Erotica Harem

Hi, Jon!

Title:

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Chapter 8

Author: Jon Michaelsen...

Plot:
This chapter follows Detective Parker at his desk in the 'hole' in the Criminal Investigation Unit. He has a brief conversation with two of his colleagues, Detectives Torrez and Smith. It's Monday and the office becomes crowded and noisy, so Parker leaves to get some lunch.
On the way out, he helps some of the investigators subdue a large female impersonator dressed as Madonna. He gets a knee in the groin for his efforts but manages to knock her out.
He goes to the Varsity and reads an article in teh Atlantic Journal Constitution(maybe?) about the murder.

Jon, I didn't feel that this chapter moved the story forward very much. We see inside of Detective Parker more, as he wonders about his 6-week sabbitical. But there wasn't much to the conversation with Torrez and Smith. It was just as you said, 'friendly banter.'
The scene with the Madonna-wannabe also stood out. Will there be some reference to this scene later in the book? I wondered if it was meant to illustrate how tough Det. Parker can be?
Lastly, the section about Atlanta City Council President Mitchell Keyes being found drunk. Will there be more of this later on? Was this a reference to a true story? If so, it would give the story a nice touch of realism, but only if there is a point to its inclusion.

Setting/Scene:
The chapter starts out in the Criminal Investigation Unit and then moves to the Varisty, a huge fast-food restaurant. "Greasy" doesn't begin to describe the food there, Jon! LOL

Characters:
We are introduced to two of Detective Parker's colleagues, Det. Torrez and Det. Smith, but they are only in the chapter for a short interchange. They remain peripheral characters.

Grammar:
See line-by-line below:

I have trouble with these sentences, too. I keep getting pop-ups that state that there should be an ‘and’ between ‘breath’ and ‘then’ with no comma. That means that the final phrase ‘grabbed the bitch…’ would have to become its own sentence.

Does anyone have comments or suggestions about that?

When the melee threatened to disrupt other departments, he mumbled a few expletives under his breath, then shoved his way through the congestion and grabbed the bitch by the back of the hair.



Maybe he returned to work too soon.

Parker stared out across the busy office and sighed. Witnesses and suspects moved in and out as the dull drone of unanswered calls buzzed. The shuffling of paper, pecking keyboards and loud investigators added to the cacophony of the insanity. By midday, the Police Headquarters resembled that of a back-room betting lounge, complete with smell of stale cigarette smoke and an empty coffee pot cooking on a hot burner. [This is a good description. It gives the reader a very vivid feel of the scene using both smell and taste! Nice touch!]

His eyes gazed about the floor, the layout appearing far different than before his absence, and yet, the only noticeable change was his view of everything. Six weeks away wasn’t a lot to most people, considering what he’d been through, but to him, the forced sabbatical was worse than a lifetime of torture. Being away from the job the first couple of weeks was easy enough since he’d slept much of the time, but after six long weeks, the thin walls in his condo closed in on him and he’d begun to chase his personal demons away with a nightly bottle of cheap, amber liquid. No, he couldn’t wait to get back to work. But, now…

The basement of the low-rise building housed the Criminal Investigations Unit. The space -- once a storage facility for Sears Robuck [Roebuck] & Company -- was open and expansive, devoid of architectural design. The décor was classic industrial, every inch crammed with gray-metal desks, putty-colored file cabinets and brown Pend-A-Flex boxes stacked ceiling high around the perimeter. The large, square-paned windows were uncovered but painted over in a light-color, allowing some light to seep through. A stairwell at the opposite end of his desk provided the only entrance and exit to the room, save for a couple emergency exits that opened out into the garage.

Years earlier, he’d selected the back wall as a place for his desk, confounding most of his comrades. The spot he’d chosen was furthermost from the stairwell for obvious reasons to him. Detainees or suspects descending the stairs were often uncooperative, cuffs or no cuffs. Maintenance workers had long since refused to paint the walls lining the staircase, arguing a fresh coat never had a chance to dry before more scuffing soles had made their mark, announcing yet another disruptive individual, an all too common occurrence at the precinct.

“Hey, Parker,” Detective Torrez of Sex Crimes, announced as the squat man plopped down at his desk and began to devour a sausage and egg biscuit he’d picked up from the first-floor deli. “Heard you copped the Piedmont Park case in this morning’s briefing.”

Parker nodded, watching as the detective gorged himself in three bites. Torrez’s partner shuffled past a minute later and grabbed the seat across from the man.

“’S’up?” Detective Smith jutted out his chin in his direction. “You need out [our] help, you let us know.”

Parker nodded. “You bet,” he answered, watching the black man pour no fewer than five sugar packets into a steaming cup of black coffee. “But, I doubt my vic’s a sex crime.”

“Where’s Perelli?” Torrez asked, wiping the grease and crumbs from his face with the back of his hand.

“Running a lead. I’ll be sure to tell him you’re trying to bust in on our case,” he jabbed.

The investigator [Aren’t they all detectives/investigators? Which one is this?]laughed off friendly banter and snatched up his ringing phone.

Parker returned to the files of paperwork sitting on desk.


Monday morning was fast becoming as challenging as the narrow stairwell itself. Witnesses, suspects, family, friends, bail bondsmen, attorneys and just about anyone else connected with the weekend’s crime spree scurried in and out of the muggy quarters with varying degrees of complaint. He found it increasingly difficult to concentrate on the forms before him, and after several attempts to ignore the rising roar, he surrendered. Retrieving his gun and holster from the locked desk drawer, he snatched his blazer off the rack and trudged through the maddening crowd toward escape.

After twelve years, the initial fancy of donning a stiff new uniform, complete with lethal weapon, was gone. People could so cruel in this day and age, more so to the ones they loved the most, were his thoughts as he shuffled past a battered woman huddled around her bruised children on his way out to get lunch. Battling cynicism had become a daily strain for most of the guys in the “hole”, a nickname bestowed upon the basement’s humble quarters. No one knew this sad fact more than he did.

A blood-curdling scream rose above the noise from somewhere within the squash of people when he reached the stairs. At first, he chose to ignore the pleas for help until the screams coincided with familiar voices of the department. Scanning the room, he pinpointed the source of the disturbance. Two officers struggled to restrain a towering, purple sequined transvestite. Efforts to handcuff the honey-skinned, Madonna failed as she landed a succession of low body blows, their cries of anguish far more earnest than her demand for mercy.

The furor continued uninterrupted as most near the commotion stepped back to watch the drag queen beat the shit out of the two men, a pair of long legs, bright pink pumps and matching handbag her lone source of defense. When the melee threatened to disrupt other departments, he mumbled a few expletives under his breath, then shoved his way through the congestion and grabbed the bitch by the back of the hair. The abrupt action confused the wielding giant, halting her assault. She turned and planted a knee into his groin. He cried out and stammered backward, the pain burning through his stomach and into his throat like a rush of acid reflux. He swung his arm forward. His fist smashed against the diva’s jaw, knocking her out cold as she hit the floor. Dead silence befell the room as those witnessing the shocking incident quickly resumed their business. He stood tall, straightened his jacket, gave the room a quick glance-over, and left without a word.

***

The Varsity, located on North Avenue in Midtown, has stood the test of time, as close to a landmark as anything in the city. Parker knew its history, having lived in the city for years, reading about every article written about it. He had an affinity for all things nostalgic, preferring the greasy fast-food over the more modern drive-thru restaurants closer to the squad.

At its peak, the seventy-five old restaurant employed close to a hundred carhops, each with their own number. In the fifties, the “hops” worked for tips only, which led them to all kinds of showmanship. Carhops would sing, tell jokes, rhyme, and dance, all in the quest for bigger tips. Whenever some national crisis occurred, reporters in town would flock to The Varsity for man-in-the-street quotes, certain they could assemble a demographic cross section of Atlanta in a matter of minutes. Visiting politicians headed to the white house, from Richard Nixon to Bill Clinton, had shown up just to have their pictures taken at the famous mark.

Inside the jammed restaurant, Parker moved with the crowd along the 150-foot stainless steel counter. At six-four, he could put away a lot of food for a man of his thirty-five years, but managed to stay fit by jogging and working out regularly at the local “Y”. Good genes didn’t hurt either. The Varsity didn’t serve the healthy diet of late, but the food was rather standard for most cops, especially those who were single.

He stepped forward to order his meal, two plain hot dogs, two burgers, fried onion rings and a large diet soda. The harried, counter waitress spouted out, “Walk me two naked dogs, two glorified, o-rings and an unleaded! Five, ninety-six. Next!”

Parker collected his tray of food and moved to the condiment counter where he loaded up with supplies before heading to the nearest dining area. The Varsity was chock full of various size dining areas, each separated by walls of glass. There were large square rooms, tight cozy rooms, sports memorabilia rooms, and so on. All were a turnout of popular trends of the time of never endless expansion efforts over the years.

He bought a copy of the newspaper from a boy peddling the latest edition inside. Do they still print from large drums? The ink was fresh and smudged slightly to the touch. He noted the discovery in Piedmont Park had commanded a two-inch column on the first page of the Metro news section, the byline written by veteran staff writer, Calvin Slade. He sneered, shoved half a hot dog in his mouth and began to read the article.

The story focused on the details, though sketchy, of the body found by a homeless man searching for a place to sleep. The identity of the victim eluded police, according to sources close to the investigation. There was no obvious cause of death, no motive and no identifiable suspects.

Parker noted that the reported filled in the gaps of the report by chronicling the renaissance of the one hundred sixty-eight acre, triangle-shaped park, the city’s largest remaining sprawl of virgin in town, bordered by Piedmont Road to the west, Monroe Drive to the east and 10th Street to the south. Resplendent with small lake, baseball fields, clay tennis courts, large pool, walking and running trails, as well as a recently added dog park.

The article reminded him of the rebirth the park experienced over the past three years. With a deep-pocket conservation plan, the nearly-complete five year, twenty million dollar revitalization project of freshly planted hardwood trees, newly poured pathways and proposal to enclose the large exposed sewage basin along the southeastern edge of the park earned accolades from the public. The facelift was largely attributed to the enterprising efforts of popular, Atlanta City Council President Mitchell Keyes, who just weeks earlier was discovered by police in the early morning hours asleep at the wheel of his car, keys in the ignition, engine running, foot parked on the break peddle brake pedal. The councilman’s car was spotted straddling the left shoulder of the Lenox Road exit ramp, northeast of the city just off Interstate 400 in the affluent[You’ve already mentioned that Buckhead is affluent. ] Buckhead community when an officer arrived on the scene.

Earlier that evening, the councilman had attended a political fundraising reception at the Fox Theater in Midtown before heading home. His blood alcohol level had registered twice the legal limit. He’d plead no contest before a night court judge and promptly posted bail. Publicly, he has denied all charges.

Parker finished his lunch and the article simultaneously and stopped by the bathroom before he headed back to the station.

Just My Personal Opinion:
Jon, there wasn't much to this chapter at all. I didn't see why it was included since a few places seemed to be out of place. But this is all moot if there will be references to this chapter later on.


Scott



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