Mr. Big gets pulled over by the police

If Pesty’s tip was right, Murphy was the man behind Big’s surveillance. Suddenly Big felt the walls closing in, as if he were a fly too caught up in his own preoccupations to notice the spider weaving a steady web around him, thread by thread. He had to do something about Murphy, but he didn’t have much time, so he’d have to park Murphy for now. Or should he draw Murphy into the plot, expose him, then take him out? Killing a cop was one thing, but an inspector? That was risky. He would have to—

Raps on the window.

Big rolled down his window and stared at the traffic cop. Erik Estrada from Bobby’s parking lot, pointing a menacing semi-automatic at Big.

“Yes, Officer.”

“License and insurance,” Estrada ordered. He wore heavy gray flannels, bulletproof vest, fingerless gloves, riot helmet, and dead-eyed cop look. Full combat mode.

Big fumbled through the glove compartment, looking for any of his licenses. “Here you go, Officer. What’s going on?”

Estrada flipped through Big’s documents. “Police business.” He didn’t look up right away. Finally, he looked at the license, then at Big, then back down at the license.

Just like a Trinidadian cop, Big thought. They never tell you why they’re doing something. Just in case, they didn’t know themselves. He looked up at him. “Inspector Murphy around?”

Estrada locked his dead-eyed glare on Big. “Pull to the side, sir.”

“Why?”

Estrada leaned into the car. “Listen, Mister, pull to the side before I drag your sorry ass out.”

Big could smell the rum on Estrada’s breath. So much for the No drinking while on duty cliché.
“Sorry, Officer,” Big raised his hands in the surrender position. “Take it easy, I don’t want any trouble.”

“Wait here.” Estrada cowboy-walked to a huddle of cops dressed in khaki. Inspectors, overweight and out-of-date. Big couldn’t make out their faces or what they were saying, but he knew his driver’s license was under heavy scrutiny.

Jewels of sweat formed on his upper lip and about his temples. His palms felt clammy. He’d have to play it cool. He didn’t want the cops poking around in the car, especially with his Browning 9mm hidden in the trunk. They might not buy the hunting story. Unless, of course, he could convince them that he hunted wild birds with a 9mm...