“You’re renting!” shouted Mikey. “Tell them you’re renting this place. They won’t be able to kick you out until they check.”
“You shut up!” shouted Clarence. “I don’t need a freak like you telling me what to do!”
It was the wrong thing to say, because the officer thought that Clarence was talking to him. The man calmly reached his hand down to the hilt of his baton, and the other officer unsnapped the strap on his holster. “Now, none of us wants an incident,” said the lead officer. “We could arrest you for trespassing, but it would be easier for everyone if you just moved on. You understand?”
“I’m renting,” said Clarence. “Four hundred bucks a month. Check it out with my landlord if you don’t believe me.”
The officers looked to each other, then back at the dilapidated farmhouse, which, from their point of view probably wouldn’t be worth four dollars a month, much less four hundred.
Clarence glanced at Mikey, more resentful than thankful, then took a couple of steps toward the officers, staggering as he went. Mikey figured Clarence was drunk most of the time Mikey had been in the cage—but he’d never seen Clarence stumbling drunk.
“Go on—get out of here, and maybe I’ll pretend this harassment never happened.”
“Tell you what,” said the lead officer. “Come with us, we’ll check out your story, and if it’s true, we will bring you back here, no harm no foul.”
“I got rights,” Clarence said, “and I believe you are violating them right now.”
“That’s why you’re coming with us voluntarily,” said the second cop, speaking up for the first time.
The lead cop agreed. “Easier for everyone that way.”
If Clarence was taken away, Mikey knew he would be stuck here. The thought of rotting in a cage until someone found him and freed him was more than he could bear.
“Throw me the key to the padlock!” said Mikey.
“No way I’m doing that!”
“Pardon me?” said the lead officer.
“Throw me the key!” said Mikey. “And I’ll help you. I won’t run away, I promise!”
“How do I know I can trust you?” said Clarence.
“Trust us?” said the second officer. “Since you are the one allegedly trespassing, I don’t think you have much of a choice.”
“Throw me the key!”
“I got this under control!” said Clarence. “Nobody’s gonna—” Then Clarence stumbled once more, then fell to his knee—and to everyone’s surprise he rose quickly and soberly, holding the shotgun, which had been lying forgotten in the tall grass.
“Clarence, no!” yelled Mikey.
Clarence swung it to the lead cop before he could pull out his weapon.
“Hands in the air!” Clarence ordered. The younger cop fumbled for his weapon. “Drop it or I’ll shoot,” Clarence said, very firmly.
The second cop quickly threw his weapon to the ground. “Okay, okay, okay—I dropped it, see? I dropped it!”
The lead cop never showed fear, though. “Sir. Put the weapon down. No one needs to get hurt.”
“Oh! So now I’m ‘sir’?” screeched Clarence, in that two-toned siren voice of his. “I might only have one usable hand in this world but I can still pull a trigger!” With his finger on the trigger and the barrel of the shotgun resting across his ruined arm, he kept his aim straight at the lead cop’s chest.
“All these years being chased from place to place, not able to be anywhere, not allowed to have a life. Well, from now on, I’m not going anywhere unless I want to! I’m done getting thrown around. I should . . . I should . . .”
“Clarence,” begged Mikey, “you’re making it worse. You’re going get yourself killed. . . .”
“I don’t care!” he screeched. “I don’t care. Because if I do—”
Then in the blink of an eye, the lead officer pulled out his own weapon and fired.