Brazil trotted over to help, and was not appreciated or thanked. This was a terrible job, and he loved it for reasons he did not understand.
to?
"So he relieves at least one sworn officer from traffic duty," West was saying as Hammer chose to ignore both of her deputy chiefs.
Frankly, Hammer could take but so much of the bickering between the brass. It never ended. Hammer glanced at her watch and imagined Cahoon at the top of his crown. The fool. He would turn this city into the prick of America, peopled by yahoos with guns and US Air Gold cards and box seats for the Panthers and Hornets if someone did not stop him.
"W Cahoon had been stopped three times on his way to lunch on the sixtieth floor, in the corporate dining room. Awaiting him amid linen and Limoges were a president,
four vice-presidents, a chairman and a vice-chairman, and a top executive with the Dominion Tobacco Company, which over the next two years would be borrowing more than four hundred million dollars from US Bank for a cancer research project. Computer printouts had been stacked high by Gaboon's plate. There were fresh flowers on the table, and waiters in tuxedos hovered.
"Good afternoon." The CEO nodded around the table, his eyes lingering on the tobacco executive.
Cahoon didn't like the woman and wasn't sure why, beyond his rabid hatred of smoking, which had begun seven years ago, after he had quit.
Cahoon had serious misgivings about granting such a huge loan for a project so scientific and secretive that no one could tell him precisely what it was about, beyond the fact that US Bank would be instrumental in the development of the world's first truly healthy cigarette. He had reviewed endless charts and diagrams of a long and robust cylinder with a gold crown around the filter. The amazing product was called US Choice It could be smoked by all, would harm none, and contained various minerals, vitamins, and calming agents that would be inhaled and absorbed directly into the bloodstream.
Cahoon was reminded of what his bank's contribution would mean to humanity, as he reached for his bubbly water, and felt happy.
tw The people along Eastway Drive were also happy as they waited for the Freedom Parade. It was always full of hope and bounce, Shriners zigzagging on their scooters, waving at the crowd, reminding all of burn units and good deeds. Brazil was slightly concerned that other cops at other intersections seemed bored and restless. There were no floats. He scanned the horizon and saw nothing but a patrol car in a hurry heading his way. A horn blared and another driver yelled, this time an angry old woman in a Chevrolet. No matter how much Brazil tried to help, she was determined to be unpleasant and unreasonable.
"Ma'am," he politely said, 'you have to turn around and take Shamrock Drive. "
She flipped him a bird and roared off, as the frantic, irritated cop in the patrol car rolled up on Brazil's intersection.
"The parade and a funeral somehow got routed through here at the same time," the cop hastily explained.
"What?" Brazil asked, baffled.
"How…?"
But the patrol car sped off.
"Doesn't matter who he relieves from traffic," Goode was saying as she gave up on food in hopes it would give up on her.
"I don't want him. He's a spy, CIA, KGB, whatever you want to call him."
"Now how stupid is that?" West pushed her plate away.
"For Chrissake."
Hammer said nothing as she looked around the restaurant to see who else she recognized. The book columnist for the Observer and an editorial writer were eating lunch, but not together. Hammer trusted none of them. She had spent no time with Andy Brazil, but thought maybe it wouldn't be a bad idea. He sounded interesting.
When the hearses slowly appeared, they were gleaming black, with headlights burning. Brazil watched their formidable approach as he struggled to keep his side street blocked, and continued to direct cars to turn away.
The endless funeral procession crept past with precision and dignity, and hundreds of people waiting for Ij Shriners and scooters drank sodas, and watched and waved. This wasn't exactly what they had expected when they'd headed out into the morning for a little free excitement, but they were here and would take whatever they could get.
W Inside a black Lincoln Continental stretch limousine with white leather interior and a television and VCR, the bereft brother and the widow were dressed for Sunday and staring out tinted glass. They were impressed by all the spectators lining the street to pay last respects. A lot of them had brought snacks, drinks, kids, and small American flags. They were waving and cheering, which was the way it ought to be, a celebration, as one crosses over to the other side, into the loving arms of Jesus.
T had no idea Tyvola had so many friends," the brother marveled, waving back.
wy "And all these police came out." The widow shyly waved, too.
Brazil blew his whistle and almost got run over by an old man in a Dodge Dart who didn't seem to understand that a policeman holding out both palms was a hint that the driver might want to stop. The unbroken caravan of stretch limousines, town cars, hearses, all black with lights on, didn't seem to send any direct message to Howie Song in his Dart. By now. Song was halfway out into the intersection with a line of cars bumper to bumper behind him. It was not possible he could back up unless everyone else did.
"Don't you move!" Brazil warned the impatient old man, who had his radio turned up as high as it would go, playing a country western tune.
Brazil set three traffic cones in front of the Dart. They scattered like bowling pins the instant Brazil stepped back to direct other cars to back up. Song in his Dart helped himself to the Boulevard, certain the lumbering funeral cars would let him through so he could get to the hardware store.
Vy That's what you think, thought Chad Tiny, director of the Tiny Family Mortuary, which was famous for its air conditioned building, plush slumber parlors, and quality caskets. His big ad on page 537 of the Yellow Pages was unfortunately positioned directly next to Fungus and Mold Control. Tiny's secretary was forever telling people who called that although they had similar concerns in the funeral business, they could not help with basement moisture problems or sump pumps, for example.
Tiny had driven in more funeral processions than he could remember.
He was a formidable businessman who hadn't gotten his fine suits and rings by being a pushover. He not only didn't let that little piece of lawbreaking banged-up blue Dodge shit through, but Tiny got on his two-way radio. He raised his lead car on the air.
"Flip," he said to his number-two man in the company.
"Coming at ya, boss."
"Put the brakes on up there," Tiny told him.
"You sure?"
"Always am," said Tiny.
This stopped the entire line of black cars with lights burning. The Dart could not get across the Boulevard now, and Song was momentarily confused. He stopped,
too, long enough for a cop to yank open his door and get the crabby old man out of the car.
"Flip," Tiny was back on the air.
"Move along." He chuckled.
W Hammer was not amused as she applied lipstick after lunch and listened to her two female deputy chiefs bickering like rival siblings.
"I'm in charge of patrol," Goode announced inside the Carpe Diem, as if the restaurant's name applied to her.
"And he's not riding with us.
God only knows what will end up in the newspaper. You're so hot on him, let him ride with your people. "
Hammer got out her compact and glanced at her watch.
"Investigations doesn't have ride-alongs. Ever," West replied.
"It's against department policy and always has been."
"And what you're proposing isn't?" Goode demanded.
"Ride-alongs, volunteers, have been riding with patrol for as long as I've been here," West reminded her in a strained voice.
Hammer got out her wallet, and studied the bill. Tm wondering if there's some personal agenda here," Goode went on.