MISTER METER MAID

Leaving Joe, the Assistant Medical Examiner and six dead bodies in his rear-view mirror, Tom had driven from Med-Ex complex via His Honor’s trendy Westside digs then to North Beach. He circled the block twice before he gave up trying to find a legal parking space. He finally pulled the four-door gray ghost into the red bus zone in front of Powell’s Saloon. From there he dashed around the corner to Lee’s Grocery. Both the grocery and Coit Liquor next door on the corner were among the oldest businesses in North Beach. A hundred years from now, he figured they would still be there, unless the building burned down. There was a lot of comfort in knowing that.

                  Tom filled the hard plastic hand basket with Carly’s order. He included a two-foot-long baguette baked at Stella’s Bakery across Columbus. He bought thin sliced prosciutto, Spanish olives with the pit, lettuce, a wedge of provolone and a tin of oregano. For a chaser, he added a six pack of San Pellegrino orange soda.

                  Stepping out of the store, he glanced across the divided avenue to the corner window of his flat. He was surprised she let herself back in. It gave him a warm feeling that she was waiting for him.

                   Tom turned the corner—headed west half a block on Union to Powell Street, where he had parked the museum piece on wheels a few minutes earlier. He needed to move it to a legal parking spot. Tom realized a squall had come and gone while he was shopping.  He picked up on the aroma from the new rain: a distinctive smell of asphalt mixed with wafts of roasting coffee from Graffeo’s Wholesale Coffee two blocks north on Columbus at Filbert Street. Times like this made him happy to live in North Beach.

                  The erstwhile limo (paid from the fund trust Joe set up for his solo practice law while he was in elected office: DA and mayor) roared to a start on the first try. The oversized wipers splashed water off the windshield like a shaking dog.

                  Gresham clunked it into gear.

                  It made a lot of noise, but it didn’t move. He was lodged against the curb. He put it in reverse. Nothing.

                  Before he could figure what was blocking the car, he heard a knuckle wrap on his driver’s side window.

                  One of the city’s finest traffic enforcement scooters had rolled up next to him. Mr. Meter Maid, dressed in a yellow slicker, was motioning for Gresham to roll his window down. “You’re parked in a red zone, pal. You got a boot slapped on your right rear wheel.” The Santa Claus-sized bureaucrat had a very smug look on his face.

                  “You’re kidding. No one boots the mayor’s car.”

                  “Well, I did. Go look for yourself.” Mr. Meterman smirked.

                  Tom didn’t have to. Fellow citizens at the bus stop nearby were nodding sympathetically.

                  “Is that funny to you?” Tom screamed at the meterman. “What the hell did you do that for?”

                  “Shit happens, pal, especially when you park in a red zone and your ugly bus has outstanding warrants.”

                  “You’re no beauty. What’s your name?” he barked. Tom had never seen the traffic agent before.

                  “Eddie Peabody. And just so you won’t forget, you’ll see my signature on the ticket.”

                  “What ticket, Pea brain? There was no ticket on my windshield,” Gresham hollered. He was red-faced.

                  “Must have blown off in the storm. Trust me, you got one. I’ll see that you get a copy mailed to you, pal.”

                  “Don’t call me ‘pal.’ And this happens to be a city vehicle. And it happens to be Mayor Joe Martin’s limo.”

                  “It could be King Tut’s chariot for all I care. It still gets a ticket and a boot for being in a red zone.”

                  “You’re an idiot,” Gresham realized. “I’m sorry, that’s not accurate—you’re a fuckin’ idiot!”

                  “I’m not the fuckin’ idiot that parked in a red zone. You’re lucky I didn’t have it towed.”

                  “So, this is better?’

                  “Have a nice day, pal.”

                  “I told you not to pal me. Screw you. Get back here and undo the god-damned boot—you fat ass!”

                  Mr. Meter Maid shut off the scooter’s engine. “What did you call me?”

                  “You heard me. This is the mayor’ car. I need to pick him up and take him to the office. You’re interfering with a city official and impeding his ability to conduct his duties.”

                  “That’s not what I heard?”

                  “You probably heard me say fuck you, Eddie Peabody.”

                  “Yeah, that’s the part you’re going to have to explain to the patrolman I’m going to call.”

                  “Save your breath, dipshit, I’m a cop and you’re the last call I would respond to on a day like this.”

                  “You sonofabitch,” Eddie said and jumped off the scooter seat. “Get out of the fucking car so I can level you.”

                  “You got shoe leather for brains, pea head. I think you better unlock that wheel if you know what’s good for your career.”

                  “Go to hell! The lock stays. You figure it out, pal. Start by paying your tickets on time.”

                  “Look, you fat-ass scooter moron. I don’t have time for this—unlock the wheel.”

                  “I should slap you around,” the badged scooter jockey said.

                  “What kind of jerk are you?”

                  Mr. Meter Maid bent over and shouted: “Show me where it says anywhere on this car that it’s the mayor’s limo. I don’t see any special plates. You show me?”

                  Gresham leaned up off his seat: “This car is part of a security detail; what kind of security do you think we’d have if we plastered Joe Martin’s name all over it? You tell me, scooter boy?”

                  “Looks like you’re gonna have to do some explaining to His Honor, and that’s what that ferret faced, bleeding heart liberal gets for hiring you—ain’t that right, hot shot?”

                  Gresham yanked for the door handle.

                  Eddie Peabody leaned into the door.

                  Gresham was stuck behind the wheel. “I’m not explaining shit.”

                  “Tell your sad story to the tow truck driver because you’re gonna have to wait for her, and when she gets here, you’re gonna have to pay her or we start this silly dance all over again.”

                  Both peace officers were close enough to smell each other—Mr. Meter Maid’s stale coffee and Gresham’s toothpaste.

                  “Fuck you.”

                  “Fuck you.”

                  “You are the stupidest man alive,” Gresham shouted.

                  “I’m not the asshole who parked this car in a red zone. The sign is printed in English just for you–you Irish sonofabitch. And the curb is red as your neck.”

                  “What are you a limey?” Gresham’s forefinger was half an inch from the meter maid’s face.

                  “So, what’s it to you, Mick?”

                  Gresham pounded on the steering wheel. “This is truly fucked,” he mumbled to himself as he reached for his wallet to show his ID that identified him as a special city hall security agent.

                  As he opened it, four tickets fell into his hand.  The ducats were to the first ever meeting between the new National Football League’s expansion team the San Jose Silicon’s vs. San Francisco 49ers game on Sunday.   

                  He stuck the tickets Joe Martin gave him last week into Mr. Meter Maid’s face.

“Eddie, you prick, I’m asking you for the last time. Unlock the goddamn boot.”

                  The meter agent yanked the tickets from Gresham’s hand. “These better not be cheap seats.”

                  “Top of the line seats. Mayor’s box on the fifty-yard-line.”

                  Eddie Peabody feigned surprise and shouted loud enough for the bystanders to hear him, “JESUS, WHY DIDN’T YOU TELL ME SOONER IT WAS A FUCKING CITY EMERGENCY?” He bent down and unlocked the red boot off the Gray Ghost.

“Next time, you Irish dickhead, you ain’t gonna get off so easy.”

                  Gresham did notice a couple of thumbs ups flashed in his direction from the bus stop crowd as he pulled the limo out into traffic. In his rear-view mirror, Mr. Meter Maid was putting the yellow boot into the trunk of his scooter.