We all just want to be held.
— The Collar
A cop whose name was not Mike said, "It'll just be 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 where the situation becomes inexorably unfixable.
And there was good news.
The screaming in my head finally stopped.
The only screaming at this point came from a cop not named Mike, each time he called out for Mike.
Not Mike glanced at me curiously. He said, "Huh. You don't look dangerous."
"Neither do you."
"Heh. Yeah. Well, according to the dispatch log, one of you dialed 9-1-1. Neither spoke on the call. Just screaming. Operator said you might be dangerous. Don't look dangerous. I hate this domestic shit, but it's not my problem. You're Mike's arrest. Think he went to get a soda or something. Hang on. HEY, MIKE!!!"
I used to think there was nothing worse than a cop. Then I met Doug. I was no longer convinced cops are the worst of the worst, but damn. Mike was wasting my time. This was not a big deal.
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. I made sure the bottles were still there. And they had his fingerprints, not mine, despite the fact that I'd emptied them into his coffee creamer. I forgot to bring gloves, but I used a tissue for that, and I flushed it.
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.
"Eh, might as well get started," said the cop whose name was still not Mike, "You've been read your rights, right?"
"Right."
"And 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. Did he somehow butt-dial 9-1-1? Doesn't matter. One of the cops 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.
Mike went somewhere after we got to the police station. For a drink, I guess? And his partner staggered out after leaving me with this guy. Bro was in a hurry to get somewhere. Whatever.
Not-Mike called out again. "MIKE! YOU'RE TAKIN' THIS ONE, RIGHT?"
Was he talking about me, or the donuts? There was a box of pastries 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 since it happened in 2019. But still...
I wasn't worried.
Sure, I'd done plenty. Probably more than anybody Not Mike ever met, but he didn't know, 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 amount of his own roofies into his coffee the next morning. A convenient fact... which only I knew.
Yes, yes, there had been robberies. Millions in Bitcoin, stolen from many men, yes. I did it hundreds of times. I'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?"
"Hey, how come everybody else here is Officer This and Officer That, but Mike's just Mike?"
"We got two guys named Jones. Mike's one of 'em."
"That makes sense."
And then, the phone rang.
Not Mike picked it up.
"Slow down. What? I don't know what's going on. I thought... No? Well I got Mike's collar. Yeah, I'm sitting with her now. No, I haven't... Y'know what? I'll put her in holding."
I said, "We all just want to be held, but not like that."
"Get up."
As I was led down a hallway, we found Mike, taking a nap at his desk. Apparently, he'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 be, like, 'Whachoo dooda Mike,' like I got a goddamn clue whaddat was. An' dey tryna pin it on me? Dey muss be cray."
"...zee?"
"You know it."
"I really do."
"Hey, you cute. Whahcho name, hon?"
That was an interesting question. I wasn't sure what name to give her. Shayna owned the house, and the house contained evidence of many things. Many very troubling 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."
"I like dat."
"Thanks. It's short for Dandelion."
"Tha's cute. I'm Angie."
"Hey, did you say something happened to Mike? He's the cop that brought me in."
"Yo, dat bro hit da flo!' He got up, doe. He be stumblin' like a damn fool."
"Huh. I wonder what that was all about."
I was conveniently provided with the answer when a panicked voice blared over the intercom.
A man shouted, "We need medical! Officer down and DOA! Mike's DOA! We already got two of ours down on Wilshire, plus the VIC, and Jim's not picking up! Was he on the call? Is it poison? Is it from there? Or here??? Don't eat or drink anything 'til we know!"
Wow.
And also, whoa.
"That jus' cray," Angie said.
That was cream. And I knew.
It was half-and-half. And totally fucked.
And unintended, for everybody but Doug.
And possibly thoroughly, utterly, and inexorably fucked, to the point of being unfathomably fucked... for me.
What happened seems obvious.
But why?
Why?!?
Why?!?!?!?
Why did Doug make coffee and serve it to the cops?
Coffee plus Hosed half-and-half tomorrow morning was supposed to equal Totally Dead Doug by noon. I did the math. It checked out.
Doug was supposed to check out.
Not a couple cops.
Not Mike.
No way.
No how.
Okra.