“Hey, Marv!” Terry’s voice bounced off the alley in all directions, finally dissolving into the music from the buskers out on Congo Square.
“Fuck, Terry, what now?” Marv enjoyed patrols around Christmas. Most of the year, he hated his job, but with all the decorations up, and the playoffs around the corner, walking his beat wasn’t all that bad around Christmas. One thing that could easily sour his seasonal spirit, though, was his partner’s brand of paranoid aggressiveness that could end up getting someone hurt.
“Marv. Seriously, come take a look at this. Do we know this guy?” Terry motioned to a pile of shadows leaning against the moldy wall of Fahy’s Irish Pub.
“Him? I don’t… uh… Maybe? He have any ID on him?” He instantly regretted that.
“Does he fucking look like he’s got any ID on him? Where would he put it?” Terry jabbed.
“Good point.” Marv turned and faced Toulouse. Fahy’s had rigged up some of those Tabasco Christmas lights, and it bothered Marv. To him, it just seemed out of place. New Orleans was more of a Crystal city. Everyone knew that.
Terry sneezed and wiped his hands on his pants, “You wanna call it in?”
Marv squeezed the radio clipped to his shoulder, “Dispatch, this is unit 42. We’re on Burgundy at Toulouse, and we seem to have a code 31 here. We’re bringing in an unidentified white male, brown hair, brown eyes, roughly five-nine in length.” That was a low blow. He felt bad for it. He never had been one to kick a man while he was down. “Appears drunk, but is currently unresponsive, breathing normally.” A little extra detail made him feel better, like he was taking care of the man. “Oh, and dispatch, have some clothes ready for him at the station. I’d say probably an XL in shirt, same for pants. Over.”
“Copy that, 42.”