Cindy, said. “Whoever he is, he’s no doubt inebriated.” She flipped on the lights and siren. The truck neither slowed down nor sped up. It just kept going at its snail’s pace.
Beaudry unhooked the bullhorn. “Pull your vehicle over now!”
“Graham, do you really think he understands what a vehicle is?”
“He’ll get the message.” They rode a few seconds, watching. “Is he slowing?”
“At seven miles an hour, it’s hard to tell.” She waited. “Yeah, he’s skewing his way over to the curb.”
“See, he understood what the word vehicle meant.”
“Maybe it was the flashing lights and siren.”
“You’re just being a sore loser. Call it, Decker. Heads or tails?”
“Tails.”
He tossed the coin, flipped it over to the back of his hand, then showed her the quarter; George Washington was smirking at her.
Beaudry said, “Since it’s my call, I say you take the driver.”
“I get all the luck.” She rolled her eyes. “Who needs luck anyway? A good cop makes her own luck, right?”
“Whatever you say, Decker.”
Cindy parked behind the plated dinosaur and got out, leaving the door open for protection. She waited a moment to see if the driver was staying put.
He was—at least for now.
She unsnapped her holster. Cautiously, and with her hands on her hips, she began her approach, moving across the left side of the vehicle. The cabin of the truck was tattooed with a boxed-in ad, reading TOP CHOICE PAINTING in bold black letters. A smiling paintbrush had underlined the words. The phone number was a Hollywood exchange. Mr. Petrukievich was a local. Or at least his business was.
As she closed in, Cindy’s hand was on her weapon and her eyes were on high alert. As soon as she was at the driver’s window, the door started to open.
Forcefully, she said, “Stay inside your truck, sir.”
Either he ignored her or didn’t understand because the door swung out and a pair of feet planted themselves on the ground. Cindy prepared herself for the worst. Because when he stood, he loomed over her. He was not only tall, but big. Big as in big and big-boned. As in Dad’s size.
“Stay right where you are, sir,” she ordered.
He froze, his face registering confusion. His complexion was a pale pink, except for the nose, which resembled a gigantic raspberry. Straight amber-colored hair was brushed over his nude chunk of forehead. His beard was thin and blond. He reeked of booze.
Cindy looked for Beaudry’s backup, but it appeared as if her partner had his own problems. The truck also held a passenger as big as the driver. Probably equally drunk because Mr. Passenger’s gait was wobbly. Graham was trying to keep him upright.
Meanwhile, the driver began rocking on his feet. “I do notink.” He nodded vigorously, hair flying over his eyes.
Cindy stood firm, enunciating clearly. “Sir, go back inside the truck.”
“Back?” It came out beck. The man wrinkled his brow, then turned around and showed Cindy his spinal cord.
“No,” Cindy said. “Not your back. Back inside the truck. In the truck! Turn aroun—turn …” She swirled her index finger in a whirlpool motion. The man complied by spinning in circles. “Dees?”
He was drunk as a skunk, but not belligerent. Forget about getting him in the car. She placed a hand on his meaty shoulder to stop his rotating. His body lurched forward while his head continued to loll about. Stumbling, he managed to support his unsteady weight by placing his hands on the hood of the truck. Change the context, and it played as broad comedy. But as the situation stood now, he was a behemoth-size drunk who could turn nasty at any minute.
Warily, Cindy said, “I need to see your license, sir.”
The man managed to make eye contact. The orbs were unfocused.
“Your license … to drive.” Cindy tried to pantomime it. She received a blank stare for her efforts. She called out to Beaudry, “Does your guy speak any English?”
“I don’t think so,” Beaudry answered. “But he has a good set of teeth. I know because he’s smiling a lot.”
Cindy looked up at her charge. “Burly” was a fitting adjective for him. No wonder the former U.S.S.R.’s mascot had been the bear. “Your license to drive.” She steered an imaginary car wheel. “Driving.”
The man nodded. “Da.” He pointed to his truck.
He didn’t get it.
“License,” Cindy repeated louder. As if turning up the volume would increase his comprehension of English. “License.”
The man repeated, “Li-cense.”
She cried out, “Officer Beaudry, can you get the Breathalyzer?” She figured if he was over the legal limit, she wouldn’t even need to see his license. She’d just arrest him on the spot.
“I’m watching someone,” Beaudry said. “Just put him through a field sobriety test.”
Meaning Beaudry didn’t want to leave her alone with two drunken big guys. Okay. That was legitimate. So she’d put the driver through a field sobriety test. She could handle that.
She said, “Are you Anatol Petrukievich?”
The man broke into an instant grin. “Da!” He nodded again. “Da!” He launched into a slur of foreign words, ending his oration with a big smile. She smiled back. Then he grinned like a schoolboy.
Great. They were now buddies.
She said, “Lookie here, Anatol.”
At the use of his name, his eyes went to her face. Again, the goofy grin.
“Look at my leg. See what I’m doing?” Cindy stood on her right foot and lifted her left about three inches off the ground. She counted to ten aloud. Then she pointed to him. “You! Anatol! Anatol does this, okay? You do it. Capische?”
He stared at her.
Which made sense because capische was Italian. She put her leg back down and slowly picked it up a second time, once more counting to ten. She pointed at his chest. “You try it.”
“Da!” He took the challenge and attempted to stand on his right foot. But he faltered as the last of his toes cleared the sidewalk. Anatol reddened, tried again, and failed again. Clearly, the man’s cerebellum was in need of a tune-up. He spoke to her in Russian. From his tone, he appeared to be apologizing.
“No, it’s okay,” she found herself saying.
“O-key?”
