January Gets Her Gunn

Chapter 5-1

Chapter 511 Aug 1982: 2246:

“Peter Seven and Eight, Four-Fifteen at El Cazador. Knives involved and one down. Received the call from the hospital.”

Thad picked up the microphone as Peter Seven and Eight responded to the fight call. “That’s Railroad and Fourth Street.”

Farrell nodded as she turned left at the intersection. Thad responded to the dispatcher. He nodded approval as Farrell turned on the emergency lights and switched the siren to the horn ring. Good. She’s picking the quickest route. She’s not even putting the siren on automatic—I’m surprised.

“The Cazador is a bad place. We’ll go in with batons in hand. Try to stay to my left and watch three-sixty.” Farrell nodded, keeping her attention on her driving. Her jaw was clenched. Other than that Thad could not see any outward signs of anxiety. She appears cool, but we’ll see what happens in that rat hole. It’s going to be hell watching her and a roomful of bad actors.

“You can count on everyone in that place having a sharp knife and the desire to use it on a blue suit,” Thad continued. “Don’t let anyone get behind you.”

Farrell made a right turn onto Fourth Street, a little too fast and too close to the curb. When a rear tire hit the curb, the unit rocked onto the left wheels. Fighting for control, Farrell managed to right the car.

“Hey! Watch it! We’re supposed to get there in one piece!” Thad gripped the edge of the dashboard, his knuckles white. “Slow it down, dammit. The fight will still be there.” Farrell didn’t take her gaze from the street.

As they came up to the scene, Thad had Farrell drive beyond the bar to park. “Gotta leave room for the ambulance. Pop the trunk and we’ll get the bricks.” Farrell did as she was told, and went to the back of the unit where Thad handed her a handi-talkie. “Try to stay cool and don’t do something dumb, like back at that corner.”

Farrell just glared as she fitted the radio on her belt and adjusted the headphones and mike. She took her baton from its ring and held it across her thighs with both hands. Well, at least she knows how to assume a non-aggressive posture.

Thad turned and went into the bar, Farrell following closely on his heels. The place was dark, noisy, and stinking with stale booze, sweat, urine, cheap perfume and the acrid smoke of m*******a.

As Jan’s eyes adjusted to the darkness, she could see the three officers had the crowd pretty well backed into a corner. The fourth was kneeling beside a man who writhed on the floor, covered with blood. The officer was trying to stem the flow from the man’s abdomen with a handful of bar towels. She saw several tables had been knocked over and a couple of chairs were broken. Gunn moved into the room, past the victim, and took a position slightly behind the three officers.

Jan stopped about four feet to Gunn’s left and a step back. She could make out some of the crowd’s babble. Some very uncomplimentary Spanish terms were being applied to her. She’d heard them before and chose to ignore them. This is not one of the places I’d care to spend my leisure time. It’s a real cockroach palace. Phew, it stinks.

Hearing a noise at the door, she turned just enough to see it was the paramedics from the fire department. They’re wearing bunker coats, helmets with face shields down! I never saw EMTs do that before. And there are two firemen with a big charged hose. What’s going on?

A fire captain approached Gunn. “Last time we were here, I had some medics attacked. If it starts to happen again, I’ll hose the damned place down and you can hang the survivors up to dry.”

Before Gunn could respond, the captain had stepped away.

“Farrell, stay where you are.” Gunn moved to each of the other four officers, speaking low. Then he came back to January. “If they turn on the water, get back by the door. There’s enough pressure in that two-inch line to sweep you right off your feet. I know Perkins. He’s mean enough to wash everyone down, even us cops.” Shrugging his shoulders, Gunn moved back to where he had been standing.

January felt a sour dismay. Who needs enemies, when we have friends like that fire captain? Sheesh! This could turn into a real mess. What they didn’t tell us at the academy!

The medics were working fast. There were three of them, one using a handi-talkie. They put a big bandage across the victim’s abdomen, inserted an air-way, gave him some shots, and slapped an oxygen mask on his face.

As they loaded the victim on the gurney, one of the firemen muttered something about wasting time on a damn stinking greaser. The crowd surged. Patrolman Perez shouted in Spanish, telling them to calm down.

It didn’t work. January could feel the tension building. Her palms were getting sweaty. She rubbed each one dry on her trousers, trying not to look nervous. This was as bad as going into that dark store the other night. When the butterflies in her belly started to flutter, she tried the deep breathing exercise, trying not to make it obvious.

The voices in the crowd were becoming more strident, more ominous. People began moving, never taking their gazes off the officers and fire-fighters. January could feel the hate building. It was a miasma engulfing her until her flesh began to crawl. The Spanish curses, mixed with some English, turned uglier, deliberate insults and provocation.

The medics had wheeled the gurney almost to the door when several people began to move forward along the right wall. Ray Goldman started toward them just as the captain shouted. A stream of water burst from the hose, slashing into the group. Goldman jumped back. When his foot landed on a broken bottle, he stumbled, sprawling on his back in front of January.

In three quick steps, she stood astraddle of Goldman, her baton raised chest high. She had heard Gunn’s hissed, “Farrell, don’t,” but a fellow officer was down and she was the closest. Distantly she sensed her right side becoming wet, but the butterflies had settled down. She was in action.

January sensed another officer moving behind her to assist Goldman. She saw people falling in tangled heaps, knocked down by the blast of water. The roar and the screams were a din in her ears. When the pandemonium erupted, the police officers lost control. Damn that stupid fire captain. This wasn’t necessary.

A dark, roughly clad man rushed January, a knife in his outstretched hand. When he came in range, January released one end of her baton, snapping it against the man’s wrist. The knife went skittering across the floor as the man dropped to his knees grasping his wrist. January brought the baton back across her chest into the ready position.

“Farrell! Goldman’s up. Move back towards the door.” Carlos Perez had moved to her left and Bert Smith to her right. Moving slowly they backed in step, holding their line as the stream from the fire hose still swept in front of them, bowling people over. The man January had hit screamed as the water knocked him onto his injured arm. She winced in empathy. God! I must have broken his arm. I didn’t think I hit that hard.

Suddenly the stream of water faded to a dribble. The men manning the hose beat a hasty retreat, but the crowd was down in a sodden pile, struggling to get untangled. “Okay, we’re at the door. Go ahead, Farrell, get outside.”

“You sure, Perez?”

“Yeah, we’ll be right behind you.” Perez gave her a lopsided grin. January turned and went out the door. Both patrol sergeants stood there with tear gas guns. Behind them a fire chief, obviously angry, chewed out the impulsive captain.

Goldman grabbed Jan’s arm and pulled her to the side. “Thanks, Farrell. I owe you.”

“My pleasure, Ray.” January smiled at the thoroughly drenched patrolman. “I think you need to get dry.”

“Yeah, two showers in one day is just about more than I can handle.” Goldman’s habitual grin spread across his face.

Ray’s just a good natured big ole teddy bear. Now why did I think that? The other three officers all congratulated her on her quick action.

“Farrell, I want to talk with you.” At the harsh tone of Gunn’s voice, January felt as if she had just received another wetting down from the fire hose. Sighing, she walked over to Peter Six. “You didn’t obey orders.”

“Gunn, there wasn’t time for you to make up your mind. An officer was down and vulnerable. I took proper police action and protected a fellow officer. I knew what I was doing.” Damn your soul Gunn. I’m not a puppet.

“What do you know about proper police procedure on your fourth week as a cop? You still disobeyed orders.”

You arrogant SOB! January fought down a burst of pure rage. She wanted to scream but instead she enunciated each word slowly and distinctly. “I graduated from the Arizona Law-Enforcement Training Academy and I’ve read the Riverton Police Department Manual of Procedure. You, Gunn, are not the sole repository of police knowledge. Not only that, I was taught responsibility by my father and the United States Marine Corps. I have the intellect to make the necessary decisions. Tonight, I made a decision and I’ll stand by it until Hell freezes over. You, Mister Gunn, are being unreasonable.”

“Oh you’re an expert psychologist, are ye?”

“No, but I know a schiz when I see one.”

“Oh, so now I am a schiz.” Thad almost winced, not liking the turn of the conversation one bit. Talking of mental problems made him uncomfortable.

“Yeah and a megalomaniac and neurotic besides.” She was so angry he could almost see the smoke coming out her ears.

“You know I can make a report about tonight about how you endangered every policeman in that joint. You know what that will do.” It’s an empty threat, but maybe I can bluff her. He watched her, resisting the need to admire her spunk, trying to ignore the curves her wet uniform revealed.

Her eyes blazed green fire as she spat her words out like bullets. “Yeah, and there are four officers right over there who’ll repudiate your report. But make it anyway, and be sure to put in it about my hitting the curb.”

At that moment, Sergeant Wilson walked up. “Gunn, Farrell needs to get out of that wet uniform. I don’t want anyone getting sick. See that she gets time to take a hot shower and change.”

“Okay, Sarge.” Watching Farrell, Gunn grinned, seeing her start to protest and then bite her tongue.

“Oh, Farrell, good thinking in there. You’re doing great.” Sergeant Wilson smiled as he turned back towards his own unit.

January walked around to the driver’s side of Peter Six. “Coming, Gunn?” She turned her sweetest smile on him before she slid in and started the engine.

* * * *

12 Aug 1982: 0045:

“That was fast,” Thad mused aloud as Farrell came down the steps from her apartment. Damn, she’s sexy. She’s got brains, looks, and common sense. Why was I so angry with her? She knew what she was doing and did it professionally. I don’t want her to get hurt, though. No, I don’t want anybody to get hurt. But I wouldn’t have got so upset if it had been somebody else. Why? Thad realized he was becoming aroused. I don’t need this. He laid his clipboard in his lap.

Farrell opened the driver’s door and got in. “Sorry I took so long, but I field stripped my pistol and put it in the oven to dry. I’ll oil it in the morning when I reassemble it.”

Thad looked at her. “You mean you don’t have a pistol?”

“Yeah, I have a revolver. An S and W, Model Nineteen, three fifty seven. Had to change holsters, too.”

“That’s nice, but you’re still carrying magazines.” Thad was smirking. She had to hear it even if she wasn’t looking at him.

“No, I changed to speed-loaders, too.” Farrell turned towards Thad with that infuriating sweet smile. “I know my firearms. I’ve owned both handguns about nine years now, and I usually shoot them every couple of weeks. But they’re not my competition guns. I have a Bob Chow conversion Nineteen Eleven, a six inch Model Nineteen with Herret Grips, and a Supermatic Citation for rim fire.”