Page 64 of Doozer

“What the hell?” Doozer snapped.

“He’s not with you?” the sergeant asked Taxi.

“He’s not one of my cadets, and he’s definitely not my responsibility.”

“Well, we can certainly accommodate a party of one at our fine establishment,” the Sheriff said, turning Doozer around to cuff him.

“Taxi, please don’t do this,” I begged.

“One more word, and you can join him,” Taxi shot back, angrily.

“It’s okay, Trouble,” Doozer said in an assuring tone. “I’ll be okay.”

A knot formed in the pit of my stomach as I watched the officers stuff Doozer into the back of their cruiser and drive away.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Doozer

THE DOOR OF the holding cell slid open with a loud clang, waking me from my unsteady slumber.

“Mancini,” the guard called out in an unnecessarily loud voice and I attempted to sit up, which proved to be a bad idea. My head felt like an overripened tomato and my body ached from the tap dance routine those boys did on me. I struggled to get out of my bunk as sharp pains shot through my ribcage.

“Mancini!” he yelled again, even louder.

“I’m right here, man,” I responded, slowly rising to my feet, disoriented from pain and lack of sleep.

“You’re free to go,” he said, dryly.

“What?”

“Your lawyer is here. You’re free to go,” he said, waving me out of the cell.

“My lawyer?”

“You can pick up your belongings at processing. Come on, let’s move it.”

I followed the guard to the processing area, which was really the same desk I stood in front of when the officers brought me in last night. Behind the desk was a young male officer who looked to be straight out of the police academy.

“Marco Mancini for release,” the guard said, barely pausing before returning the way we’d come.

“Good morning Mr. Mancini,” the fresh-faced officer said cheerily.

“Um, good morning…I guess,” I said, massaging my temples.

“If you would just sign this form, I can return your belongings, and get you out of here.”

“Sure thing,” I replied, scribbling something that vaguely resembled my signature on the form.

He then handed me a clear plastic bag containing my wallet, sunglasses, rings, and cell phone which had been shattered during last night’s scuffle.”

“Fuck me,” I exclaimed. Trying in vain to get the phone to power on but it was no use. The thing was pulverized. “The guard said something about my lawyer?”

The desk officer pointed to a well-dressed man sitting on the bench directly behind me. He looked to be in his forties, with salt and pepper hair, carrying a briefcase, and wore expensive looking shoes.

“I don’t know that guy,” I said, loud enough for the man to hear, and he stood, extending his hand for a shake.

“Carson Bird. I’ve been hired to act as your legal counsel.”

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