The Subtle Art of Brutality

“Gina’s been arrested for opiates before, you know,” I said. “But you’re right. Her coffee is the best.”

We left the detective’s bureau to the elevator. Inside the car was the most gangsta-looking female I had seen in a long time. She reeked of weed and I knew her face from somewhere. And, of course, in her hand was an application for the PD.

“Sweet, the poh-poh,” she said, her mouth full of gold. “I’m gonna apply. I can’t wait to be the poh-poh.”

In the world of Richard Dean Buckner, the word poh-poh is on equal footing with nigger, spic, peckerwood and all the other glorious epithets used to instill hate and resentment. The mere fact this broad called me the poh-poh raised fury in my veins.

“Applying, huh?” I asked. Clevenger hit the G button. The doors closed. It was just the three of us.

“Yeah. Never thought I’d do this,” she beamed.

“Well, we wish you the best of luck,” Clevenger said with a smile I soon learned was his phony one. “I’m sure you’re well-qualified.”

“Thanks. I got my GED last month.”

“Congratulations. What made you want to apply?”

“My momma’s house been shot up tw

ice now this year. Ain’t no poh-poh helpin’, neither. We call, they just show up and ask if we know the people who done it. Then they leave. If we was white it’d be different. No offense. But I guess I got to do it myself. So I’m gonna do it myself.”

“That’s terrible. What’s your mom’s address?”

Some house over on 10th and Watson. Now I know where I’ve seen her. I recognize the address. I’ve been there. Bad neighborhood. Our city, like the rest of the country, has huge difficulties getting inner-city folks to cooperate with investigations. It’s the whole snitches wind up in ditches bullshit. They won’t inform on the bad guys.

This gal’s mom was a bigger bitch than most. Half the time we’d show up we’d wind up arresting her for battery or drugs.

Mom has this daughter and three sons. One son is dead. Gang violence. I knew both the others have spent time in prison. Gang violence. Mom knows who has shot at her house, and they were probably trying to do it to kill one of her kids. She’ll just turn her boys loose on them and then whine that the poh-poh aren’t doing enough.

“Maybe we can help,” Clevenger said. “Got any military experience?”

“Nah.”

“What about college?”

“Nah.”

“Clean driving record?”

“Sure. I got tickets before, but I take care of my business.”

“Good,” I say.

“Ever been in trouble?” Clevenger said. “The reason why I ask now is because they’ll ask after the testing. I figure you’d want to be front-loaded with the process. It makes applying easier.”

“When I was a kid. But what kid hasn’t been?” she said, smiling.

“Okay,” Clevenger nodded and looked away. He walked her right into it.

“You think they care if I got some warrants?” she asked. “Just traffic and shit, but still.”

“I thought you took care of your business?” I asked.

“I do. It’s just that I wanted to work for a few months to get the money before I turn myself in. That’s all.”

My real grin stretched ear-to-ear. “Well, we should find out.” My handcuffs were on her before she knew what was happening.

“What the fuck? WHAT THE FUCK!”