Southern Cross

'Any reason to think they will?' Hammer inquired.

'Well, it's just this Russian thing going on.'

'How do we know they aren't gypsies?' burglary detective Linton Bean asked.

'Can gypsies be Russian?'

'Seems to me they can be anything as long as they drift around and con people.'

'Yeah, but the ones we've had coming through here are mostly Romanian, Irish, English and Scotch. The Travelers. Well, that's what they call themselves. They get real pissed if we call them gypsies.'

'How 'bout if we just call them tramps and thieves?'

'I've never heard of Russian gypsies.'

'My sister went over to Italy last year and said they have gypsies over there.'

'I know for a fact they got Hispanic ones in Florida.'

'See, that's the whole thing,' said Detective Bean. 'There's no such country as 'Gypsy'. You can be from anywhere and be a gypsy, including Russia…'

'What are we doing about this problem?' Hammer interrupted.

'Stepping up patrols in neighborhoods like Windsor Farms, where you have mostly older people with money,' said Bean. 'Maybe forming a task force.'

'Do it,' Hammer said, glancing at her watch and conscious of the time. 'Lieutenant Noble is commander for a day in second precinct. What do you have to report?'

'This week we arrested a domestic violence recidivist,' said Noble, who spoke the proper police language and was resented by all.

'Very good,' Hammer said.

'We're also doing warrant sweeps but so far haven't surfaced the suspect in the stairwell rapes,' Noble added. 'And if it's all right, Chief Hammer, I have a comment to make.'

'Please,' Hammer said.

'I'm not so sure it was a good idea to piss off all the citizens with this gang crap Brazil wrote about for the Sunday paper.'

'It wasn't crap,' Brazil said.

'Name one gang,' Noble challenged him.

'It's all a matter of semantics,' Brazil answered. 'It depends on how you label gangs.'

Hammer agreed. 'Juveniles are committing the worst crimes. They mentor each other, influence each other, form packs, gangs. We have them here and need to identify them.'

'Most of the kids that go in schools and blow everybody away aren't in gangs. They're loners,' Noble argued.

'Let's look at Jonesboro,' West countered. 'A fourteen-year-old recruits an eleven-year-old to pull the fire alarm, right? So what would happen if you had four, five, six kids involved? Maybe twenty kids and teachers would have died.'

'She's got a point.'

'Got to admit, it makes you think.'

'You'd have to call in the damn National Guard.'

'Kids are scary. They don't have any boundaries. They think killing's a game,' West added.

'It's true. There's no concept of consequences.'

'What happens if you get some charismatic gang leader and he really organizes? Imagine,' Brazil said.

Insights and arguments were volleyed back and forth as Hammer deliberated over how to broach the next subject.

'Recent intelligence,' she began, 'indicates that two white males may be planning a hate crime, the robbery and murder of a black woman possibly named Loraine. The males may go by the names or aliases of Bubba and Smudge.'

No one spoke for a moment, faces perplexed.

Then, 'You don't mind my asking, Chief, where'd this come from?'

Hammer looked to West for help.

'We're really not at liberty to reveal the source at this time,' West said. 'You just need to be aware, keep your eyes and ears open.'

'If there's nothing further?' Hammer said.

There wasn't.

Then I do have two commendations to present and I believe both people are here.' Hammer smiled. 'Communications Officer Patty Passman and Officer Rhoad?'

They came forward. Hammer handed each a certificate and shook hands. Applause was weak.

'Communications Officer Passman, as you know, handled a nine-one-one last month that saved a man from choking on a hot dog,' Hammer said. 'And Officer Otis Rhoad issued three hundred and eighty-eight parking tickets last month. A department record.'

'Booooo!'

'Yeah, a lot of 'em on our cars!'

Passman glared at Rhoad.

'He wins the prize for talking on the radio!'

'Rhoad Hog!'

Passman bit her lip, her face an angry red.

'Rodeo!' Fling had to toss in, although the aspersion made no sense.

'That's enough,' Hammer said. 'I'll see all of you back here on Friday.'

The Ford Explorer's turn signal was beating like a panicking heart as its driver, who had already missed his exit, tried once again to ease in front of Bubba. Bubba accelerated and the Explorer swerved back into its lane, where it belonged. The cop was still on Bubba's bumper and Bubba slowed to send the message that he wouldn't tolerate tailgaters no matter who they were. Bubba was a cowboy herding cattle on the open prairie of motoring life.

'Unit 2 to Unit 1.' Honey was sounding increasingly concerned over the two-way.

Bubba was too busy to talk to his wife.

'Smudge,' he got back to his good buddy, 'Queen Bee's buzzing, got a city kitty tailwind, and a sixteener with a low seater's trying to wipe my nose.' Bubba spoke in code, letting Smudge know that Bubba's wife was trying to get hold of Bubba, he had a city cop riding his ass and a 4x4 driven by a punk was trying to swipe in front of him.

'I'll leave ya lonely.' Smudge signed off.

Throwin' ya back. Catch ya later, good buddy.' Bubba signed off, too.

By now, the kid in the Explorer seemed challenged and might have become violent but for the cop one lane over. The kid decided to default. He got in the last word by laying on his horn and giving Bubba the finger and mouthing Fuckhead. The Explorer disappeared in the current of other traffic. Bubba slowed to communicate to the cop one more time to get off his rear bumper. The cop communicated back by flashing his red-and-blue emergency lights and yelping his siren. Bubba pulled over into a Kmart parking lot.

Chapter Four

Officer Jack Budget took his time collecting his silver anodized aluminum Posse citation holder and dual clipboard. He climbed out of his gleaming blue-and-red-striped white cruiser, adjusted his duty gear and approached the red Jeep with the Confederate flag rear bumper sticker and BUB-AH vanity plate that he had been staring at for miles. Its redneck driver rolled down the window.

'Am I to assume you go by the name Bub-ah?' Budget asked.

'No, it's Bubba,' Bubba said rudely.

'Let me see your license and registration.' Officer Budget was rude, too, although he might not have been had Bubba not started it.

Bubba pulled his nylon wallet out of his back pocket. Velcro ripped as he opened it and got out his driver's license. He fished around in the glove box for his registration, then handed both proofs of identification and ownership to the cop, who studied them for several long minutes.

'You have any idea why I stopped you, Mr. Fluck?'

'Probably because of my bumper sticker,' Bubba stated.

Budget stepped back to look at the Jeep's rear bumper, as if just now noticing the Confederate flag on it.

'Well, well,' he said as images of white pointed hoods and burning crosses violated his mind. 'Still trying to win that war and round up Negroes to pick your cotton.'

'The Southern Cross has nothing to do with that,' Bubba indignantly said.

'The what?'

'The Southern Cross.'

Budget's jaw muscles knotted. It had not been so long ago that he had been bused to one of the city's public high schools and had watched seats empty one by one as other black kids got locked up or killed on the street. He had been Buckwheat, Sambo, drone, porch monkey, Uncle Tom. He had grown up in the niggerhood. Even now on some calls, white complainants asked him to go around to the back door.

'I guess you know it as the Confederate flag,' the white redneck asshole was explaining to him. 'Although it was really the battle flag, versus the Stars and Bars or Stainless Banner or Naval Jack or Pennant.'

Budget knew nothing of the various official Confederate flags that had gone in and out of vogue for various reasons during the war. He only knew that he hated the bumper stickers and tattoos, tee shirts and beach towels he saw everywhere in the South. He was enraged by Confederate flags waving from porches and graves.