The Jar of Nephren-Ka

Road to New Orleans

Calhoun County, Georgia: 1:09 PM, Sunday, June 3rd, 1984

I aimed Turbo out the door and perp marched him across the lot. As we passed the Pinto, I saw him glance between the seats, but he didn't say anything. He was probably running a what-if scenario in his mind where he remembered to grab the gun. Lucky for us both he didn't.

We got to my car, and I sprawled him out face down on the hood, spread his legs, and frisked him. He had a small pocket knife in his right pocket, a key to the Pinto and a wad of bills in his left. I put everything in a little paper bag, wrote his name on it, and jammed it in my pocket.

I grabbed him just above the elbow again and wheeled him around to the side of the car. Turbo piped up at this.

"Hey man, you gonna clean all this sticky shit off me?" he said.

"Nope," I said as I grabbed the rear passenger door and opened it, then shoved him in, pushing the top of his head down so he cleared the door.

He didn't resist. Getting your bell rung can do wonders for compliance.

I walked around to the driver's side, wiping the syrup coating my hands off on my jeans, opened the door, and hopped in, just in time for Turbo to start noticing his surroundings.

"Hey Geronimo, what the fuck is up with all this shit?"

I glanced in the rear view and saw him looking at the divider in confusion. I had taken special care when buying this cruiser, searching at auction after auction for one that had been outfitted with a cage, a stainless steel chain-link fence type partition between the front and back seats. When I found this one, I jumped on it, despite it seriously limiting my legroom. The vinyl seats, which clean up so easily, were just a bonus.

Not bothering to respond to his question, I removed my piece and shoved it in the glove box. Then I started the car and backed out of the lot.

Turbo went ballistic, scrunching himself up in the seat and kicking with both legs at the divider. I stopped the car, put it in park, and turned around. I stared at him, straight in the eye, arching an eyebrow as if to say 'Just what in the fuck do you think that's going to accomplish?' He kicked a few more times, half-heartedly. I continued to stare.

After a few minutes, Turbo said a soft "Fuck you" and spat at the passenger side door before peering out the window.

I put the car back in drive.

A five hour drive can be unpleasant in the best of circumstances, but it ratchets up in a big way when you are transporting a violent criminal half-drugged out of his mind. Truth be told, I hated these jobs, and people like Turbo were why. Sure, you occasionally got a skip that cooperated, or was holed up at home so you didn't have to go very far, but those jobs never seemed to find me. Me, I got all of the rowdy ones; all of the ones who crossed state lines and hung out with packs of even nastier hoodlums.

Part of it was my size. People just assumed that when I rolled up on someone, they went all weak kneed and caved. And sometimes, that did happen. But most of the time, most of these assholes, they had a little more spirit than that. Most of them, they wanted to see if I was willing to throw down. So I usually had to pound on them a little before they realized the truth of the situation. Like 'ole Turbo here.

I glanced back, checking on Turbo. He was staring out the window, kind of nodding a little. Maybe coming down. Good.

I focused back on the road.

This bounty was $1,500, 10% of the bail for Turbo. That, minus my expenses, was what was going to keep me from getting an eviction notice this month, but I did not become a PI to chase skips.