RISEN
“Carruso, Johnson, Harold and Cruz. You’re in district two today. Maxwell, Carter, Pris, you’re going to check up that lead for the missing mom in La Brea. Make sure you recheck with forensics on the report about her car.” As the teams are called and moving out, I sit awaiting my expected ticket bitch job.
As the Captain turns back to his sheets, marking off the officers he’s sent out, he glares at the rest of us in his usual crass and disdainful way. “Tobia, Green, Lopez…” Pausing, he huffs and points to one of the small officers trying to shirk his gaze. “No, Marcus. Not you, you fucker.” He points to the new woman on the force. “Maria Louise Lopez. I want you to hit district seven. For district five, I want you, you, and you, Marcus,” he says, pointing at three other fuckers hiding in the back.
We all hate roll call. The main reason is because Captain Scott loves to give out the shittiest positions to the last ones left at the end. He’s already sent out the fifteen “best” cops in his opinion, and now it’s just divvying up the crap assignments through the rest of us. It’s kind of like being chosen last for a game of HORSE.
As each turn and exit out the back, leaving only four of us in the room, were the last lonely fuckers left. We get the shaft consistently. I might as well be a janitor for the day as I’ll be sweeping crap under the rug anyway.
“Riggs!” he shouts. “I want you, Shipley, and Grant for a special assignment.”
“What about me, sir?” I ask, even though I know I’m being stupid for speaking out.
Before he can answer me with a snide remark, Grant pipes up. “Sir?”
With an ‘are you fucking kidding me’ look and poking me in the side, Trevor admonishes me for my apparent lack in judgement.
The captain squints at the idiot that tore his focus away. “What?”
“I actually asked for today off. I was told by HR to show at roll call first.” He sounds small, trying to keep his tone and voice low.
Who the hell did he blow for that?
“Day off, huh? Fuck, I don’t even get a day off.” The captain glares daggers at the sergeant before nodding for him to leave. Skipping out of his seat like there’s a fire sale at Guns and Ammo, he moves as quickly as he can, out of the room, leaving us in the firing line.
Shaking his head, the captain mutters, “Guess it’ll have to do.” Not one of us has the balls to interrupt his internal musings as he quiets. It feels like hours, but seconds later, he looks up, flicking his gaze back and forth between the remaining officers.
“The three of you have the day off. Tonight, you’re on shift. It’s fucking important, so don’t piss me off. Brush off your dress attire. And I mean, brush it off. I don’t want to hear that there was a spec of fucking dust on any of you.” Pinching the bridge of his nose before pushing his glasses up, he stares directly at me. I swear he has heat ray vision as he looks right through my soul. “Be at the Petersen Museum by four to meet with the director, Jackson Thompson. You’ll be secondary security in the venue to keep those fuckin’ paparazzi scavengers from bothering the patrons. You’ll be expected to show us in the best light. I’ll be expecting nothing less. The last thing I need is for you cunts to fuck something up. Now, go away. My coffee’s getting annoyed by your ugly asses. Dismissed.”
Rising and rushing out, we wonder how we ended up on such a high-profile position for the department, being that we were the last losers in the room.
“You! Big fuck!” Jabbing my side, Riggs grins that leering smirk I want to knock right off his face. “You just got lucky with Grant having a day off. See you tonight, assholes.”
“This should be fun, cunt knuckle. See you later, Riggs,” Trev grimaces as he pulls me away, before I punch Riggs in the jaw.
Letting out a sinister laugh, Riggs starts to strip his uniform off as we walk toward the lockers.
“Ignore his ass,” Trevor says as I muse over the idea of beating Riggs to a pulp. I want to say something, but it’s neither the time nor the place. He’ll get his at some point. “Wonder what’s going on at the Pete tonight.”
“I’m not sure, but I’m not fucking it up.”
“Yeah, me neither.”
“Meet you there?”
Trev winks and grabs me by the shoulders. “Sounds like a date, anaconda.” Slapping my ass and jumping away quickly, before I can strike, I hear him laughing down the hall as he scampers away.
That anaconda shit’s gonna get old fast. “Fucker,” I mutter, shaking my head at his newest nickname.
Yanking out my phone, I research the Petersen’s schedule for tonight. The main page shows the various installations, the current ones, and an icon of an anchor situated inside a crown. Clicking it, it opens into a separate page with the sounds of revving cars and squealing tires as smoke streams across the page. As it clears, the invitation is a crisp and clear, black and white page with the price per seating, the time, and the campaign where the funds are going.
The seventh annual Anchor and Crown Foundation Fundraiser for the under-privileged inner city race competitors. Awards to follow after dinner service. Doors open at six. Silent auction draws at nine pm.
I was totally fucking wrong if I thought my day was looking up. Yeah, I figured I was being given a nice cushy position. I’d hoped that possibly there was a light at the end of the proverbial fucked-up tunnel. Fuck no.
The Captain just screwed me further.
Fuck.