Officer Krupke picked up the receiver, nodded, gave a concerned look and said, “Thanks.” before hanging up.
He looked at me with the fury of a cop whose partner was just killed by a Chinese, “That was the bomb squad, Ms. Sharkey.”
“You want a medal, dude?”
“I want answers! Where is the home portal?!”
“At the hostess stand at Chili’s!” I screamed, half-laughing while tilting my head back in frustration.
“Where is the detonator, Sharkey?!?!”
“Hey pal, only my friends call me Sharkey and we sure as shit ain’t friends.”
He pounded his fist on the table and picked up the receiver, dialed and said, “Someone get Kiersten N. down here! I need a cavity search!”
Krupke brought me to my feet by my handcuffs and let me outside…where I saw my mother.
“Mom! Mom!” I screamed.
It’s a maternal instinct for a woman to respond to the call of its young – but that is not what this was.
My mother was one of ten children (Johnny, Joey, Eddie, Mikey, Jamie, Betsy, Patsy, Mary, Kathy*…and Loretta) raised in a house where there was never enough to eat…she knew how to fight for what was hers.
She was a vision – bathrobe masking her “World’s Best Mom” t-shirt and her Old Navy bed shorts. She was wearing one pink flip-flop and her Steven Madden python skin ballet flat.
Her hair was almost as frantic as she was – her finger mid-air…the tell tale sign of a verbal smackdown in progress. Her eyes were wide – she was already in the red and there was no going back. My mother had gone DEFCON 1. Her cheeks were red and as her eyes met mine, I read her lips, “Cocked pistol.”
It’s about to get crazy.