Tales from the Asphalt Jungle Part 1

I've met a lot of interesting people in the 38 years that I've been crushing crime. By interesting I mean weird. By weird I mean twisted. By twisted I mean think about the weirdest thing you have ever done, something that you will take to the grave with you. Now multiply that by 100. That "interesting." 
It is that part of life that I enjoy seeing the most. I like the people that make Biff and Buffy cringe. It's why I got into this line of work in the first place. 
In my book "Why Do My Mystic Journeys Always Lead to the Waffle House?" (Shameless plug but you can order it by e-mailing mysticjourneys14@gmail.com) I refer to police work as the "perfect storm of weird." 
Sure, I like the fact that I have helped people along the way and that is why we do this but all cops cannot deny that it is the entertainment value that keeps them going. At the weekly gatherings that we affectionately referred to as "Choir Practice" we would swap stories of things that have happened to us over the past days, weeks and on into the tainted past. Bring up a subject and there's a story about it. 

During one such discussion involved people catching on fire. Immediately there were several of us who had people-on-fire stories. 
Back in the mid 1970's when the evil disco ruled the airwaves, I was working a beat car for a small police department at the beginning of my most awesome career. I covered an area near a low-income duplex project where police calls were frequent. Although we knew many of the residents, one couple stood out. Red and Loretta.

Red was a former body builder and brick mason. He occasionally worked in the trade when he wasn't drunk which was not too often. His common-law wife, Loretta, didn't do much of anything although she never had time to fix the zipper on her lime green Capri pants. She was about five feet four and had long oily wavy blond hair and a three-pack-a-day raspy voice that sounded like she was on one of those electronic voice machines. 

Red's body builder muscles had given away to years of alcohol abuse and although he was as strong as an ox, he now sported a large belly. His head was large and his ruddy facial skin showed his years of hard living. He resembled W.C. Fields with a crew cut. He had a low, very modest tone to his voice and although large and powerful looking, he was quite gentle. Individually, they were not a problem. Together however, they were volatile and every weekend when they started drinking, the fuse was lit and you simply waited for the explosion. 
  
Our story begins with a call on the small town radio system. Early in the evening, the radio operator, an older country gent with a good old country voice came on the radio and reported the following: "Base to unit 272. Red and Loretta are a fight'in out in front of the house and neighbors say he's tying her up with some rope."
It was looking like Red was going to the slammer early this weekend. I drove into the duplex community decorated with overturned trash cans and dirt where grass should be. As I drove down the road, I could see Red's pickup truck headed my way. I slowed as he did and as he passed me, nothing appeared out of the ordinary. Red had one arm folded out the window and the other on the steering wheel. He looked over and nodded to me and then looked ahead and continued on. Somewhat confused, I nodded back and it was then that I caught a glimpse of what was behind the truck as it slowly made its way up the hill. It was Loretta, bound with the reported rope and bouncing up and down as she was being drug up the street. Red had tied her to the trailer hitch and off he went. Her loud and raspy voice cut through my ears like a knife as she somehow managed to scream every curse word in the English Language between bounces on the asphalt. 

Minutes later, Red was in the back of my car and Loretta was being treated by the EMS crew. She had some impressive road rash but surprisingly, she was fairly intact. Not sober mind you but intact. Red's only comment on the whole affair was "Sometimes that woman gets on my nerves." 

After her release from the hospital, she said she didn't want to prosecute Red. Then, the victim had to sign a warrant. She refused. 
Red spent the night in the slammer on small town city charges and was release the next morning. As he gathered his things he said: "I guess that woman still loves me. I don't know why she didn't sign a warrant."   
"Red" I said, "I don't think it was love. I think she's planning something else for you. You need to keep an eye open." 
"Nope," he said, "I don't know why but she just loves me." 
He had no idea how wrong he was. 
(Next week-Revenge is Best Served in Flames)