Chapter 3

Officer Apples laments today’s youth culture and concludes his interrogation.

Just looking down at Ray made Officer Apples irritated. The kid was such a waste. The kid was tall, had a sturdy, athletic build, had hands the size of hams. He could have been a football or basketball player. Could have gone into combat sports. This kid could have done a lot of things, Officer Apples lamented.

Besides, just the way the kid dressed was upsetting, the kid in electric-green skinny jeans and an ugly, matching tank top. Not to mention the puffy, bubble-gum-pink basketball shoes he’d had on earlier.

Officer Apples snarled and ruminated.

The kid is something between Gumby, Lebron, and a crack baby.

A storm brewing between his ears, the officer’s inner rage began to boil over, like a kettle left too long on a stovetop, and he ground his teeth and clucked loud as a cicada.

Officer Apples crept closer, leaned in toward Ray. The cop’s face so close that Ray could feel the bristles of the copper’s bushy moustache tickling at his earlobe. Warm pulses of the officer’s breath burbled at Ray’s jowls.

“Ray Ray, a cashier at Nordstrom had her engagement ring stolen. Ripped right off her finger...” Officer Apples seethed and paused, thinking of that sad-eyed kid with the horrible haircut, the one looking like a rainbow-colored animal had plopped down and died on his skull, the kid who’d literally snatched the ring off the poor girl’s trembling hand.

Looking away for a split second, before swinging his gaze back to meet Ray’s, the officer bellowed, “What is the NAME of the kid who took it?!” and specks of spittle exploded from the officer’s mouth, hitting Ray’s cheeks, like the first raindrops of a violent thunderstorm.

Ray’s eyes darkened as he kept counting ghosts. Then he whimpered, shook his head, and repeated, his voice breaking, “I ain’t do nothing, sir!”

Sometimes suspects attempted verbal jujitsu with the officers. Some cursed. One even spit in Officer Apples’ face. But this kid ... This kid had purpose. Not even this cold shower of verbal abuse could loosen his lips...

Officer Apples had had enough. He had the evidence. The camera stills. The videos. The social media posts. He had Ray leading the flash mob. He had Ray with a baseball bat. He had Ray bashing in storefront doors and display windows, swarming in force with his posse, like a furious cloud of murder hornets. He had Ray ransacking, snatching handfuls of gold necklaces, stacks of designer shirts, pricey basketball shoes. Probably the same hideous pink pair the kid had on before...

Ugh ... This motherless fuck ... This kid is a disgrace...

What a pile of fucking horseshit ... Total and utter horseshit...

Officer Apples clucked once more and flared his nostrils.

“Hitting a ‘lick,’ right?” Officer Apples whispered, sardonically, into Ray’s ear. Officer Apples was close as a drill sergeant, only an inch or so from Ray’s face. Ray crinkled his nose at the heavy mist of Officer Apples’ aftershave, his garlicy breath.

But Ray remained steadfast. Remained silent.

Officer Apples groaned in exasperation. “Ray Ray, I can either be a good friend or an awful enemy. Which would you prefer?”

Ray sat still as ice; his mouth twisted shut.

“Hmm, so you’re not like that gangster rapper, ‘Teriyaki Six Nine?’ You’re not a snitch, huh?” Officer Apples murmured, “not a ... rat...”

Ray sighed, then squinted his eyes, hung his head low and stared down at the buttery shine of the linoleum floor. His expression soured. Instantly he appeared incensed.