Finding 52 Read online

  © Len Norman 2015. All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 978-0-692-49755-5

  Edited by Patti Frazee.

  Cover design by Lori Hollifield.

  Interior design by Patti Frazee.

  Finding 52 is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or specific locales is entirely coincidental.

  Published by

  Sag-a-Bay Square Press

  Bay City, MI

  For Meg

  Contents

  The Unholy Ones

  A Ride in the Family Sedan

  Heads-up

  Buck Seals and Brer Reg

  The Others

  The Oldies

  The Smoker and Alien Influence

  The Grim Reaper

  The REAL People and the First Deal

  Richard Nixon and the Three of Clubs

  The Monkey in the Window

  Stinky Mama

  The Traffic “Cop,” Prisoner Exchange, and the Guinea Fuck

  The Crossbow Incident

  Look What I Found in the Janitor’s Closet

  Farts in the Cemetery

  The Evil Spirits Motorcycle Gang

  BAAAA MEANS NO!

  Chess Tournament

  Palindromes

  Saving Face

  Seeing-eye Rat Assists Blind Colostomy Guy

  Victor and Ivan Find Trouble

  The Games Are Afoot

  The Heart of Harley

  The Baseball Bandit

  The Lieutenant and the Prostitutes

  “Motherfucking” Billy Roberts and the Stolen Car Caper

  The Lawn Mower Man

  The Three Stooges and Water-Based Paint

  Playing Clubs

  Football and Dima Mudak

  Happy Valley Trailer Park

  Smurf Man

  The Double Bubble

  The Flamethrower

  Battlefield Signs and Trench Warfare

  Candy Bars and Nuts

  Five Card Draw

  Jimmy Hoffa and Game Six

  The King of Spades and Chernobyl

  The Cockroach on the Wedding Cake

  The Ace of Spades

  Winner Takes All

  Innocence Lost

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  The Unholy Ones

  1975

  Riverside, Michigan, was on a downward slide and only a decade away from the throes of first-stage urban blight. The residents had not yet received the memo from the Japanese automakers but things were becoming apparent. General Motors was about to be taken to the woodshed by its Asian colleagues and the good people of Riverside would suffer. Things were changing.

  The days of graduating from high school and then walking into the local Chevrolet manufacturing plant to apply for a job, and getting hired on the spot, were long gone. Things like having a skill set or actually knowing the guy that did the hiring now came into play. There were other jobs but the really good-paying ones were fewer and fewer. More often than not high school sweethearts married and looked elsewhere to settle.

  Riverside still had a robust downtown shopping area. The good people of Riverside supported local business but the shopping mall just outside of town was getting its fair share of business, and every year their cut of the pie grew and grew.

  The Victorian houses still showcased the main street of Riverside but some of those were actually turning into apartment houses and the days of lumber money were long gone. Nearly a century earlier the economy was based on lumber, and local legend even claimed Paul Bunyan once resided on the west side of Riverside. Legend aside, nobody argued London was built from north Michigan pine and those logs once floated down the Franklin River.

  The latest census had Riverside at 50,000, give or take, and that was down from around 65,000 just twenty years earlier. Nearly everyone agreed on one thing-Riverside had more taverns than any other town its size. It was not a one-night town; the beer flowed every night in Riverside.

  The Riverside Police Department was in transition. It was the year when a dozen new police officers were hired and trained. Many of them would seek alliances with some of the old timers: A collection of misfits that were bad enough left to their own devices as a crew that worked the streets together, and were outrageous and at times despicable. They believed they were paid thugs hired to make the streets safe for others and to keep the peace. They thought of themselves as “Regulators.” They had one thing in common-all of them hated assholes. They were rowdy and loathed anyone or anything that crossed them. Their only allegiance was to each other. They were defiant in every sense of the word.

  The class of 1975 went through the police academy and learned many things, the mechanics of an arrest, traffic and criminal law, firearms training and handcuff techniques—they were even taught police ethics and much more. They learned it all and used what they saw fit. They had a sense of justice that could never be taught from a book. In a nutshell, they were fucked up and knew it—unlike most people. They didn’t care what others thought of them and were amazed that they were actually getting paid for what they did because they enjoyed it beyond belief. They would have done it for free if they were not the police, not the Regulators.

  By the time it was all over one of them would kill another and one of them would be killed in the line of duty. All of them would become very effective at what they did and they’d be remembered for a very long time. They broke rules when they felt like it and did so quite often. They were sometimes called the unholy ones and that was as good a description as any.

  By year’s end the Riverside Police Department numbered nearly a hundred sworn officers. The new recruits would have to work with another officer for at least a year before they were deemed good enough to work alone. All of them would work twenty-eight days with a different partner, and the area in which they patrolled would change as well. The prevailing wisdom was after a year they’d be exposed to different styles of policing methods and this would ensure they’d all be prepared for a brand-new career, serving the community and protecting others.

  Nearly all of the new recruits would be shipped off to the night shift where calls and perceived dangers were at their peak. They loved it because the Chief of Police and most of the higher brass never stayed up past eight o’clock in the evening. Leastwise, that’s what they believed, and with that, they only concerned themselves with the shift captain, lieutenant, and sergeant.

  The new recruits were not well received. The old timers trusted no one, not even each other. They were leery at best with the younger officers and it was rumored that some of the rookies may have actually attended college and even graduated. This terrified the old timers in the same way a tourist who travels to another country becomes lost, and can’t find a single soul that speaks English. The old timers feared only one thing and that was change.

  Within a year all of the night shift officers, new recruits and old timers alike, would not only accept each other, they’d actually enjoy working together. It didn’t take long for the established officers to realize the new guys would do anything for them. They’d lie for them when such a thing was required, and turn their heads when expected to do so.

  The new kids on the block never imagined driving a police car and they let the old guys do all of the talking…at first. Police reports were written by the younger officers and that included the arrest reports. Before too long the old timers found their reports interesting, even if some of the bigger words had no meaning to them. The fewer times their names were in arrest reports they’d spend less time going to court. That suited them fine as many of them worked second jobs and for a few, th
ey woke up daily with hangovers. The last thing the seasoned veterans wanted to do was sit in a courtroom and have a smart-ass defense attorney try to trick them into telling the truth.

  The Class of 1975 couldn’t believe the freedom they were given from the very start. Many of the older command officers would take them aside and tell them if they never did anything they wouldn’t get in trouble. Sage advice, except getting in trouble was the last thing the rookies worried about. They were more concerned with getting along with each other. Eventually they no longer cared what was said about them in the newspaper or even in the hallways of the police department. Each of them believed they were invincible. They were in a union and they had rights!

  A Ride in the Family Sedan

  1975

  Reg Thorne was just twenty-four years old when he joined the class of 1975 and was the youngest officer on the department. He could’ve tried other occupations but he joked about being too lazy to work and too honest to steal. Reg loved the idea of police work, or whatever it was they did, and he even brought endless reruns of Dragnet episodes to the table; he figured that would get him by until his probationary training period was over. As a student he never applied himself, he didn’t have to; he was an avid reader and had an exceptional memory. He graduated in the middle of his class and that suited him fine. Numbers were his strong suit and he liked to add columns of them in his head for fun.

  Reg married young and his wife Phoebe was even younger. It was almost as if two good friends fell in love and marriage was the only thing that made sense. Phoebe was aware of his flaws but considered Reg a work in progress, something well worth the effort.

  Reg had the same core beliefs that other members of the class of 1975 shared. He despised assholes and could not abide bullies. Simply stated, Reginald Thorne was on his own special career path.

  He graduated from the Police Academy third in his class, not that it mattered to him. He was keen to meet Riverside’s crazies, read books, and visit all of the fast-food joints that would soon be at his disposal. With any luck he’d run into a real dipshit; hopefully someone like the Crimson Crusader who appeared in a 1969 Dragnet episode. The best part was they’d actually pay him, and besides, the city had full benefits and a gosh darn good pension plan.

  Riverside was like many other cities throughout America-full of mom, apple pie, and some prostitution. The new recruits didn’t share the same opinion that the Mayor, City Commissioners, and the Chief of Police had when it came to prostitution and the perceived issues created by such tomfoolery. When the streetwalkers became too prevalent it was time to take action. Most of them were from places other than Riverside and did nothing to bolster the local economy; they took their money with them and spent it where they came from. The money was very good indeed. It was generally understood that Riverside had hundreds of potential customers-they would troll the streets, looking for something they might fancy. Most of the women had pimps, although there were a few freelancers.

  The most famous of the freelancers were the twins. Their street names were Tread and Retread. They were given those names by one of the officers because of the number of miles that each one had on them. Tread got into the game a couple of years after Retread so it stood to reason she had fewer miles on her.

  Tread and Retread were nearly six feet tall and they were originally redheads. For business purposes they both dyed their hair blond and black: Tread had blond hair on the right side and black hair on the left side of her large head; Retread had black hair on the right side and blond hair on the left side of her equally large head. One of them got the idea from a Star Trek episode, or so it was rumored. The hair was professionally colored, it was their trademark and customers were delighted when they discovered the carpet didn’t match the drapes. For a joke, one officer called both twins Ginger.

  Tread and Retread would dress like no other hookers dared to dress. The johns would sometimes drive by just to check out the outfits that always matched. Some of the preferred costumes were Annie Oakley—plastic sidearms and all—Nurse Tread and Nurse Retread, and of course Sister Mary Tread and Sister Mary Retread. They always wore the appropriate outfits for the theme of the night. The twins loved what they did for a living and thought it their duty to introduce variety. The customers were delighted to pay more.

  One of their best tricks was a local doctor that was referred to as “Sound.” He’d drive up to Tread and Retread and pay them extra to simply stand outside his car and talk dirty to him. One of them would cozy up to the driver’s rolled-down window and the other would do her talking from the front passenger window. When the doctor made his “house call” the money was great and the work only lasted fifteen minutes.

  They always walked the streets side by side and would work alone if that was what the customer wanted. They preferred to work together and charged the triple rate when doing so. Riverside’s horniest held Tread and Retread in the highest regard.

  In addition to the streetwalkers there were a number of whorehouses. Sometimes as many as ten of them would be in full operation and the girls that worked in the houses were usually local talent. Because they were local, they were given higher status than the streetwalkers. Riverside’s finest believed the whorehouses were not that much of problem, but the streetwalkers and pimps were kept in line. A sting operation of sorts would take place and they’d talk it up in the local newspaper and everything would be fine for a while, the streets would be safer and the pimps and streetwalkers would lay low for a few weeks before the cycle continued.

  Rookies were expected to work undercover at least once, and most of them looked forward to it. For them undercover meant working the prostitutes. They were expected to drive their personal cars and rid the streets of vermin.

  Reg was assigned vice or undercover once, and once was clearly enough. The Sergeant in charge of vice played everything by the book and there’d be no deviation in what he deemed the assignment.

  The rules were simple. The prostitute had to name the act and the price before she could be arrested. Tricky business because the girls knew the rules and they were cagey.

  Reg showed up for work and was even somewhat enthusiastic. He had his 1972 pristine Chevy—the family sedan. Surely his wife would understand if the car was used just once to make the streets safer.

  Reg was told to get the prostitute in the car after the deal was made under the rules of engagement—the prostitute had to name the act and price.

  “Won’t that be kind of hard, Sarge?” Reg asked.

  “Nope. They’re prostitutes and you may rely on your wits.”

  “But what if they play hard to get?”

  “Just do what you’re told and no cheating. Understand?”

  “I do, it’s just that I think the prostitute will never name the act or price if they know it’s illegal; they might want to play twenty questions. That doesn’t sound like much fun to me.”

  The Sergeant shouted, “Do what the fuck you’re told and nothing else. Get your ass out there and bring us back at least one hooker or else.”

  “You bet. I’ll make you proud!”

  The real undercover cops were waiting by the old abandoned train station. The rookie’s job was to bring the goods to them and they’d arrange transportation and booking, at least that was how it was explained to Reg.

  Reg made his first pass and there were several ladies of the night out and about. He was disappointed that the twins weren’t around. The women who were around all wore fancy dresses and plenty of makeup. Every one of them wore high-heeled shoes, which Reg thought was pretty lame. He made a couple of more passes and then spotted the one for him. She was wearing a bright red satin dress and her shoes were also red. He chuckled when he saw the high heels. She walked up to the car and he already had the window down.

  “Hello sugar, you looking for a good time?”

  “Sure! Hop in and make yourself as cozy as a concubine’s kitty,” Reg said.

  She smiled and said, “Are you a c
op?”

  “I came here to get laid…not insulted.”

  “What would you like?”

  “You tell me. How much is it?”

  The lady in red said, “That depends. What would you like to do? How much do you want to spend?”

  This is exactly what Reg thought would happen. He figured all of the prostitutes were crafty just like this one. They wanted to make money and not go to jail. He sympathized with them but was prepared to use his wits just like the Sergeant suggested.

  “I’ll give you twenty bucks for a half and half. Get in the car. I ain’t got all night.”

  “You’re the boss, darling. Time is money.”

  The prostitute knew she was in the clear because any cop worth his salt would never name the act and the price. She figured Reg probably worked in a factory. She was pretty sure real cops didn’t use words like concubine…whatever that meant.

  She got in the car and was smoking a cigarette. That didn’t please Reg one bit. If Phoebe ever found out a prostitute was smoking in the family sedan? He didn’t want to even consider the consequences.

  Reg was instructed to turn right and pull in behind the deserted warehouse where they would be able to complete the transaction. He turned left toward the abandoned train station.

  She said, “No, the other way.”

  Reg looked at her and grinned like a Cheshire cat. “I’m a police officer and you’re under arrest.”

  “You liar, you said you weren’t a cop.”

  “And you never asked if you could smoke in my car.”

  She tried to burn his hand with her cigarette.

  Reg sped up as he said, “You crazy bitch. Don’t even think about burning my hand. That’s assaulting a police officer, so knock that shit off!”

  He continued to go faster and the lady in red opened the passenger door and tried to jump out, he grabbed her but she kept slipping away, before long he was holding only her ankle. He was doing about forty and was only a block away from the train station. She broke away from his grasp and Reg was left holding one red high-heeled shoe. He looked in the rearview mirror and she was going ass over tea kettle. He was amazed at the number of times she tumbled before gaining her balance and limping into the darkness.