Raindrop Intuition
Apr. 7th, 2008 11:31 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
i_am_tl_drTitle: Raindrop Intuition
Character: Dewey Ceinion
Rating: R for language. (Dewey's got a dirty mouth.)
Word count: 639
Notes:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
itsproductivity 4/4: It was a rainy day. Testing out the narrative form I'm supposed to be using for Dewey's game.
I'd flipped my coat collar up before I left the precinct. Didn't stop the rain from making rivers down the back of my neck, though. One of these days I'll give in and buy a fedora like all the good cops wore in the old movies, but that night I was all wet, and so were my leads. I'd been chasing tipoff to tipoff, a game of he-said-she-said that ended, so they said, in quite a tidy stash of heroin. At least it wasn't meth; one explosion like that was enough for my career.
Only the crazy motherfuckers make meth in Clark County, that was a truth. On the other side of the fence, they say that only crazy motherfuckers are cops in Clark County. I wouldn't go that far, but it takes a certain mindset that I don't have a grasp on just yet. This city makes bad things out of good people, and worse things out of bad ones.
Anyway. Wet, strung out on bad information, and down to the last cigarette in my pack is not how I like to start a night, but that was the situation. I had a feeling I was coming up on the last links of this chain of tips, so I had to keep going, but I didn't have to be happy about it. The words was that the stash was kept a few blocks from this not-very-quiet bar I like to frequent, so I parked around the dark side of the Big Boat and hauled my miserable ass through the alleyways, probably looking as tall, dark and shady as the stereotype pegged for the sort of guy who went skulking through alleys. I was the sort with a badge and gun, but it was the glower that kept the street-corner divas at bay.
Building 1187, fourth floor, door F.
You know that feeling that tells you shit's about to go wrong? That shivery back-of-the-spine tingle that says bail the hell out? Turns out, that feeling's a lot like a raindrop sliding down the center of your back. Enough like it that I mistook the one for the other and shouldered the door open with a shout of "LVPD, hands in the air!"
Well, it was the right place, at least. A few more people there than I would have liked, a couple with needles prepped or already in their arms, a couple slumped on the couch, and a couple at a table with a scale and some bags and the biggest damn brick of heroin I've ever laid eyes on. And a gun, did I mention the gun? Yeah, one of those. A nice one, really, nicer than my service revolver, but not much kick to it. I'm sick of replacing suit jackets, though. Bullet holes aren't things you can just patch up.
God, do I love Kevlar, though. And junkies' bad aim. He was looking at my face, but the shot caught me around the bottom of my ribs, and the punch of the impact wasn't so bad that my aim was off. I score pretty well on the qualifyings. Took out the guy's shoulder, his screaming set the other ones off screaming too, but that was the end of the gunplay, and, hey, I had the foresight to have a few guys in the area, if not the foresight to have one actually with me.
The paperwork for shooting a suspect is hell, even if he did shoot first. That's why I let the others clean out the junkies and the dealer and the dope, and I went back to my car and stripped off the Kevlar, tested my bruised ribs, and tapped the last smoke out of my pack.
The rain kept coming down, the smoke spiraled up, and I stayed right there, motionless, until I damn well felt like moving again.
Character: Dewey Ceinion
Rating: R for language. (Dewey's got a dirty mouth.)
Word count: 639
Notes:
itsproductivity 4/4: It was a rainy day. Testing out the narrative form I'm supposed to be using for Dewey's game.I'd flipped my coat collar up before I left the precinct. Didn't stop the rain from making rivers down the back of my neck, though. One of these days I'll give in and buy a fedora like all the good cops wore in the old movies, but that night I was all wet, and so were my leads. I'd been chasing tipoff to tipoff, a game of he-said-she-said that ended, so they said, in quite a tidy stash of heroin. At least it wasn't meth; one explosion like that was enough for my career.
Only the crazy motherfuckers make meth in Clark County, that was a truth. On the other side of the fence, they say that only crazy motherfuckers are cops in Clark County. I wouldn't go that far, but it takes a certain mindset that I don't have a grasp on just yet. This city makes bad things out of good people, and worse things out of bad ones.
Anyway. Wet, strung out on bad information, and down to the last cigarette in my pack is not how I like to start a night, but that was the situation. I had a feeling I was coming up on the last links of this chain of tips, so I had to keep going, but I didn't have to be happy about it. The words was that the stash was kept a few blocks from this not-very-quiet bar I like to frequent, so I parked around the dark side of the Big Boat and hauled my miserable ass through the alleyways, probably looking as tall, dark and shady as the stereotype pegged for the sort of guy who went skulking through alleys. I was the sort with a badge and gun, but it was the glower that kept the street-corner divas at bay.
Building 1187, fourth floor, door F.
You know that feeling that tells you shit's about to go wrong? That shivery back-of-the-spine tingle that says bail the hell out? Turns out, that feeling's a lot like a raindrop sliding down the center of your back. Enough like it that I mistook the one for the other and shouldered the door open with a shout of "LVPD, hands in the air!"
Well, it was the right place, at least. A few more people there than I would have liked, a couple with needles prepped or already in their arms, a couple slumped on the couch, and a couple at a table with a scale and some bags and the biggest damn brick of heroin I've ever laid eyes on. And a gun, did I mention the gun? Yeah, one of those. A nice one, really, nicer than my service revolver, but not much kick to it. I'm sick of replacing suit jackets, though. Bullet holes aren't things you can just patch up.
God, do I love Kevlar, though. And junkies' bad aim. He was looking at my face, but the shot caught me around the bottom of my ribs, and the punch of the impact wasn't so bad that my aim was off. I score pretty well on the qualifyings. Took out the guy's shoulder, his screaming set the other ones off screaming too, but that was the end of the gunplay, and, hey, I had the foresight to have a few guys in the area, if not the foresight to have one actually with me.
The paperwork for shooting a suspect is hell, even if he did shoot first. That's why I let the others clean out the junkies and the dealer and the dope, and I went back to my car and stripped off the Kevlar, tested my bruised ribs, and tapped the last smoke out of my pack.
The rain kept coming down, the smoke spiraled up, and I stayed right there, motionless, until I damn well felt like moving again.
