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Ron de Laby  More Info

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Tales From The Hood - Chapter 3 - Jolly

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By Ron De Laby

Men are born equal but they are also born different - Erich Fromm

The late summer of 1988 saw the promotion of Jon Moreland to Detectives. With it came a much welcomed pay increase. Jon’s time in grade had also provided him with a step raise in addition to a long overdue city increase. The combination of the three allowed him to put a down payment on a nice little two-bedroom house overlooking Fairmont Park in the North end of the city.
Along with the house came a wayfaring stranger who straggled up to the front door one warm evening and asked to come in for a bite to eat. The stranger was invited in and stayed as a permanent fixture. Jon named the stranger, a female black Lab, “Chu Hoi” a little remembrance from Vietnam. The term’s closest translation was “Open Arms”, or “Surrender”. The dog simply became known as “Chu”

To celebrate the promotion Jon invited Malorie over for a burned steak and a glass of Merlot. He had installed a swing on the small side porch and listened attentively as she regaled him with past tales of daring with her various roughneck brothers. He admired her shapely legs as she curled them up on the overstuffed pad of the swing, tucking them under like a cat. She rocked the swing absently with one hand and sipped the Merlot with the other as they chatted.

“Say,” she suddenly exclaimed. “Who is Sean Rogers? I mean I know who he is but what kind of officer is he? We got a report from him about filing a complaint on an eastsider for a kidnap and assault, and I have to tell you the guy strikes me as kinda different. What do you know about him?”
Jon turned the steaks and raised the grill so they could have a few minutes to talk.

“Well,” he began, “Sean is a little different. I worked around him for a while on the eastside when I was in uniform and he does seem to have his own way of doing business. Not that it doesn’t work; it’s just really different. But I know what you mean. What do I know about him? Well,” he chuckled at a memory. “What I remember most is this.” He began to unfold the tale. “3 Robert 5, 3 Robert 5.” The dispatcher’s voice broke through his reverie. Sean Rogers looked at his watch and wearily removed the microphone from its cradle.

“3 Robert 5, Market and 14th,” he responded.

“Bitch, give me a call and you’re in deep shit,” he thought.

“3 Robert 5, see the woman, a family four-fifteen at thirty-one twenty-five Cedar. 3-1-2-5 Cedar, cross of First.”

“Five, 10-4. Is 5 Adam clear?” The call wasn’t even on his beat. What a dumb bitch.

“3 Robert 5, negative at this time.”

The dispatcher was starting to become flustered. She was new and she had run into Sean’s disagreeable attitude before. Unlike the other dispatchers who had not only been there longer but had already bedded half the uniform division, she did not have the horsepower to argue as effectively.
“Five, how about Robert Ten?”

He was clearly trying to avoid the call. Even though it was only the first hour of a three to eleven shift, he was not known to go out of his way to protect and serve. In fact, Sean Rogers had established beyond a reasonable doubt, many years before, that he not only disliked people, he absolutely and conclusively hated every living thing.
“Sam-57 to Robert Five, Channel four.”

The dispatcher breathed a small sigh of relief. A sergeant was going to tell that moron to handle the call and to quit arguing with her. She glanced at the clock on the console. Only an hour into the shift and she was catching grief already. It was going to be a long night.

Sean had twenty-four years under his well-worn Sam Browne. The problem however, was two-fold. One: Sean was only forty-five years old, too young to retire. Under the city’s benevolent plan, members of the P.D. had to be a minimum of fifty before they could pull the pin and leave. Ohh, there was some military buy back options but since Sean was never in the military that program was useless. There was a strong suspicion amongst the older crew that the magic age of fifty had been decided upon because no one was expected to live that long. With each succeeding year it became even more apparent that the city fathers, Satan rest their black souls, were more correct in that assessment than even they could have suspected.

And Two: Sean had no interest in going anywhere anyway. He was trapped in a twilight zone of conflicting emotions. In the first place he hated his job. In the second place there was nothing else he cared for, so he might as well stay in the first place.

Because of his surly and sarcastic attitude and his dislike for everything with a beating heart, Sean promptly became known as “Jolly” Rogers. The handle was all too fitting in a rather dark sort of way. The name took root and grew like a noxious weed among the uniform crew. Even Sean seemed to agree it “added character” to his otherwise sterling personality. In fact, he was so moved by the thought that the others would bestow such an honor upon him, he had risen to the occasion and had a special nametag created.

The standard police nametag sits over, and is centered on, the right pocket of the uniform shirt. It is black plastic and contains the last name of its wearer in white letters. Jolly’s nametag sported the entire title of “Jolly” Rogers and was accompanied by an engraving of a small skull and crossbones to commemorate the namesake. Of course the “special” nametag could only be worn on certain occasions, those being anytime he was out of personal contact with a supervisor.

No one knew exactly where or when Jolly went wrong. His wife of twenty years had not only divorced him but had also moved out of town and threatened him with a restraining order if he should ever show his face within her new city limits. It was rumored she always carried a mirror, a crucifix and a clove of garlic in an emergency kit on the off chance she might actually run into him at some inopportune time.

There were two children from the long dead marriage. They were both boys. One was believed to belong to a super secret military unit, which wore Girl Scout hats and was deployed on missions in third world countries blowing swarthy little people to bits. The other could be found at various airports around the country wearing saffron colored robes and chanting “Oooommmm.”

Jolly was a friend of hops and barley. In fact, those in the know, who purchased stock in whichever brewing company Jolly happened to favor, made considerable fortunes. It was said that when a well known Mexican activist struck against a well known beer company and changed multitudinous Mexican taste buds to a competitor’s brand, Jolly single-handedly brought that company back from the brink of bankruptcy.

Jolly was one of those rare individuals who was incapable of functioning with any degree of civility at a blood alcohol level of less than .08 percent. He was a textbook alcoholic. A mean trick when 40 or more hours of one’s work week required absolute, not “Absolut” sobriety.

Most everyone else considered the protection of the citizenry a sacred trust. Jolly knew the job of a policeman had but a singular purpose; to keep Jolly entertained. In his nightly pursuit of his entertainment he drove the Watch Commander and field supervisors to attacks of acid reflux. No one really knew what nefarious scheme was about to be hatched in his alcohol destroyed brain but when it matured and was ready to be born, you could be certain it would be a double honker.

Jolly preferred to work among the Mexican population of Riverside. He did so because this particular ethnic group had a deep abiding fear of the police and were not as likely to voice complaints. Therefore, the nightly entertainment was less likely to be interrupted. Of course, this gave Jolly a license to steal when it came to running his beat. These people were, of course, his people, his “subjects.”

One thing, which could honestly be said about Jolly, was that he had a weird sense of humor. The depth of that weirdness came to pass in a somewhat backhanded sort of way. During the ongoing investigation of a family problem, a day watch officer was having difficulty understanding the broken English explanation being given. He therefore requested a Spanish-speaking officer.
The patrol supervisor on duty and closest unit was Sergeant Dave Garcia, Sam-55. He responded to the scene and after conferring with the investigating officer he began to offer a translation. During the course of the conversation with the female member of the family problem, a curious question was posed.

“Como esta el policía con el ojo arruinado?”

Sergeant Dave was at a loss.

“What policeman with the ruined eye? We have no such policeman.” He said.

“Si, Si,” the woman responded.

“Usted el concoce. El desgasta la corrección negra concluido su ojo arruinado Tal vergüenza. Como sucedió?”

Sam-55 ran the translation over in his mind very slowly, thinking “Huh?”

“You know the one. He wears a black patch over his ruined eye. Such a shame, how did it happen?”

When he finally made the connection, Sergeant Dave saw to it that a copy of the uniform regulations was passed out at each roll call. The addendum, written in heavy felt pen, made some cryptic reference to eye patches. Of course everyone knew the stress had gotten to Sergeant Dave and it was soon rumored he might be retiring because of it.

Even so, black patch sightings regularly occurred and Jolly remained entertained. His subjects often wondered how the policia had come to lose his eye. There was an ongoing disagreement as to whether he had lost the use of the left eye or the right eye as the condition seemed to change with relative frequency.

Jolly was known to be even less jolly around the melanin-enhanced citizens of Riverside. His disdain for the darker population was so well known that there was extraordinary effort put forth to avoid assigning him to any beat covering such areas.

Since the police population in Riverside was somewhat limited, there came an occasion one evening when Jolly was required to fill in on an adjoining beat. The regular beat officer, who happened to not only be black, but also have a black recruit, was down for the count with the flu. Jolly was elected to fill his place. Prior to roll call the duty Sergeant took Jolly aside and broke the news to him. He was warned at that time to put forth his best effort to train the new recruit officer and not damage him too badly. Jolly reluctantly agreed.

Upon the completion of roll call, officers went to their respective units and performed routine checks for unreported damage and verified the working condition of the various components of the cars. Jolly of course made certain his recruit officer performed all the tasks for “training purposes.”

The relationship between Jolly and the recruit officer started off tenuously at best. The young officer’s name was Freeman Jones, but Jolly insisted on referring to him as his “boy” or his “gun bearer.” Either name, of course, was considered not only highly inappropriate, but a major “trigger word.” Freeman decided to grin and bear it since his tour of duty with Jolly was only going to be for a limited period, and he really wanted this job.

“Here’s the deal,” said, Jolly, as he firmly ensconced himself in the passenger seat.

“You drive. I meditate. We get a call you don’t answer it. I talk, you listen. You don’t talk. Got it?” Jolly was nothing if not succinct.

Freeman nodded, afraid to even speak.

“How long you been on?” Jolly inquired.

Freeman held up four fingers.

“What is that?” asked, Jolly

“Four weeks? Four days? Four hours? What?”

“Four weeks,” squeaked Freeman.

“Good enough,” said, Jolly.

“You’re practically a pro. Now drive.” He curled up on the front seat and turned his face to the window and went to sleep.

Throughout the evening Freeman drove, terrified he might be forced to make a decision or worse, ask his partner for any help.

About three hours into the shift Freeman turned a corner just as a black male subject stepped into the street. He jumped back on the curb, outraged at the prospect of being nearly struck by the police car. He slammed his hand on the hood of the black and white and shouted at the two officers. Freeman slammed on the brakes shaking Jolly awake.

“What the Fu…?” inquired the senior officer.

“Freeman, boy. What the hell are you doing?” Jolly was visibly upset at being awakened so rudely.

“I think I hit him,” Freeman was even more upset. He could see his police career fly out the window over a pedestrian accident while he was still on probation.

“Ahh, shit,” said, Jolly as he got out of the patrol car.

“What the hell you doin hittin’ my car like that?” he angrily demanded of the pedestrian, aptly shifting the blame of the collision to the victim. This enraged the man even further.

“Motha Fucken PO-lice. Ain’t nothin’ but PIGS.” He shouted as he rubbed his supposedly bruised and battered leg.

The man peered into the front windshield of the police car and noticed Freeman for the first time.

“Well, looky here. I gots daddy PIG and baby PIG,” he continued, dancing around, shuffling his feet and moving his shoulders in time to some far away rhythm only he could hear.

Jolly folded his arms and watched the man through slitted eyes.

The dance continued punctuated by stabs in the air with an index finger to emphasize points.

“YO. White PIG. Got yoself a BLACK woman ‘n have you a baby PIG?” He laughed derisively at the officers.

Jolly had long since reached the end of his patience. He ambled over and prodded the man in the chest with a finger in hopes of inviting a swing.
“There’s just one big difference between you and me, asshole,” he announced, poking the man’s chest with each word and forcing him back on the sidewalk.
“When I go home, I can take this pigskin off.”

He turned around and got back in the patrol car, the message obviously too deep for the pedestrian who stood there blinking. Freeman sat gloomily, his head resting on the steering wheel, staring at the floorboard. Visions of a heroic career going down in smoke and flames. He mentally ticked off the upcoming sequence of events: Hit and Run, Assault and Battery. A citizen’s complaint review board; followed by the chief of police dramatically ripping the buttons from his uniform shirt to the accompaniment of a drum roll.

“Drive,” commanded, Jolly.

Third watch roll call started promptly at 2:45 p.m. Most sergeants were sticklers for the time and would glare warningly at anyone entering the room at 2:46 p.m. The events were pretty much the same every evening. Read off beat assignments and provide the keys to available units. The latter always provoked indignant complaints from the senior officers who, by some oversight, might not have been issued the latest and best patrol vehicle.
The sergeant read off assignments as he had for many years.

“3-Robert-60, Jones. Unit 2058.”

“3-Robert-45, Hendricks. Unit 2255”

“3-Robert-15, Foley. Unit 2150.”

“2150?” replied a horrified Foley. With ten years he was the second senior officer on the shift and was due entirely more respect than being assigned such an out of date patrol vehicle. “C’mon, Sarge. 2150 is a piece of shit.” The roll call sergeant looked at Foley over the top of his half frame glasses.
“3-Robert-15, Foley. Unit 2150,” he repeated.

“Rogers. Air-One needs an observer. Morley called in sick. You’re it.” Said the sergeant.

“Ohh Christ,” responded Sean. “Why is it always me?”

Secretly he enjoyed the occasional break from a black and white and who knows what wonders lurked around suburban swimming pools in July. Why, just last week Air-1’s observer had logged no less than six titty sightings, one of which jumped up and down and waved exuberantly. This action, of course, prompted a circular orbit on the residence that lasted to within 2 seconds of a personnel complaint by the neighbors. Promise was in the air but true to his reputation, Jolly was required to take anything and everything as a personal affront.

The Hughes 500 is a small egg shaped helicopter capable of superior speed and maneuverability. It is a favorite among most law enforcement agencies. However, because of its size, it affords little room for the pilot and observer to move around while in flight. Of course the folks who designed this particular craft did not know Sean Rogers or they might have compensated.

The heat waves rising from the tarmac of the airport created a visual sensation of peering through water. The blades of Air –1 were winding up to their appropriate liftoff pitch and the pilot was completing his pre-flight check.
“Riverside tower, this is police helicopter November 1-7-3-5-Niner requesting clearance for takeoff.” The pilots voice modulated low and practiced in Jolly’s headset.

“November 1-7-3-5-Niner, clear.” Responded the mechanical sounding voice from the tower.

The tail end of the helicopter lifted first and the forward airspeed began to increase as the small helicopter raced across the asphalt. This sensation was always a thrill to Jolly. As the aircraft lifted it gave the sensation of the earth falling away, creating a slightly sinking feeling in his stomach. He belched a fermented bubble of hops and barley.

“Air-1, 10-8” The pilot announced to the dispatcher over the police frequency.

“Air-1, 10-8, 10-4, assist the units at Twenty-one fifty-seven Holly Drive. 2-1-5-7- Holly Drive, cross of Orefield. A possible 4-5-9 in progress. 3-Robert-57 handling.

“A residential burglary in progress,” thought Jolly. “Now here was something worth flying for. Air-1, 2157 Holly, copy, enroute.” Responded, Jolly.

The helicopter arrived within four minutes of the call and began a circular orbit over the address in question. Below, the large black numbers painted on the white roofs identified the approaching patrol vehicles. By consulting a copy of the watch roster the observer could associate who was driving which unit.
Officers were still responding when Air-1 began its orbit over the house. Two figures exited the front door of the residence and glanced briefly upward. They entered a vehicle parked in the driveway and drove off at a high rate of speed.
“Looks like our boys,” said, Jolly over the headset. The pilot nodded and angled the craft to fall in behind the fleeing vehicle.

Jolly depressed the foot switch, opening the mike to the radio frequency.
“Air-1, we have a Blue 1980’s model Ford leaving the residence at a high rate of speed, proceeding Northbound on Orefield. The occupants are two male Negroes with light colored shirts and levis.” Removing his foot from the floor switch he quipped to the pilot over the headset.

“Two male usuals, standard description A,” he chuckled.

Below, a black and white careened around a corner, falling in directly behind the fleeing suspect vehicle.

“3-Robert-60. I have the suspect vehicle Northbound on Orefield at Davis, license, 867-Adam, Sam, Henry. He read off the plate to the dispatcher.

“3-Robert-60, Northbound on Orefield at Davis. 8-6-7-Adam, Sam Henry, copy.” Replied the dispatcher. Units were converging from several beats away and would attempt to hem in the suspect vehicle.

Seconds later the dispatcher announced the results of a license check on the suspect vehicle.

“Units responding to Orefield. 8-6-7-Adam Sam Henry is a stolen out of Pomona.”

“No shit,” Jolly leaned over and nudged the pilot. “What the hell else was it gonna be?”

The blue ford made a sharp right turn onto a dirt road leading to an orange grove. It fishtailed, throwing out rooster plumes of light brown dirt as it attempted to regain traction.

“They’re gonna bail when they hit that grove,” said Jolly.

Seconds later his prediction came true. The vehicle was abandoned and the suspects vanished into a small orange grove about a city block square.
“Unit’s responding,” Jolly continued. “Suspects have abandoned the suspect vehicle and are on foot in the grove at Orefield and a frontage road.” Below, units were attempting to cover each side of the grove area.

“Crap,” observed Jolly. “This shit could take all day. Take it down to that open area. I have an idea.” He told the pilot. “What are you gonna do?” The pilot asked, and was immediately sorry he did.

“We’re gonna get us some baseball grenades and have us an air strike,” said Jolly. “We’ll bomb the bastards and drive ‘em out.”

The best intentions are not necessarily always the correct solutions to problems. Baseball grenades are so named because they are a similar size and shape to softballs. There the resemblance ends. They are constructed of hard gray rubber and contain powdered Chloracetophenone, or CN gas. Once the fuse is activated it burns the gas setting off clouds of noxious chemicals guaranteed to force the submission of even the most recalcitrant suspect. But sometimes, these grenades are hard to hang on to.

Collecting a goodly supply of baseball grenades from the trunks of the assembled units, Jolly reentered the helicopter and signaled for the pilot to take it up again.

The pilot increased the rpm and once again the aircraft lifted upward throwing huge clouds of powdered brown dust everywhere and on everything “Up we go, into the wild blue yonderrrrrrrrrrrr,” Jolly sang loudly and off key into the headset mike, causing the pilot to wince.

“Take it over there.” He pointed to an area just ahead of where the suspects were last seen.

“We’ll pop the grenades and drop them all over the grove. They’ll come out,” predicted Jolly. He forced open the small Plexiglas side window and dropped the first of several baseball grenades.

“Bombs Away!” Shouted, Jolly, with a mirthful tone to his voice. The pilot shook his head and flew.

Of course FAA regulations strictly forbid “dropping” anything from aircraft, but who had time for such foolishness? This was a police emergency.

Air-1 made a series of passes in which Jolly gleefully pulled the safety ring of each grenade and dropped it into the trees below. The results were rather spectacular. Large clouds of gas could be seen billowing up over the tops of the trees and spreading out over a fair distance before drifting to earth. Some of the grenades were noted to have shorter fuses, which caused even more spectacular airbursts. A true Fourth of July show, compliments of Sean “Jolly” Rogers.

As fate would have it the gods had apparently decided Jolly’s operation was going a little too smoothly and had decided to inject a little fun into the equation. After about the tenth “bomb” was dropped and during a particularly low pass, a small amount of gas wafted into the cabin of Air-1. Now, one of the greatest components of CN gas is its ability to convince the human lungs that they have suddenly and irrevocably shrunk to the size of walnuts. This condition creates absolute panic in the wearer of said lungs and causes all manner of adverse reaction. When one is piloting a half million-dollar aircraft 350 feet above the ground, contrary lungs and adverse reactions are the last things one wishes to have.

The first whiff of gas caused Jolly to rub his eyes. This, of course, is the first thing at the top of the “Don’t Do” list. The burning sensation quickly accelerated to meltdown levels and Jolly began to thrash around just as he was about to unleash grenade from hell number eleven. The safety pin had already been pulled and the only thing keeping it safe was Jolly’s gloved mitt. Rubbing his eye caused him to lose his grip on the round object and he dropped it on the floor of the aircraft. The safety lever flew off with a “ping.” The spring activated firing pin set the fuse on its downward course to the interior of the rubber ball. A huge cloud of white smoke began to escape from the grenade as it processed into melt down and spun like a deranged top on the floor of the helicopter.

Jolly and the helicopter pilot had but the briefest moment to stare at each other in wide-eyed horror as they realized what had just occurred. The pilot wheeled the aircraft over hard to port and dove for the ground as the cloud quickly filled the bubble.

Choking and gasping for air and completely blind he pulled back on the collective and attempted to “flare” to a landing at a guestimated height. He was only off by a few inches and Air-1 hit the ground with a teeth-shattering impact. It skipped and bounced along the hard dirt surface, teetering first right and then left. Each time the overhead rotor came within fractions of striking the ground and cart wheeling the occupants into oblivion.

The radio car patrolmen on the ground dove for cover as the police meteorite streaked their way. The two suspects, Montel Jones and James “Pokey” Washington were perched in an orange tree just inside the first row of orange trees and were treated to an outstanding view of the unfolding drama. Saucer-eyed and open mouthed they watched the ship finally settle after the third bounce, skid 360 degrees and rock to a stop. The doors flew open and two policemen fell out to the ground choking, cursing, kicking and gasping for breath.

“Now they gone blame this muthafuckin shit on us, you watch.” Said Montel.

“Shee-it,” said Pokey. “We be in for it now.”

Both suspects emerged from the tree line with their hands over their head in hopes of at least being taken alive.

“Don’t shoot,” said Montel.

“Don’t shoot,” said Pokey.

There wasn’t much chance of being shot. The gaggle of patrolmen was so busy recovering from the downing of Air –1, they didn’t even notice their quarry approach.

Finally an alert patrol officer saw the two suspects and quickly drew down on them shouting the customary greeting; “FREEZE!” The two, needing no further encouragement to cooperate, were taken into custody and whisked away for booking.

Jolly and the pilot managed to pull themselves together after a time. The remaining patrolmen gathered around in awe at the amazing two aces who managed to pull off such an incredible feat. Jolly and the pilot removed their helmets and stared at each other. Their faces streaked with rivulets of sweat and tears. Their formerly blue uniforms brown with powdered dirt from rolling around on the ground.

A dry cleaning bill was the least of their worries, however. Word of such an occurrence in police circles is about as likely to remain a secret as the second coming. Unlike its counterpart in the war in Vietnam, the incident rapidly became known as “Operation Rolling Blunder.” Sympathy cards were received from departments as far away as Moose Breath, Maine, a three-man department with no hope of ever receiving funding for a helicopter.

As is the case in the police profession, it wasn’t long before the review board was convened and appropriate unpaid vacations were awarded to the two erstwhile heroes. Even the timely arrest of the two suspects seemed to make no impression on the review board, which was noted for its lack of understanding in such matters.

The disinfecting of the aircraft came to considerable expense, as it had to be almost completely dismantled and each part scrubbed clean. It was out of service for six weeks.

Jolly took his two months off in stride. His partner in the fiasco was a little less enthusiastic about the mark on his heretofore unblemished record. He made it quite clear he would provide great and grievous bodily harm should their paths ever again cross.

Montel and “Pokey” pleaded guilty to a lesser-included charge of trespass. As they had been interrupted before the completion of the burglary, a feeble-minded jury had been convinced by the public defender that the two had only stopped by the unoccupied residence in search of a drink of water. Since the front door was already standing open, it appeared to be sort of a “Welcome Inn.”

The two briefly considered filing a civil lawsuit against the police department for a claim of emotional distress following the harrowing incident with the helicopter. They decided to abandon the idea after some consideration as it might be construed to be pushing the envelope a bit. They decided to let some time go by and if things went well they could always return to the house and finish the job. Who knows, they might get away with it next time.

The sun was beginning to set and the evening breeze helped dissipate some of the day’s accumulated heat.

Malorie eventually recovered from a laughing fit and settled in to rock quietly in the swing. She gazed at Jon over the top of her wine glass. Jon had a song going in the background, “As time goes by.” She wondered about their future together as only a woman can. He was a very interesting man and he held her attention for much longer than anyone else she had ever met. The gentle way he treated her was real. He wasn’t pushy and demanding. When she was around him it was almost as though she was one of his buddies and for that she was grateful.

Jon glanced at the woman gently swinging back and forth. She was a breath of fresh air compared to anyone else he had ever met. She was intelligent and secure in her own way. She demonstrated no need for a man. That alone raised his opinion of her threefold. She was not pushing for a relationship nor did she appear interested in having someone provide a nest for her. The setting sun cast its rays on her auburn hair, burnishing it to a dark copper hue. She was a striking woman there was no doubt. If he wasn’t careful he could grow to like this handful of M&M’s. The steaks were now done to charred perfection. Jon refilled their glasses and they sat down to eat, chuckling occasionally over the visuals he had painted.

“And that, is pretty much how I remember Jolly,” said Jon. “You might say he has his own take on life.”

Jon slipped occasional bites of steak under the table to “Chu” unaware that Malorie was doing the same thing from her side of the small table. Chu couldn’t believe her luck; she was in dog heaven.

About the Author
Ron De Laby is a retired police sergeant from Riverside, California. He served in the Uniformed Patrol Division, Traffic Division, Communications, Personnel and Training and the Detective Division. He instructed at the basic and advanced academies and was a principal instructor in the Advanced Officer Survival courses. He holds POST advanced and Supervisory Certification. Ron graduated from California State University, Los Angeles with a Bachelor of Science degree in Criminal Justice and holds a Masters degree in Public Administration from the University of Southern California. He has done post-graduate work in Psychology at the University of California, Riverside. Ron has been married to his wife, Janet for 33 years, they have four boys.



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