Toad was walking back from Fern Dale’s. They’d grabbed almost three grand from the secret poker game. He’d left the money with her. He had no way to explain that kind of cash. He made $3.75 an hour. If the cops stopped him for any reason, and they often stopped him for any reason, and found the money, he wouldn’t be able to explain it. And the cops knew firsthand that a large sum of money was missing from the fire station poker game. It was partly their money.
Whoop! went a siren.
“Stop right there, Gilky.”
No sense running. No place to go the cops didn’t know.
Officer Bass Tadd -like the fish, not the instrument- parked his cruiser.
Most people called him ‘Boston,’ for obvious reasons. But Toad called him ‘Pull.’
Tadd got out of the car. “Where’s it at?”
“Where’s what?” Toad asked.
“Where were you?” Tadd persisted.
“When?” Toad asked.
“You know why I hate you, Toad?”
“Is there a point to all this, Officer Pull?”
“My name is Officer Tadd, and you know it. Answer my question.”
“Which one?
“What?”
“There’s another one,” Toad explained. “You asked me Where it was at? When? Why you hate me? And now, What? Which do you want me to answer?”
“Answer this,” Officer Tadd said, “why do I hate you.”
“There’s a thousand reasons, Pull. Because I call you ‘Pull’ and you can’t figure out why. ‘Cause I’ve been living on my own since I was thirteen. Because I’m smarter than you. Because I date Fern Dale, and you married Greta. Because I’m getting out of this place. And you’re stuck forever because you’re scared… Should I continue?”
“Turn around, Gilky.”
“Pull, you gotta have a reason. You know that. Yes, the Chief hates me. But he hates it more when you guys drag me to the station for no reason.” Toad turned around. No sense fighting it.
A new voice entered the conversation. “The kid’s right.”
Tadd and Toad turned to look. Mr. R.P. Reed was on his porch.
“Colonel Reed,” Officer Tadd said, “with all due respect, this is police business.”
“Don’t call me Colonel. And you know he’s right. Gilky didn’t do a thing, Boston.”
“Why do people have all these nicknames for me? Shouldn’t a guy at least get to know why he’s called what? Anyway, Gilky’s guilty.”
“Of what?” R.P. Reed persisted.
“All of it. Callin’ me names. Trying to rob the KFC last night. Robbing the poker game!”
“What poker game, Boston?” Mr. Reed asked.
Officer Tadd blinked.
Toad suppressed a giggle.
Officer Tadd stomped his foot, pointed at Mr. Reed, then Toad. He walked around the front of his cruiser. Got in. Left.
“Thanks,” Toad said.
“Come up here a sec, son. I’d like to talk to you.”
They sat. But Mr. Reed wasn’t talking. Even though he’d done the inviting. So Toad said, “You know when we have the Fourth of July Parade?”
“Sure.”
“Some of those veterans wear a bunch of medals…”
“Fruit Salad,” Mr. Reed interrupted.
“But you only wear two medals,” Toad continued. “That red, blue, white and black one, and the blue, white and red one.”
“I wear the ribbons. Not the medals.”
“What’re they for?”
“Got shot down. Spent several years in German Prisoner of War camps. The one with black is my POW ribbon. The other one is for valor. I helped plan, and took part in, several escape attempts. They gave me a Silver Star for being a pain in the ass to the Germans.”
They sat quietly for several minutes. Mr. Reed finally said, “I saw you last night. On the roof. Then you and Fern Dale zipping in and out of the firehouse.”
No use denying it. Mr. Reed’s house sat on the opposite side of the street from the firehouse and the KFC. Toad could see the roof of the KFC. And the doors of the firehouse.
“I’m not nosy, kid. And the cops in this town deserve you. But why do you do it?” He held up a hand. “Don’t answer that. Here’s what I want to say: You’re gonna get caught for something stupid. You and Fern Dale both.”
Toad didn’t want a lecture. He started to stand. Mr. Reed went on. “I spent three years, give or take, in POW camps.” Toad sat back down. “I wasn’t a criminal. But I did the time. Somebody gets caught committing a crime, people say the criminal has to pay his debt to society.” He finished his drink. Set the glass on the armrest. Refilled. Took a drink. “Way I figured it, I paid my debt to society but never committed a crime. Way I saw it, society owed me a crime. Or several.” He swirled his drink, didn’t sip.
“Uh,” Toad was going slowly. This seemed like delicate territory, but Mr. Reed had brought it up. “Are you saying you’re a criminal?”
“Son, what I am is retired. Mostly.”
Toad was stumped, sleepy. He’d had a busy night. He thought through this strange conversation. Strangest conversation Toad had ever been in. Toad said, “Mr. Reed…”
Mr. Reed held up his cigar, said: “You trust Fern Dale?”
“Yes.”
“She’s the daughter of the police chief,” Mr. Reed said.
“Is she? She never mentioned it,” Toad smiled.
“You trust each other because you’re in each other’s pants?”
“Other way around.”
Mr. Reed smiled. “That is a fine answer. First rule in the camps was to keep our secrets known to as few as possible. Same applied in my occupation. So, let’s keep the circle small. Don’t ask me anything else now. Just think on it. Then, if you’re interested, get Fern Dale and come to my house for supper. Say, 7:30.”
“Sure. Thanks for the tea. And for gettin’ Officer Tadpole off my butt.”
Mr. Reed laughed out loud. “Tadpole! Now I get it!” He actually slapped his knee. “Oh, and come in the back door.”
[Image Credit : Photo by Shubham Dhage on Unsplash]
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