Sergeant Jasmine Franklin was going to make it through this shift with her dignity intact. Why was her rain gear in her locker instead of her saddlebags? Because she’d let discipline slip. Well, as sure as Jazz was going to end up—however reluctantly—next to her mother at church on Sunday, she was going to get this intersection moving. And if getting soaked was what it took to remind her to double-check next time, so be it. She had the two disabled cars off to where they’d cause the fewest problems, and she had something of a sequence going: Krog, then DeKalb westbound and middle lane, Krog, DeKalb westbound and right lane, alternating so eastbound traffic could get around the disabled cars. She was almost beginning to enjoy herself; she even let the chick on the bike through instead of chewing her out for riding between the lanes. Like a biker was going to listen.
Then the BMW nearly killed her, and wrecked her rhythm. Motherfucker. And Tag Applied For? Jazz looked longingly at her motorcycle, then imagined the lieutenant busting her chops for leaving her post to chase the guy down.
Two more cycles, and there was a suburban grandma type leaning out the window of her SUV. “I’ve got a rain paaaancho,” she said in that Fargo accent. “You look real wet.”
Jazz made herself smile. “Ma’am, I ain’t getting any wetter. Thanks; but move on.”
And then another cycle, and some Arab kid was leaning out his window. “You have to help,” he said with no accent. “That Beemer? There’s a little boy in there. He wrote HELP ME on the window. I think he’s been kidnapped.”
Jesus Shitbird. Three-quarters of an inch of rain and every driver in Atlanta turns into a crazy bitch. “Sir, you’re blocking traffic. Please move on.”
“No, you have to listen. That boy: you could tell. The driver? Saw me looking. That’s why he went through and splashed you. You have to help.”
Jazz gritted her teeth, made every muscle in her mouth make the smile. “Sir, you need to move on.”
“Do you really want to antagonize me? Here and now? Move on.”
The guy shook with rage or frustration, but drove away, leaving his window open in the pouring rain.
And then when she’d finally got things moving again, her lapel mike crackled to life. And she heard Amber Alert. And the description of a little white boy. And then she was spinning in a slow circle, each arm outstretched with the palm held up so all the drivers could see the orange triangles stitched to her palms, and then she was gunning the bike, lights and sirens, up the hill and eastbound toward Moreland.
Isolated Afternoon Thundershowers (3)
Posted by Julian Cage on Tue 24 Sep 2013