Lucas Miller

I am out in an unmarked car with two fellow detectives. My partners today are Joe, a handsome, wry, dark Irish fellow, and Sean, also Irish, who shares his coloring and general determination with his yellow Labrador retriever. I am in the back seat. Joe is driving. We are enjoying the stereotypical cups of coffee, no doughnuts. Sean says, “Have you guys ever had that Ben and Jerry’s ice cream? I never tried it before. My wife brought home this Chubby–”

“Chubby Hubby!” Joe yells and starts waving his hands in the air. The car starts lurching back and forth. Sean catches his coffee cup as it slides off the dashboard. “I love that stuff! I go through like a pint of that a night! You gotta try the Phish Food. The Cookie Dough doesn’t have enough cookie dough, though. Too much vanilla, not enough dough. But the Chocolate Fudge Brownie is the best. Oh my God, that stuff is so good. I’m losing control of the car. I have to go find some ice cream.”

I pipe in, “I really like the Coffee Coffee Buzz Buzz Buzz.”

The car straightens out. Joe cocks his head toward the back seat and says to Sean, “Ah, Miller’s got the sophisticated palate.”

We are interrupted by the sight of the guy we are looking for. We’ve watched him buy marijuana a couple of blocks away. Big case. We follow him over to a railing overlooking the East River, where we identify ourselves and request that he hand over the cheeba and not fuck around. Naturally, his reaction is to attempt to pitch his new acquisition into the river, but I catch his hand mid-throw. At this point he tenses up and brings his other hand up like a fighter. Fortunately, as the gravity of the situation envelops him, he relaxes, hands me the drugs, and puts his other hand down. Now, we aren’t really that interested in him beyond making a case against the guy who sold him the stuff. Sean puts a friendly hand on his shoulder and asks him, “You got any more weed?”

“No, sir.”

Joe asks, “You got ID?”

“Yes, sir.”

I ask, “You got any weapons on you?”

“Uh, I have this knife.” He withdraws a folding knife. Sean snatches it.

“Let’s see that ID,” Joe says.

“And this. And this.” He is pulling things out from every pocket of his clothing. Knives, blackjacks, little pointed sticks, odd-shaped things that are only identifiable as weapons from the matte-black metal of which they are made. We are getting nervous, but the guy is being pretty docile. He is caught and he probably figures that the easier he makes this on us, the easier we might make it on him. As he takes each thing out, he tells me what it is–kubaton, pakua star, push-dagger. The last thing he takes out is a metal cylinder attached to his keys with some levers on one end.

“Where is that ID?” Joe is getting impatient.

He hands some cards to Joe. The guy actually seems to be enjoying the attention. “Hey, are those Glocks you guys are carrying?”

“What’s this?” I hold up the strange cylinder and keys.

Joe, examining two different cards, barks at him, “This says your first name is James and this one says it’s Michael. Which is it? James or Michael? This a real license? Where did you get this?”

“What is this?” I ask, still examining the cylinder.

“My first name is James, but people call me by my middle name, Michael, so I put it down for my Florida license. In New York, they wanted my full name for my license. Are you guys taking me to jail?”

“You know, pal, you’re not supposed to have two licenses,” Sean offers.

As I casually fumble with the strange key chain, I hear a hissing sound, but don’t pay much attention. Of course, what I am doing is spraying Mace on Joe and Sean. Obliviously, as they start yelling and coughing, the guy says, “That shoots Mace,” and happily waits for our next question. My partners attempt to wash out their eyes with the only liquid on hand, which is coffee, and begin to plan my imminent demise. Our new friend stands there serenely. I begin to imagine the paperwork and questions arising from Macing my partners. The guy asks, “Do you guys really need to take me in? How about I just promise not to do it again?”

Joe manages to glare at me, coffee running down the front of his jacket: “No, you can’t just promise not to do it again.”

When we are finished with our big arrest, I buy my partners off with ice cream. Joe holds out for Chocolate Fudge Brownie.