Barracuda Read Free Page B

be an
oceanographer? An oceanographer must have a degree in marine
biology and marine engineering.”
    Before the stunned youth could reply, Brother
Kevin added, “Do yourself a favor and forego any attempt at
college. Apply for a job with the utility companies and take all of
the civil service exams.”
    Micko discussed this scenario with his family,
who agreed with Brother Kevin. So he applied for work with the
local gas and electric company, as well as the local telephone
company. He also took the police, fire, and sanitation tests. Upon
graduation the following year, Micko was hired by Ma Bell and also
placed on the police hiring list. After swinging on telephone poles
for five years, he was finally called to enter the NYPD Police
Academy.
    Four months later, he was walking a beat in the
hustling business area of the South Bronx. Micko had finally found
his niche in life. He’d been a clumsy telephone repairman, who
often caused more damage than he fixed. As a police officer,
though, he was following a longstanding family tradition. His
father and grandfather were both retired policemen, so they were
very proud of him. Micko was determined to work hard for the
coveted gold detective shield. He knew that he didn’t have the book
smarts to pass the sergeant’s test, but he was street smart and
fearless, and he knew that someday he would be a homicide
detective.
    A phone rang, and Micko snapped back into the
present as he looked up to see the good sergeant fielding a
call.
    “O’Shaughnessy,” he barked, “room number
three.”
    Micko struggled to get out of the tiny chair and
slowly walked into room three where Dr. Bellamy was puffing on a
cigarette as he perused Micko’s folder. Micko liked Dr. Bellamy. He
was a bit unorthodox, but fair. He was also a bit comical in his
ways. Lost in thought, he didn’t acknowledge Micko’s entrance.
    The office was small and unassuming, and it was
painted a boring mustard color. A picture of that poor skinless man
hung on the wall with his insides visible to the world, and an
ancient eye chart adorned the opposite wall.
    Micko looked at the balding, sixtyish,
overweight man who nervously sucked down cigarettes like they were
candy. Neither the doctor nor Sergeant Callahan were destined to
win any best-dressed awards, that was for sure. Dr. Bellamy wore a
dark blue shirt that had faded with age. The collar was frayed, and
he was missing a button where the shirt entered his brown trousers,
revealing a once white undershirt. He had one of those plastic
penholders that all the nerds had stuck in his shirt pocket.
Cigarette ashes covered his clothes, making him look like a refugee
from the Mount St. Helen’s eruption. Without looking up, he said,
“Take off your pants.”
    “But, Doctor, I hardly know you!” Micko
replied.
    Bellamy smiled and slowly looked up. Then he
looked Micko directly in the eye and said, “It’s nice to see you
again, Detective.”
    “You too, Doc. Hey, I see you’re buying your
clothes at Yves St. Laurent.”
    “Do you want to be returned to work full duty
tomorrow, funny man?”
    “Sorry, Doc,” Micko said with a grin.
    The two usually traded funny barbs and light
banter before getting down to business. Dr. Bellamy gave Micko a
thorough examination and then spoke frankly. “I don’t like the way
your leg developed atrophy while it was in the cast. Nine months is
too long for a full leg cast, but there was no choice. It’s still
too soon to send you back to light duty, so I’ll recommend to the
medical board that you remain on full sick leave for at least
another thirty days.”
    That was fine with Micko. He was not eager to
get back to work yet, especially in his current physical and mental
condition. He knew that he would be assigned to desk duty, which
meant manning the switchboard and handling stupid calls from stupid
people complaining about stupid things until he would need help
from one of the intervention posters.
    The doctor and Micko