That jus' cray.
— Not A Tempter
A cop whose name was not Mike said, "Yeah, gimme a minute."
"Not a problem."
And, really, it wasn't.
Yes, I was at a police station.
Yes, the reason was obvious.
Yes, I'd fucked up, but not to the point of the situation being inexorably unfixable.
And there was good news.
The screaming in my head had finally stopped.
The only screaming at this point came from the cop not named Mike, each time he called out for Mike.
Not Mike said, "You don't look the type."
"Excuse me?"
"Nothin'. Hang on. HEY, MIKE!!!"
I used to think there was nothing worse than a cop. Then I met The B. And then, worse still, I met Doug. I was no longer convinced that cops are the worst of the worst, but damn. Either this guy, or Mike, was wasting my time.
I mean, sure, there's the thing about being caught in Doug's home with a gun. But it was his gun, and a search of his home would reveal his latest stash of roofies. The bottles were still there. And they had his fingerprints, not mine, despite the fact that I'd emptied them into his coffee creamer.
Proving Doug was a rapist would be both easy and peasy.
I'd thought it through.
Self-defense. Whoopdeedooo.
And, despite an unexpected, shall we say, meltdown... if we're calling it that... which I am not... I was now once again in control of my senses.
I was calm and cool. This was not a big deal.
"I'm going to assume," said the cop whose name was still not Mike, "you know why you're here."
"Mike and his partner brought me here."
"I'm sayin', I assume you know why."
"Well, you know what happens when you assume."
"What happens?"
"You make an ass out of Ume. He hates that."
"Who's Oohmay?"
"It's a joke. A.S.S.U.M.E. Ass. Ume. Get it? Sorry."
"Jesus. Hang on. Hey, will you get in here, Mike?"
If my math is correct, four cops showed up at Doug's place. No idea why so many. Doesn't matter. One of them took me out to the squad car, where we waited for Mike to finish interviewing Doug. I guess? That part is a blur, due to, y'know, the meltdown. I admit, it was not my finest hour.
I also didn't know what happened to Mike after we got to the police station, but his partner left me with this guy.
Not-Mike called out again. "HEY MIKE! WILL YOU GET IN HERE? Are you taking this one?"
Was he talking about me, or the donuts? There was a box of 'em on the next desk. Not Mike leaned over. He lifted the lid, looked inside, and scowled.
Why wasn't he asking what happened? And what could he say? That I broke into a house using the keys to the house? That's not a break-in. That's "Honey, I'm home!!!" Sure, Doug would ask how I got a copy of his keys. To which, I'd reply, "When you gave 'em to me, Snugglemuffin!"
And, yes, I had a gun. Pointed at Doug. His gun. After he tried to rape me, which, by the way, is the goddamn truth... though I acknowledge, only to you, a slight chronological misalignment, due to the straight-line tyranny of time. But still...
I wasn't worried.
Sure, I'd done plenty. Probably more than anybody Not Mike ever met, but nothing he knew about, and the only witness to anything related to this particular incident... was Doug... who'd soon be dead. He was going to overdose by pouring a lethal dose of his own roofies into his coffee the next morning. A convenient fact... which only I knew.
Yes, yes, there were robberies. Hundreds of robberies, yes. Do it once, it's a thing you did. Do it twice, it's a thing you do. Do it hundreds of times, you'd be a fucking legend if anyone knew. But the guys I robbed thought they got hacked, online.
That's what made The Plan perfect.
I was a ghost.
So, why was I stuck in a ghastly police station for such an easily solvable domestic dispute, and why for the luvagaaahd was it taking so long?
Doug's a rapist. Provably so. His gun. My self defense. No Biggie.
Mo Money Mo Problems? This wasn't one of 'em.
"Tell you what," said a horrendous conversationalist whose name will never be Mike. Unless he changes it, which he shouldn't, unless his own name is worse. I digress. He said, "Let's just... Do you know why you're here?"
"Is this, like, an existential question? Why are any of us really here? Where's Carl Sagan when you need him?"
"What?"
"Mysteries of the universe regarding fundamental questions about the nature of space and time, not to mention the existence of existence itself, and sweet baby Jebus, why the fuck is this taking so long, pardon my French. Are you guys always this disorganized?"
"Yeah, well, it's just... Christ... MIKE! WILL YOU GET IN HERE?"
And then, the phone rang.
Not Mike picked it up.
"What? Wait. You're sayin' you got...? I thought I... Oh. So what do you want me to...? Sure. I'll put her in holding."
I said, "We all just want to be held, but not like this."
"Get up."
As I was led down a hallway, we found Mike and his partner, slumped over their desks. Apparently, they'd had too long of a day to give a damn.
Five minutes later, in the holding cell, I was joined by a woman whose reason for being there needed no explanation.
For the sake of killing time, I asked anyway.
"What are you in for?"
"Ho'in'."
"Right on."
"But now they think they got me on cupla tempted murders. An' I'm like, maaaan? You mus be cray."
"...zee?"
"You know it."
"I really do."
I was hoping that'd be the end of the conversation, but she continued.
"They sayin' I go backoo many times mufuggs gah s'curdy. In a Burr King baffroooom? You gaaahbekiddin' me."
"Wow, that's..."
"I know, rieeey?"
"Right."
"Hey, whahcho name, hon?"
It was an interesting question. I wasn't sure what name to give. Shayna owned the house, and the house contained evidence of many things. Many truly unspeakable things. So, nope to that name. And this was surely not the place to give a name from an old fake ID, not that it mattered in this particular moment with this particular person... but still...
Fuck it.
I said, "I'm Dandy."
"Well ain't dat sumpin'!"
"Oh?"
"I'm Dani!"
"Oh."
"Yeaaah."
"OH!?"
Uh oh.
I had many questions, but the answers were conveniently provided when a panicked voice blared over the intercom.
A man shouted, "We need medical! Mike's down. We already got two down at Fairmont, and Jim's not picking up! Was he with them? Is it poison? Is it from there? Or here??? Don't eat or drink anything 'til we know!"
Oh, whoa.
Oh no.
No way.
"That jus' cray," Dani said.
That was cream. And I knew.
Half-and-half. Totally fucked.
And unintended.
For them.
Thoroughly, utterly, and inexorably fucked, to the point of being unfathomably fucked, and also, wow... for me.
But more importantly, why, for everyone else?
OK, I went back to Doug's place too many times and he realized something was up. Looks like he got a security system. Rieeey?
Right.
That part I get.
But...
...The other part?
Three cops down? Two at Doug's place, one here, and a fourth is M.I.A.?
What's up with that?
And more importantly, why?
Why?
Why?!?!?
Why would Doug make them coffee?!?
He was supposed to make it for himself, in the morning.
Coffee plus Hosed half-and-half should equal Totally Dead Doug by early afternoon. I did the math. It checked out.
Doug was supposed to check out.
Not a bunch of cops.
No way.
No how.
Okra.