Page 2 of Frosty Felicity
CHAPTER ONE
Mystery Caller
Officer Brett Mason of the Cincinnati Police Department gazed into the bugged, glossy brown eyes of the small black and gray terrier. The minuscule mutt shook like it had a volt of electricity coursing through its body as it growled and snarled, flicking and flipping its pink tongue while exposing uneven teeth that resembled the tops of mountain terrain—all the size of Tic-Tacs, of course. An ungodly stench unfurled from the beast’s open mouth, reminding Brett of the time he had to fish an old wino out of a dumpster filled with soiled baby diapers, rotten cabbage, and discarded Thanksgiving trimmings. Around its scrawny neck was a frayed green ribbon with a makeshift bell tied to it, and it appeared that half of his damn whiskers were gone.
Had he gotten too close to the flames of Hell from which he’d come? With a sigh, Brett stood erect and shook his head. It’s too early for this shit. This was his last call before he could head home for the day, and it couldn’t come too soon.
“He don’t like police.” Stanley sucked his teeth and nodded, as if that somehow absolved him of responsibility at hand. “He gets skittish,” he added for good measure as he jammed his hand into his jeans pocket.
“Stanley, I’m not here to discuss the likes and dislikes of Mr. Twinkle Toes. We’re not the SPCA, or Animal Control, but regardless, in the past two days, we’ve gotten complaints about your dog leaving this yard.” He pointed behind him to the unkempt front lawn, full of dead grass, even before the chill and dropping temperatures graced the Tristate. “This animal has been running around and biting people’s ankles as they walk past your property. And let’s not forget about the barking.” The man rolled his eyes as if these were mere exaggerations, perhaps triggered people jealous of him and his ball of matted fur that stood by his side. “Man, your dog is out of control. Poor Mrs. Montgomery was jogging and said he chased her all the way down the street.”
“Well, if she woulda stopped runnin’, the chase would’ve ended sooner…”
Brett sighed and briefly closed his eyes.
“Now you can’t possibly think that Mr. Twinkle Toes chasin’ people up and down the street is okay, Stanley?”
Stanley sucked on his cigarette so hard, his cheeks pulled inward, giving him a deflated, Skeletor type appearance.
“Twinkle Toes don’t bother nobody, Officer Mason. He doesn’t even bark that much… ‘cept at night when the moon is full.”
Brett rolled his eyes as the man pointed towards the navy-blue sky, aglow with stars. So now Twinkle Toes is a werewolf?
“Okay, Stanley. This is your last warning. Next time, you risk him being taken away by Animal Control. You have to keep your dog on your property and on a leash when out and about. Everyone with common sense knows that dogs bark, but you still have to be considerate of your neighbors.”
The man nodded in agreement, then looked back at the moon, as if he, too, were waiting for the chance to howl.
The two bid their farewells, and he slipped into his police cruiser, drove off and stopped at a gas station where they were playing some 1980s hits. People always acted stiff and strange when he’d show up in public areas in his uniform, gun on his hip, police cruiser in full view. Perhaps it was the tension between police and citizens, or just a natural reaction to law and order. It was as if people turned into suspects right there on the spot, shifty-eyed and smiling uncomfortably in his direction. He hoped that at least tonight, unlike last night, no one would come up to him screaming, on the verge of tears and carrying on about how some man named Booker, who wore one singular pink curler in the back of his hair, had stolen their favorite crack pipe.
It was incredible what people would do and say while under the influence.
He filled the car with gas, then made his way back to the precinct. After gathering his belongings, he hopped in his black Ford Escape and journeyed home to the tune of Adele’s, “Easy On Me,” playing on the radio. When he arrived at his two-story light gray house in the East End, on Delta Avenue, he sighed with instant relief. Home sweet home. It had been a long day, and he’d worked a ten-hour shift. He immediately entered the dwelling and sniffed the air.
Still smells like wet paint in here… Was hoping it would be gone by now.He’d painted the living and dining room a couple of days prior. His home would be the spot to host the Thanksgiving feast this year. He wasn’t much of a cook but knew his way around a turkey. Family and friends were bringing the side dishes. His parents, sister, ex-wife, stepson, and the rest of the family would be coming by, too, and he wanted everything to be just so. It was the first time Thanksgiving wouldn’t happen at Mom and Dad’s house. This had to be special.
He drifted towards the living room window, cracked it open to facilitate a little ventilation on the chilly evening, then made a beeline to the kitchen. Moments later, he was enjoying a cold beer, a microwave chili was spinning about for four minutes on high, his clothing was off, with the exception of his red boxers, and his phone set on the island, next to a bowl of yellow apples and tangerines he’d yet to taste. He turned on the television, and immediately saw a commercial about Christmas shopping.
“Well, hell! Can’t we even get through Thanksgiving first?” he muttered, shaking his head before taking another gulp of his beer. Suddenly, his cellphone rang. He snatched it from the island.
“Hello?” He polished off his beer, then tossed the bottle in the recycle bin.
“FRRRRT! FRRRRT!”
“Son of a bitch…”
“FRRRRRRRTTT!!! POOOOOoooooottttt…ttt… Poooooooon…” The last one sounded much like a balloon being released into the air at full steam.
“Whoever in the hell keeps callin’ me and fartin’ on the gotdamn phone, I want you to know that I’m a cop, and I’m going to put a trace on this phone, find out who you are, and kill… I mean, settle this once and for all… NOW STOP FUCKING CALLIN’ ME OR ELSE!”
Brett quickly hit END on the call, rested his hands against the counter’s edge, eyes closed, and tried to calm the hell down. It had been going on for weeks, from various different numbers. Typically, he didn’t answer unknown numbers, but they were running a donation program for the holidays at work, and he’d mistakenly provided his own cell number, instead of the one at the precinct. Older people tended to prefer phone contact versus an email or online form, and they were the biggest donors. It was too late to change this now, but people often called to get information about the food drive, too, so missing a call could have negative consequences.
“Damn it. Probably some kid. Knowin’ my luck lately, it’s an adult who gets off on flatulence. I used to be a people-person when I became a police officer, now I barely even feel like a person myself some days.” He quickly ate his cup of chili standing up, feeling disgruntled until he’d eaten the entire thing, and tossed it away. He looked at the dishes in the sink and shook his head. I’ll do it in the morning. Grasping his phone and another beer from the refrigerator, he headed up the stairs, stomping the whole way.
Lying in the middle of the bed with nothing but his socks on, Jimmy Fallon on TV with the volume on low, he hoped it wouldn’t take him long to fall asleep…
