First Chance, Last Chance - M.J. Garrett (latest ebook reader TXT) 📗

First Chance, Last Chance

By: M.J. Garrett

Introduction:

Look at them.  The self-serving; self-righteous pricks.  Sitting there in their pristine uniforms with badges and medals, gold stripes and bars on their collars, they never smile.  As they sit at the horseshoe table with small microphones in front of them, each one listens as an officer from Internal Affairs reads off the charges from my past and present transgressions.  Sitting to the left of the table, with a solemn face and tone, the officer keeps reading.   One by one, ghosts from the past resurface like bad memories.  He pauses for a moment; with a quick shameful glance, he bows his head and he continues to read. 

Senior Corporal Bodie, the man reading, brought me through my police training.  For 15 weeks he showed me the ins and outs of this department.  15 years later, one by one, he’s driving the nails in my career coffin.  I can see what looks to be disappointment, but I know Bodie.  What appears to be disappointment is actually fear.  Calmly and void of emotion, I look at him.  He keeps reading.

Glancing to my right, I can see my sergeant.  Sergeant Cranston sits there in silence and lowers his head toward the table and pulls the corners of his mouth back behind his large mustache.  I’m sure the he was aware of my past.  Any good sergeant would know their troops, but through his obvious disappointment, I’m positive that he was not fully aware of what he was sitting in on during this particular board meeting.  Cranston and Bodie were partners about 25 years ago.  Each one of them guarding their secrets like an impenetrable vault, sits there listening and reading.   

Sitting directly in front of me is Chief Bale.  With his head slightly bowed, he peers at me with distain.  His sharp eyes cut through the dimly lit room and peek from behind his thick white eyebrows.  There is no smile on his face today; not like there was yesterday when he announced to the media that I would be sitting in front of this particular disciplinary board today.  Even though his smile is hidden in the dark, I can see the corners of his mouth twitch as we make eye contact.

Bodie finishes off his list and the room falls silent.  I sit there in my black pinstriped suit and yellow tie.  With my hands folded together on the table, I move closer to the small microphone, ready to speak.  Chief Bale, leans back in his black leather chair and tilts his head slightly to the left and takes a deep breath.  “Officer Chance Baily, we both know that your extensive history is not just a reflection of your undeniable desire to break the rules, but it’s also a reflection of your personal integrity and lack of ethics.  Can we both agree on that?”  He cracks a slight grin that only I seem to recognize.  “Are you willing to admit that?”

Clearing my throat, I move closer to the microphone and politely ask him to clarify his question.  His grin disappears as he moves forward and rest his elbows on the table.  “Officer Baily, in 15 years, I have had the privilege of sitting at this desk and getting to know who and what you are really about.  Did you understand all of what Senior Corporal Bodie was reading?  Fifteen years on this department and eleven different investigations.  Again, I ask you, is this not a reflection of your personal integrity and lack of ethics?”

For a moment, I sit there.  Thinking the question through, I softly grin and glance at Cranston and then Bodie.  Each one of them closing their eyes and waiting for the next words to escape lungs.

Chapter 1

The weather in Texas this time of year was always a tricky thing to predict.  The mornings always seemed to be filled with a light fog and slight drizzle.  It was never really freezing cold, but always cold enough to matter.  The afternoon and evenings never really called for a jacket of sorts, but sometimes you would regret not having one.  The sun always seemed to peek its warm glow through the crowded clouds.  The good thing about days like this, the air conditioning never really needed to be utilized.

As a self-proclaimed night owl, most of my days were spent sleeping in an unfurnished bedroom.  Stacked blankets and not-so-comfortable drool stained pillows made sleeping a lot harder now that I’m not as young and uncaring.  Backaches and popping joints were common place when waking up in the early afternoons.

You could argue that sleeping on the floor wasn’t near as comfortable as the couch, but when you throw the distraction of television and the temptation of porn, sleeping on the floor in the lonely bedroom was the only way to get any sleep.  The empty walls found ways to close in the room.  It seemed like every day they inched closer and closer to where the room was now the size of a small closet; a prison cell if you prefer.  The light from the window was stifled by the thick maroon bed sheet that was held up with small nails and thumb tacks.  It was a lazy and cheap remedy, but the sheet served its purpose valiantly.

Days filled with routine seemed to be the only way to keep any sort of sanity these days.  No one knew where I lived as of late.  Moving around, changing appearances, changing names.  It takes a toll on a person, but the peace of my present day silence made the decision to go off the beaten path well worth it.  The only break in the silence was the sound of the heavy set couple walking up and down the stairs.  They lived a couple doors down from me, but I’ve only seen them as I sneaked a peak at them as they waddled past my window.  The shaking of the walls and windows were a dead giveaway of their presence. 

Lazily dragging my pitiful presence down the hallway to the restroom, I close my eyes as I flip the light on.  It’s a shame how being 35 years old feels like what I thought 65 years would.  My thick black wavy hair had its rare unwelcome gray visitors, but at this point in my life, I could care less what color my hair was; just as long as it wasn’t falling out. 

Opening up a drawer in the bathroom was one of the only times I felt a smile creep on my tired weary face.  There’s just something about knowing that everything was where it was supposed to be.  The bottom of the drawer was covered by a single folded paper towel.  My toothbrush lay up against the left side of the drawer; pushed snug in the front corner.  About an inch away was the spare toothbrush that usually served the purpose of a quick brush to remove tobacco from my teeth. 

Just an inch to the right of the spare toothbrush was the tube of toothpaste.  With the paste pushed to the top of the tube, the bottom was flat and squeezed shut.  I never was a fan of rolling the bottom of the tube; I found it annoying and an eyesore to look at.  Next to the toothpaste was my razor; still capped and stowed in the holder that it was bought in.  This drawer represented the only part of my life that seemed to have any order.  It’s pathetic the more I think about it.

The bathroom counter top held nothing but a soap dispenser.  It was just a blank white granite slate used to rest my hands on as I leaned over the sink to spit the paste or rinse the razor.  Everything in this room was immaculate.  The towel was perfectly folded and hung on the metal towel rack for drying my hands and face, the toilet was cleaned and scrubbed daily, and the black shower curtain remained closed and pulled tight because that’s the way I like it.  The bathroom is a happy place for me.  It’s quiet and clean.

The rest of the house was clean and organized, but you’ll find a lot of stuff out of place.  Mainly because I just didn’t bother with the small things that the rest of the world had access to.  I think it’s more of a mental disorder.  Maybe some sort of closet perfectionist? 

I always wondered how the hell I got here; this place of solitude and loneliness.  The apartment is filled with black leather furniture, a modern motif that used to symbolize the fact that I gave a shit.  Now, it’s more of an inconvenience and a reminder of how stupid I used to be.  Not that anyone would ever see the inside of my apartment, but if they did, they would probably be impressed.  Me, I could care less.  I have my bed made of fluffy expensive mink blankets, cheap pillows, and I have my spotless bathroom.  It’s the small things that matter.

*

I would be inclined to say that if your name isn’t in my list of phone contacts, I’m not going to answer the phone.  You are probably just another insignificant person or bill collector that was going to have to hunt me down.  Good luck with that!  My trail is as cold as the leather couch in my living room.  For some reason, maybe out of the delusion of the dream I was having, I reached over and silenced the phone as it vibrated on the floor beside my pillow.  As I rolled over to find that comfortable sweet spot that reduced all the discomfort of my body on the floor, with the exception of my back, shoulder, knee, and neck; I could hear the faint voice coming from the small speaker of the phone.

“Chance?  Are you there?  Hello?”

At first I thought I was dreaming.  Her sweet voice was calling me from our newly renovated kitchen.  The smell of homemade biscuits, bacon, eggs, topped with the delicious aroma of her amazing chocolate gravy filled my nose to the point that I could taste it.  She walked to the kitchen table and began to fill our plates with her delectable rendition of what her mother used to make.  She dressed herself in a very elegant, red, silk nightgown that was held up by two small spaghetti straps, which one always seemed to fall off her shoulder to reveal her smooth pale skin of her shoulder that brought back the smell of her skin.  With her hair pulled tight in a ponytail, loose strands hung in her face and in front of her black framed eyeglasses that she needed while her contacts were left soaking in their little plastic holder on the kitchen counter top.

“Chance, I know you’re there.  I can hear you snoring.  Please pick up the phone.”

I could see her long skinny shadow grace the living room as she paced by the kitchen door.  I could hear dishes being sat on the table and the clanking of silverware as she gathered them to put them in their assigned places.  I loved breakfast.

“Chance, please wake up!  I need you, Chance.” 

I smiled as she entered the living room to tell me that breakfast was ready to be devoured.  She smiled as she pulled her loose bangs from her face and gingerly placed them behind her ear.  Walking over to me, her green eyes smiled just as much as her thin pink painted lips.  She reached her hand out towards me and harshly whispered, “Chance, wake the fuck up.”

Confused by the sternness of her tone, I lowered my eyebrows.  With her hand reached out and placed on my shoulder, she peered into my eyes with the most beautiful smile.  “Chance!  I know you are there!  Wake up, God damn it!”

My eyes crack