R. C. FitzPatrick - The Circuit Riders.pdf - R. C. FitzPatrick - allforjesus2001

The Circuit Riders

FitzPatrick, R.C.

Published: 1962

Type(s): Short Fiction, Science Fiction

Source: http://gutenberg.org

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He was an old man and very drunk. Very drunk or very sick. It was the

middle of the day and the day was hot, but the old man had on a suit,

and a sweater under the suit. He stopped walking and stood still, sway-

ing gently on widespread legs, and tried to focus his eyes. He lived

here … around here … somewhere around here. He continued on, stum-

bling up the street.

He finally made it home. He lived on the second floor and he dragged

himself up the narrow staircase with both hands clutching the railing.

But he was still very careful of the paper bag under his arm. The bag was

full of beer.

Once in the room, he managed to take off his coat before he sank down

on the bed. He just sat there, vacant and lost and empty, and drank his

beer.

It was a hot, muggy, August afternoon—Wednesday in Pittsburgh.

The broad rivers put moisture in the air, and the high hills kept it there.

Light breezes were broken-up and diverted by the hills before they could

bring more than a breath of relief.

In the East Liberty precinct station the doors and windows were

opened wide to snare the vagrant breezes. There were eight men in the

room; the desk sergeant, two beat cops waiting to go on duty, the audio

controller, the deAngelis operator, two reporters, and a local book …

businessman. From the back of the building, the jail proper, the voice of

a prisoner asking for a match floated out to the men in the room, and a

few minutes later they heard the slow, exasperated steps of the turnkey

as he walked over to give his prisoner a light.

At 3:32 pm, the deAngelis board came alive as half-a-dozen lights

flashed red, and the needles on the dials below them trembled in the sev-

enties and eighties. Every other light on the board showed varying

shades of pink, registering in the sixties. The operator glanced at the

board, started to note the times and intensities of two of the dials in his

log, scratched them out, then went on with his conversation with the au-

dio controller. The younger reporter got up and came over to the board.

The controller and the operator looked up at him.

"Nothing," said the operator shaking his head in a negative. "Bad call

at the ball game, probably." He nodded his head towards the lights on

the deAngelis, "They'll be gone in five, ten minutes."

The controller reached over and turned up the volume on his radio.

The radio should not have been there, but as long as everyone did his job

and kept the volume low, the Captain looked the other way. The set be-

longed to the precinct.

The announcer's voice came on, "… ning up, he's fuming. Doak is

holding Sterrett back. What a beef! Brutaugh's got his nose not two

inches from Frascoli's face, and Brother! is he letting him have it. Oh! Oh!

Here comes Gilbert off the mound; he's stalking over. When Gil puts up

a holler, you know he thinks it's a good one. Brutaugh keeps pointing at

the foul line—you can see from here the chalk's been wiped away—he's

insisting the runner slid out of the base path. Frascoli's walking away,

but Danny's going right aft … " The controller turned the volume down

again.

The lights on the deAngelis board kept flickering, but by 3:37 all but

two had gone out, one by one. These two showed readings in the high

sixties; one flared briefly to 78.2 then went out. Brutaugh was no longer

in the ball game. By 3:41 only one light still glowed, and it was steadily

fading.

Throughout the long, hot, humid afternoon the board held its reddish,

irritated overtones, and occasional readings flashed in and out of the sev-

enties. At four o'clock the new duty section came on; the deAngelis oper-

ator, whose name was Chuck Matesic, was replaced by an operator

named Charlie Blaney.

"Nothing to report," Chuck told Charlie. "Rhubarb down at the point

at the Forbes Municipal Field, but that's about all."

The new operator scarcely glanced at the mottled board, it was that

kind of a day. He noted an occasional high in his log book, but most sig-

nals were ignored. At 5:14 he noted a severe reading of 87 which stayed

on the board; at 5:16 another light came on, climbed slowly through the

sixties, then soared to 77 where it held steady. Neither light was an hon-

est red, their angry overtones chased each other rapidly.

The deAngelis operator called over to the audio controller, "Got us a

case of crinkle fender, I think."

"Where?" the controller asked.

"Can't tell yet," Blaney said. "A hot-head and a citizen with righteous

indignation. They're clear enough, but not too sharp." He swiveled in his

chair and adjusted knobs before a large circular screen. Pale streaks of

light glowed briefly as the sweep passed over them. There were milky

dots everywhere. A soft light in the lower left hand corner of the screen

cut an uncertain path across the grid, and two indeterminate splotches in

the upper half of the scope flared out to the margin.

"Morningside," the operator said.

The splashes of light separated; one moved quickly off the screen, the

other held stationary for several minutes, then contracted and began a

steady, jagged advance toward the center of the grid. One inch down,

half an inch over, two inches down, then four inches on a diagonal line.

"Like I said," said Blaney. "An accident."

Eight minutes later, at 5:32, a slightly pompous and thoroughly out-

raged young salesman marched through the doors of the station house

and over to the desk sergeant.

"Some clown just hit me … " he began.

"With his fist?" asked the sergeant.

"With his car," said the salesman. "My car … with his car … he hit my

car with his car."

The sergeant raised his hand. "Simmer down, young feller. Let me see

your driver's license." He reached over the desk for the man's cards with

one hand, and with the other he sorted out an accident form. "Just give it

to me slowly." He started filling out the form.

The deAngelis operator leaned back in his chair and winked at the

controller. "I'm a whiz," he said to the young reporter, "I'm a pheenom. I

never miss." The reporter smiled and walked back to his colleague who

was playing gin with the book … businessman.

The lights glowed on and off all evening, but only once had they called

for action. At 10:34 two sharp readings of 92.2 and 94 even, had sent

Blaney back to his dials and screen. He'd narrowed it down to a four-

block area when the telephone rang to report a fight at the Red Antler

Grill. The controller dispatched a beat cop already in the area.

Twenty minutes later, two very large—and very obedient young

toughs stumbled in, followed by an angry officer. In addition to the

marks of the fight, both had a lumbering, off-balance walk that showed

that the policeman had been prodding them with his riot club. It was

called an "electronic persuader"; it also doubled as a carbine. Police no

longer carried sidearms.

He pointed to the one on the left, "This one hit me." He pointed to the

one on the right, "This one kicked me."

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