"Then why this part of town?" I asked. "There are three precincts in Cooper-Hillside, Tremont Avenue, and here, the Canal Zone. Why are you here?"
I noticed that while he drove, his eyes were rarely on the road. They were always scanning the sidewalks and the intersections, like a hunter, searching for the ever-elusive prey.
"Describe them for me," he said. "The precincts."
"Hillside… well, that's a bunch of nice neighborhoods and the outer suburbs. And Tremont Avenue covers the business district. And the Canal Zone… everything else, I guess."
Roland raised a worn hand to the old brick mill buildings built along the banks of the Micmac River. He said, "That's what powered central Massachusetts, last century. These mills, making shoes, making leather, making woolens, shipping them out on the canals. And in the space of a decade it was all gone."
Most of the tall brick buildings were empty of light, empty of life. I shivered. "There's squatters over there, drug dealers, pimps, all sorts of action," he went on. "Oh, some of the mill buildings have been rehabbed with businesses, but it's slow going. And this is where the action is, Erica. And that's what I like. Action means the time passes quick, means I get home in a good mood."
I made a point of taking some notes in my fresh reporter's notebook. I looked at the dashboard clock. It was now 9:05 P.M.
Something chattered on the police radio, and Roland braked, made a U-turn on an empty street, and flicked on the overhead lights.
Our first call of the night.
We sped for several blocks and came up behind another police cruiser, parked right up against a polished black pickup truck with oversize tires. Roland put the cruiser in park and with one smooth motion grabbed the radio microphone. "Unit 19 off at Tucker and Broadway." He put the microphone back into the cradle and said, "You can come out, but stay behind me, all right?"
"Sure," I said, and I stepped out with him.
We walked up to the truck and there were two young men, wearing baggy clothes and backward baseball caps, standing with their hands on the hood. A young female officer looked relieved to see Roland. He talked to her, then she watched as he went through the men's pockets. Coins, cigarette lighters, and then plastic baggies full of white powder were distributed on the hood. Within moments the men were handcuffed and placed in the rear of the first cruiser.
More chitchat with the younger officer, then Roland laughed and got back into the cruiser and I followed.
He put us out on the street, and with microphone in hand he said, "Unit 19 clear."
"What was that about?"
"Just a traffic stop, that's all. Clown driving that pickup truck blew through a stop sign and Officer Perkins there pulled him over. She sensed something screwy was going on and asked for backup."
I said, "I read somewhere that some cops, they don't like women cops out there on the streets. Think they're too weak, they're-"
He said, "That's a load of crap. They're tough when they have to be, and they're great to be at your side during a domestic dispute. Man, I hate domestics. And anyone who can help me out here on the streets, I don't care if they're male, female, or any combination thereof."
A few more notes made in my notebook. Roland said, "You surprised me with that question. I thought you'd stick up for your fellow sisters on the force, something like that."
I smiled. "Guess I'm full of surprises."
The dashboard clock said it was 10:12 in the evening.
The rest of the night went on with more aimless cruising, and I eventually learned that Roland was ex-army military police, had received an honorable discharge, and had started working on the Cooper force. As for his citations for bravery, he shrugged them off. "Most of that stuff was just being in the wrong place at the right time, and having the chief wanting to make a big deal out of it 'cause it made for good newspaper headlines around budget time."
We also made two traffic stops-one coffee-and-doughnut stop ("And if this gets in the paper, make sure you write that I got a bran muffin, okay? No doughnuts for me," Roland had said), and a fight outside the Sloppy Cow Pub & Grub that resulted in one woman being arrested, two men being put into ambulances, and a good half-hour of paperwork and note-taking on Roland's behalf.
"You having fun?" he asked after we left the Sloppy Cow Pub & Grub, where the owner was taking a hose to wash off the bloodstains on the sidewalk.
"Oh yeah," I said. "A real blast."
Now it was the start of a new day, and my legs were getting cold. I watched the light-blue numerals of the dashboard clock flip, and with each change of the number, it seemed like the air in the cruiser was getting thicker and harder to breath.
Then it clicked over to one in the morning. I yawned. Roland said, "You want to go back to the precinct, head on home?"
"No, I'm okay," I said.
"Whatever," Roland said. We were driving past another burned-out collection of tenements and he said, "There's a story for you. Someone should trace the deeds of those properties, see who owns what. Bet if you dig enough, you'll find that somebody's making a lot of money off those arsons-"
The radio crackled to life. "Unit 19."
Roland picked up the handset. "Unit 19, go."
"Unit 19, 14 Venice Avenue, the Gold Club. Robbery in progress. Other units responding. Caller said robbers appear to be armed."
Roland said, "Unit 19, responding."
He replaced the hand mic, brought the cruiser to a shuddering halt, and then made a U-turn and flipped on the overhead lights. He punched the accelerator and I felt myself thrust back against the seat as we roared down the center of Market Street.
"What's the Gold Club?"
"Jewelry store. Only one in this area. I know them… got a large inventory."
"No siren?" I said.
"Nope," he said. "Sirens just let them know we're coming."
Roland braked again and we slewed into a turn, and he said quickly, "Deal is, you stay in the cruiser. All right? Other backups will be here in a bit."
I clenched my purse and notebook tight in my hands. "Right. I'll stay behind. No problem."
The cruiser roared down a deserted stretch of roadway, flanked on either side by empty brick mill buildings and the still water of the canals, and with a slap of his hand Roland switched off the overhead lights. He slowed and then dimmed the headlights.
My voice shook. "Do… do you know what you're doing?"
"Yeah," he said. "Alleyway up here will put us right across the street from the Gold Club. You just stay put."
Another turn and Roland eased his way up a narrow alleyway, then switched off the headlights. He slowly inched forward. Up ahead was an overflowing Dumpster, and he parked the cruiser. The handset was in his hand. "Unit 19, off at the scene."
"Ten-four, Unit 19. Be advised, other units about ten minutes inbound."
The handset went back, and with a rattle of keys he unlocked the pump-action shotgun and got it out. My heart was racing right along, and I knew my face was pale and my eyes were wide.
Roland opened the cruiser door and said, "Erica…"
"I'm not moving. You just be careful."
"Just my job, that's all." And he got out and closed the door behind him.
I saw his shadow move in front of the cruiser, to the side of the Dumpster. I watched for a minute or two and then, with shaking hands, reached down and took off my shoes.
I picked up my purse and then got out of the cruiser.
The pavement was cold on my bare feet, and I prayed for no broken glass or discarded syringes to be in my way. I reached into my purse and found a comforting object, which I withdrew and then extended. A collapsable police baton. The definition of irony, I guess one could say.