Police Acadamy 8: Big Apple Bust
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M through R › Police Academy
Rating:
Adult +
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4
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1,987
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Category:
M through R › Police Academy
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
4
Views:
1,987
Reviews:
1
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I do not own the Police Academy movie series, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.
Chapter 4
Police Academy 8: Big Apple Bust Chapter 4
Author's Note: Words in ( ) indicates the person speaking on the other end of the phone conversation.
*Ring....Ring....Ring.....Ri-*
“Hello?” mumbled a sleepy Sgt. Carey Mahoney, who had just awoken from a mid-day nap, into the receiver of his cordless phone.
(Oh Mahoney! Thank *God* you’re home!)
“Sweetchuck? What’s the problem? You get mauled by a Chihuahua or something?”
(NO! Not anything like that, this is MUCH worse!)
“Uh-huh.”
(Well, you remember how I told you I was going to New York to visit a cousin of mine...?)
“Yeah, I remember...”
(You won’t *believe* what happened when I got here. My cousin Malcolm was all nervous and then he threw me into a closet when someone knocked and then..*Sweetchuck continued to tell the rest of the story in normal Sweetchuck fashion...*)
“Really?” Mahoney's amused smile slowly faded as he heard the full details, an expression of worry taking its place.
(....and now I’m on the run and the NYPD all think I’m guilty! I don’t know what to DO, Mahoney! You gotta help me!)
“Oh my...Okay, Sweetchuck, just calm down, alright? I’m on my way!” Mahoney hung the phone up with near nerveless fingers. What in the world had the little guy gotten himself into? The NYPD suspecting him...a corrupt police commissioner...He was in some serious trouble. And if what Sweetchuck had said was true, and the NYPD really *were* under this guy’s thumb, then....He had to call the others. He was going to need back-up! Quickly rubbing the sleep from his eyes and muttering about how Sweetchuck had to interrupt his nap, Mahoney then proceeded to speed-dial Zed’s home phone number. It rang until the answering machine picked up.
“EhhHi. This is, ahh, this is Zed. Look, uhhow ‘bout you leave a message or somethin’, hah? ErraaaI’m gonna be mad if you don’t, ‘kay? Baiyee.” *BEEP!*
“Damn!” Mahoney groaned. He decided to contact Zed’s beeper number instead and leave a message that way.
Meanwhile…
“LESSEN, MISSER, NESS TAAM YA BETTA KEEP YERR HANZ OFFA LI’L OL’ LAYDEEZ, ER YAA’LL BEE CROOZ’N FORAA BROOZ’N!!”
Zed had just caught a thug trying to mug a defenseless little old lady, and now he had the crook by the front of the shirt. The wild police officer was barking at the hooligan in his barely-understandable voice, threatening to send the guy to the hospital if he saw him trying to commit the same petty crime again. As he was about to go on, the beeper on Zed’s belt started vibrating. He stopped yelling and grabbed for the pager.
“MmmYou’ll hafta ‘scyuze me,” Zed told the thug, checking the number and message. “HOT DAY-UMM! IT’S MAHONE! ‘Sweetchuck in trouble! Come to headquarters ASAP!’” He turned his attention back to the thief. “I gotta-aa run now, ya know? I gots to go help my li’l buddy out. But, ehhI’ll finish with yoo layter, hear?”
Finally dropping the thug, Zed quickly climbed into his patrol car and sped off, emergency lights blazing and siren wailing. Back at home, Mahoney was already calling up the next number on his phone’s speed-dial option. At the Tackleberry residence, Jessica was loading dirty laundry into the washing machine; suddenly the cordless phone in the kitchen practically rang off its base. Jessica ran to answer.
“Hello?”
(Jessica? That you?)
“Mahoney? What’s going on? I was in the middle of doing laundry and now you-“
(Listen, Jess, that can be taken care of another time. One of our guys is in trouble!)
Jessica gasped. “It’s not Eugene, is it?” she asked, concerned.
(Worse than that. Sweetchuck's in New York City visiting his cousin and he’s gotten himself into some big trouble involving the police department. We gotta get the rest of the guys rounded up so we can go and help him!)
“Whoa! Okay, who’ve you called so far?”
(Just Zed.)
“Got it,” Jessica said. “I’ll call my husband. Thanks for informing me of the situation, Mahoney.”
(Call Tac, then get your butts down to the precinct right quick.)
“Will do.” She hung up on Mahoney, then quickly phoned her husband’s cellular.
~*~
"PULL!"
TWANG!
The bright orange skeet flew across the sky in a wide arc as it was released from the machine that was used to throw it. Taking careful aim, Sgt. Eugene Tackleberry trained the barrel of his 9 mm handgun before firing off a round that had the clay target shattering into dust with the bullet's impact.
“YEAH! That’s what I like!” he shouted gleefully over getting yet another hit.
He blew across the barrel of the gun, then readied another bullet in the chamber. Just before he yelled “PULL!” to have another skeet tossed, the “Police Academy March” polyphonic ringtone Tackleberry had downloaded for his flip phone cut through the still air. He blushed slightly as he realized it was his phone that was ringing, so he reached down to his belt and checked the number on the outside screen. Tackleberry quickly picked up before the tone stopped playing.
“Tac here. What’s the word?”
(Honey? Where are you?)
“I’m out here at the firing range, Jessica. I need to keep my aim sharp for work. So what’s up that you’re calling?”
(I’ve got bad news for you. Sweetchuck’s in New York and has put himself in a serious, you might even say life-threatening, situation. The NYPD’s suspected him of a crime he didn’t commit; he needs us to come and bail him out.)
“Oh, man! Not again!” Tackleberry groaned, rolling his eyes and putting a hand to his forehead, clearly exasperated. A rescue assignment that just *had* to come in the middle of his target practice! “Who told you this?”
(Mahoney. Except he wasn’t joking this time. He sounded pretty sure of what Sweetchuck told him. Besides, I don’t think he’d kid around if a fellow officer’s in danger. Anyway, Mahoney said that everyone needs to get their rear ends in gear and meet at once at headquarters.)
“Read you loud and clear. I’m on my way.”
(Hurry, dear, but don’t try and get into any accidents doing so.)
“I’ll be careful, I promise.” He pressed the “End” button on his cell phone and shut it, then put it back on the belt clip. Tackleberry sprinted back to the building where he had paid for his session and told them he would be leaving early from the firing range; finally, he raced outside again to where he had parked his motorcycle, strapped on his helmet, and took off for the precinct. Over this span of time, Mahoney, now more awake, was still at home making calls to the other officers he worked with.
~*~
Across town, Laverne Hooks had just gotten off duty. Stopping by the local One Stop, the petite policewoman decided she needed to pick up a few items before heading home. She was right in the middle of the cereal aisle when her beeper went off. She removed it from her belt, taking note that Mahoney was paging her, and she wondered what he could possibly need. Making her way to the front of the store, she asked the cashier in her barely-above-a-whisper voice if she could use the phone. The young lady behind the register politely smiled and motioned her to the phone at the back of the store.
“Thank you,” Hooks replied meekly, then walked to the back, just missing the entrance door being opened as a suspicious-looking man walked in. Picking up the phone, she quickly dialed Mahoney's home phone number.
(Hooks? Is that you?)
“Yeah, Mahoney, it’s me. Long time no see.”
(Yeah, it has been, hasn’t it? But look, the reason I beeped you.... Sweetchuck’s in trouble and needs our help.)
“Sweetchuck? But wasn’t he supposed to go visit a relative this week?” Hooks asked, looking idly toward the fron the the store. She froze at what she saw. There was a man holding a gun on the young girl behind the counter who was currently casting frightened looks toward the man as she hastily gathered the money from the register. Hooks vaguely heard Mahoney as he continued to fill her in on Sweetchuck's situation, oblivious to what was going on at the other end of the line.
“Mahoney, could you please hold on a second?” Hooks spoke softly (well, more softly than usual) into the phone.
(Uh...yeah, okay. Sure, Hooks.) Mahoney sounded a bit baffled.
Hooks set the receiver down on the counter, placing her hand on her service revolver as she cautiously made her way to the front. By now, the robber had ordered the young woman to place the money in a paper bag he held in his free hand, and so Hooks decided it was time to stop him.
“Freeze.” She said it so softly that the robber didn't even hear her; he continued to order the woman to fill the paper bag with money.
“Ahem! I said, freeze!” The timid voice rose a bit more, though it still didn't draw the attention it was supposed to. The robber merely glanced over his shoulder at her for a second and, deeming her a non-threat, turned back and demanded the cashier open the safe. Finally, Hooks' body tensing and a scowl spread across her pretty face, she drew her revolver and screeched, “I SAID....FREEZE, SCUMBAG!!”
The robber instantly stiffened, his head turning slowly to stare in shock at the petite black woman dressed in police officer garb, holding a gun on him. Instantly she reverted back to her more timid speech pattern.
“That’s better, now lay the gun down so I can handcuff you. I have a phone call to finish.” On the other end of the phone, Mahoney was busy laughing his ass off.
~*~
Moses Hightower stepped out into the bright sunlight, exiting Judy's Flower Boutique, paper sack in hand. He smiled happily at his purchase, a dozen exotic flower bulbs in which he planned to set out in his garden at home. The giant of a man (were talking, like, nearly 7 foot here) walked across the parking lot in the direction of his ‘97 Ford S-10 pick up, when the sound of squealing tires caught his attention. He watched in horror as a 2003 Corvette backed up from across the lot top speed and crashed into the front of his truck, denting the fender severely. Dropping the bag, Hightower rushed over in time for the driver of the car, a young punk around the age of 18 or so, to stick his head out the window.
“What was the meaning of that, punk?! You’d better be able to pay for that, or else I’m hauling you down to the station!” Hightower growled angrily.
“Ha! Make me!” the punk in question spat back withig sig smirk plastered across his acne-marked face.
Obviously he has no respect for the law, Hightower thought as he watched the kid stick his head back into the car, clearly intending on just driving away.
“Oh no, you don’t,” Hightower muttered, taking a step over and grasping the back bumper of the Corvette with both hands. With a mighty heave, the gargantuan police officer picked the rear of the car up. The rear tires left the pavement completely and began spinning uselessly in the air.
“Hey, put it down, this car cost a fortune!!” the guy screamed from inside the car, where he clutched helplessly at the steering wheel.
“Not until you say you’re sorry,” Hightower replied coolly.
“I’m sorry, okay!? I’m sorry!!” the kid screamed, panicked. It was at this moment that Hightower’s cell phone rang. Fortunately, he had taken the phone into the flower shop with him. So *without* putting the car down, he simply took one hand off the bumper and plucked the tiny phone from his belt where he had clipped it.
“Hello?” he answered casually, as if he didn’t have a few hundred pounds lifted up by one hand.
(Hightower, I’m glad I caught...wait a minute. Who’s that screaming in the background?) Mahoney’s voice came through the cell phone over the screams of protest from the kid in the car.
“Hey, Mahoney! Ah, that’s just a little dirtbag with a pepperoni pizza for a face.”
(Oh, is that all?) Mahoney’s voice replied, never missing a beat. Knowing Hightower, this kid had something done to get on the big man’s bad side. He more than likely deserved whatever was happening to him. (So, what happened this time? Some punk try to run over the flowers in the front yard?)
Hightower grinned. “Nah, nothing like that. He just dented up my front fender a bit. So what’s up?”
Hightower listened as Mahoney informed him of the situat con continuing to ignore the pleas from the guy for him to put his car back down. At hearing his buddy Sweetchuck was in a life-threatening situation, the mountainous black man dropped the Corvette, none too gently, back onto the concrete as he hung up the phone. Walking around to the driver's side of the car, Hightower leaned in to look at the now cowering teen.
“I’m going to let you go for now. Consider yourself lucky; I’ve got good insurance and just pray that you do too, okay?” The guy nodded vigorously and immediately sped away as Hightower retrieved his precious flowers from the ground, climbed into his truck, and headed toward headquarters.
~*~
Mahoney’s next call was received at a popular comedy club, the Smoking Gun. Sgt. Larvell Jones had taken stand-up as a side job, entertaining when we was not on duty as a police officer. His act had begun nearly an hour ago, and he had the crowd splitting their sides with his unusual talent: the ability to imitate virtually any sound effect using only his mouth, and perhaps a megaphone to amplify certain sounds. He was in the middle of another joke, about to reach the punchline and cause the people present to go hysterical with laughter, when his beeper began chirping nonstop. He froze for a split second, then in a flash of inspiration decided to make it part of the routine.
“Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen, would you just hold on for a couple of minutes? I have a feeling Momma’s calling, and if Momma calls, you know it ain’t good.” The crowd gave a collective chuckle as Jones pretended to pull a cell phone out of his pocket. He mimed pressing the numbers to dial, then held the imaginary phone to his ear. “Hello?” Out of the corner of his mouth, he imitaspedsped-up garbled speech on the other end of the line.
“Uh, why hello, Momma.” He whispered loudly to the audience, “See, I got a sixth sense about these things. I learned from experience; Momma calls only when you done something that she says goes against the Holy Bible. ‘Course the Holy Bible don’t say ‘Thou shalt not perform comedy.’ At least, it didn’t till they added the Book of Momma Jones; then all hell broke loose.”
This time, a somewhat louder wave of laughs rippled throughout the room.
“She wrote that book, so she knows what you been up to.” He turned back to the phone, continuing the incomprehensible “voice” on the other end while he spoke. “Well, no, Momma. You see, I…Okay, you got me. I’m at the Smoking Gun doing a comedy show.” He paused.
“Momma, I know…Momma, yes, but…Mom-Momma…Momma, SHUT UP AND LISTEN FOR ONCE!”
He then loudly imitated the line being cut on the other end and put away his “phone”.
“That woman, you tell her to shut up and she takes it to mean ‘hang up’. Just goes to show Momma don’t take crap from no one, whether you her kid or not.” Jones then threw his voice backstage to sound like another guy was back behind the curtain.
“Hey, Jones! You gotta go somewhere! Supposedly it’s an emergency!” He turned back to the audience. “Sorry, folks, I hate to run off so soon. But you’ve been a wonderful audience, and now I better drive off into the sunset before I get my ass handed to me for being late to work or something.” He acted as if he was getting into a sports car and made engine-revving sounds with his mouth, then took a line from one of his favorite movies.
“Hi-ho, Silver! Away!” He quickly reversed his path back behind the curtain. Using his humorous skill, he imitated screeching tires and a crashing sound, and finally his normal voice resonated from backstage. “Oops! I’m outta here, before the owner sees this mess and tosses my act in the Dumpster out back of the club.”
The people seated at the tables exploded into uproarious gales of hysterical hooting and howling, then soundly applauded the act while Jones went to find a phone. He ended up borrowing a cellular from an employee at the club and dialing Mahoney’s number that way.
“Mahoney, what’re you doing paging me in the middle of my act? I had them going like you wouldn’t believe!”
(You’re gonna have to save the rest of the routine for another time, Jones. We’ve got a problem. It’s small, nerdy, and tends to get itself into big-time dilemmas.)
“You mean the little guy? Sweetchuck?” He sighed, knowing that he would be needed to dig his friend out of another hole. “I like him, you know? I just hate the fact that he tends to get in WAY over his head and then we have to go and bail him out.”
(I know. But he sounded like he was in bigger trouble this time than anything we ever had to deal with before. Some relative of his got hold of some information that could convict the NYPD police commissioner of corruption and was killed for his troubles, and now the police are suspecting Sweetchuck of being in on it, too.)
“Well, okay,” Jones finally said. “I’ll be there in a flash.” After hanging up and giving the phone back to the employee, he hurried out to his 2002 Chevy Cavalier and sped off to police headquarters.
~*~
Author's Note: Words in ( ) indicates the person speaking on the other end of the phone conversation.
*Ring....Ring....Ring.....Ri-*
“Hello?” mumbled a sleepy Sgt. Carey Mahoney, who had just awoken from a mid-day nap, into the receiver of his cordless phone.
(Oh Mahoney! Thank *God* you’re home!)
“Sweetchuck? What’s the problem? You get mauled by a Chihuahua or something?”
(NO! Not anything like that, this is MUCH worse!)
“Uh-huh.”
(Well, you remember how I told you I was going to New York to visit a cousin of mine...?)
“Yeah, I remember...”
(You won’t *believe* what happened when I got here. My cousin Malcolm was all nervous and then he threw me into a closet when someone knocked and then..*Sweetchuck continued to tell the rest of the story in normal Sweetchuck fashion...*)
“Really?” Mahoney's amused smile slowly faded as he heard the full details, an expression of worry taking its place.
(....and now I’m on the run and the NYPD all think I’m guilty! I don’t know what to DO, Mahoney! You gotta help me!)
“Oh my...Okay, Sweetchuck, just calm down, alright? I’m on my way!” Mahoney hung the phone up with near nerveless fingers. What in the world had the little guy gotten himself into? The NYPD suspecting him...a corrupt police commissioner...He was in some serious trouble. And if what Sweetchuck had said was true, and the NYPD really *were* under this guy’s thumb, then....He had to call the others. He was going to need back-up! Quickly rubbing the sleep from his eyes and muttering about how Sweetchuck had to interrupt his nap, Mahoney then proceeded to speed-dial Zed’s home phone number. It rang until the answering machine picked up.
“EhhHi. This is, ahh, this is Zed. Look, uhhow ‘bout you leave a message or somethin’, hah? ErraaaI’m gonna be mad if you don’t, ‘kay? Baiyee.” *BEEP!*
“Damn!” Mahoney groaned. He decided to contact Zed’s beeper number instead and leave a message that way.
Meanwhile…
“LESSEN, MISSER, NESS TAAM YA BETTA KEEP YERR HANZ OFFA LI’L OL’ LAYDEEZ, ER YAA’LL BEE CROOZ’N FORAA BROOZ’N!!”
Zed had just caught a thug trying to mug a defenseless little old lady, and now he had the crook by the front of the shirt. The wild police officer was barking at the hooligan in his barely-understandable voice, threatening to send the guy to the hospital if he saw him trying to commit the same petty crime again. As he was about to go on, the beeper on Zed’s belt started vibrating. He stopped yelling and grabbed for the pager.
“MmmYou’ll hafta ‘scyuze me,” Zed told the thug, checking the number and message. “HOT DAY-UMM! IT’S MAHONE! ‘Sweetchuck in trouble! Come to headquarters ASAP!’” He turned his attention back to the thief. “I gotta-aa run now, ya know? I gots to go help my li’l buddy out. But, ehhI’ll finish with yoo layter, hear?”
Finally dropping the thug, Zed quickly climbed into his patrol car and sped off, emergency lights blazing and siren wailing. Back at home, Mahoney was already calling up the next number on his phone’s speed-dial option. At the Tackleberry residence, Jessica was loading dirty laundry into the washing machine; suddenly the cordless phone in the kitchen practically rang off its base. Jessica ran to answer.
“Hello?”
(Jessica? That you?)
“Mahoney? What’s going on? I was in the middle of doing laundry and now you-“
(Listen, Jess, that can be taken care of another time. One of our guys is in trouble!)
Jessica gasped. “It’s not Eugene, is it?” she asked, concerned.
(Worse than that. Sweetchuck's in New York City visiting his cousin and he’s gotten himself into some big trouble involving the police department. We gotta get the rest of the guys rounded up so we can go and help him!)
“Whoa! Okay, who’ve you called so far?”
(Just Zed.)
“Got it,” Jessica said. “I’ll call my husband. Thanks for informing me of the situation, Mahoney.”
(Call Tac, then get your butts down to the precinct right quick.)
“Will do.” She hung up on Mahoney, then quickly phoned her husband’s cellular.
~*~
"PULL!"
TWANG!
The bright orange skeet flew across the sky in a wide arc as it was released from the machine that was used to throw it. Taking careful aim, Sgt. Eugene Tackleberry trained the barrel of his 9 mm handgun before firing off a round that had the clay target shattering into dust with the bullet's impact.
“YEAH! That’s what I like!” he shouted gleefully over getting yet another hit.
He blew across the barrel of the gun, then readied another bullet in the chamber. Just before he yelled “PULL!” to have another skeet tossed, the “Police Academy March” polyphonic ringtone Tackleberry had downloaded for his flip phone cut through the still air. He blushed slightly as he realized it was his phone that was ringing, so he reached down to his belt and checked the number on the outside screen. Tackleberry quickly picked up before the tone stopped playing.
“Tac here. What’s the word?”
(Honey? Where are you?)
“I’m out here at the firing range, Jessica. I need to keep my aim sharp for work. So what’s up that you’re calling?”
(I’ve got bad news for you. Sweetchuck’s in New York and has put himself in a serious, you might even say life-threatening, situation. The NYPD’s suspected him of a crime he didn’t commit; he needs us to come and bail him out.)
“Oh, man! Not again!” Tackleberry groaned, rolling his eyes and putting a hand to his forehead, clearly exasperated. A rescue assignment that just *had* to come in the middle of his target practice! “Who told you this?”
(Mahoney. Except he wasn’t joking this time. He sounded pretty sure of what Sweetchuck told him. Besides, I don’t think he’d kid around if a fellow officer’s in danger. Anyway, Mahoney said that everyone needs to get their rear ends in gear and meet at once at headquarters.)
“Read you loud and clear. I’m on my way.”
(Hurry, dear, but don’t try and get into any accidents doing so.)
“I’ll be careful, I promise.” He pressed the “End” button on his cell phone and shut it, then put it back on the belt clip. Tackleberry sprinted back to the building where he had paid for his session and told them he would be leaving early from the firing range; finally, he raced outside again to where he had parked his motorcycle, strapped on his helmet, and took off for the precinct. Over this span of time, Mahoney, now more awake, was still at home making calls to the other officers he worked with.
~*~
Across town, Laverne Hooks had just gotten off duty. Stopping by the local One Stop, the petite policewoman decided she needed to pick up a few items before heading home. She was right in the middle of the cereal aisle when her beeper went off. She removed it from her belt, taking note that Mahoney was paging her, and she wondered what he could possibly need. Making her way to the front of the store, she asked the cashier in her barely-above-a-whisper voice if she could use the phone. The young lady behind the register politely smiled and motioned her to the phone at the back of the store.
“Thank you,” Hooks replied meekly, then walked to the back, just missing the entrance door being opened as a suspicious-looking man walked in. Picking up the phone, she quickly dialed Mahoney's home phone number.
(Hooks? Is that you?)
“Yeah, Mahoney, it’s me. Long time no see.”
(Yeah, it has been, hasn’t it? But look, the reason I beeped you.... Sweetchuck’s in trouble and needs our help.)
“Sweetchuck? But wasn’t he supposed to go visit a relative this week?” Hooks asked, looking idly toward the fron the the store. She froze at what she saw. There was a man holding a gun on the young girl behind the counter who was currently casting frightened looks toward the man as she hastily gathered the money from the register. Hooks vaguely heard Mahoney as he continued to fill her in on Sweetchuck's situation, oblivious to what was going on at the other end of the line.
“Mahoney, could you please hold on a second?” Hooks spoke softly (well, more softly than usual) into the phone.
(Uh...yeah, okay. Sure, Hooks.) Mahoney sounded a bit baffled.
Hooks set the receiver down on the counter, placing her hand on her service revolver as she cautiously made her way to the front. By now, the robber had ordered the young woman to place the money in a paper bag he held in his free hand, and so Hooks decided it was time to stop him.
“Freeze.” She said it so softly that the robber didn't even hear her; he continued to order the woman to fill the paper bag with money.
“Ahem! I said, freeze!” The timid voice rose a bit more, though it still didn't draw the attention it was supposed to. The robber merely glanced over his shoulder at her for a second and, deeming her a non-threat, turned back and demanded the cashier open the safe. Finally, Hooks' body tensing and a scowl spread across her pretty face, she drew her revolver and screeched, “I SAID....FREEZE, SCUMBAG!!”
The robber instantly stiffened, his head turning slowly to stare in shock at the petite black woman dressed in police officer garb, holding a gun on him. Instantly she reverted back to her more timid speech pattern.
“That’s better, now lay the gun down so I can handcuff you. I have a phone call to finish.” On the other end of the phone, Mahoney was busy laughing his ass off.
~*~
Moses Hightower stepped out into the bright sunlight, exiting Judy's Flower Boutique, paper sack in hand. He smiled happily at his purchase, a dozen exotic flower bulbs in which he planned to set out in his garden at home. The giant of a man (were talking, like, nearly 7 foot here) walked across the parking lot in the direction of his ‘97 Ford S-10 pick up, when the sound of squealing tires caught his attention. He watched in horror as a 2003 Corvette backed up from across the lot top speed and crashed into the front of his truck, denting the fender severely. Dropping the bag, Hightower rushed over in time for the driver of the car, a young punk around the age of 18 or so, to stick his head out the window.
“What was the meaning of that, punk?! You’d better be able to pay for that, or else I’m hauling you down to the station!” Hightower growled angrily.
“Ha! Make me!” the punk in question spat back withig sig smirk plastered across his acne-marked face.
Obviously he has no respect for the law, Hightower thought as he watched the kid stick his head back into the car, clearly intending on just driving away.
“Oh no, you don’t,” Hightower muttered, taking a step over and grasping the back bumper of the Corvette with both hands. With a mighty heave, the gargantuan police officer picked the rear of the car up. The rear tires left the pavement completely and began spinning uselessly in the air.
“Hey, put it down, this car cost a fortune!!” the guy screamed from inside the car, where he clutched helplessly at the steering wheel.
“Not until you say you’re sorry,” Hightower replied coolly.
“I’m sorry, okay!? I’m sorry!!” the kid screamed, panicked. It was at this moment that Hightower’s cell phone rang. Fortunately, he had taken the phone into the flower shop with him. So *without* putting the car down, he simply took one hand off the bumper and plucked the tiny phone from his belt where he had clipped it.
“Hello?” he answered casually, as if he didn’t have a few hundred pounds lifted up by one hand.
(Hightower, I’m glad I caught...wait a minute. Who’s that screaming in the background?) Mahoney’s voice came through the cell phone over the screams of protest from the kid in the car.
“Hey, Mahoney! Ah, that’s just a little dirtbag with a pepperoni pizza for a face.”
(Oh, is that all?) Mahoney’s voice replied, never missing a beat. Knowing Hightower, this kid had something done to get on the big man’s bad side. He more than likely deserved whatever was happening to him. (So, what happened this time? Some punk try to run over the flowers in the front yard?)
Hightower grinned. “Nah, nothing like that. He just dented up my front fender a bit. So what’s up?”
Hightower listened as Mahoney informed him of the situat con continuing to ignore the pleas from the guy for him to put his car back down. At hearing his buddy Sweetchuck was in a life-threatening situation, the mountainous black man dropped the Corvette, none too gently, back onto the concrete as he hung up the phone. Walking around to the driver's side of the car, Hightower leaned in to look at the now cowering teen.
“I’m going to let you go for now. Consider yourself lucky; I’ve got good insurance and just pray that you do too, okay?” The guy nodded vigorously and immediately sped away as Hightower retrieved his precious flowers from the ground, climbed into his truck, and headed toward headquarters.
~*~
Mahoney’s next call was received at a popular comedy club, the Smoking Gun. Sgt. Larvell Jones had taken stand-up as a side job, entertaining when we was not on duty as a police officer. His act had begun nearly an hour ago, and he had the crowd splitting their sides with his unusual talent: the ability to imitate virtually any sound effect using only his mouth, and perhaps a megaphone to amplify certain sounds. He was in the middle of another joke, about to reach the punchline and cause the people present to go hysterical with laughter, when his beeper began chirping nonstop. He froze for a split second, then in a flash of inspiration decided to make it part of the routine.
“Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen, would you just hold on for a couple of minutes? I have a feeling Momma’s calling, and if Momma calls, you know it ain’t good.” The crowd gave a collective chuckle as Jones pretended to pull a cell phone out of his pocket. He mimed pressing the numbers to dial, then held the imaginary phone to his ear. “Hello?” Out of the corner of his mouth, he imitaspedsped-up garbled speech on the other end of the line.
“Uh, why hello, Momma.” He whispered loudly to the audience, “See, I got a sixth sense about these things. I learned from experience; Momma calls only when you done something that she says goes against the Holy Bible. ‘Course the Holy Bible don’t say ‘Thou shalt not perform comedy.’ At least, it didn’t till they added the Book of Momma Jones; then all hell broke loose.”
This time, a somewhat louder wave of laughs rippled throughout the room.
“She wrote that book, so she knows what you been up to.” He turned back to the phone, continuing the incomprehensible “voice” on the other end while he spoke. “Well, no, Momma. You see, I…Okay, you got me. I’m at the Smoking Gun doing a comedy show.” He paused.
“Momma, I know…Momma, yes, but…Mom-Momma…Momma, SHUT UP AND LISTEN FOR ONCE!”
He then loudly imitated the line being cut on the other end and put away his “phone”.
“That woman, you tell her to shut up and she takes it to mean ‘hang up’. Just goes to show Momma don’t take crap from no one, whether you her kid or not.” Jones then threw his voice backstage to sound like another guy was back behind the curtain.
“Hey, Jones! You gotta go somewhere! Supposedly it’s an emergency!” He turned back to the audience. “Sorry, folks, I hate to run off so soon. But you’ve been a wonderful audience, and now I better drive off into the sunset before I get my ass handed to me for being late to work or something.” He acted as if he was getting into a sports car and made engine-revving sounds with his mouth, then took a line from one of his favorite movies.
“Hi-ho, Silver! Away!” He quickly reversed his path back behind the curtain. Using his humorous skill, he imitated screeching tires and a crashing sound, and finally his normal voice resonated from backstage. “Oops! I’m outta here, before the owner sees this mess and tosses my act in the Dumpster out back of the club.”
The people seated at the tables exploded into uproarious gales of hysterical hooting and howling, then soundly applauded the act while Jones went to find a phone. He ended up borrowing a cellular from an employee at the club and dialing Mahoney’s number that way.
“Mahoney, what’re you doing paging me in the middle of my act? I had them going like you wouldn’t believe!”
(You’re gonna have to save the rest of the routine for another time, Jones. We’ve got a problem. It’s small, nerdy, and tends to get itself into big-time dilemmas.)
“You mean the little guy? Sweetchuck?” He sighed, knowing that he would be needed to dig his friend out of another hole. “I like him, you know? I just hate the fact that he tends to get in WAY over his head and then we have to go and bail him out.”
(I know. But he sounded like he was in bigger trouble this time than anything we ever had to deal with before. Some relative of his got hold of some information that could convict the NYPD police commissioner of corruption and was killed for his troubles, and now the police are suspecting Sweetchuck of being in on it, too.)
“Well, okay,” Jones finally said. “I’ll be there in a flash.” After hanging up and giving the phone back to the employee, he hurried out to his 2002 Chevy Cavalier and sped off to police headquarters.
~*~