Page 2 of Demo
“You wanna speed it up a notch, there? It’s not exactly the best view from here,” I hear Monty say below me. I thrash my left leg out in an attempt to make contact with his face, but he is too far down.
We both clamber up the fire escape, all the way to the top. When I get there, I set the lens down and curl my way around the ladder and onto a flat surface. Monty follows suit, handing me his camera while awkwardly clinging to the ladder before flopping his body onto the roof.
“I can’t even imagine what this crud is all over my hands,” he says, brushing his palms on his pants. Monty is a germaphobe, so of course he is worried about a littlecrudon his hands.
We crawl over to the front of the building and pop our heads up to take in the scene. Shit, we’re one building past the apartment in question.
“No, this is good,” says Monty, taking in my disappointed face. “They won’t be looking over here.”
By now, there is a small crowd of people standing around on the front lawn. Some surely heard the sirens and came out of their apartments and took this fine opportunity to walk their dogs and smoke their cigarettes, so they would have an excuse to stroll down to the area and see what’s going on. Others appear to live in the building. It’s easy to tell who they are because they are the ones all excited.
“My brother didn’t do anything wrong! I don’t know who you all think you are, but you’ve got the wrong man!” hollers one skinny, pale young woman wearing plaid pajama pants and a tank top, sans bra. Her hair is greasy and falling in her face, and she has a pack of cigarettes tucked under the spaghetti strap of her shirt.
She is in a police officer’s face, her arms flailing, making a scene.
There are three cop cars, which means six officers. Two are trying to placate the raging woman, three others are in the yard talking to a couple of guys, and one stands near his vehicle talking into a radio clipped to his shoulder.
Monty and I turn around and I hand him the scope lens as he snaps the pieces of his camera in place, then turns my way. “Smile!”
I scowl at him. Monty has many photos of me scowling at him tucked away somewhere on his computer that he threatens to release if I ever piss him off … Well, if I ever piss him off more than usual. It’s always the first photo he takes at a scene as he’s checking his focus, or color contrast, or whatever.
When we turn around, the woman appears to have calmed down, and the cops are taking statements. Suddenly, they all whip around toward the apartment and draw their guns.
There is yelling, and warnings, then two “pop-pops” and the officers move in.
Monty is snapping away as I take in the action.
“Move your fat head,” I say, trying to see around Monty as he leans in to get a better shot.
He ignores me.
Quickly, about half a dozen more cop cars come screeching up to the building. Officers storm the apartment, stomp all over the tiny lawn, and do a whole lot of nothing for what feels like hours.
And we wait … and wait … and wait. That’s the worst part of the job. Waiting around because we don’t want to miss something that may never happen in the first place.
“What do you think they’re doing in there?” Monty asks.
“I don’t know. Why do you always think I have all the answers?” I respond.
Just then, some commotion catches our attention and we pop our heads up to look at the scene. Finally, a perp!
Two officers escort a scrawny white man wearing a pair of jeans and untied work boots, no shirt, with his hands cuffed in front of him, out of the apartment and toward one of their vehicles. Perhaps it’s a glare off Monty’s equipment from the bright sun overhead, or maybe this guy just knows he’s being watched, but all of a sudden, the perp looks right up at us, raises his arms as far as the cuffs will allow, and flips us the double bird.
Monty snaps away, then turns to me. “Ah, there’s the money shot!”
After the police disperse, we make our way down the fire escape and to the front of the building, where I canvass some of the neighbors and get quotes. Then we get in the car, where Monty takes a small bottle of hand sanitizer out of his glove box and squirts a large pile of gel into his hands, then leans over and squirts some in mine, even though I didn’t ask for it.
“Why am I still driving your car if we’re not chasing the cops anymore?” I ask after I massage the gel into my hands and wave them around to dry off. I then pull away from the curb, a horn blaring behind me because apparently I cut someone off.
Monty whips around to look at how close the car behind us is, simultaneously fastening his seat belt. “Because it seems I have a death wish,” he mutters, then picks up his camera and starts looking through his shots.
I’m still driving like a madwoman because we are under deadline, and I have to make phone calls when we get back to the office. I swerve left to go around a parked truck before making a quick zigzag to miss a huge pothole, then I have to hit the brakes to miss hitting someone crossing the street.
Monty braces himself against the dashboard and curses under his breath as we come to a screeching halt.
The man in the street looks up, and suddenly I’m staring into hazel, broody eyes, with eyebrows that shoot up practically to the brim of his backward ballcap as he recognizes me. His toolbelt is dangling from one hand.
“Is that Knox?” Monty asks, squinting, even though he knows the answer.
