"I'll Be Home In Time For Dinner."

"I'll be home in time for dinner."

ARTHUR L. FRANK

TOM BRADEN had been a motorcycle enthusiast for a long time. He loved to take his bike out on the freeway and open it up. He always obeyed the laws, though, no matter what his own desires might have been. If the speed limit was 20 mph, Tom made sure his speedo said 19; just to be on the safe side.

It was a great day for Tom when he brought his new motorcycle home. It was the most powerful-looking machine he had ever seen, and he stood admiring it while his wife looked on.

“Tom, please take it slow. I have a premonition about your riding today.” “I’ll be careful honey, no need to worry. I’ve been riding these things since I was a kid. I know how dangerous they are, and I have a healthy respect for them.”

“I know, Tom, but for me, please be careful,” she asked.

“Okay, but I think your fear of ^motorcycles will best be handled if *you’ll take a ride on one with me.”

“Never! You won’t catch me on one of those things as long as 1 have two legs to run with.”

Tom laughed at his wife. “I understand, hon. And I love you for not trying to stop me from riding.”

“Just be careful, please.”

“I will,” Tom hollered over the noise of the roaring machine as he pulled out of his driveway and headed toward the freeway. He steered the new machine up the on-ramp and merged smoothly into the fast-moving traffic. He stepped up his speed and felt a certain exhilaration as the machine responded to his touch. This was the greatest sport man ever invented, he thought, as he raced down the freeway toward Overville, 70 miles distant.

Tom entered the town in a little over hour, and took the overpass to get on "the freeway for the return trip. It had been an easy ride, and Tom was satisfied

with his new bike.

As he pulled onto the ramp, he heard a siren behind. He pulled his machine to the side of the road to let the vehicle pass; but it didn’t pass, it pulled up behind him. As he shut off the engine, the possibilities of what he might have done ran through Tom’s mind, but he came up with nothing. He was sure he hadn’t broken any laws. He’d soon find out though, as a uniformed man had climbed out of the black and white and was coming toward him.

“That your cycle, fella?” he asked.

“Yes it is officer. As a matter of fact, I just bought it today.”

“Been riding long?”

“Almost all my life. Why, what’s the problem?”

“You familiar with the laws concerning cycling?”

“Certainly. At least I think I know them all,” Tom said.

“Well, you just broke one. Too much exhaust smoke coming out of that machine of yours,” the policeman said dryly.

“That can’t be. This is a new bike and the specs are probably below the tolerances allowed by law.”

“You calling me a liar, mister?”

“Not at all, officer. But if there’s excessive exhaust emission from this machine, then there’s probably something wrong with the exhaust system.” Tom got off the bike and examined the pipes. “Nope, everything seems to be in order here. Maybe it’s internal combustion problems,” he said to himself absently.

“You trying to get smart, buddy?” the cop asked.

“No, I’m not officer, but where there’s a problem, there has to be a solution. If the machine is faulty, there has to be a way to correct it. I was looking for the solution, that’s all.”

“I don’t know why I always get some wise-assed motorcyclist. Let me see your driver’s license.”

Tom withdrew a plastic tolder containing his license. The cop looked at it. “You got any other identification?” he said menacingly.

“No, I don’t like to have things bulging in my pockets when I ride, so I just carry the license and a little change with me.”

The policeman looked at the license again. “Thomas R. Braden, huh? And you live in Winslow. Kinda long ways from home aren’t you?”

“Not at all, officer, I sometimes ride quite a distance on a weekend.”

“Well, you shoulda stayed home today, pal.” The policeman put the license in his shirt pocket. “What you do for a living Braden?”

“Now really, officer,” Tom said indignantly, “That’s not pertinent to my being on a faulty or defective motorcycle. If indeed it is.”

“You gonna wise off to me, fella?” the cop asked Tom.

“No, but if you have a tester we can put it on the cycle and check the pollution level,” Tom suggested.

“Trying to tell me my job, huh? You motorcycle punks are all alike. I think I’ll run you in just, to teach you a lesson.”

“Run me in! But what for?” Tom was astonished.

“General principles, fella. Like resisting an officer of the law, smarting off in the course of an official investigation, and maybe theft.”

“Theft? Theft of what?”

“That shiny new motorcycle, for instance.”

“But that’s ridiculous. I told you I just bought it.”

“Oh, ridiculous, is it? Well, mister, you just bought yourself a one way ticket to the pokey. Get in the car,” the policeman said angrily.

“But officer, you can’t do this,” Tom protested.

“The hell I can’t.” The policeman grabbed Tom and dragged him toward the car. Opening the door, he shoved him in roughly and slammed the door.

“What about my bike? You aren’t going to leave it here. It could be stolen,” Tom begged the officer.

“I’ll pick it up later. You just shut up.”

TV om sat quietly while the policeman drove back toward the town. This couldn’t happen. Not in America, in this day and age. Tom had to be dreaming. His thoughts were interrupted by the driver.

“It’s gonna be pretty rough on you buddy, giving the arresting officer resistance in the performance of his duty. But that’s what we expect from you motorcycle bums.”

Tom was silent. He had already learned that nothing he could say or do would help, and just seemed to make things worse, so he remained silent.

“If you confess to the chief, maybe things will go easier on you,” the policeman advised Tom.

Tom forgot his promise to himself not to speak. “What the devil do you mean, confess?”

“When you see the chief, just admit you gave me a rough time. Maybe it’ll go easier on you; a day or so in the cooler and a small fine.”

“You’ve got to be out of your mind. Things like this don’t happen. Not in this day and age. I have rights, you know.”

“Oh, one of them civil righters, huh? Good, the chief just loves your kind. The last cyclist we had that was a civil righter got a $500 fine and three months in the pokey. The guy had to sell his bike to pay the fine.”

“Look officer, I'm no civil rights nut, but I do know what my rights are,” Tom said.

“Good. You just remember to tell the chief that when you see him.” The officer laughed at his own humor.

Tom was silent the rest of the trip, even though the officer tried to goad him into conversation. At last they arrived at the police station, where the officer roughly shoved Tom up the stairs, through the door and into a small cell. Tom spun around as the policeman locked the door and walked away.

“Hey, wait a minute. What’s the idea of locking me up. Aren’t I going to have a chance to talk to anyone?”

“Sure. Talk to yourself. The chief won’t be in until tomorrow morning. I forgot to tell you.”

“You mean you’re locking me up in here until tomorrow?” Tom could not believe the latest development.

(Continued on page 100)

Continued from page 67

“Unless you got enough money to pay the fine.” “Fine. What fine?” Tom asked. “The fine to get out of here, stupid.” “Look officer, what’s the charge, and how much is my fine?” “Well, let’s see,” the cop stroked his chin thoughtfully, “resisting arrest, attacking an officer, driving a defective vehicle on the highway. I guess that amounts to about 500 bucks.” “What the hell is this?” Tom shouted. “You can’t set a fine, and you can’t hold me without booking me.” “Fley buddy, yelling at me can make the fine go waaay up. Better cool it, huh?” “I demand a hearing, before a judge, and right now.” “Fat chance. There ain’t no judge here in Overville. The chief handles all the cases.” “That’s against the law for a police officer to act as accuser and judge and jury,” Tom informed the policeman. “Tell the chief that when you see him. Course if you wanna call someone to bring the fine money down, I could allow you one call.”

“Yes, that’s it, I get one call. Let me call my lawyer. He’ll soon get this mess straightened out.”

“Uh huh. I said for bail. We can’t have a bunch of city lawyers tearing through our town. It’s bad for the name.”

“Okay, but let me use the phone,” Tom asked.

“Sorry, the phone’s out of order,” the policeman said matter-of-factly.

“A minute ago you could let me use it, but now it’s out of order. How

come?”

“I just remembered, that’s all.”

“Look, officer, you can’t do this,” Tom said.

“Hey buddy, look around you. I just did.” The cop smiled and walked out the door, locking it behind him.

“It won’t do no good mister,” a voice behind Tom said. Tom whirled and looked at the unshaven kid, half lying, half sitting on a dirty mattress.

“Like I said, it won’t do any good, mister. I been in here five days, and probably be here five more, before I get to see the chief.”

T^om sat down. went He to looked the empty at the cot boy, and hardly 20 years old. “What did they put you in here for?” he asked him.

“My chopper was loud, they say. I guess it was loud, but not as loud as some I’ve heard.”

“And they’ve kept you locked up for five days, just because your chopper was noisy?”

“That ain’t the half of it miste^W ain’t got no folks, been bumming around the country. The cop, the one who brought you in, says they’re gonna have to sell my chopper to pay the $100 fine. He also told me they have to get exactly $100 for it, since they can’t deal in selling used vehicles. That chopper’s worth over seven bills. So that’s why I say, don’t fight it, it won’t work.”

Tom stared disbelievingly at the youth. “What did they book you for?” “What do you mean, book me?” “What did they charge you with, when they made up the fingerprint card and the picture?”

“Mister, they ain’t done nothing like that. That cop, he brought me in, threw me in here and that’s the last I saw of anybody.”

“Didn’t they tell you what you were in here for?”

“Yeah, 100 bucks.”

“Have you seen this guy they call the chief?” Tom asked.

“Nope, but there was another biker in here when I got here, and he met him, says he’s a real bastard. He’s dead against motorcyclists.”

Tom sat dejectedly on his bunk, not wanting to talk any more. He had a good picture of things. The racket was almost foolproof. Once the cyclist paid h^J'ine, the booking sheet was made up.

fact that the fine was paid, admitted guilt on the part of the prisoner. Probably the choppers and other bikes were sold for more money than the fine, and the balance was split two ways, between the policeman and the chief.

Tom was fed slop for the next two days, before the chief finally put in an appearance. He was a fat, balding man, with eyes as cold as ice. He walked in and looked at Tom, and turned to sit at a cluttered desk. He picked up the officer’s report and looked it over. Then he told the policeman to bring Tom in. The arresting officer brought Tom to the chief, after warning him to stand straight and not put his hands in his pockets.

T1 then he back fat man at the looked report. at Tom and

“It says here your name is piornas R. Braden, you live in Winslow, ^Pti’re 45 years old, Negro, you resisted arrest, verbally assaulted an officer in the line of duty, and you got a faulty motorcycle. That right son?”

“No, it damned sure is not right,” Tom said angrily.

“Better back off, son,” the fat man said. “You got enough trouble here to last for quite awhile. The fine is $500.” He looked up at Tom. “You got anywheres to get $5 00 from, boy?”

Tom was too angry to answer sensibly. “Why don’t you sell my bike, like you did the others?”

The chief leaned back in his chair. “Oh yeah, I heard about that shiny new cycle of yours. It seems someone stole it before the officer could get back to pick it up. Too bad about that.”

“You probably sold it yourself; you and that man you use to do your dirty

•¿rk.”

*The officer behind Tom hit him with something hard, knocking Tom to his knees. He crawled slowly back to his feet.

“Like I was saying son, the bike was probably stolen, but I reported it to the state police. But, 1 kinda doubt they’ll find it.”

Tom was still rubbing his head. “What happens now?”

“Well, if you ain’t got no money, we’ll keep you here on a vagrancy charge, then take you outta town and dump you in a few days.”

“I’m not a vagrant and you know it. What you’re doing is not only against the law, it’s barbaric and the worst case of police corruption I ever heard of in my life.”

“Now just take it easy son. You know it, and I know it, but who’s gonna Jjdieve a dirty, unshaven vagrant? I ^Pfcss Sam here better take you back to you again.” The chief wiped his brow, before he spoke again. “Say, you ain’t wanted are you?”

(Continued on page 102)

Continued from page 101

“No, I’m clean,” Tom said.

“You sure boy? No one wants you for nothing, nowhere?”

“I’ve never even had a parking ticket,” Tom said.

“I don’t know, it seems to me I seen your picture somewheres. If you don’t mind, I think I’ll get a wire out to the state police and FBI on you. There might be someone wanting to pay a big reward for you.”

“That kind of greed is going to be your downfall, chief,” Tom said with conviction.

“Sure son, I know, I know. You’d rather I didn’t get information on you, huh? Someone you don’t want to find you?”

“Look,” Tom said, “get your wire off to whoever you want, but in the meantime, would you call my wife and let her know where I am, and that I’m all right?”

“Can’t' do that son. Don’t know who you are yet, so I can’t tell anyone. Maybe later, son, maybe later.”

The chief turned to his deputy. “Sam, print him and mug him and send information to the state and feds. We might make a few dollars on this one.”

Tl down om the felt hall, himself where being he was pushed fingerprinted and photographed. Then he was thrown back into his cell. The young boy wanted to talk, but Tom discouraged conversation. He was trying to remember everything the chief had said. The afternoon passed slowly and another day was spent in jail.

Early the next morning the chi^ woke the two prisoners by banging on the cell door. >

“Hey there. . .you. . .boy. You must be someone they want real bad. The state police want you. They’re sending a car right over. What did you do boy, rob a bank? Is there a reward for you, huh boy?”

“No chief, I haven’t done anything wrong. It’s you there should be a reward on.”

The chief laughed. “That’s it boy, never give up your sense of humor.” He was still laughing as he left the jail room.

“What they want you for mister?” the boy asked Tom after the chief had left.

“Nothing, not a thing. Just wait and see. Then, when we get out of here, you and I are going to go find out what happened to our bikes, and we’re gonna take a long ride up into the mountains. Okay?”

“Yeah, fat chance, we don’t have no bikes, didn’t you know that mister?”

“We will have, son, we will have.”

The door to the jail opened and the chief entered, leading four men dressed in state police uniforms.

“Yessir, I knew you state fellers would probably want him for something, as soon as I saw him.” The fat man was talking as he opened the cell door.

“In fact, I bet there’s a reward for him, ain’t there?”

The four men ignored the chief and crowded into the small cell where Tom R. Braden had spent the last five days. The fat chief continued to talk to the men.

“Yessir, I guess he’s wanted pretty bad for them to send the captain of the state police down here to fetch him back.”

The man he referred to turned to the chief and gave him a look of disgust and then turned back to the prisoners. He extended his hand to Tom.

“Hello Tom, how they been treating you?”

“Not so good. I’ve lost 10 pounds since I’ve been in here. Tell me, did you call my wife?”

“Yeah, she’s on her way. I sent a car to pick her up.”

“Hey, what the hell is this?” the chief said, a look of confusion on his face.

The captain turned to look at the chief. “You got big troubles, mister. This man is Tom R. Braden, Commissioner of the state police.

The chief stood open-mouthed while the officers helped Tom Braden and his new friend out of the cell. Tom let the lad pass and then turned to the chief.

“You and your henchman are both under arrest. The charges I intend to bring against you should keep you from bothering cyclists for at least 20 years. Who knows, with all that time to think about it, you may even learn to like them. |5]