Tony Morelli reached over the center console to the Impala’s glove compartment.
Ed Voss’ booted feet snapped against the car’s floorboards as he pushed himself back into the passenger seat. “Brake!”
Morelli’s eyes returned to the road. A pudgy-faced, middle-aged, overweight man, long black hair, wraparound Ray-bans and needing a shave stood in front of the Impala in a jogging suit with his mobile up in front of him, his eyes on the mobile’s screen.
Morelli stopped and honked his horn.
The man spread his feet into a power stance but otherwise didn’t move.
Voss opened the glovebox. “What do you need?”
Morelli reached into his pocket, pulled out a badge, lowered his window, and called to an idle patrolman watching the crowd. “Officer? A little assistance, please?”
The man stood his ground as the officer approached.
Voss nodded at the man holding the mobile. “Must be the government plates.”
Morelli held his shield up for the officer. “Mind removing that gentleman from our path and telling the rest of the BPD we’re coming through?” The officer looked at the man, still videoing, and shook his head as he shuffled towards him.
Morelli watched. “There’s a Federal ID in a plastic sheet in there. Mind handing it over?”
Voss glanced at it. Official looking badges and banners stood over legal looking words giving Morelli, the car, and anybody with him access and safe passage to anything they wanted. “Can I get one of these?”
Morelli chuckled as he placed it on his dashboard where everyone could see it. “You wouldn’t want one.”
The officer and the fat man got into a shoving match with the fat man working hard to keep his mobile on Morelli’s car and its occupants. The officer pushed hard and knocked the fat man back. The fat man reached behind him and pulled out a small handgun.
Morelli yelled, “Gun!”