As Tony drove home, he cursed his luck that Bender had seen him retrieving his truck. It was well known that the lazy P-3 was one of the biggest gossips at the station.
Thanks to Blaze, he hadn’t been falling down drunk, but he knew the gossip king would be spreading the story of the lieutenant getting lucky at the bar. Then other’s who’d been at the Dead Man earlier might share their observations of him hammered out of his mind.
“Damn, Bender,” he said to himself. “He’s always been a slug—always will be.” I’m not surprised he wanted to poach a badge bunny from another cop.
He pulled to a stop at a red light. Scanning the area, he took notice of an open air-drug deal occurring on the corner.
Suddenly, there was the sound of screeching brakes, and his pickup was hit from behind, and it pushed him and his vehicle forward twelve feet into the intersection.
“Shit!” He looked into his rear-view mirror. A thirty-something female was at the wheel of a black sedan with tinted windows.
He got out of his truck and so did the woman. She was slim, with styled blonde hair, wearing a pink pantsuit, with matching heels.
“Listen, asshole, I didn’t see you. Your back lights either don’t work, or your foot wasn’t on the brake.”
“Ma’am, are you injured?”
“No! I’m fine.”
He peered at a cut on her forehead. It was about an inch long but wasn’t bleeding. “You have a minor—”
“I said I was all right.”
Cars were starting to pile up behind theirs, and people were driving into a center turn lane to get around the accident.
“We need to move our vehicles out of the flow of traffic.”
Her gaze shot to her sporty sedan. “Oh, my God. Look at my car.” She turned to him. “Do you really think it’s going to drive in that condition?”
Her flashy ride was ruined. The whole front end was smashed to half its size, and clearly wasn’t drivable.
The back of his truck had held up fairly well. At least it could be moved.
He waved a few cars around the two disabled vehicles. “Let me get my vehicle out of the way, and then I’ll see what we can do with your sedan.”
He jogged to his pickup, and when the light changed, pulled it into a taco stand across the street.
He had to wait for the signal to change before he could return.
By the time he returned, the woman was on her phone.
She screamed into her cell. “What do you mean you won’t send the cops?”
The dispatcher must have asked her if she had any injuries.
“Well, I have a cut on my head.” She paused. “No, I don’t need an ambulance.” She looked over at him.
“The police won’t come. They’re telling me we should exchange information and then contact our insurance company.”
“Yes. That’s the procedure.”
She scoffed and rolled her eyes.
“I’m going to see if your car will run and maybe I can pull it to the curb. Okay?”
“Thank you…for nothing,” she spat at the 911 operator, and then tossed her phone into her purse. “Yeah, go ahead and move it. You can’t hurt it any more than it already is.”
He pointed to the sidewalk. “Why don’t you get out of the street and stand over there?”
Wordlessly, she marched over by a bus bench.
There wasn’t a prayer that the Beemer would start, but he wanted to try. He was right. Getting out of the driver’s seat, he called to her. “Ma’am, come steer. I’ll push it to the curb.”
She stomped to her car and plopped into the seat.
He moved to the rear and leaned into the shiny black trunk. It had been a while since he’d pushed a ride out of traffic lanes. The damn thing was heavy.
A man who was stuck in the center lane hopped out of his vehicle and gave him a hand. With the two of them, her sedan was soon at the curb.
“Thanks, man.”
The guy bobbed his head and glanced at the light, which was about to change. “No problem. Good luck.” He jumped into his car and drove away.
Tony moved over to the sidewalk and motioned for her to join him.
He got his driver’s license, and his proof of insurance out to exchange.
She came and stood next to him, and he told her what information she’d need to provide.
As she handed him her documents, she stopped and looked at him.
“Are you drunk? You stink like booze.”
You’d better think of something. This broad is out for blood.
“No. I’m not drunk.”
She leaned over toward him and inhaled. “I smell alcohol! I’m calling the cops.”
“Ma’am, I am a cop.” He flipped his wallet so she could see his ID card. “I work in the Vice Unit. We were working at a nearby bar earlier. Someone spilled a drink on me.”
Her expression clearly said she didn’t believe him.
“Let me tell you how this works. We exchange information, notify our respective insurance companies, and they handle the rest.”
There was no need to explain to her that the fact that she’d rear-ended his truck made her presumably at fault for the accident. He’d allow her agent to give her the good news. Even if she mentioned to them that she thought he was drunk, it would be too late to determine if he was intoxicated or not. Of course, if they checked on him working the Vice Unit, he’d be screwed.
“You know,” he said. “Why don’t you call and get a tow truck en route? I can give you the number to the company the department uses.”
“I’ll figure it out for myself.”
“Okay. If that’s how you want to do it.”
He wrote down her information, and she did the same.
As he drove off in his thrashed ride, he let out an enormous sigh. If you pull this off, you’re one lucky bastard.