Not to the Swift

Chapter 3

With one hand steering the police cruiser, Kazsinski punched Mason on the shoulder. "You awake, scrub?"

"Yeah, man, I'm awake." Mason shifted in the passenger seat and adjusted his gear. He checked his watch. Only ten o'clock? Feels like we've been out all day. "Hailey had a hard time getting to sleep last night, that's all."

"Pssh, that's why me an' my girlfriend ain't havin' no rugrats. Kids steal your energy and drain your money, and for what?" Kazsinski laughed. "Am I right?"

Mason chuckled, hoping it would seem like agreement. Then he thought of Hailey's tight hugs and the "kiss-on-nose" she gave him each night at bedtime.

Kazsinski turned the car east on Main, keeping his speed slow, rolling toward the Twenties in a show of presence. "Watch the clusters," he warned. "Guys in the back could be hiding weapons, setting up an ambush for us or for a rival gang. You know the gangs here yet?"

Mason nodded, recalling his briefing the day before. "Mercy Disciples take the north half. Took their name from the hospital. Can't get into the gang unless you send someone to Mercy's ER. And the Kings run the south side of the Twenties, give or take."

"Yeah, those are the main ones. But they got a bunch of little groups workin' for 'em. Frickin' splinter cells pop up like terrorists. There's Pinoy Saints, run by a bunch-a Chinese or Filipinos or somethin' like that. And the Cholos around Q Street got supply routes linked back to Mexican drug cartels." He cursed and dropped a racial slur, then continued. "The Kings get their product and their pieces from south of the border."

Mason frowned. Hope he doesn't talk like that in public.

"And that ain't even countin' all the deadbeats and ex-cons. Since the railyards shut down, a bunch of 'em just lay around all day, doin' drugs and collectin' their checks from Uncle Sugar." Kazsinski slapped Mason on the shoulder in a friendly manner this time. "Good to know your hard-earned tax dollars are well spent, right?"

"Uh, yeah." Mason fixed the chest-mounted body cam that shook loose with Kazsinski's slap. Then he turned his eyes on the street, watching faces glare at the cruiser or look away. Definitely behind enemy lines here... but why do we have to be the enemy?

No one liked getting pulled over, of course. Kazsinski had issued five tickets that morning, most for speeding on Main Street cutting through the Twenties. They'd stopped a white woman doing fifteen over the limit on her way to work, and she gave them an earful, like her ticket was their fault. Earlier in the morning, they'd spotted a mixed crowd of teens circled around a fight near Pulaski High. The crowd dispersed when Kaz sounded the siren.

Kazsinski's curbside manner bothered Chris. The vet saw every driver as a threat, and his solution was to dominate the situation—gun holstered but prominently displayed, harsh and direct interrogation, and an assumption of guilt or hostile intent until Mason finished the paperwork and Kaz sent the drivers on their way. I'm the new guy. Maybe that's how it's done here—maybe it has to be this way.

Even so, whether Kazsinski's tough manner showed up full force seemed too dependent on the suspect's complexion.

Mason eyed Kazsinski as the cruiser slid down side streets. He's a jerk, sure. But is he really a racist? Or is valuable experience driving him to do it this way? I don't know.

The academy instructors taught a curriculum that harped on respect and restraint. But the same teachers cracked jokes about the course content and told the rookies they'd learn "how it really is" when they got to their first station. It would be easy to judge Kaz, Mason decided. But his life is on the line to protect and serve, just like mine. Who am I to say his method is off-base?