipments. And he had a pretty good idea who that might be.
Smiling to himself he grabbed his coat and holstered his gun. Stepping out through his office he paused by a desk. Looking down at the young officer behind it he felt his smile turn into a grin, Oh, he was going to enjoy this! "McCallahan! You look like you could use some exercise." The young blonde looked up at him in surprise. Confusion filled her face, but she quickly nodded and shut down her computer. He nodded to himself. The kid had good instincts, he mused as she slid her service piece into its holster and grabbed a couple of extra clips. She'd certainly go far. He waited for her to grab her coat and jacket before turning and marching out the door. McCallahan stayed right on his heels as he headed for the parking lot. Sliding into his cruiser, he started the car and pulled out into the street.
Traffic was light through town as he drove down the highway. He recognized several cars and waved back as the passed by. McCallahan sat in the passenger seat quietly, her eyes on the road. He could practically hear the thoughts tumbling through her head. Where was he going? Why did he need backup? What's this all about? He didn't feel in the mood for discussing things however, so they stayed wrapped in their bubble of silence as they steadily made their way down near the tracks. The neat, whitewashed houses and businesses disappeared and boarded-up windows became more common. Dilapidated housing appeared and hostile faces stared at the cruiser as it made its way down the street. MCallahan kept one eye on the road and another on the people as they passed by. Unconsciously, it seemed, her hand strayed to her hip where her gun sat. "You aren't going to be needing that yet." Ben said when he noticed. She jumped slightly and flushed when she saw what she had been doing. "Sorry sir." She muttered, embarrassed. "No problem." He replied. He then returned his attention to driving.
Pretty soon, he saw his destination: a two story, grey house that seemed to be leaning slightly as it stood. It's chimney was missing a few bricks near the top, the "fence" was a few forlorn stakes that had turn grey with age. Junk was piled around the yard in scattered clumps; a child's rusted tricycle here, a mound of soggy cardboard there. The entire overall impression was one of disuse and uncaring sentiments by the owners. It gave the entire place a forbidding feeling. Without realizing it, Ben realized he had unsnapped his holster. Well, it was always possible that this would not go as well as he hoped. It surely couldn't hurt to be prepared.
A voice suddenly bellowed across the lawn; "Hold it right there Chief! You're trespassing!" Ben tensed, his eyes darting across the face of the house. The voice had sounded like it was coming from the boarded-up window on the ground floor. Ben felt sweat roll down hi back as he realized that there was probably a gun leveled at him. Keeping his voice even, he shouted back. "Now, take it easy Hatchet. I only want to talk here, and you're biting my head off. Didn't your mommy ever tell you that keeping guests out in the cold is rude?"
A cruel chuckle came from the window. "Funny you should mention my mother, chief." The voice had an edge of malicious humor to it. "She's the one holding the shotgun." The tenseness in Ben's shoulders increased. A scattergun firing from the window would spread over a wide area by the time it got to him, making it that much harder to dodge. Unless he was using a long-range shell, in which case he would have even less chance of surviving a hit. He needed to defuse the situation, and he needed to do so now.
Keeping his hands away from the holster at his hip, he forced a smile on his face, and kept his voice calm and even. "Look Hatchet, I'm not really after you today. I just want some information about the dope trade in town." The voice came back laced with suspicion. "What kind of information?" Ben wanted to wipe the sweat from his brow, but didn't dare move his hand from his sides. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw McCallahan crouch behind a pile of rubbish and pull out her pistol. The feeling of dread in his stomach plummeted to a new low. If she pulled that trigger with him standing like a damned fool in the open… Quickly wetting his lips, he continued his interrogation. "Word from on high is that there's a new dope king on the streets. I want to know who it is."
Silence stretched until he feared his answer would be a hail of buckshot. Instead, he was surprised. "Don't rightly know meself." The voice said evasively. "I've never seen his face. Besides, I've never done nuffin' wrong." Ben shook his head. Hatchet was the biggest dope dealer this side of town. He controlled most of the distribution to the local gangs, and if he didn't know who was pushing drugs on his streets, Ben would eat his badge.
"Come on Hatchet." He said cajolingly. "I'm sure you can tell me. I won't even mention the building and health-code violations I'm seeing here." Silence. "Hatchet," he warned slightly, emboldened by the silence, "There's enough here to run you a pretty penny in fines and violations. Maybe even some jail time. I'm sure we can avoid any unpleasantries if you simply tell me who is pushing the new dope."
He was cut short by the sound of gunfire. Pings and dust kicked up around McCallahan as smoke poured from the window from the gun. His body reacted on instinct, causing him to roll to the left and behind another pile of junk, including what appeared to be the rusted remains of a pot-belly stove. Where did Hatchet even find something like this? A not-too distant portion of his mind wondered. Meantime, he was peering around the corner, trying to determine if McCallahan had been hit. His pistol was already in his hand, although he had no memory of drawing it. Movement around the pile convinced him that McCallahan was allright. Now to gain control of the situation. Sliding his pistol around the corner, he took careful aim at the window before pulling the trigger. The Remingington bucked comfortably in his hand as the .38 punched through the wood. A shriek of pain could be heard dimly, and he gave a grim smile. The shooter had been hit, at least. He didn't delude himself though. Hatchet was accounted a fair shot, and probably had a gun of his own. Firing back around the corner a couple of times, he flattened on the ground and crawled away. The sound of a police special firing told him that McCallahan was at least providing cover.
Easing around the pile of junk, he slid his legs under him. Taking off like a runner in the blocks, he pounded across the yard towards the side of the house. Wind ripped at him as a near miss tugged at his sleeve. He barreled against the door while McCallahan poured fire at the window. The door splintered under him, and he was in the house.
Inside, the lights were off, filling the house with shadows. He scanned the entranceway. Walls made a short corridor ahead of him. Two doorways on either side provided access into the rooms on either side. Further ahead was a third door that would lead into the back. The sound of bullets in the room on the right told him which one the voice had come from. However, once he had seen him sprinting towards the door, he would move…A glint of light on metal was all the warning he had. Diving to the floor, he heard the bullet whistle threw the air in front of him. As he came down, his own gun spat an answer. There was a grunt and then a thud. Spitting a mouthful of foul carpet from his mouth, Ben looked up and saw Hatchet lying on the side of the floor, his hand to his arm. Blood seeped between his tattooed fingers. "Hatchet," he panted. "You're under arrest." Hatchet simply glared at him while holding his injured arm. "Fuck yourself Chief." He snarled. They both looked up as the crunching of wood on the entryway announced the presence of McCallahan. She had a radio in her hand and was calling for ambulances.