After Hours at McMinimin’s

Officer Keyes sat in his patrol car, the door slightly ajar, his left foot dangling, trying to put together pieces of what exactly happened to Kyle Patterson. The EMTs were saying heart attack. The young men who caused all the excitement bailed before Beaverton Police arrived on the scene, and Patterson had a coronary event. Nothing about this sat right with Keyes, a veteran police officer and long-time resident of Beaverton. Thinking about his twenty-three years serving the city of Beaverton, Justin remembered what his first ride-along was like.

Beaverton, Oregon, a suburb seven miles outside Portland, was quiet regarding criminal activity. An energetic community with over 50,000 people, Keyes thought it safe, unlike the northeast side of Portland, where gangs appeared to rule the streets. Keyes was training to be a police officer, doing what the academy called a ride-along, where cadets could ride with on-duty police officers, watching and observing how they conducted various investigations in all three precincts of Portland. Some cadets dropped out after their first ride-along, especially if they were in North Portland.

Justin Keyes applied to the Beaverton Police after his ride along in North Portland, less than a month before he graduated from the academy. His supervisor, Toles, was a massive hulk of a police officer. He often bragged about his 235-pound frame of solid muscle. He was much taller than Keyes, which wasn’t saying much. He also didn’t remember seeing the man eat anything but grilled chicken and rice. And his voice was deep enough that some people thought it was James Earl Jones, the voice of Darth Vader, and not Toles. Officer Toles was known throughout North Portland as a no-nonsense cop. He commanded the respect of the criminals he convicted, even the drug dealers. Business owners and citizens alike appreciated his presence in their neighborhoods.

“You know why they put you with me?” he asked Keyes. “Because if you were in this ‘hood without me?” He laughed loud and long. “You? You’d be dead in less than twenty minutes.” Keyes was riding in Toles’s patrol car down North Columbia. “Well,” Toles slowed the car down at the corner of N. Fessenden and Columbia, seeing four men bent down over the sidewalk. “What have we here?” He hit the siren once and flipped on the lights while grabbing the microphone and turning on the P.A. “Gentlemen, stay right where you are!” His voice echoed against the building, making it sound louder than it really was. He stopped the car sideways, blocking half of the street. Each of the men had a blue bandana. Two of them had it tied around their neck, visible at close view. The other two had it tied around their head, pulled down low enough to touch the tops of their eyelids. Toles looked over at Keyes, putting the microphone back in place and hitting the siren one last time. Keyes was ready to bail out, but only if Toles gave the order.

Toles opened his door and leaned forward, his massive arms dangling over the rolled-up window. “Fellas, what’s going on?” He stood up, tall and straight. Anyone seeing his frame would panic, and these men were no exception.

“Yo, Toles, why you gotta be runnin’ up on us? We ain’t done nothin’ wrong.” The man addressing Toles shifted the bandana upward to see him better.

“Two-Bit.” Toles shook his head. “You know better.”

“Whatcha talkin’ ‘bout, Toles?”

“You and your slang. You are a lot more educated than that. Keep talking like that, and people will think less of you, son. That’s a fact.”

“What do you know, cop?” One of the other men chimed in. Two-Bit grabbed the man by the collar, throwing him up against the building. “Cool it, Benz. This is Toles. I respect this man. And he gives me respect. You feel me?”

“He’s a freakin’ cop!”

“So?” Two-Bit put his right forearm against Benz’s throat. Two-Bit put his left index finger up, indicating to Toles that he should give him a minute to clear this up with Benz. “What’re you gonna do about it?” Two-Bit pushed down on Benz’s throat, not hard enough to choke him, but with enough force to remind him of who was in charge. And it sure wasn’t Benz. Benz’s hands went up in surrender. Two-Bit let him go.

“Okay, Sergeant Toles. What did we do wrong?” Two-Bit’s hands slid into his pockets.

“You know, gambling is illegal.” Toles motioned for Two-Bit to pull his hands out of his pockets.

“We weren’t gambling.” Two-Bit raised his hands even with his shoulders.

“Oh yeah?” Toles said, shutting the door of his patrol car and walking over to the four men. “What’s all this then?” On the ground were a handful of bills, some fives, a few ones, and a couple of twenties, crumpled up in small balls, which Toles reached down to pick up. The three men jumped toward the cash, Two-Bit holding them back, Keyes watching from inside the car, his hand trembling on the handle, poised, ready to move. Toles slowly straightened out each bill, silently counting as he did. “Twenty-eight dollars. That’s really strange, Two-Bit. Out here? In the street? Unattended?” Toles held the cash in his right hand. “You want to tell me the truth now? Or do I need to take you in for loitering?”

Two-Bit threw up his hands. “Fine. We were,” he made sure to emphasize his proper use of grammar, “shooting craps. There. Happy?”

Toles shook his head. “Be honest with me, Harold,” he said, looking at Two-Bit. “And I won’t use your real name again, okay?”

Two-Bit, blushing at hearing his own name, nodded. Keyes was still in the car, on a high sense of alert and wishing for some action. “Hey, Keyes. Get out here.” Keyes sprung out of the car, hand on the butt of his 9mm Glock, the weapon of choice for most Oregon police officers. Toles handed Keyes the cash. “You hold onto this with both hands. I don’t need to get shot because your dumb ass decides to reach for that,” Toles said, eyeing Keyes’s weapon. “You,” he pointed at Two-Bit, “come get it,” Toles pointed at the cash, “and get the hell out of here.”

Two-Bit snatched the cash from Keyes’s hand and sprinted down the street, his three friends following right behind him. “See that? That’s how you handle thugs.” Sweat ran down Keyes back, his heart still racing, hands shaking. “You have got to lighten up, Keyes. These aren’t bad guys. Down here?” Toles laughed. “Down here? The bad guys shoot first and ask questions while you’re bleeding!”

“I’m sorry. Officer Keyes?” The voice startled Justin enough to get him out of the car. “I have Kyle’s wallet. Caitlin said you needed it?”

He cleared his throat. “Thank you, Nolan? Right?”

“Yes, sir. Nolan Hanratty.”

The radio on his hip squawked some police code from dispatch. Keyes radioed back, “204? 219 is 12-94. 10-4?”

“10-4, 219. 12-94, 219 at 2315.”

“Anything else you want to add to your statement, sir?” Keyes said, shutting the door of his patrol car.

Nolan shrugged. “I thought it a bit weird that they were drinking bottled beer at a microbrewery, but who am I ta’ judge?”

Keyes looked puzzled, and made a note in his notebook, then pulled a business card, handing it to Nolan. “This is my direct line number. Leave me a message, and I’ll get back to you.” Keyes chuckled. “Sounds like my outgoing message.” The ambulance left a few minutes earlier. “Did you see if he was awake before they took him to St. Vincent’s?”

“I was inside, remember? Getting the bartender’s wallet.”

“Right.”

Keyes walked back to his car. Almost 80 degrees for a late April night in Beaverton? Nolan considered walking home but thought it might be far for him, especially considering the time.

“Hey, Nolan!” Caitlin shouted. She was leaning on the Probe’s back bumper. “You need a ride back to Portland? Or you catchin’ the bus this late?”