Images d’une Brise Décolorée en Aoû

I have been happy, tho' but in a dream.
I have been happy—and I love the theme:
Dreams! in their vivid colouring of life
As in that fleeting, shadowy, misty strife
Of semblance with reality which brings
To the delirious eye, more lovely things
Of Paradise and Love—and all our own!
Than young Hope in his sunniest hour hath known.

Poe       Dreams

I

'Still an hour to go 'til shift change,' he thought, just glimpsing his watch on the Harley's vibrating handlebar. Eleven at night. 2300 hours, on a hot August night. Quiet so far, too; only a couple of accidents, minor injuries -- no big deal. He needed to pull in somewhere, get a Coke and write-up the last accident, and that would probably take him to midnight -- and then three days off -- three days in a row!

He saw a Mustang up ahead. New. Dealer plates on the back. Black, red pin-stripes. Big pipes, deep, throaty rumble. One guy behind the wheel, having trouble keeping the car in his lane, slowing for a red light a few hundred feet ahead. Middle lane, six lane divided road, light traffic.

He pulls over to the right lane, watches the driver swerve a little, sharply this time, then the driver corrects and gets back in his lane. Keeping out of mirror angles, he pulls closer, maybe twenty feet behind the Ford and stops, waits for the light to turn green.

When it does, the driver in the Mustang pounds the throttle, then lets up as quickly, then accelerates smoothly away from the light, yet swerving through traffic erratically a moment later.

He picks up the mic and calls the tag into dispatch, then checks out on traffic -- hitting the strobes, letting the siren wail for a few seconds -- and the driver loses it completely, veers off the road, jumping a curb in the process, and he watches as sparks fly off the underbody. The Mustang careens through the parking lot, narrowly missing several parked cars on the way to a collision with a large, concrete and steel light tower.

Smoke pours out of the Mustang's hood as he gets off the Harley and, with hand on pistol he walks up to the driver's window.

The driver is leaning back in his seat, his trembling hands reaching for the steering wheel, and he hears hard, fast breathing, like the man is in distress...

Then he sees the blond hair, bobbing in the driver's lap. She is in the short strokes now, and he backs off, waits for the performance to end -- which isn't too far in coming. The driver is pounding his head against the headrest, his hands are squeezing then releasing the steering wheel, then he is screaming, almost a Tarzan-like yell, a real, shattering Johnny Weissmuller yodel, and he laughs -- then shines his Mag-Lite into the cabin. The driver, just coming back to earth, turns his head and looks at the motorcycle cop standing outside his window -- and grins.

"Are we having fun tonight?" he asks the driver. The girl is sitting up now, clearly embarrassed, her face a pearlescent wreck.

The driver nods. "Yup."

"You had anything to drink?"

"Not yet. But I intend to take care of that shortly."

"Ma'am? You alright?"

"Are you fucking kidding me?" she groans.

"No ma'am. I need a straight answer. Are you alright?"

"Look, this son-of-a-bitch just shot two gallons of splooge down my throat. How do you think I feel?"

"Pretty damn good!" the driver said, grinning deeply now.

"Ma'am, are you in this car against your will?"

"No, but I sure didn't know this son-of-a-bitch had a foot long dong hiding down there."

He looked down, saw radiator fluid running out from under the new Ford and sighed. "You're going to need a wrecker to get out of here, sir," he said to the driver.

"What? Why?"

"Better come out, take a look."

The driver got out, opened the hood and a boiling wave of steam billowing up into the air, and the steam smelled like scorched ethylene glycol and burned rubber.

"Son-of-a-bitch!" he cried.

"That's what I said," the girl added, wiping stuff off her chin.

"This is gonna be the most expensive blowjob in history," the driver sighed, then he looked at the motor-jock, ticket book in hand, and he cringed. "Man, don't write me up. I work in the DAs office, and Henry will fuckin' kill me for this."

He sighed, shook his head. "Got your ID?"

"Yeah, yeah." The driver went to the car, fished around in his jacket, pulled out his wallet and ID, handed it over.

He looked it over, then filled out a ticket, handed the lawyer his ticket book. "Go ahead and sign it. I'll have to call in the morning, but if you're legit I'll cut you some slack, void it out."

The driver seemed a little put out, but took the ticket book and signed on the dotted line, then handed it back.

"You need me to call you a wrecker?"

"Yeah, could you?"

"Sure. No sweat." He walked back to the car, looked at the girl. She had finished cleaning up the mess on her face and neck; now she looked up at him sheepishly as he came to the window and leaned over.

"You sure you're okay," he asked.

"Yeah," she said, gently now, "I'll be okay."

"Not the safest place to do this, you know?"

She nodded her head. "Would you like my telephone number," she asked.

"I might, but my wife sure wouldn't," he said, smiling. "Can I call someone for you, or you want to stick it out with Tarzan?"

She handed him her business card, looked up at him. "Just in case," she said.

"Yes, ma'am. You have a good night."

II

It was the first day of the new school year, and everyone in both Patrol and Traffic were geared up to work school zones this morning. Indeed, for the next week anyone busting a school zone would get hammered. No leniency. No excuses. Just a massive fine. Fifteen over the limit and a trip downtown for Reckless Driving, per orders from both the Mayor's and the DA's office. Too many kids killed last year, so a big PR campaign was underway.

He was set up in a parking lot near an elementary school, the school located on a busy, six lane divided roadway, with volunteer school crossing guards at four of the major crosswalks leading to the school, and it didn't take long.

A little red pickup zipping through traffic, a solid forty five in the twenty miles per hour zone, and the truck tripped his radar at 46. He tossed the radar in his saddlebag, pulled in behind the boy and flipped on his lights -- the kid pulled over and looked at him nervously. He walked up, explained to the boy why he was being stopped, and asked his age.

"Fifteen, sir."

He nodded his head, had dispatch call the kid's parents, ask them to come to the scene, then he called for a Juvenile Division officer to come to the scene and get ready to take the kid into custody.

He heard: "Jimmy, don't!" and turned, looked at the crosswalk -- and he could see it unfolding before it happened. He started memorizing the scene, the placement of vehicles, the locations of people...

A hundred feet away. Cars stopped in the outside and inside lanes, the middle lane clear. Six kids in the crosswalk, following the crossing guard -- one kid darting out ahead of the guard. His name, apparently, Jimmie. A red car in the middle lane, Toyota Corolla, four door, estimated speed fifty. Girl, blond hair, high school, not paying attention, doesn't see the kid because of the other stopped cars -- they're blocking her view.

Hits the kid as he crosses into the middle lane, his angle of departure a little to the left, towards the inside lane, knocked about fifteen feet into the air, flies about seventy feet before landing on the inside lane. Body tumbles about fifty feet more then comes to a rest on the concrete median, and he's marking the impact points in his mind's eye when he realizes the red Toyota is out of control now, heading for him.

He jumps out of the way as the Toyota skids past, slams into his Harley before careening into the back of the stopped pickup truck. He pulls out his hand unit and calls dispatch:

"2141, 36B my location, pedestrian down, signal 60, secondary collision and impact with previously stopped vehicle. Need EMS, possibly a helicopter my location, and code 3 backup for traffic control."

"2141 at 0755 hours."

He runs to the kid in the street, feels for a pulse and feels nothing, then runs to the Toyota. There is gasoline all over the scene now and he calls dispatch again. "2141, get me an engine on scene, I've got gas all over the place, and three kids trapped inside their car."

"0756 hours."

"Get back!" he yells at onlookers and passers-by -- as he runs around to the passenger door, tries to pull it open. He cuts the seatbelt free of the girl sitting there and cradles her head as he pulls her free, and someone helps him carry her to the sidewalk. Black smoke starts coming up from inside the Toyota's engine compartment and in an instant fire engulfs the little car. He jumps back, then runs to the pickup and sees the boy is now unconscious, slumped over the steering wheel. He opens the door, pulls him free and throws him over his shoulder, runs to the sidewalk and more people help him put the kid down.

Two men are spraying the Toyota with small fire extinguishers as he runs for the driver's door. He reaches in through the flames and yanks the girl free; her clothes on fire now and people help him douse the flames, someone empties another fire extinguisher on the car and he sees a little kid in the back seat screaming -- before the car disappears from view in howling flames and boiling black smoke.

Fire trucks in the distance. Sirens. He looks down, sees the scorched flesh on his hands and arms -- but oddly, he can't feel anything.

Patrol cars, paramedics and firemen are everywhere now, making an opening for two helicopters. Three kids are loaded and the helicopters rise into the morning air, head for Parkland.

The Watch Commander is walking the area, talking to the chief by radio, describing the scene, then walks over to him.

"You look like a fucking hot dog," the lieutenant said, shaking his head, "like someone held you over the fire too long. Why aren't you on the way to the hospital?"

"I've got to get my measurements, L-T."

"Bullshit. We can do that."

"No, sir. This is on-view, and I know where everything is," he said, pointing to his head. "I know where the key points in the sequence are. I've got to get my points marked, my measurements down now. I can do everything later, but I've got to get those first."

The lieutenant nodded his head, called a patrol officers to help, and he got to work.

III

He hated this stuff. With a passion.

Once a year, three days of recurrent motorcycle training. Running cones. Endless courses of cones. Tight circles, so tight his Harley's floorboards were ground down to nothing now. U-turns, inside the space of a single parking place. High speed sprints, then locked up braking and a sharp, 90 degree turn to the right, followed by a quick left. All day long, over and over. Smoking clutches and scorched brake pads, frayed tempers, brittle by days end.

The course was set up at DFW airport this summer, on the vast concrete apron outside fire station number three, but this was the third day, so an end was in sight. But this was the joyride day, the real world practicum day. The tough day. The day you were scored -- by how many times you put your foot down. With a new clutch assembly installed, and fresh rear brake pads too, his Hawg was ready for the grind, the mechanical grind, anyway, but he remembered this was the most emotionally, as well mechanically, stressful day of the class. It was supposed to be; it was designed to be. When you were a rookie motor-jock, this was the day many washed-out -- and went back to patrol.

If any of them washed out today, they'd get one more chance, get to make one more run. Another failing score would see a quick return to patrol, and a measurable loss of face in the eyes of brother Traffic Division officers. Scoring was simple, too. Put your foot down at any time on the joyride -- and lose a point. Five points and you were out, sent to the barn.

The group started out running, one at a time, down runway 13 left -- at very high speed. An instructor rode alongside, kicking his bike's left saddlebag -- as hard as he could. Once at the end of the runway he entered a circle, rode around slowly, letting the adrenalin rush taper, fade away, and when all the other officers finished it was out onto Highway 114 and a quick ride down to Texas Stadium. Into the stadium parking lot, a meandering course to an open gate, then up the inclined ramps inside the stadium to the upper deck. Up steep steps to an opening a couple hundred feet above the 10 yard line, then down the steps, through the bleachers to the bottom row of seats and a hard left turn. Fight off the vertigo, make the turn -- without putting a foot down -- then run along the seats to the next set of steps, then another hard left and back up the steps. Without putting a foot down. Then around the deck -- up, down, up, down.

He felt his clutch slipping more now, compensated with more rear brake, but he made it out without a point off. They rode into town, rode through downtown traffic -- stopping at red lights -- without putting a foot down when they stopped. Clutch simmering now, they rode out to Fair Park and rode the ramps up and down through the old Cotton Bowl, then ran over to Adair's for hamburgers and Dr Pepper -- foot down allowed here -- then a long, high speed run on back country roads to DFW, where one last course through the cones was set up, waiting. One of the official Police Rodeo courses was set up, and here the scoring was adjusted a little. Time became a factor, with any time greater than one minute through the course disqualifying, while a foot down still garnered one point off.

With his clutch in terminal decline he entered the course, zipped through and went over to the fire station, parked his bike and hopped off, took off his helmet and sat on the grass under a shade tree. He wiped the sweat from his face, tried to ignore his shaking hands.

He caught his breath, watched the rest of the guys run through the course, heard a thunderstorm off in the distance and sighed. A motor-jock from Plano came over and sat by him, and they looked up at the clouds as another rumble echoed across the airport.

"Nothing like running home in the rain," the guy from Plano said.

"Unless it's hail. I really love riding in hail."

They both wiped sweat from their heads, then one of the firemen came out. "We got some Cokes in here, on ice."

That was all it took.

He got up, held his hand out and helped the other guy up, then they walked inside the bays to a big, galvanized tub full of ice, overflowing with red cans of Coke. He grabbed one, popped the top and downed it, then let out a huge, billowing belch.

"Goddamn, that feels so fucking good..." he sighed, and he saw one of the instructors walking his way and grabbed another Coke.

"Looks like you're number two today. 47.3 seconds and no fouls. Not bad," then he looked at the guy from Plano. "57.5 and three fouls. You pass, but that time sucks. You need work, amigo."

"That's what he told me last year," the guy said, slamming down his third Coke as the instructor walked away. He ripped off a burp that lasted minutes.

The last jock was about to enter the course when he heard thunder, now very close, and they turned, saw a dark wall of cloud racing for the airport, then lightning arcing through the clouds overhead. A few sprinkles hit the pavement, and the instructors looked nervously at the clouds, then at the last guy weaving through the cones.

"Gonna be close," he said, and the guy from Plano burped again, a long hissing burp easing past his nostrils, nodding his head all the while, then the last guy was through, parking by the station.

More thunder, this time right overhead, and a lightning strike over by 114.

"Alright, guys," one of the instructors said. "Let's take cover."

The group went inside the bays, but all the huge overhead doors were open, the immense fire engines, in effect, aimed at the runways, while a table was set up with hot dogs and hamburgers, the firemen sharing their dinner with the cops.

He went over to one of the bays overlooking the runways on the east side of the airport, watched a little Learjet flare and land a few hundred yards away and he was glad he wasn't flying this afternoon. He watched an American 727 struggle with a gust on the far side of the airport, then felt a sudden shift in the wind. He was about to turn away when he felt a ripple in the air, then he saw a huge, billowing fireball behind the cargo terminals...

"What the fuck," Plano said.

He watched as the back third of an L-1011 tumbled through the grass just beyond the cargo ramp, smoke and bodies flying through the air, fires starting and instantly smothered by the heavy rain that had just started falling -- and everyone was running for their bike, starting them as they strapped helmets on, then screaming across the cargo ramp to the grass. He threw the Harley's kickstand down, ran into the grass, ran through a sea of smoldering bodies...

IV

He was sitting right seat this morning, Deborah Desjardins doing all the driving now as she was well into her third week of training. It was warm out by eight that morning, and the air conditioner in the Dodge Diplomat was already having trouble keeping up, so running with the windows down seemed a better option, at least until afternoon came 'round. Eighty days in a row with temps above 110 degrees, but she was getting used to it now, not complaining as often. Still, when you weren't used to wearing a vest, a bullet-proof vest, in this heat, the misery index tended to shoot off the scale.

"Where to?" she asked after she'd double-checked the squad car's inventory of flares and cones, and after he'd loaded his dive gear and reconstruction duffel in the trunk.

"Take 67 south to Camp Wisdom. Remember your briefing? There's been a spike in burglaries in our district, and both DeSoto and Duncanville are reporting the same. Did you write down the suspect vehicle information?"

She looked at her notes, read through and he shook his head as he watched.

"Deb? You got to get this shit into memory. You can't stop and consult your notepad out there...you've got to know what you're looking for. Black Camaro or Firebird, damage on right rear quarter panel, some kind of decal on the back glass, maybe an STP decal. Sergeant read that out, not for your amusement but for you to have in mind while you patrol your district. Got it?"

"You memorized all that? This morning?"

"Yeah, you got to. I can remember shit like this from two weeks ago, some from months ago. And you've got to. We're not cruising out here just for fun, we're looking for specific targets. You see a black yada-yada-yada today, you turn on it and we scope it out. Got it?"

"Yup." She left the station and made for the highway, and they drove out Highway 67. "Are they mainly hitting houses, or apartments?"

"Good question. The sergeant didn't specifically tell us, did he? But he gave us street names both here and in Duncanville. All residential, single family homes."

"Understood. I've got to memorize all these street names too. Right?"

"Yup. Pain in the ass, but when I was a rook I took a street map of my patrol beat into the house with me, and just started memorizing street names and block numbers. It's tedious, but using a map is the only way to go. You've got to not only know the names, you've also got to know the quickest way from X to Y. Remember the Civil Service Exam? The most direct way is often neither the quickest way nor the safest. All these things come into play, but here's a clue. This knowledge takes time to acquire and assimilate. You have time now, as a rookie, to start learning this stuff, but you really have to apply yourself. It ain't easy, and it won't come together without hard mental prep time."