Broken

ONE

ONEIt was a town where washed up cops came to die. The lousy paycheck was better than becoming a mall cop or a comatose night watchman. They could still hold a gun and work at what they loved. If they’d been removed from other departments for being too quick on the trigger, or being on the take, or being psychologically unstable, it didn’t matter here. The town was happy to have some legal hired guns on the cheap, no questions asked.

Big Jim Bullock was an exception, as was fellow cop and best friend Trick Delgado.

Trick was born and raised in Agua Verde. He’d seen other places, places he’d rather forget, some beautiful and some ugly wastelands, but he’d left his adventures behind him and returned. Agua Verde was home. And home was where he wanted to be.

Jim slowly edged his squad car around the corner and onto a dimly lit side street. The weekends were generally quiet in Agua Verde, Arizona. Week nights like this were deader yet. That suited him just fine. He preferred the leisurely pace here to Phoenix or even Tucson. Fewer people meant fewer murders, fewer gangs, less graffiti. And a lot less work. With a population of a mere 35,000 the town had just enough big city amenities to be comfortable, while being spared a lot of the big city problems.

Jim didn’t like problems.

Unlike some cops, Big Jim didn’t get off on the adrenaline rush that comes with confrontation. He’d rather use wit and words than bullets to quell the occasional domestic dispute or petty crime.

Less hassle, less paperwork.

Firing his gun was a last resort.

Despite his laid-back demeanor, he managed to maintain a tough-guy reputation in the department and was looked up to by his fellow officers. They knew that when push came to shove Big Jim Bullock had their backs. Jim was cop to the bone. He lived, breathed and probably bled the same shade of blue as the faded uniforms they wore.

But he’d be the first to pull the trigger if the situation truly called for it.

He’d un-holstered it a few times, but he’d never once had to fire his gun in the line of duty.

Not that the occasional gun battle didn’t take place in Agua Verde. People were people everywhere. The good, the bad and the in-between. When tempers flared, Jim’s imposing and muscular six-foot-two frame, and a few well-chosen words, usually diffused a situation before it got out of control crazy.

The other officers respected him and he respected himself.

Jim turned the next corner onto a street dappled with strip malls and garish neon. Dimly lit street lamps cast minimal light onto the discount stores, bodegas and bars. The neon lights of Flaming June’s buzzed and sputtered. June’s was the local haven for society’s misfits. The gay and lesbian community that congregated there also welcomed the goths, the tattooed and tattered, the shaved heads or purple streaked hair, the beautiful or ugly, the straight or crooked. Her arms opened wide in welcome to the outcasts and rebels that lived on the outer edges, giving them a non-judgmental place to call home.

Surprisingly, they were rarely the town’s trouble makers.

They just wanted to be left alone to live life on their own terms.

Flaming June’s was the one place in Agua Verde where they could drink in relative peace. The only time the law got involved was when a patron drank to the point of stupid and flexed his drunk muscles. Bar fights were bar fights, be they at Flaming June’s, the local biker bar or the private golf resort at the edge of town.

Nothing made a man stupid faster than a gut full of booze. Happy drunks, ornery drunks, mean drunks. Big Jim had seen them all, but for those who silently drank themselves into a stupor, he’d provide a safe ride home.

Agua Verde’s lone presiding judge, the Honorable Gareth Lambert, had been his passenger more times than he cared to count.

The first drops of soft monsoon rain gently washed the desert grit from the street and sidewalks. Dark and wet, it splattered and nudged the neon reflections across the pavement, leaving a gash of crimson in its wake. It trickled like blood across the cracks and over the curb, until it was swallowed by the thirsty gutters.

A Mariachi tune floated through the night from Jalisco’s Cantina across the way. The notes danced across the street then collided with the pure tones from Benny Goodman’s clarinet be-bopping its way from inside Flaming June’s as her front door opened. The two songs blended, creating a cacophonous melody that filled the night air.

A lone figure exited the bar and cautiously made its way up the sidewalk. His diminutive frame suggested he was little more than a child and Jim wondered if the kid had been carded when he entered the bar or if they’d just looked the other way. When the kid reached the corner a group of thugs emerged from the shadows and pounced on him. He fell to the pavement with the first blow. They proceeded to hit and kick him, one after the other, then all at once. They laughed and yelped like hungry hyenas as they stomped and kicked the cowering, helpless figure. Their war-whoops and the man’s girlish screams punctuated the music that filled the air.

“Faggot!” One of them yelled as he kicked him in the ribs.

“Stinking butt-sniffer,” taunted another.

The young man covered his face as he curled into a protective fetal position.

Another hard blow to the stomach and he stopped screaming.

But the laughter and the beating continued.

Big Jim Bullock rolled down his squad car window and flashed a bright light on them. Like sewer rats, the hooded shadows scurried and disappeared into the black crevasses of the night. Jim radioed for back up and an ambulance, exited the car, un-holstered his gun and raced down the sidewalk to where the young man lay.

His motionless body was as bloody as a slaughterhouse floor.

Jim holstered his gun, then knelt down and felt the boy’s neck for a pulse. It was weak. It was more important to stay with him than try to chase down his assailants. When they arrived, back-up could go look for the chicken-s**t bastards. They were likely street-gang wannabee’s or teenagers who got their kicks preying on the weak and helpless. It was sport for them. A game. They found joy in inflicting pain. It was a sickness for which there was no cure. Short of a bullet. These blights on civilized society were one of the few things that could tempt Big Jim Bullock to pull the trigger with no regrets.

There had been a few gay bashings in Agua Verde, as well as assaults on the homeless. No one had been caught. One of the street people had been beaten into permanent brain damage. And a permanent home, where he’d spend the rest of his life being fed through tubes in a charity hospital bed.

The thugs continued to strike, then disappeared like phantoms.

He’d like to get a hold of them.

One at a time.

Jim held the kid’s delicate hand. He looked like a wounded bird. A little sparrow.

Sirens howled in the distance.

The boy’s lids fluttered, then his dark eyes opened, looking directly into Jim’s. There was a faint smile on his bruised and bloodied mouth.

“¿Es usted un ángel?” He whispered.

Jim’s grasp of Spanish was spotty at best, but he got the gist of it.

“No, I’m no angel,” he answered. “I’m a cop.”

“Creo que tú eres mi ángel.”

“Do you speak English?” Jim asked. “Uh, do you habla the English?”

“Si, poquito.” His lids closed. “I think you are my angel,” he said, then passed out.

Tires and brakes squealed as the ambulance and two squad cars pulled up.

“Over here,” Jim motioned to the ambulance attendants. “I need help. Now!”

Two officers ran over to Jim as the boy was lifted onto the stretcher and carried to the ambulance.

“Holy Jesus,” said Trick Delgado, looking at the pool of blood on the sidewalk. Trick was a broad-shouldered, balding, five foot ten, with a south of the border complexion contrasted by piercing Irish gray eyes. An Agua Verde native, he’d entered the local police force as soon as he’d had enough of his other life. If you make a wrong turn the best you can do is slam on the brakes and head back in the right direction. He wanted to help the helpless, so becoming a cop had been his ambition for as far back as he could remember and he regretted having been sidetracked along the way. Oh, he’d been praised, even awarded for his stellar service to his country, but it was nothing more than a bad dream that faded, then disappeared. That was then, but this was now.

“This looks really bad,” Trick said to his friend. “What the f**k happened?”

“Another gay bashing outside Flaming June’s. I counted five of them. Just shadows in hoodies. That’s all I could see. You guys drive around and see what you can find.”

“Just one more queer,” said the cop named Mackey Hogan, exhaling an audible snort through his pudgy, whiskey-veined nose.

“He’s a victim, you son-of-a b***h. Get the lead out, now!” Jim said as he headed for the ambulance. “I’m following to the hospital.”

“Let’s go,” said Trick Delgado to Mackey. “You head towards Main and I’ll go to the south. With a little luck, they might still be on the streets.”

He shrugged and leisurely followed Trick.

“You can really be an ass-hole,” Trick said to Mackey.

“What’s the matter, Trick? You a fairy lover?” Mackey asked, throwing him a noisy kiss as he walked towards his car.

They got into their dark blue cars and took off in opposite directions.

Two attendants shoved the stretcher into the back of the ambulance. The door slammed shut with a loud bang.

“How’s it look?” Jim asked.

“Not good. Not good at all,” said the driver. “The guy’s really messed up.”

“Then step on it!”

Big Jim Bullock ran to his car, slid behind the wheel and followed the flashing red lights through the dark streets as it raced to Our Lady of Guadalupe hospital. He paced the dark hospital hallways until three in the morning before a doctor finally appeared.

“It was touch and go,” the doctor told him. “Two broken ribs, a broken leg, multiple lacerations. And he’s got a pretty bad concussion.”

“Cut to the chase, doc. Is he going to be okay?”

“We were finally able to stop the internal bleeding. Bottom line, it looks like he’s going to make it.”

“I need to speak with him.”

“He’s pretty doped up,” said the doctor. “So keep it short.” He led Jim to the recovery room.

“Five minutes,” he said.

When the doctor left, Jim pulled up a chair and sat down. He reached over and took the young man’s hand.

“How ‘ya feeling, kid?”

Slowly the boy opened his eyes, blinked, and looked at the officer.

“I am no kid, senõr. I am twenty-three,” he said with pride. “All grown up.”

“I need your name.”

“Mi nombre?”

“For the report.”

“Paco,” he whispered as he tried to focus on Jim’s face. He broke into a pained grin. “Oh, it is you, amigo. You are the man who is my angel.”

That suited Jim just fine. He’d been called a lot of names on the job, but angel definitely wasn’t one of them.