ONE-THIRTY-TWO

AND

BUSH

Steve sipped on his Pabst Blue Ribbon tall boy Special.  Man was it good.  With a little less alcohol than a Natty Daddy, the flavor was by far better.  Natty Daddy didn't even really taste like beer to him.  He only drank it to get buzzed all the more quickly.  His sips turned to gulps as the sun slowly sank below the horizon.  Three empty cans dotted the freshly mowed grass.  He'd pick those up whenever.  The fourth can was sweaty down at the very bottom.  It was almost time for a fifth.  Newport was extra soupy tonight.  Thunderstorms had passed through about an hour earlier and took with them all of the cool air.  The humidity had sunk right back in.  Steve was shirtless.  His camo shorts were soiled with sweat, along with his Hanes underwear that he had just stolen from Walmart the day before.  A Cocke County Sheriff unit passed by Steve's trailer with a whoosh and the sound of an engine that was guzzling gasoline.  Steve realized his eyes were squinted.  He hated cops.  They were nothing but condescending tattle tails.  He'd had plenty of run ins with them, none of them the pleasant kind.  The Sheriff's had a problem with citizens of Newport who took it upon themselves to push drugs on the streets.  Steve was a pusher alright.  One of the best and most lucrative Cocke County had seen in years.  Oh, the Sheriff's knew Steve alright.  He was on a first name basis with Newport's finest.  One deputy in particular had made Steve her target.  If he sneezed, she knew about it!  Steve didn't like this one bit.  It wouldn't be tolerated for much longer.  This deputy was putting a wrench in his sales, and Steve behind bars, far too often.  As the lightning bugs began their nightly dance, a swift flick of Steves wrist sent the fifth can of beer scratching down on the grass blades joining the four others, left to be crawled upon by whatever roamed the ground at night.  Steve's eyes were no longer angry.  In fact, they were open wide.  His brain was hashing over his plan, and it was time to go.

Chandler had graduated from the Sheriff's academy a little more than a year ago.  At the age of twenty-four, she was one of the younger deputies out on the streets of Newport.  At six feet, two inches tall, she stood out from most of the other male deputies and all of the other female officers.  Being African American also made her instantly recognizable.  She was the only black female officer on the roster.  Her father was a marine who saw combat action in Vietnam.  Once he returned to the states, her father pursued a career as a Sheriff Deputy in a county about four hours east of Cocke County.  That county was not hiring when Chandler applied so she had to settle for the area of Newport to follow in her father's footsteps. Newport was known to be a little rough around the edges. The department hadn't had any officers killed in the line of duty, but they had seen their fair share of officer injuries.  The biggest problem they faced was the sale of narcotics.  Even young teenagers were using some of the harder drugs found in any big city in the U.S.  Chandler took it upon herself to mitigate this epidemic.  Most of Newport's citizens were good people.  She was sick and tired of seeing so many of the city's youth succumb to problems associated with drug use.  Steve Baller was high on her radar.  She had busted him with drugs on more than one occasion.  Unfortunately, the amounts never constituted sending Steve to jail for more than a month at a time.  But Chandler knew that she was getting under his skin.  She'd confiscate what product he had on him and also impound his vehicle.  She knew this slowed Steve down and cost him money.  Soon enough, she'd catch him with an amount large enough to put him in prison for a long time.  She was sure of it.  Chandler worked graveyards.  Starting at 6 p.m. and ending at 8 a.m.  This was prime time for the drug dealers, including Mr. Baller.  Steve Baller was a small man.  Standing at five feet six inches tall, Chandler towered above him.  Chandler was also in excellent shape.  She'd spent all four years of high school playing basketball and running track.  Steve wasn't in bad shape; his Pabst Blue Ribbon dinners kept him skinny.  He also partook in a little of his own product from time to time and he smoked like a chimney.  As Chandler radioed in that she was 10-8, a small shrug showed that she was not looking forward to tonight's shift.  The humidity was off the charts.  Any coolness had faded away with the passing thunderstorms earlier in the evening.  Soupy nights like tonight made for extra grumpy bad guys.  She was all too familiar with this effect and wore a scar on the bridge of her nose to show for it.  Not from someone's fist, but from a flying bottle of Mickeys outside the hilltop bar on Bush Street.  The little green grenade of beer was impossible to see in the low light of that particular night, and it struck Chandler right in the face.  No stitches were needed.  But she had an awkward bandage for a week or more and the scar would be with her forever.  Steve was proud of the toss that created that scar.  Chandler would never know it was he that threw it.  This made Steve a happy drug dealer.  Deputy C. Regosa would soon find out what Mr. Baller was really capable of.  No one messed with the Baller family!  Make no mistake, the drug market was here to stay.  Deputies that had their noses in Steve's business would be handled.  He'd send them a message not to get in the way.

Steve wasn't lacking in the category of brains.  He was actually quite intelligent.  He'd pissed on high school telling himself it was a waste of time.  He didn't need to learn all those stupid subjects.  His father made a living off of stealing from others as well as selling citizens with low self-esteem whatever drug it was that made them feel better.  So much to the point that these men and women would bite the hands that loved them just to score a fix.  Steve had seen it all.  he knew darn well that drug usage would not be curtailed by the police any time soon.  Therefore, it was prime time to capitalize and make himself filthy rich.   No officer, no matter how tall or badass they thought themselves to be, would throw a wrench in his plans.  Certainly not a female cop!  Being a drug dealer opens up avenues to meeting people who know all sorts of things.  This included how to make bombs.  Not just bombs that would go boom when lit by a fuse, but bombs with timers on them.  Bombs that could be placed in an area and detonated in various ways by a person who wasn't even in the vicinity!  Some with timers, some controlled by a cell phone.  Steve had met these tradesmen of evil.  Some were ex-military.  Some, former prisoners.  All of them, hooked on drugs.  There was no shortage of these little vestibules of knowledge.  They all needed their fix.  Steves middle name just so happened to be one in the same.  He was Mr. Fix on the streets.  If Mr. Fix wanted say, a pound of explosives, Mr. Fix got it!  Of course, this type of knowledge would be rewarded with a small discount.  Discounts in the eyes of humans hooked on drugs, were better than the gospel itself.  The extra soupy evening set the perfect stage for Steve's devious plan.  He'd send a message to every single Sheriff in the county.  As for the six-foot two female wonder cop, her remains wouldn't even fill a shoe box by the time the sun came up. 

It didn't cost him much to pay one of the bums on the corner to constantly watch a certain patrol car.  The information gained by this surveillance bum was crucial. Steve would simply tell this man to look for the tall black female officer and report everything he saw back to Mr. Fix.  As payment, the bum would receive gold in the form of crystal meth.  Sometimes it would be pure meth.  Others, it would only be half meth, and half salt crystals.  Didn't matter to the bum because it was ALL free!  Mr. Meth Bum was absolutely positive Deputy Chandler went inside the coffee shop for approximately half the time it took him to consume a 64 oz bottle of malt liquor.  Returning to trusty ol 342 with a tall latte at the beginning of every shift.  Steve figured that a half a can of malt liquor probably took Mr. Meth Bum around fifteen minutes to consume.  He was, by all means, a professional drinker.  Fifteen minutes is all he would have to place the bomb under the squad car, arm it, and get away without being seen. He also knew that Chandler had his personal vehicle memorized down to the scratch in his FJB bumper sticker.  He'd have to use a different car if he was going to get away with this.  Steve's sister was visiting from Boston.  Her Ford Bronco Sport would be perfect.  He'd tell her that he was going to go get her car washed for her after her long trip down from Massachusetts.  This would give him plenty of time to do what he needed to do.  After draining the contents of the five cans of suds from his bladder, he left his house in his sisters Sport.  A small black package rested on the seat next to him.  No more than six inches in length and three inches wide.  Inside the package was enough C-4 to remove an elephant from its trunk.  The C-4 inside the package was taped to an i-phone with its blue tooth turned on. A small solenoid was inserted into the C-4 .  All Steve had to do was send a text to the phone.  The phone would vibrate triggering the solenoid and kaboom!  Steve had no reason to believe this device would fail.  The ex- ordinance technician who'd dreamed it up was sure it would work.

Chandler wiped her brow.  Boy was it miserable this evening she thought.  Did she even want a latte.  These thoughts filled her brain.  She knew even though it was hot and muggy, she'd need the caffeine to keep her going on her long shift.  Passing a crumbled over man on the opposite corner of the coffee shop who was drinking something out of a paper bag, Chandler pulled her squad car onto the street curb facing the opposite direction of the dead-end street.  A white Ford Bronco Sport was parked four car lengths away from her on the opposite side of the street.  She noted that the car appeared to be empty, and the plates were in good order.  It did not raise any suspicion whatsoever.  Chandler walked into the coffee shop to get her latte.  This coffee shop only had one window in the front on the side of the street she'd parked on.  Mr. Meth Bum had given Steve very reliable intel.  This was perfect for him to plant the device.  As soon as the coffee shop door swung shut, Steve left from his sister's car with the black package in hand.  Two good sized magnets would attach it to the frame of the squad car.  He was smart enough not to run.  This would cause attention from anyone out and about.  He got close enough to the back of Chandlers unit and he could now stoop down to place the bomb on to the frame.  His arms worked feverishly as he kept his eyes glued to the coffee shop door.  For some reason, the magnets did not find a home and the bomb would not attach!  Steve almost stopped sweating, even in the humid early evening air.  What was the problem!  He knew he was running out of time.  The doors of the coffee shop swung open.  Steve felt a tiny bit of urine escape his body, finding a home in his stolen Hanes.  It was just a young woman who held her coffee and smiled awkwardly at Steve with most of her front teeth missing.  Steve didn't recognize her, but she surely recognized Mr. Fix!  Her smile turned to a look of confusion.  She began to approach Steve.  She knew very well that he was a major dealer.  She also knew very well that he wasn't tampering underneath a Chick-Fil-A delivery vehicle either!  Steve panicked.  Mr. Meth Bum across the street began to wave his good arm.  Almost at the same time, the coffee shop door opened once more.  This time, it was Chandler who emerged, regular coffee in hand.  A latte would have given Steve five more minutes!  He was screwed!  One last effort and the magnets held.  Toothless called out ... Yo Mr. Fix!  Steve looked at Chandler, Chandler looked at Steve.  Mr. Meth Bum yelled out something to the effect of Oh Shit!  Chandler began running towards Steve.  She knew in an instant that it was him fiddling around with her car.  Steve pushed himself out of the crouch that he was in, toothless was close enough for him to push her to the ground creating an obstacle for the extra-long legs of Deputy Regosa.  Steve bolted for the white bronco.  Chandler hurdled toothless who was extremely upset over her now spilled coffee.  Stop! Chandler yelled.  Steve!  You need to stop!  Steve did no such thing.  He made it to the car.  Flung himself into the driver's seat, cranked the ignition and punched it!  He looked at Chandler as he screeched past her squad car.  His cell pinged letting him know that the connection to the phone on the bomb had been successful.  All he needed to do was send the text and Mrs. Deputy long legs Regosa would be turned into pink mist.  Chandler hopped into her squad car.  She could not hesitate to look and see what Steve had been doing.  She had to get moving in pursuit of the white Bronco.  She slammed her car in drive and screeched the tires as she sped after Steve.  She radioed dispatch.  Station one, three Adam 17 is in pursuit of a known narcotics dealer who fled the area of fourth and Reem street.  Suspect Steve Baller is driving a white Ford Sport, unknown plates at this time heading west bound on Bush Street.  Station one the suspect appeared to have been tampering with my vehicle before fleeing.  Dispatch acknowledged the info and sent additional units.  Steve clinched his cell phone.  He could see car 342 behind him with lights and sirens blaring.  He pushed send and looked in his rear-view mirror waiting for the explosion.  Nothing happened!  Chandler gained ground and was now three car lengths behind Steve.  Steve couldn't believe it!  The bomb had failed.  He didn't realize he'd been looking in his rear-view mirror for way too long as his eyes moved back forward, he realized he was on a collision course head on with an armored truck.  He yanked the wheel to the left.  It was too late.  The Bronco made contact with the right-side bumper of the armored truck.  The Bronco veered to the left with heavy damage bringing the vehicle slowly to a stop on avenue 132.  Chandler slammed on her brakes, flung open her driver's side door, kneeled behind the door with her service revolver pointed towards Steves wrecked vehicle.  Chandler radioed to dispatch one last time.

Station one, I've got him at gunpoint, one-thirty-two and Bush.