A Lifetime of Public Service

By Joseph Bonvillain and Paul Winters

First and foremost, let me say this: its a work of fiction. If you think you recognize something, it probably did not happen. The stories are based on stories I have heard with a very liberal dose of my imagination.

With that being said, lets explore what Winters Passion Inc. is. I started the company in 2012 after retiring to give me something to work on as you can only play so much golf and fish only so often. The premise was to put my collection of recipes into a book and do wine and food pairing while donating the proceeds to charityprimarily, the Police Unity Tour, Concerns of Police Survivors, and Wounded Warrior Project.

This has worked out very well. Winters Passion has donated thousands of dollars to charity. I do not take any compensation and only on the rarest occasions have I needed paid staff.

The challenge came from within to write a book of fiction. Stories that have been passed down through the family, stories I heard during work, augmented by an active if only slightly demented mind, the stage was set for the book.

It was substantially more difficult than I had expected. After a career in law enforcement, I write like a copshort and to the point. I enlisted the aid of Joseph Bonvillian to help with the color and texture of the stories, the smartest thing I could have done for the book.

Joe readily agreed that all proceeds from sale will continue to go to charity. He is a good and kind man, a father of three adult children, and originally from Maryland. His skills have been invaluable in making this book happen.

Enjoy the read, and remember, its fiction.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Nov 23, 2016
• ISBN: 9781524560393

Joseph Bonvillain

Joseph Bonvillain Joe was born and raised in Maryland on the outer perimeter of Washington, DC. He worked in the transportation industry. Joe has written several short stories for young adults dealing with the trials of growing into adults. He is a very spiritual man and lives in Florida. Paul Winters Paul was born and raised in Washington, DC. His family has a long lineage of public service. He served thirty-four years in government service. After retiring, he started Winters Passion Inc., which gives all proceeds to charity. The company has no paid personnel. Paul also lives in Florida.

Book preview

Copyright © 2016 by Paul Winters; Joseph Bonvillain.

Library of Congress Control Number:   2016919403

ISBN:      Hardcover      978-1-5245-6041-6

                Softcover        978-1-5245-6040-9

                eBook             978-1-5245-6039-3

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 11/15/2016

Xlibris

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CONTENTS

Preface

Chapter 1 Poker Songs: Hostage

Chapter 2 Metropolitan Task Force

Chapter 3 Poker Songs: Target Practice

Chapter 4 The Fake Chase

Chapter 5 Poker Songs: The Fire Boat

Chapter 6 Front End Loader

Chapter 7 Poker Songs: Flyby Flyboys

Chapter 8 The Storm

Chapter 9 Poker Songs: Night Flight

Chapter 10 The National Law Enforcement Memorial

Chapter 11 Poker Songs: The Butler Grove Protocol

Chapter 12 Herbie Hubbs

Chapter 13 Poker Songs: Sky Save

Chapter 14 Divorce By Badge

Chapter 15 Poker Songs: The Wedding

Chapter 16 Ticket To Ride

Chapter 17 Poker Songs: Gone Fishin’

Chapter 18 Robbed On Duty

Chapter 19 Poker Songs: Hero Denied

Chapter 20 Good Cop, Bad Cop, Good Cop

Chapter 21 Poker Songs: Beer For Golf

Chapter 22 The Promotion

Chapter 23 Poker Songs: Evil Twin

Chapter 24 Hell Night

Chapter 25 Poker Songs: Snake Story

Chapter 26 Clothes Encounter Of The Worst Kind

Chapter 27 Poker Songs: Undercover

Chapter 28 Marine Training

Chapter 29 Poker Songs: The Bounty Lounge

Chapter 30 Pick Up The Knife

Chapter 31 Poker Songs: Teddy Bear

Chapter 32 Gone

Chapter 33 Poker Songs: Cashing Out

About the Author

PREFACE

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First and foremost let me say this, it’s a work of fiction. If you think you recognize something it probably did not happen. The stories are based on stories I have heard with a very liberal dose of my imagination.

With that being said let’s explore what Winters Passion Inc. is. I started the company in 2012 after retiring to give me something to work on as you can only play so much golf and fish only so often. The premise was to put my collection of recipes into a book and do wine and food pairing while donating the proceeds to charity. Primarily, The Police Unity Tour, Concerns of Police Survivors, and Wounded Warrior Project.

This has worked out very well. Winters Passion has donated thousands of dollars to charity. I do not take any compensation and only on the rarest occasions have I needed paid staff.

The challenge came from within to write a book of fiction. Stories that have been passed down through the family, stories I heard during work, augmented by an active if only slightly demented mind, the stage was set for the book.

It was substantially more difficult than I had expected. After a career in law enforcement I write like a cop, short and to the point. I enlisted the aid of Joseph Bonvillian to help with the color and texture of the stories. The smartest thing I could have done for the book.

Joe readily agreed that all proceeds from sale will continue to go to charity. He is a good and kind man. A father of three adult children. Originally from Maryland. His skills have been invaluable in making this book happen.

A special thanks to Scott Triponey for the cover art.

Enjoy the read and remember it’s fiction.

POKER SONGS: HOSTAGE

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Arti ticked off full cases of liquor on the inventory sheet as easy as kids count One potato, two potato . . . The bar in the front of the house was just beginning to heat up, but Arti took a moment to pause and reflect. He had a well-trained and efficient staff that ran things for him now. They were seasoned and smart and allowed Arti the latitude to do inventory on Fridays and, once or twice a month, host a poker game that had been running now for years.

He thought back to his early years, and the struggle to survive in a country and culture that were not his own. Over the years he had grown his business from an illegal steal and sell liquor racket, to an after-hours bar, and finally as a legitimate, tax-paying bar and restaurant. He had also become a US citizen, earned a bachelor’s degree in business, with an economics minor and earned the respect and friendship of almost everyone who met him.

He put away his tally sheets and began straightening the back room. The men would be coming soon and Arti always wanted them to feel welcome. Welcome, he mused. Such an American word for such a universal concept. He certainly had not felt welcomed in this country when he arrived. Opportunities were few and distrust, often and sometimes outright hatred was a bitter pill he swallowed every day. Then he thought of Captain Ronnie. Even though the Captain had caught Arti (which wasn’t his name at the time), red-handed in the commission of what could have easily been several felony charges. However, against the odds and his expectations, the Captain looked past Arti’s dirty clothes, his poor English and his fear and came up with a plan that would not only keep Arti out of jail, but started him on the road to respectability. Over the years Captain Ronnie had helped Arti with getting into and paying for college, sponsoring his citizenship efforts and dozens of other little boosts from him and some of his men that Arti could not remember them all.

In his old country were elders who kept the lore and legends of the people alive with stories that were as much sung as spoken. He put out the bowls that would soon hold the peanuts, pretzels and chips that would whet the players’ thirst. Surely, Captain Ronnie was deserving of a song. He was no less a hero to Arti than any of the giants of his former culture. Arti positioned the chairs around the table, putting the biggest and best in Captain Ronnie’s place. He smiled to himself and wondered about connections. Not only was Captain Ronnie worthy of song and story, he is the elder and story-teller of his tribe. Though they were already spotless, Arti was wiping down the glasses and mugs a final time as he heard the first of the men at the door.

*                     *                     *                     *

A two of spades, ten of diamonds, and a king of spades flopped onto the table. Tim Finch opened with a dollar bet. Nick paused for a moment, then tossed his pair of fours face down in the center. I’m out, he conceded. Tom bluffed a fifty-cent raise. Taggart swore softly and rubbed his hand over his mostly bald head in a blatant show of agony. He almost always did one of two things. The other was to merely mutter and look at his hole cards. If he held good cards, he performed the former action, his strategy being a show of indecision over a supposedly mediocre hand. If he indeed did have a mediocre hand, he performed the latter act in hopes of achieving a cheap bluff. In either case, every regular player knew Taggart could be raised out of a hand. Now with $1.50 staring at him, he hesitated, pontificated and otherwise delayed making a decision. He looked around the table. No tells on these guys. He looked at his jack and queen of hearts and with a grand display of extreme reluctance, called.

Ronnie had looked at his pocket once. He never looked a second time, no matter how many drinks he’d had. It made him a dangerous and unpredictable player. Nick suspected his uncle sometimes forgot what his cards were, but when the hand was reconciled, Ronnie was as stone-faced when he won as he was when he lost. No one could figure out if, or when, Ronnie bluffed. Years of police work could develop that sort of talent.

Tim Finch folded his cards and started to rise. At that moment, Ronnie rocked back on his chair, and rolled his cigar in his fingers. Tim sat back down. This was Ronnie’s standard into and he was about to sing one of the songs of his people.

I remember one night when I was a sergeant at the fourteenth precinct. He paused and took a sip from the glass of Macallan’s single-malt that he kept neat and ready throughout the game. We were working the midnight shift, a routine night for the first hour. Then that asshole Tommy Taggart, who was driving the paddy wagon, saw a robbery in progress at one of the late night package stores.

Taggart dropped his chin to his chest with the resignation of a man at the guillotine. He knew this story, had heard it many times and, of course, had been there. But there was no stopping Ronnie. When he told a tale, he told it regardless of who was in the room and never varied a single detail.

"He quickly called it in, jumped out of the wagon and drew his weapon. He had only taken a few steps toward the store when the two thieves came out the door. Taggart shot the first one twice and before he could get off a third shot, the second suspect ran back into the store. Now we got a hostage situation, and a dirt-bag bleeding in the doorway."

He paused and looked over at Arti who stood quietly off to the side. Ronnie never made eye contact with the men at the table when he was relating department history. But occasionally he would glance at Arti who would swear there was a deep, almost imperceptible twinkle. It was the only Tell Ronnie ever gave at the table. None of the players ever noticed.

"I get there a few minutes later and there’s already twenty cops wanting to start shooting at something until the guy inside gives up or dies. I’m on the bullhorn telling him the smart play is to give up and no one gets hurt. In between blasts, I’m trying to keep the guys cool, but I can feel they’re ready and eager to get this resolved. This goes on for like forty-five minutes or so."

While we’re waiting for this idiot to smarten up and come out hands up, I realize the paddy wagon is circling the block for about the twentieth time. Then it hits me that Taggart isn’t in the wagon, he’s standing right next to me!

At this point Taggart slumped down even further, as if to make himself smaller and unnoticeable.

I look at Taggart and he looks back at me with that ‘Damned if I know’ expression. We wait for the wagon to pass by again. When it does we see this wise-ass street rat not only driving the wagon, the son-of-a-bitch seems to be eating Taggart’s lunch.

The men at the table, out of deference to a brother, didn’t turn and look at Taggart who by now held his head in both hands, elbows on the table. Nick and Tom had already heard this one, but Tim Finch was fascinated about hearing it for the first time.

"So Taggart, who still had his weapon in his hand, fired off three quick shots at the wagon, causing it to swerve and hit a parked car! The other officers who had been solely focused on the doorway of the package store, immediately opened fire, shattering the front door and every piece of glass on that side of the building.

"It was right at this exact moment that the Lieutenant called me on the radio asking if I had completed the neighborhood reports. I’m afraid my response was, let’s say, less than professional and included some references to his intelligence and his relationship with his mother.

I directed some of the men to go ‘contain’ the driver of the paddy wagon. Since EMS was already on the scene, some of the guys decided he needed medical attention and proceeded to comport themselves in such a manner so as to insure that was the case. Meanwhile, I sent most of the men to arrest the two hold-up guys and to quickly read them their rights, as both of them needed medical attention also. One for gunshot wounds and the other for multiple lacerations due to flying glass. Luckily the only civilian in the store was the counterman and he was unharmed as he had been bound and lying on the floor.

Now he looked at Taggart who had, by now, bared his face now that the worst of it was over.

You know, Tommy, that was a good night. Ever aware of his audience, he threw Taggart a bone. He sipped his scotch and put the cigar back in the ashtray, his sign that the tale was coming to an end. Even though I got chewed out the next day by the Lieutenant, no civilians were hurt and we locked up three losers.

Ronnie rocked the front legs of his chair back to the floor and tossed $1.50 into the pot. I call.

METROPOLITAN TASK FORCE

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The steamy afternoon rains had not appeared that day and a mild, dry breeze had blown the clouds off the horizon. It was the first clear and cool night in months and signaled the end of one season and the beginning of another. As far as Detective Nick Summer was concerned, it was the best time of year. Kids going back to school, snowbirds still a month away and weather so perfect it could melt your heart.

Nick cruised along in his unmarked unit, thinking he had the best job in the world. As part of the crime prevention unit, he was able to wear the clothes he liked. Today he wore blue jeans, work boots, and an old tee shirt from a Toby Keith concert. He was a little particular about his appearance.

The crime prevention unit also allowed him a certain amount of freedom in what and how he did his job. Nick had always chafed a little at authority in general (and much of the brass downtown in particular), and it suited him just fine that he was now in a position to run his own show. He was productive and effective in his job and that had earned him a little distance from most of the rank and file. It hadn’t come easily. Working his way up from a uniform and a street beat had taken work, guile and maybe just a little luck. Now he felt on top of the world, keeping the peace in the closest place to paradise. Then the radio crackled his name.

Summoned to the lieutenant’s office could be either a good or a bad thing. Nick figured the odds were about 50/50 until he heard Officer Tom Flower receive the same request, Report to Lieutenant Ray at headquarters ASAP. The odds jumped significantly and swiftly to something like 75/25 that this would be an unpleasant meeting.

Nick pulled into the parking lot at headquarters and he was relieved, though not surprised that Tom was already waiting for him. He pulled up to the driver’s window of Tom’s idling unmarked unit.

What did you get us into this time? Tom growled.

I thought it was your month to get us in trouble, Nick replied.

Tom seemed to mull this over. You’re right, and I apologize for not being more proactive about it, but I can’t think of anything that would merit a call from the boss, he said. Of course there was possibly, maybe, some blowback about something that may have allegedly happened last Tuesday, but since you weren’t there, I’m guessing not.

Well, screw it, sighed Nick. Let’s find out what it is and get it over with. And remember, if there’s no video, it didn’t happen.

*                     *                     *                     *

Police Central had been built thirty years ago and was considered state of the art at the time. Except the original called for an unfortunate decision to provide a break and snack room right next to the holding cells. Time had taken a toll and the building seemed to be nothing more than a crowded, decrepit repository of smells and mankind’s petty failures. Of course some of the smells had changed or vanished, No more whiffs of Wite-Out, cigarettes, or the aroma of Sal’s Pizza, the next-door favorite which had closed some years twelve years ago. However, the ever present smell of sweat, coffee, and the intoxicating fumes of industrial strength cleaner provided proof to even a blind man that this bustling hive of activity was, indeed, a police station.

Lieutenant Sherman Red Ray’s office was a converted storage closet. That meant no extra chairs when Nick and Tom sat down. Red had been assigned to the night shift years ago after telling the chief that he could do a better job on half the money. True, the storage closet was a recent upgrade, but Red had no illusions about ever leaving the night shift. Like a long term disease, Red had doomed himself to an eternity of drudge at night. With each arrival at the top of the hill a brief and quickly forgotten accomplishment before he went back down the hill chasing his rock.

Red just looked at them, silent; his hands were folded together on his desk and his left eye gave off an almost unnoticeable twitch. But a trained police officer would notice, and the men immediately recognized this as Red’s poker ‘tell,’ a clue that Red knew something they didn’t, but that he also wanted to know what cards they were holding.

So, how’d you do it? he asked. Who did you bribe to get it?

Nick and Tom didn’t move; didn’t utter a word or change their expression. They knew that by waiting it out, Red would fold. After a few moments of grinning and twitching, Red’s face went back to his usual scowling countenance.

Not going to talk, eh? he grumbled. "Doesn’t matter, this has come down from the top anyway. Over my strenuous objection, you two are now the task force assigned to oversee the county fair and all the attendant bullshit that comes with it. All reports are to come through my office and I’m telling you now, all complaints are going straight to internal affairs. I’m not putting up with anything even remotely outside the lines this year and you will comply with all departmental rules and regulations. Have I made myself clear? Nick and Tom declined to reply, maintaining their strict protocol for dealing with Red. After a moment Lieutenant Ray grumbled, Good, now get out of my office."

Nick and Tom broke into twin grins the moment they passed through the door. Fourteen days of carnival duty was a dream assignment. Two weeks of not having to answer to anyone and running their own show. That didn’t mean there wouldn’t be work though. In past years there was a spike in assaults, robberies, burglaries, and disorderly conduct when the fair was in town. One year there had even been a homicide and all the carnies had been fingerprinted. There were some legitimate people that worked the travelling fair, but many of the laborers lived off the grid. The fingerprint identification revealed that 70 percent of the names given had been false and of the remaining 30 percent most had active warrants for their arrest in at least one state. Most had multiple warrants, and the next day there had not been enough employees to even open the fair.

Over coffee, Nick and Tom put together a game plan. Their first steps would be proactive. Crime prevention was always preferable to crime investigation, if for no other reason than less paperwork.

The carnival management was cooperative. Always looking to maximize their bottom line, they agreed that any employee arrested during their time in the county would not be paid their end of season bonus. As this was the last stop of the year, that carried some significant weight. For some of the full-timers, that could run to as much as $10,000. In addition, Nick and Tom put together a list of bars, liquor stores, strip clubs, and other establishments where the carnies business would be considered acceptable. More importantly was the list of places, including all residential areas where their presence would not be welcomed or tolerated. Those lists were printed on flyers that were distributed throughout the living and working areas the carnies would call home for the next two weeks. As Nick and Tom made a slow walk through the grounds to make their presence known, they heard the almost inaudible buzz preceding them. There were a few catcalls from unseen workers, general protests about violations of their freedoms, and a few legitimate questions. After making the rounds, they left the grounds, hopeful that this year would be quieter than most.

*                     *                     *                     *

They started their shift at 10:00 p.m., an hour before the close of the fair. A quick cruise through the area revealed nothing eventful, they stopped at two nearby minimarkets and reminded the clerks to check IDs and that there was to be no drinking or loitering on the premises. The clerks eagerly agreed, hoping this would limit the number of times the parking lot or the side of the building would be used as a urinal. Nick and Tom left feeling good and hopeful for a quiet night. That feeling however, evaporated almost as soon as they pulled into the parking lot at The Rip Tide.

The Rip Tide was a 24/7 bar that catered to a certain clientele. These were not people on the fringe of decent society, they were mostly degenerates who were way beyond the fringe of decency. On any given night they served a mix of strippers, call girls, pimps, hustlers, and thieves. Any other losers desiring a drink, or connection, after hours were well-acquainted with the services provided at The Tide. Nick, Tom, and most of the other area cops were well-acquainted with the bar and the immediate surrounding area as well. Nick was especially familiar with the place as years ago he had led an unsuccessful campaign to have the bar closed down. It had not won him any friends among the customers or the management. Sid, the night manager was particularly prickly with Nick anytime they had the misfortune to cross paths.

The duo entered the bar and stood by the doorway for a moment, so that their vision would adjust before they made their way across the room. Also to let everyone know that the law had arrived. Jamoke, a well-known entertainer/dealer from Jamaica, sat in a chair on stage and warbled a reggae rendition of Johnny Cash. Ring of Fire had never sounded so dreadful but, considering Jamoke’s wild nest of plaited braids, it was not completely unexpected either. Although somewhat musically-challenged, Jamoke was widely regarded as the source for fine Jamaican Ganja. That, however, was not their concern tonight.

They made their way across the room purposefully and without apology for their disruption of the mood. Sid scowled from behind the bar.

Are you trying to close me down again, or are you just here to harass my customers? Sid said with a natural snarl and whine to his voice. It made people want to punch him. Especially cops; especially Nick.

Tom and Nick waited for a moment for Sid to exhaust his litany of complaints about harassment and unfair treatment. When he finally wound down, Nick started to speak. He spoke slowly and softly enough, that Sid had to lean forward to hear him, exactly as Nick had intended.

The carnival is in town, I know this is a big time for you, Nick almost whispered. But it’s our job to make sure they all stay in line this year. So that means we’ll be keeping an even closer eye on you. You get what I’m saying? Nick asked.

Yeah, I hear you. You’re saying for the next two weeks I have to put up with you hard-assing my customers. Listen, you tried to shut me down once, it didn’t work. I got friends you know? It ain’t going to work this time. Sid folded his arms across his chest and glared defiantly back at them.

No, you asshole, Nick said even more quietly. I’m saying I’ve got carte blanche to do whatever the hell needs to be done while this carnival’s in town. And if Jamoke is dealing out of here in the next two weeks, I’m going to pop you both. If you don’t like it, file a complaint.

I’m going to do just that, Sid sneered.

File it through the Intracoastal Station on Route 1. That’s where we’re assigned now, said Nick. He turned and walked away before Sid could reply.

Tom’s interest was piqued as the Intracoastal Station was in another jurisdiction. Once they got out the door he inquired, Intracoastal?

Well, I figure we’re going to get an ass load of complaints on this assignment, Nick answered. If they have to get filtered through another department, I figure at least half of them will get lost in the shuffle.

Makes perfect sense, Tom mused. That’s why you’re the man.

At 11:45 p.m., they cruised into one of the local convenience stores. Half a dozen men loitering in the lot surreptitiously hid their