A Journal of Humor and Verbal Anarchy

 

hi-flyers, the IPD bike patrol

The afternoon sun sparkled on Officer Lance Romero's polished helmet and turned the lenses of his shades into dark ovals that made him resemble an extraterrestrial. He leaned on his handlebars, squinting at the squirrel that hopped from doorway to doorway along the line of storefronts. Romero knew he could easily pick the critter off with one shot from the Browning automatic strapped to his waist. A 12 year veteran of the IPD, Romero knew that, while the idea of putting a round into a squirrel on the Commons was a highly entertaining idea, it would probably not advance his career. The animal rights activists in Ithaca, vegans that they all were, would have him for breakfast. Then he'd have to shoot them, every single one of them. Nobody messed with Lance Romero. No one.

Romero listened to the steady hum of static coming from his walkie talkie. It was a quiet Friday downtown. He recognized a lot of the faces of people hanging around the Commons. The Thorazine shufflers, making their self appointed rounds, mumbling like pigeons, eyes fixed on the ever distant horizon; the regular street people, many of whom dabbled in shoplifting and petty thefts to support themselves. They all gravitated over to the round, potbellied figure sitting on a bench, wearing shades, a too small shirt size and an inscrutable smirk, a fence whom the Bike Squad had nicknamed Ali Baba. Then there were the homeboys, baggy jeans ballooning around their ankles, making up raps as they walked, slapping flesh as they met up with each other under the Cayuga St. pavilion. Romero knew them all. He was quite comfortable with the rhythms of small town life, happy to be outdoors on this particular sunny afternoon, proud to be a member of an elite police unit.

The IPD bike squad, Ithaca's finest, crime fighters in shorts. Patrolling downtown on their hi-flyers, spreading the gospel of community policing. A small unit, only five members (the only members of the force that looked half-way decent in bermudas and could shoot and pedal at the same time), they were the vanguard of IPD's downtown response team, masters of mayhem, guardian angels of the public trust. The Bike Squad were always the first to appear at fender benders, street melees, purse snatchings, bar fights and backyard chicken barbecues.

Between crime waves, members of the unit could be spotted sitting in on chess matches across from Autumn Leaves, enforcing the dog ordinance, running shotgun at the hot dog concession. These weren't your average cops who hung out at the donut shop, sugar powder dappling their chins, adding mass to their midriffs, drinking cup after cup of free coffee. The Bike Squad were all fit, trim, athletic, leg muscles bulging, tanned from long hours of sitting around on their hi-flyers, watching college girls drift by with their Shalimar bags, tight as skin jeans and a cell phone invariably glued to one ear.

Romero spotted a couple of suspicious looking dudes coming out of the Fleet bank building, wearing ski masks - a fact he filed in the back of his mind as being odd since it was nearly 70 degrees outside. One was carrying a large canvas sack and brandishing something that looked like one of those machine gun water pistol so popular on hot summer days.

At that moment, the walkie talkie on his lapel crackled into life.

"Chicken barbecue at 140 W. Geneva. Repeat, a 502 in progress. "

Romero slammed sneaker to pedal and bolted into action. He didn't want to get there after Sgt. Bullwinkle. That guy had a formidable capacity for barbecued wings. It figured, though. The sergeant drove a black and white, and didn't have to sweat all that chicken fat and barbecue sauce off in the hot sun.
Comments invited at: ezrakidder@gmail.com - Peace, Ezra at 8:38 AM