2019-05-28 - Ride Along

It's sometime between four or so and midnight. A broad range of hours, but there he is. Seated in his cruiser just off the road, aimed to catch people speeding along the highway near to the well known bridge--Officer O'Malley is for the most part just idle. Watching videos on Youtube, occasionally talking to someone over the radio, and for the most par, "doing nothing of great interest." He has a half-eaten lunch in the passenger seat, a large sub-style sandwich with roast beef and excessive onions. He has apparently already given up on not eating in the cruiser.

Despite the hour there is at least one figure that is wandering around, probably where they shouldn't be. At least, at this hour. Frankie is heading towards the bridge, probably blending in with the darkness a little too much. She's not wearing cautionary light colored clothing that'll reflect the headlights of the few passing cards going by. Instead she's wearing dark clothes, the only things that are very visible about her as she heads towards where he's parked is her bright red hair.

Lessons in life. Don't startle cops. It usually ends with a gun in your face and handcuffs on your wrist.

The day that lesson was being given out is the day Frankie was clearly out of school, because she meanders up to the patrol car, on the passanger side, and knocks on the window.

"Sweet fuckin---!" the officer inside startles and draws his sidearm, even in a seated position, lickety split, and has the gun drawn and pointed at Frankie through the glass of the passenger side even as he spontaneously sort of slides from the driver's side of the car and stands up to look at her and get a better look at his 'potential assailant.' "What the hell, Frankie? You trying to get shot?" he asks as he immediately starts to holster his pistol again.

As soon as she spots the gun her hands go up, and she freezes in place, "Whoa! Hold on...." Frankie waits until the gun is put back away before she starts to lower her hands, "No...sorry. I didn't mean to scare you." She reaches out to pat a hand against the top of the car, "Spotted you...figured I'd say hi. You shouldn't be out here alone, there are dangerous things out in the dark."

"The unarmed person who weighs a buck thirty soaking wet is giving me, the retired Marine-Police Officer, armed with a gun and body armor, advice on safety--while wandering in that same dark?" Michael questions, but doesn't actually refute her claim, just sort of looks at her like she's been smokin' the reefer. "Anyway, hello, don't do that again, call and approach from the front of a car unless you're you know, expected," he advises her as he gets his head back straightened out and unlocks the doors. "Get on in," he suggests.

"A gun isn't always useful, Officer Alley Cat." Frankie points out, but she tugs the door open when told to get into the car with him, sliding into the front seat after picking up his half-eaten lunch. Which also means that she's now within reach of all the switches and knobs on the dash. But she doesn't touch them, even if she's staring at them. "Why're you out here, anyways?"

"No, for the rest of the time, I have my disarming good looks," Michael jokes and eyebrow waggles at her, then goes cross-eyed. Holding out a hand for his lunch, he wraps it up again and then rolls it up into the bag it came in and puts it on the dash. As if fate were having a laugh, the car beeps in perfect time to answer her question, showing a speed on the radar gun as a car idly meanders past, about fifty feet away. "We've had a few complaints about people blowing through the intersection up there," he answers and adjusts the angle of the radar gun. "How about you?" he asks.

"Sacrificing animals." Frankie replies as she lifts her feet up, settling them on the dash in front of her before she slouches down in the passenger seat, hands settling on her knees. "It's easier to do that out here than near the Boardwalk, dark and creepy woods, very fitting." She flashes him a smile, nodding a bit, "I'm sure that you do perfectly well with your disarming good looks." She points towards the meandering car as it passes to the tune of the beeping radar gun, "So is it true, you guys have a certain amount of people you're supposed to ticket a month?"

"Sacrificing them to who?" Michael asks, being conversational and not seeming to mind when she puts her feet up. He's a Marine, he'd seen people do far crazier things in official vehicles. Instead, he just fiddles with the gun a bit more and clocks someone going about five over, and goes back to looking at Frankie. "Nope. Though just like with any job, if one guy never tickets anyone while everyone else is getting say, two tickets a day, you start to wonder if he's sleeping in his cruiser. At least, that's my initial impression so far. So you sort of expect yourself to do your job at a reasonable volume. For me," he admits, "I won't pull someone over unless they're doing at least seven over. But I'm mostly looking for 'deweys' (DUIS), texters, that sort of thing. People being dangerous."

"Freyja." Frankie replies as she watches the car that slides past at five over, "I know that car..." She points, briefly, then curls her hand back around her knee, "That is Mrs. Cooper, she's the third grade teacher...but she's a bit of a night owl." As she says night owl she lifts a hand up in front of her mouth, making a gesture that resembles tipping a bottle up. "You wait a few hours she'll come back through..." She glances at the dash, looking for a clock to check the time, "Yeah, two hours....forty minutes. Mrs. Cooper will roll back through, and if she's had a good night, you can get one of your drunks." She taps her toes in the air, beating out a rhythm, "You liking your job?"

"I like it well enough, I'll keep an eye out for her," Michael replies, and expects that the others in the force will be watching for that, if she's that reliably drunk. But he makes a note of it all the same, pulling a small notebook out of his pocket so that he can write down her license plate, name and occupation. "I mean, it's a bit slow, but I keep people safe, so there's some meaning there. I'm suited to it. I'm fine with the idle times," he explains, sort of just thinking out loud as he considers the question. "I don't know if I want to go until retirement in Gray Harbor, and I might consider opening a gym at some point, if I can get the scratch together. So, what are you hoping Freyja will do for you?" he asks.

"Nothing, it is spring, so it's just her due this time of the year..." Frankie glances out the window, a hand reaching towards it to start drawing something on the window, "Fertility, that's part of her stuff....that and beauty, magic, but also death and love. She sort of picks up a whole bunch of things, actually." There's a quick shake of her head, continuing to draw on the window, "So you think that you'll want to open a gym? No." She glances over at him, looking him over before she decides to continue the thought, "You might want to open a gym, but that's not where you need to be."

"Yeah, probably not, it's just a good secondary job, a fall back thing, and I noticed no real good gyms in town, sort of a gap there," Michael mentions as they discuss things, and glances over when she starts to draw something on his window. Once again, he doesn't say anything, nothing he can't clean later. "Fertility? You trying to have a kid?" he asks, not familiar with Frankie's particulars in terms of being married or in a relationship.

"Fuck. No." Frankie shakes her head quickly at that, "More like...flowers and warm weather. In this situation. But if you ever have trouble in that department, I've got you covered." She at least stops drawing on the window, returning her hand to her knee, "Best to not piss them off.. you know? Gods, I mean. But a gym...no, stick with what you're doing. You're going to go far in this job, and you'll never leave Gray Harbor. It's already in your veins."

"I'm not involved with anyone, so, not for the foreseeable future, no, no kid problems, and to my knowledge--I'm capable," Michael points out and turns a bit in his seat, or at least, is starting to turn in his seat when a loud SCREE-SCREE-SCREE sounds from the radar gun as the radar gun triggers on someone going about thirty over the limit. Without pausing or talking to Frankie, Michael throws the car in gear and rolls out after them, catching up rapidly as he calls in the license plate and the fact that he's about to pull them over. "Hit the button there," he says and mentions a button on the dash for the cherries. Letting her enjoy her brief foray as his partner.

When the car starts to move she sits up quickly, her feet falling off the dash and looking like she is just about to ask something. But perhaps realizing she should probably not be there she shuts her mouth with an audible snap as he starts to call over the radio. "Oh...is this?" Frankie is reaching for the button even before the words are out of her mouth, hitting it with a laugh. "I always wanted to do that..."

"Everyone wants to do that," Michael says definitively. "So when I get out, stay in the car, don't touch anything, okay?" tells her as he gets them to pull over about half a block later, and he reaches out to shut off the sirens, though the lights continue to strobe. Sitting there in the car with her, he has angled them so that they can pull out again in a hurry and sits there looking up their car on his computer there in the car. "Okay, be right back," he says and gets out and, unless she follows, is gone for a few minutes, comes back-- and runs a check on their IDs.

"I won't touch anything." Frankie assures him, and honestly, she doesn't touch...much. What she touches is the dash, where she's folded her arms across it, chin settling on her arms, watching him and the car that he's pulled over. When he's back she glances over, then back towards the car, "So this is what you do all night? Sit around, eat way too many onions, and pull people over?"

"Unless a call comes in, yeah. We usually get at least one domestic a night, probably two bar brawls a week, a few loud noise complaints towards the weekend," Michael lists off some of the other calls he responds to when they come in, but it's been a slow night so far. He answers even as he is running their IDs. "310 bucks," he mentions with a headshake, glancing over at her with a shrug as he gets out of the car again and --once again, is gone for a few minutes, shining his flashlight at the driver in a manner that even Frankie can tell from in the cruiser-- is probably a bit passive aggressive, and then he comes back to the cruiser and gets in. He flickers the siren once as he scoots out past the car and they slowly start to drive across town.

It's at this point he finally mentions, "Put on your seat belt, by the way.."

"310 bucks for what...?" Frankie held onto that question when he got back out of the car, but as soon as there is a chance to ask it she asks it. But she shifts herself up straighter, reaching for the seat belt to pull it across her and buckle it. "I'd have been fine. Just fine." She points out on the matter of her needing to put on her seat belt.

"So where are we going?" She crosses her arms over her chest, drumming her fingers against her arm, "And I can see how someone would sleep in their car if this is what some days are like."

"The ticket for going 30 over the limit is 310 dollars," Michael explains as he is situating himself a bit more comfortably as they idly drive across town. He doesn't say anything more about her seatbelt when she mentions that she'd have been fine. He just seems to be pleased that she has done as he has asked. "We're going to get me a slurpee," he answers as they roll along, "And to drive past all the usual trouble spots. Since you seem bored." Pulling into the 7/11, he gets out and waits for her to get out of the car before he locks it and heads inside.

"That's a whole lot of money." Frankie looks rather surprised by the fact that a ticket like that costs that much. But then again, if he remembers she did say that she didn't drive. So how would she know, anyways. When they pull into the 7/11 there is a frown, and a look out the window before she follows him out of the car, and inside, "I thought you guys were always into getting donuts and stuff, not slurpees?" She tucks her hands into her pocket, trailing after him towards the machines, "I like to mix the cherry and coke." Since he didn't ask, she's going to volunteer the information.

Grabbing a big Slurpee cup, Michael looks at Frankie and snorts, and then flexes one of his arms at her through his uniform jacket and everything, and--lo, there was muscle, and it was good. "Yeah, you don't stay in good shape by loading down with carbs at every opportunity. Don't get me wrong, I snack plenty, but it's all accounted for, and fried bread isn't one of my things," he explains, because like all guys who are in ridiculously good shape, he pays very close attention to his food intake. "Well, then get one," he mentions when she volunteers that information, "I'll buy."

"Just slurpees." Because Frankie is judging him on the sugar intake from his drink of choice. But not judging him enough that she doesn't take him up on his offer by grabbing one of the smaller cups, and the lid. "I read what the Rock eats every day once...Lots, and lots...and so much fish and asparagas. I can't believe he eats that every day always. That'd be super boring, you know?"

"I know my diet and what needs to be in it, and yes, this is a cheat, but I can do it from time to time. But it isn't that boring if you do it right, and aren't always trying to stay just super shredded. There are lots of healthy options," Michael points out as he finishes filling up his cup with orange and fruitpunch in equal parts and walks up to the front counter. He puts the money on the counter and points over towards Frankie, "Hers too, Billy," he says to the boy behind the counter. Taking his change, he walks out to the cruiser with her again, and unlocks the car. Getting in again, he waits for her to be buckled up before they get rolling again. "Anyway, enough about diet," he mentions and off they go again, hitting the local bars, he rolls through the parking lots at a snail's pace.

"Mmmhmm." Frankie replies with amusement, then there is the process of filling her own cup, then following him back out to the patrol car. She carefully tucks the drink between her knees as she buckles in, then she resumes her earlier position with her feet on the dash, tucking her straw into her mouth as she watches out the window, "Alright, so if diet is off the menu. What do you want to talk about? Your choice on topics. Anything at all is open for discussion."

Reaching over to his left, Michael adjusts a spotlight mounted there and checks the back of a car, and grabbing the radio mic, adjusts something and then says, "If I have to get out of my car, you're spending the night in jail, get a room," and he flashes his lights. It looks like someone had been mid-getting busy in the back of a Ford Taurus. Glancing over at Frankie then, he snorts and says, "That's way too broad of an invitation, how about you? What do you want to talk about?" he asks.

"You should just let them have fun, they aren't hurting anyone but themselves." Frankie points out on the matter of the couple in the back of the Ford Taurus. The question lobbed back in her direction causes her to laugh, shaking her head, "Nope. You're not putting this back in my lap. I want to talk about whatever you want to talk about." She takes a sip from her slurpee, then she shakes her head, "Keep it to something you actually care about."

Michael shakes his head at her suggestion, "Not that I have any problem with people getting busy, but they should at least have /tried/ to find a parking lot not full of people," and he points to the bar they're adjacent to--and the smokers standing around outside said bar, less than thirty feet from the fuckin' couple. "Alright, if I were to run you, have any interesting arrests or stories?" he asks as they move along to a second bar, down the block. Not harassing anyone, just sort of letting the locals know that they shouldn't be driving while impaired.

"Never been arrested." Frankie shakes her head, taking another sip from the drink before she idly drums her fingers against the cup, "I've done my best to keep my nose clean, you know? People in my business got it hard enough that I don't need to be adding to it by going out of my way to get caught breaking the law." She then hesitates a moment, "But....there was this one time that I had a customer that decided that I was evil or something, and called the cops on me. Claimed I was robbing them or something."

"Usually people don't get arrested for things they planned," Michael points out with a grin and pauses before they exit the second parking lot so that he can sip at his slurpee a bit more. Looking aside at her, he says, "Let me make a deal with you then, I'll propose a topic, then you propose a topic? How's that sound?" he asks.

"Usually, but people do still get arrested for things they planned." Frankie points out, "A good plan is only good until it starts, and then who the fuck knows what'll happen." She then considers the question, taking a moment before she shrugs her shoulders, "Sure. You start, propose a topic and then the next time I'll propose one."

"I'm just saying, I get what you mean, but it's usually the stuff you didn't plan for," Michael pipes up as they pull out into traffic again, headed towards the last of the three bars he intends to check. Sipping at his slurpee as they go. "Let's see, we've covered crimes, diet, how about dating? You seeing anyone?" he asks, since he'd already told her he wasn't seeing anyone, he at least won't need to expand on that. "And if not what was your last relationship like?" he asks.

"Nope. Not seeing anyone." Frankie shakes her head, taking another sip from her drink before she answers the second part of his question, "So my last relationship was pretty much...It was just fine, I guess? Short, but fine." She takes another sip from the slurpee, "You know how underwhelming something can be and you literally just don't remember much about it?"

The man thinks about that last question as they roll through that final parking lot and finally park on a side street watching the main-thoroughfare away from the bars. He calls in an update on his location then and looks over at Frankie. "No, not really. I don't generally let relationships get to the point of being relationships if they suck that hard," he answers after a moment of thinking about it. "Which makes me sound a bit like I am flaky, but I just get a feel for someone quickly, and figure out the depth I'm willing to go."

"I wouldn't say that it sucked, it was just..normal." Frankie shrugs her shoulders, "Plus, it was like two weeks a year and a half ago. I've done a whole lot of sleeping since then." She catches her straw between her teeth, chewing on it for a moment before she adds, "It actually makes you sound more decisive than flaky, you make a choice and you stick to it. I'd say you're flaky if you're changing your mind about that decision all the time."

"Nothing for a year and a half? Yikes," Michael says and gives her a bit of a look, but doesn't say anything more, just sips at his slurpee a bit more. Settling into his seat, he finally takes off his seatbelt and lowers his window before shutting off the cruiser. "Well, I figure I owe you an answer, my last thing was just before I moved here for a month or two, fun times, but I was moving so.." he trails off. "Okay, your turn to ask a question."

"No relationship for a year and a half." Frankie agrees before she listens to what he says, nodding, "Well, sure. Unless you were going to bring them with you, it'd make sense to keep it short. Or...try something long distance, which is terrible I've heard." She then takes a little while to think about what question she might want to ask him, then she settles on one, "What's the best memory you have from when you were over seas."

Just as he is about to start explaining, Michael gets a call over the radio and he answers, and then hearing an explanation in cop-ese, he mentions aside to Frankie, "I can let you out along the way, if you want me to drop you a bit closer to home. But it's a domestic, I'll be busy for a while," he warns and rolls out, and will drop her off a bit closer to home on the way.