Read Down the Road: The Fall of Austin for Free Online

“We’re fine here, friend,” he
said.
    The crackling of the tazer then stopped, but
the noises that followed sounded a lot like swift kicks into
blubbery guts.
    Mike decided some conversation might drown
out the disharmony of Derek’s brand of justice being administered
in the distance. “What’s your name?”
    “Charlie.”
    “Why did your friend feel he had to run,
Charlie?”
    “Heck if I know.”
    The crackle of the tazer sounded again,
accompanied by more yelping, and stopped after several seconds. The
yelps turned to whimpers.
    “So, Charlie, mind telling me what you were
doing back here?”
    “Just hangin’ with my friend.”
    “You been doing any drugs tonight?”
    “No, sir.”
    “Stand up.”
    The demonic laughter of the sinister tazer
was reverberating through the narrow alley yet again as Charlie
went through the process of standing up.
    Mike shone the concentrated beam of his
flashlight into his eyes. They were bloodshot and glazed.
    “Turn around.”
    Mike reached into the back pocket of
Charlie’s Levis and plucked out his wallet. He flipped it open and
inspected the Texas driver’s license inside. It revealed that
Charlie’s full name was Charles Roth, currently nineteen years old,
and he lived here in the city.
    The demon in the distance stopped its
laughter, but for how long, Mike had no idea.
    “You still live at 2344 1st Street?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    Mike knew he had to keep his suspect’s mind
busy, so if he ever had to recall this incident later on, all the
shenanigans going on in the background might not be as memorable.
“Charlie, you have any illegal paraphernalia on you tonight?”
    “No, sir.”
    “No reefer, pot, smack, crack, heroin, coke,
smoking or snorting apparatuses, guns, hand grenades or atomic
bombs?”
    “No, sir,” Charlie blurted.
    Mike pursed his lips. Charlie had been too
quick to respond—too consumed in introverted contemplation and
therefore too quick to deny. An innocent person would more than
likely have been more calm and attentive and would have known the
last bit was meant as a joke.
    “864 to dispatch. I need some numbers run.
Over.”
    “Go ahead,” came the reply.
    “1-niner-3-3-5-niner-niner-0-1.” Taking
advantage of the silent moment, Mike proceeded with his
questioning. “Charlie, any warrants I need to know about?”
    “No, sir.”
    Derek was now approaching, walking his
scraped and bedraggled suspect with him. The suspect was
handcuffed. A loud siren in the distance signaled an ambulance
urgently driving down William Cannon.
    “I’m going to check your pockets, Charlie. Am
I going to find anything inside you should have already told me
about?”
    “Uh... I don’t know.”
    “ You don’t know ?” Mike echoed. “Well,
you either do or you don’t .”
    He stuck his hand into each pocket of
Charlie’s Levis, being wary of any possible sharp objects, and
found an item of interest. It was a “dugout,” a small wooden
container with a carved-out section for weed and another convenient
hole for a “pinch hitter,” a small metal pipe used to place small
hits of weed at one end. And both holes of the dugout just so
happened to be filled with the product they were designed to be
filled with. It amounted to roughly a nickle bag.
    “I thought you said you weren’t doing drugs
tonight?”
    “They’re his ,” Charlie said, nodding
toward the other suspect.
    “Man, fuck you, Charlie, you asshole. That
shit ain’t mine.”
    The CB buzzed. “Dispatch to 864. Suspect
Roth, Charles. No outstanding warrants. No priors. Over.”
    “Roger,” Mike said into his shoulder CB.
“Charlie, you just messed up your perfect record.”
    “Just don’t tell my mom.”
    “Your mom?” Mike asked. “You’re still living
at home?” He then turned his head long enough to acknowledge
another police cruiser pulling up next to his and Derek’s cruisers
at the end of the alley. “I think your mom’s going to find out.
Sorry about your luck.