The Book of Masks (Vol. 5)

Cop In, Cop Out

Previously: "The Blind One"  [BoM Interactive]

"Step away from the storefront!" The voice—harsh with electronic distortion—booms and buzzes in the cold December air. You wheel toward street, and an icy finger of wind slips into your flannel hood, stinging your ear. The black-and-white prowler, its lights flashing, grinds to a gentle stop a dozen yards away.

Instinctively, you raise your hands.

The car door opens, and an officer gets out. His dark, thick jacket covers a black, padded chest protector, and he wears a black cap pulled low over his eyes. Razor-like Ray-Bans disfigure his face, blighting what little soul and humanity shows between a hard, smooth forehead and cruelly curving lips.

Shit! You weren't expecting SWAT to show up.

"Can I ask what the fuck you're doing, sir," the officer says with cold, sneering politeness.

"I wasn't doin' nothin'," you snarl back.

The officer thrusts one gloved hand at you and drops the other to the holster at his hip. "Turn around and put your hands on the wall."

"I said I wasn't doin' nothin'!"

He unsnaps the holster flap.

"Look, take it easy, man," you say as you turn around and press your palms against the cold brickwork of the closed-up storefront. His answer is a a hard blow that catches you between your shoulder blades, pushing you against the wall. You cringe and duck.

Bad move.

A savage kick at your shin spins you halfway around even as you fall to one knee. You put out a hand to steady yourself, and your fingers slide over the officer's belt. With one swift motion he cracks you in the side of the chest with his baton. You howl, and collapse into a curl.

Through your tears you glare uselessly at the heavy boots of your tormentor, and as you writhe a second pair stride into view. "Fuck me, Ray," says the newcomer. "Looks we just busted a big-time dealer."

"I don't deal nothin', man," you mumble. "I was just—"

A sandwich bag plops heavily to the ground in front of your face. "I bet we'll find your fingerprints all over that shit," the new voice chortles.

"I didn't—! You can't—!" You wriggle away from it. "That shit ain't—!"

A strong hand seizes yours by the wrist and yanks it up; instinctively, you ball your hand into a fist. Crack! The baton slams across the back of your hand. You yell yard as your fingers fly open, and yell again as the officer slams your open hand atop the baggie. Without even thinking, you clench it hard. "Looks like possession to me," laughs one of the cops.

With another hard blow to your shoulder, they force you onto your stomach and roughly cuff your hands behind your back. "Get up," one of your captors snarls, and kicks you in the side of the stomach. You half vomit and half spit onto the rough ground as you struggle to your knees. A hand yanks your hoodie back and seizes you by your long dreadlocks, pulling you to your feet. You stumble and stagger as they push you into the back seat of the squad car.

You curl up as best you can on the seat, trying not to move. Doors slam as the two officers get into the prowler. They talk to each other and to the station, but you pay no attention to their words, for all your concentration is on forcing the pain down. You've no idea what they're saying until one of them barks, "Shut the fuck up back there." Only then do you realize you've been panting and gurgling. "You're not hurt."

"How much of this crap do you push each day at the school down the block?" one of the cops asks.

"I don't push that stuff, man," you mumble. "That ain't my shit."

"You was carrying at least five ounces," retorts one of the cops.

"Eight," says the other.

"Fuck me," says his friend. "We can't cover eight."

"Don't you assholes know how much you planted on me?" you growl.

You expect a sharp retort, but only get a harsh laugh. "That was fucking oregano, shit for brains. We don't gotta load the baggie till we got your prints on it—"

"Done and done!" the other laughs.

"—and get it back to the precinct. We can't cover eight?"

"Nah, I only got six left. Andrews hit me up for—"

"This used to be a free country," you mutter.

Silence from the front of the squad car. Then comes the creak of leather as one of them turns around. "When did niggers ever have the freedom of the place?"

You squeeze your eyes shut and press your face into the seat. Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me.

From the front seat: "Think he was carrying something more than a baggie of grass?"

"Wouldn't surprise me, but I don't got any—"

"I do."

"The fuck you say!"

"The fuck I don't!" Harsh laughter. "How do you think Mack wriggled into that job with the DEA?"

"With a fuck load of busts," the other says in a puzzled tone. "He had so many— Son of a bitch!"

The other laughs again.

"You were supplying him with—"

"Fuck, yeah. You think a moron like that could—?"

"Where you getting it?"

"Neighborhood I know. I leaned on the regular patrol to stop hasslin' some guys, then leaned on those guys in return for leanin' on the regulars."

Silence. "And what do you—?"

"Give it to guys like Mack and Andrews. And you." The seats up front creak.

"I thought we were partners," says the other, and his tone has turned cold.

"I'm just building up favors, Ray," says the other. "A guy can never have too many favors to call in."

"You gonna call in favors from me when—"

"Course not! We're partners. I'm just saying that if we want to bust the nigger for more than— Here, lemme show you where I got my shit stashed. I'll split it fifty-fifty with you, so you can start building up favors back at—"

The prowler jerks forward hard.

* * * * *

It's a drive of several miles, with the officers cursing you and each other lustily all the way. When the car stops, they yank you from the back seat and shove you toward a metal door. You have a brief glimpse of what looks like a warehouse before you're thrust into a dark, dank, cavernous space.

It's empty except for a wire cage against one wall, and you've barely time to notice it before they kick you to the floor. "So where's this treasure of Ali Baba," the officer called Ray asks. You raise your head and squint at the two cops.

"Over here," says the other, and claps his hand on his partner's shoulder. With his free hand, he takes something from his belt, and jabs it hard into the small of his friend's back. A loud crackling and snapping echoes off the walls, and Ray cries out briefly before collapsing. His partner grasps him and lets him slide gently to the floor, where he twitches a few times, then is still.

"Christ, Knotts, you look like shit," the other officer says as he stoops next to you and opens the cuffs.

"Eat me, Kips," you snarl. "Which one of you was it dropped the n-word on me?" You rub your newly freed wrists.

"Oh, that was Ray all the way," Kips laughs. "Here, lemme help you—"

"Just get a mask onto your partner. As soon as I get this one off—" You fumble at your face. "I'll be alright."

* * * * *

"You can't die a virgin, Knotts," Kips says as he yanks at the pants of the unconscious officer. "Why don't you let the Mustache fix you up?"

"No tats for me," you say as you peel off the last of your clothes. It's as cold as a meat locker, and you clap your arms around your slim torso. Your breath comes out in great clouds. "Hurry up over there!"

"You could stand to help!" Kips says as he finally pulls the pants free. With a grumble, you hop over and start unbuttoning the man's shirt. That gives Kips a nice eyeful of your hooters and your rapidly hardening nipples. "So, is it cold in here, or am I turning you on?" he chortles.

"I'm always happy to see you, Kips," you retort. He blinks, and a little smile comes to his face. "These jobs would be boring as hell if you weren't around to fuck them up."

"Ha! Any other notes, chief?"

"Did you have to be so much in ch-character?" Your teeth chatter. "I can still feel the bruises."

"I didn't touch you, Knotts, that was Ray every time."

"Are you sure?"

"Alright, maybe I kicked you once, just for show. But you're the one who insists we be in character." He takes a little tube from his pocket as the mask comes out of Ray

"Then I'll be over that corner getting into my new one." You take the mask and Ray's jacket with you.

* * * * *

Once dressed, you shake yourself out all over, settling the uniform evenly on your frame. With both hands you press the cap firmly down on your closely shaved skull, and lightly brush the hollow cheek that tautly stretches between your cheekbone and your jaw. You slip on the Ray-Bans. Then, so outfitted, you turn to the cage.

A filthy black man cringes in its corner, blinking at you from behind his dreadlocks; the whites of his eyes show as they roll in terror. You rest your hand on the hilt of your baton and raise your chin to peer down at him.

"Yeah, who's the nigger now?" you drawl at the doubly imprisoned Ray Robert Sullivan. "Look at me. Black brother in a cop's face and a cop's uniform. And you know what I'm gonna do with 'em, Ray? I'm gonna go home and fuck your woman. Make her happier than you ever did."

Danny Barone—that's your partner, Kips—touches your elbow.

"Be with you in a minute," you say, and brush him off. To the cop that Kips maneuvered your way, you taunt: "And don't bother screaming for your old friends neither, Ray. Chances are, it'll just be one of my homeboys already inside their body. Just like Danny here. You was one of the last. We only got a few more that still need swapping out, and then—"

You tap the cage with the tip of your baton.

Next: "The New Centurions" 

*
"Table of Contents (Vol. 5)" 
"The Book of Masks (Vol. 5)"