White Death by Philip C. Baridon Read Free Book Online

message that we depend on them to take care of our problems. We’ve never called the cops for big things, much less to throw out a table of drunken bums.”
    Brinson and I stood inside the doorway, unsure about the politics of open intervention. I had a new footman radio and called for backup, but I told the dispatcher to have the cars come
code two
– no lights or sirens.
    Tired of the argument, Big Carol abruptly stood up, ordered one of the girls to unplug the jukebox, and walked directly over to the biggest steelworker. The time for diplomacy had ended. When Carol tapped that guy on the shoulder, there wasn’t a sound in the bar.
    Carol began, “You listen real careful, motherfucker. If you don’t want your balls on my watch chain, you take your friends and leave –
now.”
He must have had too much whisky, didn’t realize that major muscle was talking. He stood up and took a wild swing with his left hand. Carol stepped right to avoid it and knocked him to the floor with a hook to his temple.
    “Oh, shit,” said Brinson, “let’s get into it.” We waded into the fight, which deteriorated quickly into a brawl. The eight steel-workers did not go down easily. I watched one dyke and a steelworkercrash through a plywood partition into the men’s room. Soon water was spewing out of the bathroom as the exposed copper pipes were ripped out of the wall. Water mixed with the blood and beer on the slippery floor. Femmes joined in using chairs as weapons. Both sides were using broken beer bottles, as the fighting grew uglier and bloodier. I pushed the transmit button on the radio and just yelled, “10-33 at Zombies.” Soon cops came pouring in and quickly subdued the remaining steel-workers.
    I sat down exhausted on the floor near the bar, with a new uniform slashed by a broken beer bottle. The back of my head bled from a nasty cut.
    Brinson looked at me and just said, “Flyboy?”
    “Yeah, I’m okay. How about you?”
    “I’m okay. I think they put Country into an ambulance. I’m going to call the Washington Hospital Center when we get back to check on him.”
    Lieutenant Dominik stood by the door looking at the carnage. “Listen up, everybody,” he bellowed. “Stone and Brinson are going to do the paperwork. Anybody that wants to add important information should meet them at the station.” Pointing at Susan and Carol, Dominik added, “You two are coming with me for statements.”
    “I don’t want to,” said Susan sourly.
    Dominik thundered back, “I don’t give a shit what you want. You come voluntarily or I’ll arrest you right now as a material witness to multiple felonies.
    “Stone, get one of the paramedics to examine your head. If it’s as hard as I think, he can put a bandage on it, and you’ll be fine. Work with Brinson. Not only do we have multiple criminal charges to sort out, I guarantee this melee will result in civil litigation. Be careful with checking and corroborating facts.”
    Turning to other officers, he ordered that no ambulance leave without a name, address, and phone of the injured party. Lookingat the pipe still spewing water and the detritus around him, the lieutenant muttered, “What a cluster fuck,” to nobody in particular. Then, as an afterthought, he added, “I want the list of injured turned over to Stone and Brinson.” Turning to two officers, he said, “Get the names and addresses of everybody who was in this room when the fighting began. Some have already slipped out. Find out from the girls who they are. Preacher, compile a master list based on those names and give it to Stone or Brinson.”
    “Yes, Lieutenant,” replied Preacher, clearly mindful of his uncharacteristically foul mood.
    After I returned with a bandaged head and two aspirins, Brinson said, “I’m so fucking glad you cleaned up all the crime on this beat.”

Chapter 8
Midnights
    Washington, D.C., June 1969
    Some officers asked for midnights; most of us hated them. When the bars close at