"She started up with a cry, and saw the boy, and somehow she knew at once that he was Peter Pan. If you or I or Wendy had been there we should have seen that he was very like Mrs. Darling's kiss. He was a lovely boy, clad in skeleton leaves and the juices that ooze out of trees but the most entrancing thing about him was that he had all his first teeth. When he saw she was a grown-up, he gnashed the little pearls at her."

Peter Pan

J.M. Barrie

**************

Lost Boys

Wednesday, November 10, 2015

1645 HOURS

"Central, to any Units in the vicinity of Mill Pond?" asked Central Dispatch.

I continued to drive, ignoring the call. I didn't want to get involved in anything that would prolong the watch. Tonight was the Marine Corps birthday. Court at Cohan's Pub would be in session at eight bells of the first watch. Whiskey and Cohan's famous winter stout were the orders of the day. And before long, we'd sing the hymn and howl at the moon.

Unfortunately, a storm was inbound, and we felt the start of the November gales. The sky was overcast with ominous gray and black clouds and was spitting. If the forecast was correct, we would have a nor'easter by eight o'clock tonight. And when Central's second broadcast attempt went unanswered, I looked over at my partner, Johnny Keegan, show shook his head.

"No," he said. He spat a stream of tobacco juice into his cup.

Anxious moments passed with no response from any other unit when Central tried again.

"Ah, shit," I said. I leaned over and took the handset from its cradle. Keegs threw his hands up, sighed, and shouted.

"No. Are you kidding me, Kelly? Seriously?"

He cracked the window enough to take and throw the tobacco wad from his mouth.

"Six three David to Central. Send it," I said.

"Ten—Four Corporal. Anonymous caller reports an intoxicated male fishing. His truck is illegally parked near the hanging tree area of Mill Pond. Handle code one."

"Ten-four, en route."

"These freaking people," said Keegs. "They have nothing better to do than call us about this crap? I mean, for real, Kelly? It's about to rain, and we've got a cyclone coming, and all they care about is a dude on the road."

Keegs popped another chew wad in his mouth and continued complaining about the weather and the anonymous caller.

When I pulled around the corner, the rusted truck was there, and I regretted not heeding Keegs' advice to ignore the call. The nineteen ninety-one Chevy S-10 extended cab pickup belonged to our sergeant. It was parked half on the shoulder and street, its engine still rumbling.

"And the hits just keep on rolling. For Christ's sake. Can this get any freaking worse?" said Keegan. "Sergeant Beck. That's just great. We don't need this shit, Kelly."

"His rank is Staff Sergeant, Keegs. He earned it," I said, frustrated, before calling us on the scene. "Just calm down."

"He can't even stand Kelly. Look at him! He's completely hammered. I'm not into this. It's going to be one giant shit show!"

"Okay, okay, okay. Semper Gumby, my man," I said as I smiled.

Keegs rolled his eyes. "Can you speak English, please? Freaking jarhead crap."

"Always flexible, Keegs, always flexible."

We parked behind the pickup truck, activating our overhead flashers. He stood on the shoreline, not ten yards from the infamous hanging tree. The wind hit us immediately as we left the RMP. The temperature dropped another five degrees since the beginning of the shift.

"Bet he's catching a ton," Keegs said. He walked to the truck with his head on a swivel. He was watching to ensure we could handle this without a bystander causing an issue in keeping this from reports.

I walked over, calling out to let him know we were here. "What's up, Staff Sergeant? What's going on?" I asked. He was slow to turn, a deep-sea fishing pole in his hand.

Keegs was right about the call's consequence. We were all compromised. A gust pushed Beck against the tree. But, instead of falling, he grabbed hold to brace himself as he swayed from drunkenness. The smell of whiskey and forlorn bloodshot eyes were just the symptoms of something deeper. Reeking of loneliness, forgotten, he smiled the best he could.

"Hey, Kelly, good to see you," he said. He slurred his words. "How's that beautiful Maxine, fiance of yours?"

First Sergeant Danny Beck was in his thirtieth year on the job. Married with six kids and ready for retirement. His once-blonde hair had salted with shades of flaxen, fading with age. He was a devoted father and husband and did much for the foundation of slain officers and the Police Benevolent Association. I had known him my whole life but never saw him like this.

I took the pole from his hand. It had no hook and nothing on the line. Nevertheless, it was a prelude to what his life had become, perhaps even mine. I looked back at Keegs, who walked back into the warmth of the RMP. He wanted nothing to do with this. And although Beck exhibited all signs of intoxication, I knew the bloodshot eyes weren't from the bottle. He'd been crying.

"William Kelly, my boy," he said. "I've known your dad forever. Remember your first birthday, something now, huh?"

I took the bottle from his hand with no resistance. His head bobbed, unable to keep it straight. He began a strange recitation, familiar but still vague. Finally, he put his hand out and struggled to look me in the eye.

"The bottle?" he asked. I hesitated, unsure of what to do. Then, his narrowed eyes and eyebrows told me he wanted it back and wasn't playing games.

"She growled and sprang at the boy, who leaped lightly through the window," he said.

When I handed him back the bottle, he took it and slipped down the tree. His body twisted before ending up on his knees.

"Again, Mrs. Darling screamed, this time in distress for him, for she thought he was killed." His voice trembled. "And she ran down the street to look for his little body, but it was not there, and she looked up."

Beck drank from the bottle of Tullamore Dew, ignoring the whiskey that dribbled from his mouth.

"And in the black night, she could see nothing but what she thought was a shooting star."

With that, I remembered the story he was telling. It was J.M. Barrie's Peter Pan, of all things.

I looked at Keegan, who stared at me from inside the car. I nodded my head at him, asking that he help. I needed to Beck off the street and out of sight before this went any further. However, he didn't budge. It wasn't until Beck's six-foot-plus frame pulled me down that I heard the RMP's door shut.

"Jesus Christ," said Keegs. He grabbed Beck's left arm and shoulder as I took the right side.

"On three," said Keegs. And on three, we lifted him and headed towards the rusty Chevy pickup truck.

When we got to the Chevy, Keegs held him at the passenger side door as I ran to the driver's. I climbed in and reached across the bench seat to open the door. With Keegs pushing and me pulling, we sat Staff Sergeant Drew in the passenger seat of his worn-out hillbilly pickup truck. He smiled and cried for a moment and smiled again.

"You're a lost boy like me, Kelly," he said. Then, when he looked away, he sobbed and spoke.

"There was another light in the room. A thousand times brighter than the night lights."

"Let's get you settled, Sergeant," said Keegs. "Kelly will drive you home, and I'll follow."

He yawned, smiled, and tapped my cheek. He cried again, suddenly and abruptly stopping. Sergeant Beck began yet another recitation, holding his bottle of Tullamore Dew to offer a toast.

"Would you like an adventure now? What kind of adventure?"

I tried to settle him, but it strengthened his resolve, gripping the bottle tighter and higher.

"There's a pirate asleep in the pampas just beneath us. If you like, we'll go down and kill him."

He looked at me as if I were in his fantasy with him. I did my best to pacify him from turning angry as he became more irritated in his recital.

"I say! Do you kill many?" he asked.

Beck looked at me as I caught him from the corner of my eye. His eyes were lifeless and dark. "Who is captain now? Hook! Jas. Hook, ay!"

Central called for our status as Keegan ran interference.

"Standby," he said. "We'll ten-two watch command momentarily." We needed to get Sergeant Beck of there most ricky-tic. If

Internal Affairs got involved, they'd wear his badge like a scalp. There was no better trophy than to count coup with a sergeant.