Way after midnight we were flying on a back road that led into Navy housing. I was in the backseat of the government truck, Malcolm was passed out in the shotgun seat, and Brewer who was blind drunk, was at the wheel. We had left the boathouse unmanned, an unbelievable regulations violation, to give Brewer a ride home. Malcolm and I were about equally loaded and the rationale was that both of us would take Brewer home and the one that had sobered up the most in the half hour ride would drive the truck back to the boat house.
It was obviously going to be me as Malcolm had already
puked down the side of the truck once and was
already in a alcohol and Valium induced coma.
Blue lights were flashing behind us! I could
see Brewer's eyes as they flashed up into the
rearview mirror. "Jesus fucking Christ on crutches!
Cops! Do you pricks have any dope on you?"
"No!" My response was immediate even
though I did in fact have a small bit of weed in a
baggie in my front pocket. But I knew why Brewer
was asking. If I said yes, the crazy prick would try
to outrun the cops. We were in a huge government
issued pickup - the kind with four doors and a full
backseat - we couldn't outrun a fucking Volkswagen
much less a cop car with a shitload of horsepower.
"Does Malcolm?" Malcolm was still passed
out with the top of his head sticking out the
passenger window.
"I don't think so!" That tight bastard never
had any of his own weed. Malcolm was the biggest
goddamn Bogart that I had ever met.
"All right, I'm going to pull over. Just keep
your mouth fucking shut and let me do the talking.
I'm going to throw the admiral's name around here
and hope this cocksucker buys it."
The cop was out of his car and heading our way.
"Get your hands in the fucking air where I
can see them!" "Yes sir! No problem. What's this all
about?" Brewer had pulled over half off the road
half in a slightly declining ditch. We were about a
half mile from the Navy housing complex. The cop,
plainclothes of some sort, was standing out in the
middle of the road with a huge pistol, looked like a
Colt .45 government issue, held in both hands like
he was out at the range shooting at paper targets. He
looked real young and real fucking nervous.
In one motion I slipped my hand into my pocket and threw
the dope baggie under the backseat.
"I said hands in the fucking air!" The door
closest to me was thrown open. "What did you
throw under the seat, asshole? Slide all the way over
and stick both your arms out the side window! You
move and I'll blow your goddamn head off!"
I quickly slid over and did as I was told.
"Yes sir!" "We work at the CINCPACFLT boathouse,"
Brewer piped in."Shut the hell up, lean forward, and
put your hands through the steering wheel! I don't give a hot
turd who you work for, punk!" The officer began to
climb in the backseat, keeping his eyes on me, one
hand on the pistol that was only about two feet from
my head, the other hand began to probe under the
backseat. Up close, the officer was probably not a
couple of years older than myself. And he looked
just as scared. He was trying to be the badass. The
tough guy. It was a mistake.
Suddenly Brewer spun completely around in
his seat and shoved a chrome .22 semi-automatic
pistol against the officer's head. The two shots were
no louder than a couple of large firecrackers. Blood
and bits of skull spattered about the back cabin of
the truck as the officer stood straight up - slamming
his head on the top of the cab and then crumpling
down on to the road. "Ricky! What the fuck are you doing?"
I opened the door and ran around the back of the
truck over to the officer. A large pool of blood was
already forming on the road around his head. His
eyes were open and looking up at me as his mouth
moved like a fishes does when it's out of water. And
dying.
Brewer was already down next to the officer
going through his pockets and found his wallet.
"Fuck! This asshole is NIS!" He took the cash out
the wallet and threw it back down on his chest and
then leaned over and picked up the now known
agent's .45 and stuck it in the front of his pants.
"Come on! Grab one of his legs, we have to pull
him off the road and down into the ditch!"
"You're fucking crazy, dude! What the hell
do you think you're fucking doing? You just killed a
goddamn NIS agent!"
Brewer stood over the agent staring at me
with bloodshot, snake-like eyes. "Yes, I fucking
did! And your ass is along for the ride! All the
fucking way, so shut the hell up or I'll do your ass
next! Now grab a leg and help me get this asshole
off the road before anyone shows up!"