The Guardian

get sometimes, somebody had to do it.
    There was a knock on his door; Captain Gregory stuck his head in. “So, what’s the deal on this guy? Any word yet?”
    Gregory was a large, black, very intimidating looking man. However, that was only the outward appearance. He always dressed to the nines. He was nothing but professional all the time. Everyone in the department knew him as a straight forward, up front, no games kind of guy. They had a great deal of respect for him. Gregory made it up through the ranks the hard-way as well. Being a black man in a predominantly white man’s domain, getting to a position of authority was even harder for him. Las Vegas has always been about politics and money.
    Known as a very compassionate leader, he cared a great deal for his officers. He knew the river of shit that they had to swim in everyday. He would back them to the death. He always played fair and never used the race card that so many others before him had tried to do. He’d always allow you one screw up. After that, you had better know better or have a damned good excuse. He had made it very clear to anyone new to the department, “I’ll back you 100 percent, but don’t make me look like the fool doing it.” He had zero tolerance for liars.
    In all his years on the force, Gregory had never had to pull or use his weapon one time. However, things were changing. Officer involved shootings were on the rise. They’d had twenty-two shootings in the past two months. The pressure was on.
    “Hey Captain. So far nothing; I’m waiting for the lab and CS guys to send me what they found.” Halloway said.
    “Okay, well, keep me in the loop. If you need anything let me know.” Gregory told him and stepped out closing the door behind him.
    That’s what John liked about his boss. He kept everything short and to the point. Gregory let him run his investigations his own way and only interfered when it was necessary or to run interference with the higher ups who probably couldn’t find their ass with both hands. Elections were coming up. They were too busy worrying about who would be the next Sheriff. One guy was trying to buy the office because he had money and could. The other had the experience but was equally as corrupt and didn’t actually deserve the job but would get it by virtue of the “Good-Ole-Boy rule. The down side was all the bullshit promises by both sides. They couldn’t keep them. In the end, the casino moguls would be telling them what to do.
    That was their problem. The first thing he wanted to do was confer with Desert Springs Hospital and see how things were going with their victim.
    He grabbed his coat and headed for the hospital. He was certain that the guy wasn’t going to be much good for information himself. However, the docs could give him an idea of his physical state. It was obvious that his mind would need to be rearranged some if he was ever going to get it back to normal.
    Halloway’s office was practically down town on the corner of Stewart Ave. and Las Vegas Boulevard. It was only about a 15-minute drive. Sometimes depending on the time of day, it could be a real pain fighting the traffic.
    The Department wasn’t exactly in the best part of town. Hell, just one block over on 4th and Fremont was where you could find all the whores, pimps and pushers your heart desired. Anybody who has ever lived in Vegas for any length of time will tell the visitors to stay away from that end of Fremont at night. The good Mayor was trying to improve the downtown area with such uplifting ideas like legalized prostitution.
    He headed southeast down Las Vegas Blvd then headed west on Charleston. This was another of the least popular areas of town. Just south of the Medical Center, on Shadow Lane, was the area that used to be the development where the entire towns wealthiest lived. All the fancy, ranch style homes with their wrought iron fences, circular driveways, and fancy landscaping earmark these houses of the well to do. If he wasn’t mistaken, Jerry Lewis still had a house over in that area.
    There was a small little shit-hole dive bar that sat down the street from UMC. The homeless and mentally helpless were released, go in there, and try to get drinks. They’d still have on their hospital armbands and sometimes still in their hospital gowns. Of course, Diana, the swing shift bartender had been there for what seemed like forever. She was on to them, especially the obvious ones still in their hospital