= A Secret Affair
  by Jeffrey Hunter

John parked in the alley beside the Waffle House, under the shade of an old live oak. Leaves crackled under the tires, and the tree itself appeared starved for water in the hot, windless morning. No relief from the heat wave, not according to the paper. He left the cool of his car and felt the stifling sun embrace him, nearly burning the breath out of his lungs. John could hear the industrial air-conditioner beside the building straining to meet the demands of the customers inside the restaurant.

Inside, uniformed waitresses busily attended to the morning rush, while another unloaded a stainless steel dishwasher, clinking heavy coffee mugs together as she set them down. Scents of bacon, sausage and country ham emanated from a large griddle in the open kitchen area. John found a booth in the far corner and, out of habit, sat facing the door, a decision he regretted once he saw who was sitting opposite him in the adjacent booth.

Tom Stern. A squat, silver-haired defense attorney with finely groomed facial hair and thin, blood-red lips. Two things he always wore that John saw as beacons to his presumptuous personality--a diamond encrusted gold Rolex, and a fat ruby ring from his alma mater. Another man was sitting across from Stern. In his Guy Richards T-shirt and baseball cap, he was glaringly ordinary beside the attorney. Probably pro bono shit, John thought.

"John Butscher. How have you been?" Stern pronounced the name as butcher. John knew damn well Stern knew the correct pronunciation, boo-shay; you don't practice criminal defense as long as he had and not know the names of the local cops.

"Not bad, Tom."

"Why are you all dressed up, John, you have court today?"

"I'm plainclothes now?" He wished he'd sounded more authoritative.

"Oh, really? Doing what, vice?"

Vice. What a dickhead, John thought. Vice was for guys who didn't do a lot of thinking. Stern knew that.

"Persons crimes."

"Oh, good for you. Well, I'm sure I'll see you in court."

Stern waved his hand, the one with the fat ruby ring protruding like a swollen knuckle. John nodded and by that time a middle-aged waitress had approached John's table. She wore too much makeup, like every other greasy-spoon waitress he knew, but her smile was sincere.
	
"John Butch. I thought that was you. I didn't recognize you outta uniform," she said.
	
Butch was what he went by on the street. After all, a cop named "butcher"--and sooner or later everyone mispronounced it that way--was going to have a tough time building rapport with the community. John ordered the special with grits and a coffee. Coffee. On a day like this, he thought to himself.

On midnight shifts, he'd always driven through the Coffee Cup, ordered a hot one to go and then added a generous amount of bourbon to the styrofoam cup. Not that the combination was anything to throw your hair back, but the bitter smell of chicory coffee kept his secret safe, both in the cup and on his breath. Now, unaccustomed to such early hours, John wondered if he could take his coffee normal. He took off his dark sunglasses and began sifting through the paper.

The waitress returned and set a steaming mug in front of him. Small cream packets toppled out of her hand. She made a motion to sit down across from him. He hoped the grimace he'd formed in his mind wasn't noticeable on his face.

"So you're a detective now," she said, with a sort of gasping bewilderment.

Before the waitress could sit down, Charlie, the frail, suntanned man laboring at the griddle, called out ORDER UP. She patted John's table and smiled, then left. He thought about taking his sportcoat off and throwing it on the opposite seat, or heaving his feet up so she couldn't sit down, but that would be rude. In-your-face-rude. Not that he wasn't up to it, but he enjoyed the Waffle House, and the one place you don't burn bridges is your favorite eating hole.
	
John took a swallow of hot coffee and immediately frowned at its insipid flavor. Should've made a cup this morning, he thought. He'd just made the switch to day shift and he found himself without a routine, awkwardly out of place in the daytime.

The Golden Rule was never to drink straight from the bottle. Never without the coffee. Many things were tolerated by the Brass and even more by the street cops, but one universal taboo was that you never drink on the job. It could get another cop killed.	

John rose from the table. It was a rash move, but he was on auto-pilot, and by the time he'd convinced himself it was safe, he was already in the car. She was stashed underneath the passenger's seat, neatly wedged in the internal springs. A flap of loose fabric concealed her from anyone who might look under the seat. Before moving for her, John scanned the alley, the parking lot, and everywhere else that was in view, twisting as if he were searching for something in the back seat. Nothing. No dark-tinted vehicles, no one idling around or hiding in the trees. Satisfied, he laid back down across the front seat. He drank and watched the sunlight glittering in the treetop above him. There was that big yellow ball again. It seemed like a stranger to him after working two years under the moon.

A black Ford Taurus pulled into the parking lot. Dark, nearly opaque windows. Internal Affairs was John's immediate thought. Or worse, some Brass stopping for breakfast. John cursed himself for not taking the usual precautions. Carefully, he kept his eyes away from the vehicle, moving quickly into the restaurant and back to his table. Safe. C'mon, John chided himself as he greedily swallowed his coffee, if they knew you were a drinker, why would they give a detective slot? He couldn't see the Taurus anymore, and no one had come in.

The hot, buttery smell of grits washed over his table as the waitress set down his breakfast. Instead of sitting like before, she leaned on the side of the booth.
	
"So, John, when did you make detective?"

Not this, not now, he thought. Crinkling his paper, and not looking her in the eye, he said, "Just this week." He continued to look at the paper. It was a subtle hint, not quite enough to be rude.

"Well good for you, John. So are you vice?"

Again. Maybe I just look like an idiot, John thought.

"No, Persons Crimes."

She continued to ramble, something about wanting to go back to school because she hates the Waffle House, and then she began talking about other people. Henry the transient, veteran of some foreign war or another, Ruby the lonely old rich woman who kept her sidekick, Buddy, well fed and housed since he had no job and wasn't even looking for one, though Ruby didn't know that, and blah blah blah. A hushed reference to that prick Stern was in there somewhere.

Having exhausted the people she knew, she started to speak about the people she didn't know. A lovely young couple, maybe students at the community college and oh how she wanted to get back to school. An older man with a military buzz-cut eating alone. Was he on his way somewhere or was he just a lonely old man with nowhere to go? Some college kids wearing fraternity shirts, one in particular was pretty cute if only she were younger, then the black woman with an impressive weave who didn't order anything and kept looking out into the parking lot, and blah blah blah.

For the second time, Charlie the Cook saved him: Order up!
	
John made a mental note to bring someone along next time, but then he laughed to himself. He didn't know a soul on day shift. Well, no one he could trust at least.

John always had a styrofoam cup full of hot coffee from the Coffee Cup drive through. It was a fixture in his patrol car. Several refills at the Circle K, but always the same cup to prevent some IA asshole from digging it out of the trash and having it tested for alcohol. And it never left his sight, not when there was booze in it.

John was in the middle of a hot, sweaty love affair with the booze, and he knew she could end his career, make him a worthless, skinny sack of bones leeching off of some old rich broad. He glanced over at Buddy. But that was it, wasn't it? Every day he survived with his job and reputation intact, he was victorious. The thrill of controlling the fiery bitch that held endless capacity for pleasure, wasn't that part of it? She was HIS slave, HIS whore, and HE had control. John glanced at Buddy on the way to the front door. No way, not me baby, he said to himself, and he went outside to touch his lover again.
	
The waitress was freshening his coffee when he got back.
	
"Say, can I get a cup to go?" he asked.
	
"Sure, Hun, right away."

That's good, he thought. He leaned back against the booth and stared out the window. Nothing but bright blue sky. It was a great day. He was in the mood to talk now, but the waitress was occupied somewhere else.

Order up! Charlie the Cook was keeping her busy.
	
Order up!
	
ORDER UP! Charlie the Cook sounded angry. John looked over at the griddle and saw Charlie the Cook standing stupefied with a dirty steel spatula in hand. What an odd look on his face, John thought. And then he realized: Charlie the Cook was staring at a menacingly huge black shotgun in the hands of a masked man.
	
HANDS UP!

Another black man, wearing a knit hat and blue bandana across his nose and mouth, charged over to John's side of the restaurant and began demanding wallets, jewelry and any other fucking thing you got that might save your sorry ass. Frantically, John searched the table top for a weapon. The plate. A heavy, ceramic plate half-full of eggs and grits. If there was shooting, he'd go to war with the plate, hurling it like a frisbee at the one closest to him. For a moment, he'd forgotten the Sig Sauer .45 secured to his left hip, concealed under his sportcoat. His hands and arms were rubbery. Fear, or the booze? He didn't know, but both together couldn't be good.

Oh, you bitch, give me courage, give me courage. He repeated it silently in his head like a mantra. She didn't. Instead, she sat back there, playing with his mind, with his emotions, toying with his muscles.
	
"Wallet, mother-fucker!"	

John looked up stupidly. From the griddle the other man, taller and much skinnier yelled. "That look like a fuckin' cop. Make sure he ain't no cop!"

"Sheeeit, ain't no cop! He's a drunk mother-fuckin' salesman. Now gimme the fuckin wallet!"

John shot a look at Stern. It was a jewel for him, something he'd tuck away for a rainy day. But the lawyer's face was flushed, and his eyes were fixed on the table beneath him. Nothing registered in his mind, thankfully.
	
Stupid fucking nigger, John thought, fearful that he almost voiced the words in his drunken state. That silent thought of dissent was the only spark of courage his mistress allowed.

John handed over his wallet, making sure it was the one without the badge. Then the bitch gave him a vision. It was him, handing over his wallet, only it was the one with the badge. When the asshole opened it up, wide-eyed and disbelieving like dime-store robbers always are when they thought they'd cased the joint so thoroughly, John would sink down under the table, and all in one motion, draw, point, and blow the ass out of his socks. Instead, he sat motionless, staring at the yellow mash of eggs and grits on his plate, praying there would be no gunfire. The robber moved on down the line of tables, collecting booty, including Stern's ruby ring and Rolex. John figured with that loot, they'd be satisfied and get da'Hell out without shooting.
	
"C'mon, nigga," yelled the man with the shotgun. He'd just collected the register cash from Charlie the Cook. Some words were exchanged as the transfer took place, but John was hardly listening, until the deafening roar shook the fear of God into him. A wash of panic flooded the restaurant, and Charlie the Cook fell back onto the griddle, his head terribly misshapen and red.
	
"What da fuck nigga! What you shootin fo'!"

"He recognized me!"

The shotgun man ratcheted another shell into the chamber.

"Nobody fucking move! Shut up!"

Silence. The spent shotgun shell bounced hollowly onto the linoleum floor. The wallet man waved his Tech-9 machine pistol in John's direction and yelled something at everyone like, I got all your fucking wallets so I's better not see nobody in no court! His belly danced wildly as he bounced backwards towards the door, behind the slim one. Draw. Point. Shoot. John knew it was time. His eyes moved towards the door. No. She was there. That bitch, holding him back, cajoling him into doing nothing. He was feeling so good, why go and ruin it by catching a bullet in the head? This is the safe way, John, the easy way. No need to be a hero. Especially a dead hero. Okay, he told himself, just be cool. Once they were outside, John stood up and began walking towards the door, his .45 in hand.

"911," he yelled to nobody in particular.

"Dammit, Butscher, do something!"

It was Stern, whining. That instant gave John a bit of cheer. A man who was used to doing the shitting just got shit on.

John could hear muffled sobs and a frightening gurgle noise from the area of the griddle. Charlie the Cook dying. The metallic stink of gunpowder was heavy there. John was about to push open the door when a paralyzing wave of air and noise hit him all at once. Glass shattered and exploded around him. Everyone cascaded to the floor. Except the black woman with the weave. She was hunched in a shooter's position, but her pistol wasn't working anymore. A round had stove-piped in the chamber and she was shaking the pistol violently.

John rolled onto his back, feeling the sharp glass crackle under his weight. He found a sight picture and squeezed off a round. The woman dropped her weapon, turned and ran down a narrow corridor. Once she swung open the emergency exit door, a piercing alarm wailed from some unknown source within the building. A mad stampede of people poured out of the place, nearly trampling John on their way. All he saw before he fell again was the weave disappearing into that black Ford Taurus, which was already moving. The cloth of his slacks opened up at the knee, but there was no pain.
	
Where was all this sudden bravado originating, John thought to himself. Before he knew it, he had ripped open the door of his sedan, fallen into the driver's seat and shoved the key into the ignition In seconds, he was flying down the alley in an attempt to head them off. He yelled into the radio mike, giving his location, direction of travel and a brief description of the fleeing vehicle, hoping the dispatcher could translate it.

The car was a relatively new Crown Victoria, but the internal electronics were not the same as the patrol cars. There was no intricate console that controlled the lights and siren, there was no console at all. Instead, a blue bubble light was mounted on the dashboard, but John could not figure it out. It remained lifeless. He couldn't find the siren either.

The sedan lurched onto a side street. John opened it up, heading for the main highway to the west. A deep, metallic hum arose from the engine, and eventually it became a scream. Still no siren.
	
John updated his location to dispatch. He braked hard, then turned right onto 610. A sickening odor of exhaust and burned rubber rushed into the car. He'd made it. They were behind him, and closing fast. In the moment the Ford overtook him, John saw the heavy-set black man in the front passenger's seat, his gold teeth gleaming brightly as he mouthed the words, FUCK YOU. And then the Ford was gone, charging ahead of him like a black missile.
	
In minutes the pursuit left the city limits and continued into the rural pastures and gentle hills of horse country, yet no marked units were involved. Only John. Only you, you drunk fucking idiot, he said over the shrilling in his head.

The air was a deafening whoosh against the windshield, and John pushed the sedan as fast as it would go. 100...110.... Far ahead, he saw brake lights, and the Ford disappeared around a bend in the road.
	
John approached the bend quickly. A billow of brown dust rose lazily into the treetops off to the left of the road, just before the Chocatawa River bridge. He slowed the sedan to a stop, reversed, and found the Ford resting on an old dirt road that many locals used to access the river. Apparently it had lost traction and slid off the hardtop, colliding with a huge oak tree. It had spun 180 degrees and now sat facing the road. John shifted the sedan into PARK. The Crown Vic ticked incessantly while he assessed the situation. He approached the Ford with his .45 in a high ready position.
	
Mixed with the smell of hot pine was the smoldering odor of engine oil and a variety of other fluids that leaked out of the Ford. From inside came the feeble whine of a person broken in many places. The heavy man was obviously dead, his neck crooked in such a way that his right cheek was resting on the back of his left shoulder. Somehow the spider-webbed windshield had kept the flying body inside, though by doing so it cracked the man's neck. Hooray for Ford, John thought.

The woman, who had been in the rear seat, had sailed headfirst into the vertical door post on the passenger's side. She was by far the messiest. A deep fissure had opened up on top of her head, spilling brain matter and fluids all around her. With a crushed skull, her head was compacted, and John thought she looked like a pumpkin.
	
The driver sat sideways in his seat. He hadn't been wearing a seat belt, but the air bag saved him from his accessories' fate. John moved the .45 close to the driver's face.

"Officer, officer, please. I can't move my legs. Don't let me drown, officer, please."

"Shut da'fuck up," John said. He was still wired with adrenaline, not to mention the fact that these assholes not only interrupted his breakfast, but shot at him.

"Please, I can't swim, Officer."

"Shut up." The last thing the asshole had seen must have been the front of his car flying off the road towards the river.

"Look, I got something for you, Officer. I don't wanna drown! On my mama's grave, I swear it's the truth. You remember that necklace got stolen off that old lady?"
	
The Anna Hail case. It had been the hottest case in Persons Crimes for a long time, but now it was a cold fish, filed away in storage. Wow, John thought, wouldn't that be a peach--just transferred to Persons Crimes and already he's solved a big one. The robbery had been purely a crime of opportunity. Anna Hail had been going into a big-deal art show at the Blue Moon Gallery when a passing vehicle stopped and a black male rushed out. Classic cut and run, only while he was cutting her purse, he'd seen the necklace and snatched that instead. John couldn't remember if they'd gotten a legible print off the patent leather purse.

Anna Hail had put up a thousand dollar reward for information leading to the arrest and conviction of the "brazen thief". Those were her own words. Around the office he was afforded less cordiality and given the title JAFN. Just Another Fucking Nigger.
	
"What about the necklace?" John asked, wondering if he'd just bagged JAFN.

"I's got the necklace, Officer. Now please get me outta here."

When John starting walking back to the hardtop, the black man began shrieking, carrying on about the car sinking.

"Shut up! You're not in the water," John yelled back to him.

The shrieks diminished into sporadic moans as John climbed up the steep path back to his vehicle. He opened the trunk and donned a pair of heavy gauge rubber gloves, then returned to the Taurus.

"Where's the fucking loot, asshole?"

"I's don't know, Officer. In the back somewhere."

The pillow sack was packed snugly on the floor behind the driver's seat. John opened the rear door and sat down so he could rummage through the stolen goods. He retrieved Stern's Rolex, ruby ring and a money clip with four hundred dollars in it. Obviously it was Stern's. John didn't need the engraved monogram to guess that. He found his own wallet and took the twenty-six dollars out of it, then threw it back into the sack.

"Quit crying like a fucking baby!" John demanded, pushing the driver forward so he could reach into his pants pocket.

John slipped the driver's license out of the wallet.

"Is this address current?"

"Yeah, Officer, it's current. What you doing? When you gonna call the ambulance?"

"I called back at the car. It's on the way. Now listen, where exactly is that necklace, Roy Scott?"

"It's in my freezer. I froze it in one a them things you put in a cooler. Them blue plastic water bottle things. It's got a white cap."

John could hear his police radio barking loudly from where he'd parked on the highway. Decision time, he thought.
	
"You better not be lying to me, Roy Scott."

"I's not lying, Officer. You get someone to check, you see it'll be there. It'll...."

His voice began losing its vigor until no more sound escaped his lips. John slammed the rear door shut, reached through the open driver's window and moved the deflated canvass airbag out of the way. He shoved the car into NEUTRAL, then pulled the keys from the ignition. Judging from his fragile whimpers, the driver was only semiconscious. He offered no protest when John put his foot on the front of the Taurus. Once John put all his weight into it, the Taurus began an easy roll down the steep incline that led into the river. John could see by the rippling brown surface that the current was strong. within a few minutes the car would be sucked out into the river.

He walked back up to his car, snapping off the gloves and wiping the powder off on his slacks. The Taurus belched one last spiral of bubbles, then disappeared beneath the murk. John turned the sedan around and headed back towards the city, answering the radio call with the feigned disappointment of a cop who had just lost the robber.
	
John spent most of the day writing out the report and giving statements to other detectives, but all the while he was biding his time to get to Roy Scott's place in the Bradbury Building downtown. It was a long, arduous day, and once he got home John spent a good deal of time sitting in front of his silent television sipping on a bourbon and coke and wondering if he should go for the glory or the loot. Solving the Anna Hail case would be a good move for him, but he'd have to be creative about it--he'd killed the thief. On the other hand, he could make an easy twenty grand by taking the necklace to some of his acquaintances who worked on the other side of the law. At eight o'clock that evening John got into the Crown Vic and headed to Roy Scott's place, Bradbury Building Number 512.
	
When he reached the twelve-story brick building, he was somewhat perturbed at the blue and white police car parked outside. It was a public housing unit, fittingly known as the asshole of the city, and it was prone to flaring up on a nightly basis, so a blue and white was not that uncommon. However, the two battleship gray Crown Victorias with commercial hubs and extra antennas meant something other than the usual domestic quarrel had taken place.
	
John was going to drive by when the blip of a police siren startled him. Pulling up next to him was another detective in Persons Crimes, the man who had taken his statement about the robbery.
	
"Hey John, you must have gotten the news?"

He tried to think quickly, but he faltered and could only respond with a grunt.

"ID got a print off that spent shotgun shell. Get this, it matches the print we got off of Anna Hail's purse. But that's not the best. A waitress at the Waffle House recognized the shooter as an ex-employee. Roy Scott. Can you believe that dumbass? He was sitting on fifty grand worth of necklace and there he is sticking up a fucking Waffle House. But hey, he wasn't that much of a fuck-up, I heard Tom Stern was one of the vics. Now that's some poetic justice, isn't it? I think we actually found one douchebag Stern won't be defending."
	
"They find the necklace?" John asked, dreading the answer.

"I was up there for a while, then I left to take a leak and grab some coffee from the Coffee Cup. Up until I left they hadn't found anything except some dope and paraphenalia. Let's go have a lookee see, huh?"

Roy Scott's apartment stank of rancid food and stale beer. John tried to avoid the probing eyes of the evening shift detectives. He didn't know any of them, and he was sure they were curious as to who he was, but he tailed the sergeant closely so there would be no questions asked. For the second time today, John stretched a pair of heavy gauge rubber gloves onto his hands after the sergeant did the same. From another room he heard the enchanting words, "We ain't found nothing yet, except that dope and stuff. Not a total loss."
	
John gave himself a silent cheer and walked into the small, closet-sized kitchen. He stretched his act out for a few minutes, perusing the single cabinet, the garbage, and the coffee can that was full of change. That's probably where the dope was, he thought. Then, nonchalantly, he moved to the freezer. A blast of cold, sour air smacked his face, but that wasn't what made him flinch. It was the emptiness of the freezer that stabbed him. You fucking lying bastard, Roy Scott.
	
John checked the inventory log that listed all the property being removed from the apartment. Nothing like the plastic water bottle Roy Scott had told him about. John made a careful round of the apartment, checking each person to see if he or she carried a plastic water bottle. None of them did. Dejected, John told the sergeant he was going down the road to take a leak, and that he'd be back. On the way to the door John nearly bumped into a uniform on the way in. The uniform itself was adorned with brass that gleamed and sparkled brilliantly under the bright lights the detectives had set up. A captain. Before John could move out of the way, the captain looked at him with a halting stare.

"Have you found the necklace yet?"

In that instant John wondered what da'Hell a captain was doing there. Anna Hail was no ordinary citizen, not if she had police captains running around the city in search of her precious necklace. Suddenly it felt as if he were carrying the weight of a brick in his pocket.	

"I don't think they've found it yet."

"You don't think? Well have they or haven't they, Detective?"

John shot him a what-a-fucking-asshole look.

"Ahh, no sir."

John waited for the him to move on, but the stiff-faced thirty-something captain stood stubbornly in his path. He was a tall, clean-shaven man and he wore a strong, sporty-style cologne. The captain looked down angrily at John's face.
	
"Have you been drinking, Detective?"

The question was asked quietly, but to John it might as well have been shouted into a bullhorn. John couldn't answer. His face tightened and he was outside of himself for a moment, looking on as if he were a different person. Look at the drunk idiot, about to be busted for booze on his breath. For two years he'd kept the affair a secret, now some captain he'd never seen before was hungry for his blood.

"Uh, Captain, this is Detective Butscher, he's the fella who was involved in the Waffle House incident today. He's off-duty and I asked him to come over tonight, since he's seen our suspect. I'm sure he just had a drink to take the edge off after work. As I'm sure you know, it's not every day that we cops get shot at."

The last portion of the sergeant's plea was a stab at the captain, who by the looks of him had never had anything more serious than a hang-nail on the job.
	
"Fine, Sergeant. I want you to take him home immediately, in your car. I will deal with him on a later date."

The sergeant's car was unusually warm, and condensation had formed on the lower portion of the windshield. John sank into the passenger's seat. Nothing was mentioned about the booze as they began the ride to John's home, but John's relief fled when the sergeant asked about his activities in the kitchen.
	
"You were looking in the freezer, John. That's interesting. Alotta guys completely ignore the freezer, not purposely, they just overlook it. You went straight to the kitchen. Something you learned on the job?"
	
"Nope. Had to start somewhere, I guess."

John felt something brush against his shoe. He looked down to see a white plastic screw-cap rolling with the car's movement. Across the top was the word IGLOO.

The sergeant grinned, watching the road ahead of him with the absent stare of a man who'd been driving the same roads over and over again for years. He clicked the air-conditioner up one notch.

"I think we're going to get along just fine, John."


JEFFREY HUNTER graduated from the University of Florida with a major in Criminal Justice. During his senior year, he interned in the Cold Case Homicide Unit at the Gainesville Police Department and worked for the Community Oriented Policing Institute in Gainesville. After school, Jeffrey attended the police academy and worked at a small police department for a year, then became a private investigator, which he's been doing for about three years now. Jeffrey's been writing off and on for as long as he can remember; "A Secret Affair" is his first published story.

Copyright (c) 2001 Jeffrey Hunter