Frank Hickey Stories

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Showing posts from March, 2026

Singing Before ICE by Frank Hickey

March 25, 2026

On a steamy Savannah, Georgia night, I'm doing police foot patrol near the river. A bearded heavy man sloshes out of a saloon and collides with another drinker. Alcohol fumes fill the air. "QUIERES PELEAR?" he slurs in Spanish to the drinker. 'Do you want to fight?' is his question. He steps towards the drinker. fists rising. Cursing, the drinker flees. Scared, I slide behind the beard, grab his arm and twist one fat wrist into my handcuffs. The second cuff clicks shut and holds his wrists behind him. He smells too drunk to fight. Thank you, God. Relief makes me sag. Savannah suffers 60 murders this year, all in my area. The city has a population of 190,000 frightened locals. Savannah at this time had about ten Spanish speakers. Besides me, only one other officer speaks it. "Sir," I say in Spanish,"you're too drunk to care for yourself. I'm arresting you for Drunk in Public. We'll forget about you trying to fight. W...

Do Sergeants Cause Heart Attacks?

March 25, 2026

Do Sergeants Cause Heart Attacks? ***by Frank Hickey*** Once upon a time, in a far away land and a nameless city, I check my police patrol car and find a dime on the back seat. Everyone is scrutinizing, criticizing and condemning our department. Federal monitors, the Attorney General, the FBI and maybe the Hungarian Music Copyright Office, for all I know. The media joins in the shark feeding frenzy. So do legions of lawyers. Maybe some dark agency is setting me up. Booking this miserable lost dime will take 30 minutes at least. After the others stop laughing at me. But ignoring it might get me suspended for violating one of our four thousand and seventeen unknowable regulations. And sleepless nights. Plus some tingling in my cardiac region. So, I grit my aging molars and limp into the sergeant's office with a property ...

Infinitely Better Christmas Dinner

March 25, 2026

Infinitely Better Christmas Dinner ***by Frank Hickey*** It's a snowy Christmas night when dangerous New York suffers 1905 murders that year. This breaks the record. My baby sister invites the whole family for a loving Christmas family dinner. We bask in the warmth of good talk and food. "Franko, we're running out of paper towels," she says. "Could you get some at the corner store?" Like a good brother, I oblige. Outside the corner store, a woman sprawls against a concrete plant tub that stands four feet high. A kneeling man has his hands near her throat. "Police officer!" I snap. "Don't move." He turns. I'm wearing my new Christmas clothes, a fringed buckskin jacket with pink lumex trim, black snap-button shirt and a suede cowboy hat. Cowboy clothes keep me warm in winter. ...

Mad-Dogging Our Federal Monitor by Frank Hickey "We're under this federal monitor," the sergeant says at roll call. Us cops tense up. "Looking for corruption and brutality. So, please, watch what you do and say out there. Here are tonight's assignments". I draw the report car, working alone. My first call is on a gang street. "Officer, I found this pistol in my yard," the woman tells me, speaking Spanish. "Don't know who threw it-" "Ya can't come in here!" a man weightlifter type shouts at me. Gang tats cover his throat and hands. "Not without a search warrant!" Rum smell wafts from his plaid gangbanger shirt. "My son," the woman says. She sounds like whelping him was a poor decision. "Here's the pistol." "How come ya working alone?" My Son demands. "Don't the other cops like ya?" THEY'RE CONTROLLING THEIR LOVE, I think to myself. He suggests a carnal impropriety betwixt myself and Mother Hickey. Continuing upon this theme, he shows creativity in abundance. My hands ache to handcuff him. Steeling myself, I decide not to answer him in words. Patrol means self-control. But I birth a plan. As I'm leaving, I execute my plan. Giving him a hard, angry look, I match eyes with him and draw my mouth down. In "The French Connection" film, Detective Gene Hackman sported the same tough look. Sometimes, I remember that I'm an unknown writer playing cop. "I want your sergeant here," he says. "Yessir," I say. Our sergeant tonight is a hard charging warrior type and SWAT veteran. He may tell me to arrest My Son for any number of charges. Cops can be creative, too. The sergeant arrives and listens to My Son and mother in private. "Okay, Hickey," he says. "Son admits he was drunk and cussing you. He says that you mad-dogged him". "Huh?" I ask. "Looked mean at him," he translates. Since I'm a bachelor, I never have to lie. "True, sarge," I admit. "Well, then, I gotta cut a face sheet on you," he says. "Complaint form 1.28 for Misconduct." This rocks me. "For just looking at him?" I ask. "No words, no physical contact?" "Surprises ya?" he queries. "How do we survive?" I ask. "Or every other American police department? There will be nobody left to fill a uniform." "Don't ask me," he says. "If he makes the complaint, we head back to the station ASAP. Write up your report, I write up mine. To the lieutenant. And captain. "The division loses me and you on patrol tonight for the usual gang shootings," he continues. "We're both house mice until end of watch. Or-" "Yeah?" I ask. "You could just apologize to him," he says. "Then he says he'll forget the complaint. If I ignore this complaint, we're both up on charges. Whaddya think ya should do?". *** Frank Hickey If today looks a bit grim and you need to laugh, why not view frankhickeystories.blogspot.com? (The question mark is optional.). Frank was a cop. Somehow. He writes the Dancing Max Royster crime novels about the world's only ballroom dancing detective.

March 25, 2026

Princess Kidnapped! by Frank Hickey "Hickey, go up to this tow yard," my sergeant says. "Gotta special assignment for a man of your talents. We impounded some gangster's ride. "Fool tow-truck driver hauled the car totheir yard. Didn't check the back seat. Got a mangy mutt dog sleeping there." Inside my LAPD uniform, I just listen. "You're working solo tonight," he says. "Go babysit this mutt until the owner shows up. Whenever that is.". Los Angeles suffers 489 murders this year, with a rate of 12.6 per 100,000 people. What do we think the priorities are? Shaking my crewcut head, I drive to the tow yard and wait for the gangster owner to liberate his hound. Said canine is a melancholy mix of six breeds with eyes the color of spoiled liver. The owner was none too exhilarating, either. After five hours of waiting, without food and an empty stomach, I was glad to leave both canine and owner behind. "3U-12, requesting Code 7," I radio in for my meal period, weak from hunger. "3U-12, stand by," Communications answers. The Los Angeles Police Department machinery creaks, considering my belly. "3U-12, report to the station," my radio commands. "Roger," I grunt into the mike. My gut follows me to the station. There, my sergeant and the senior Police Service Rep scrutinize me. "Hickey, have you eaten yet?" one asks. "No," I answer. They weigh this solemnly. The city seems to pause. Our division suffers shootings every night. Robberies, burglaries and family violence rocket through our radios. "Go eat," one says. "When you're finished, clear." "Thank you," I say, meaning every syllable. Moving at a good clip, I head for Rico's, dreaming of hot BIRRIA tacos. A chunky man with tattoos leaps in front of my unit, waving his arms. Cussing, I brake. "Help, police!" he shouts. "They'll kill her!" "What happened?" I say. "They kidnapped Princess!" he yelps. "I saw them." Moving like a modern police officer, I spear the radio. "3U-12, kidnap just occurred," I announce. "Normandie and Adams. Request a supervisor, additional units and an airship-" "3U-12, victim description?" Communications asks. The man waves his arms. "Princess is six years old," he says. "Weighs about forty pounds. Gotta chain with her name on it and my phone-" "Hold on," I say. "Who is Princess?" "She's my pitbull," he says. "I paid 300 dollars for her. And my neighbor, Willie, real name Guillermo, he hates her and took her right in front-" I hear a helicopter nearing us. Other units have their sirens going, closing in. "3U-12," I spit into the radio. "Cancel my last. No airship or additional units required." The radio erupts with laughter from open mikes. "I know that fool," someone says over the air. "Normandie and Adams. Him and his Princess, the pitbull." Cops bark WOOF! WOOF! over the airwaves. "3U-12," Communications says. "3U-12, stand by for your sergeant at that location." **. If today looks a bit grim and you need to laugh, why not view frankhickeystories.blogspot.com?(The question mark is optional.). *Frank was a cop. Somehow. He writes the Dancing Max Royster crime novels about the world's only ballroom dancing detective.

March 25, 2026

"Blood in my Eye!" by Frank Hickey In the strict and military LAPD Southwest Division, we cops chase the radio. Our four cars try protecting 250,000 residents in an area three miles wide and 13 miles long. Our radio pulls us from the homicide to another backup. We help gang officers hold back an angry crowd. They try arresting a shooter named Melvin. "Look at this brutality!" someone shouts. "We see it every day!". "Me, too," I whisper. "Against us." "This is honky political oppression!" Melvin shouts, struggling. "I read all about it in the book, 'Soledad Brother' by George Jackson. Before you pigs killed him! And the other book, 'Blood in my Eye'!" He surprises me with this literary dialogue in Southwest. "I read both books," I admit. He stops struggling. I can't believe it. "You did?" he says. "Sure," I say. "George did a thousand push-ups a day. Wrote some real truth, too" Here, I am jiving Melvin. If George Jackson wrote real truth, I don't remember it. All I remember is the thousand daily pushups. Because I hate pushups. But I want Melvin calm and literary with his crowd around him. "Get in the car," I say, "and we'll rap on it." Communicating helps policing. Always.No matter how silly it may sound. He enters our car. At the station, the gang officers book him. "Hickey," the loudspeaker says. "Report to the Watch Commander's office ASAP." All over, I go cold. Most cops would. Sweat sponges onto my all-wool uniform. This feels worse than going to the grammar school principal's office. "Hickey," the Watch Commander says. "Shut the door. This is serious. An official inquiry. You know we're under a federal monitor. Brutality stuff. And the ACLU, the American Communist Lawyer's Union. Who injured Melvin tonight? He was shouting 'Blood in my eye!'" "He wasn't hurt, sarge," I say. "'Blood in my Eye' is a book title. We were discussing literature." He stares at me. His fingers punch his computer and find the book. He shakes his head and leans back. "Get outa my office, Hickey," he says. "And stop discussing literature". "Frank Hickey. Frank Hickey was a cop. Somehow. He writes the Dancing Max Royster crime novels about the world's only ballroom dancing detective.

March 25, 2026

Compassion and Cops. by Frank Hickey Should good cops feel compassion for everyone? Johnny Cordes whelps up in the New York streets, stealing laundry from rooftop clotheslines and then peddling same. Some of his boyhood pals burn real crispy in the 'Old Sparky' electric chair. "The line between me and them was very thin," he says in his crackly city accent. "A little bad luck, one way or another, and I mighta winded up like them did." A bored and unruly student, he quits school to bankroll his family. On a bet, he goes on the cops and shows himself as a whiz-bang detective, without carrying a gun. Wise bosses ignore this since Cordes produces extraordinary cases. One night, he lumbers into a cigar store, three blocks from where I lived as a kid. He senses something wrong. Robbers grip the owner. Cordes tries leaving. He's streetwise. So he puts his hand over his heart, to slow down any bullets. One robber shoots Cordes right in that spot on his chest, trying to make him exceptionally deceased. Cordes drops, wounded but still feisty. Another robber leans over to finish Cordes off. A street athlete, Cordes grapples, disarms and shoots him in the belly button. The first robber blasts Cordes with three more slugs. Cordes staggers onto the sidewalk. A drunken off-duty sergeant, fresh from entertaining a bowling widow, mistakes Cordes for a gunman and shoots him in the face. For the rest of his life, this shot makes Cordes' ear just a conversation piece. He cannot hear. Everyone survives. Years later, after prison, the robber who gunned Cordes struggles to get some work on the city's docks. Nobody hires this ex-con. Cordes asks a ship's captain to throw the robber a chance. In the sparkling idiom of the quarter-deck, the captain refuses. Cordes replies in language no less exhilarating, here dry-cleaned somewhat. "There's a kid," Cordes says, "kicked around his whole life. Old man took it on the arches, Mom swims inna whiskey bottle, kid gets no break. Does his prison time, tries ta go straight. "So what if he shot me?" Cordes rants."Game over. I forgive him. Can't you?" "Not if he shot me," the captain says."Not in a million years. Sit down and eat some breakfast." "I don't want no breakfast, not from a sac sucker like you," Cordes snaps. "And it was me he shot. Not you. So, go suck rope, pal." The good captain objects. "Aw, ya sister's ass," Cordes says. "Ya want more crime onna docks or less crime? Here's your chance, jerk. And you're the kind of holy good Bible-thumping citizen always whining and cryin' for more cop protection." Cordes scores as the only detective to win two NYPD Medals of Honor. Frank Hickey If today looks a bit grim and you need to laugh, why not view frankhickeystories.blogspot.com? n (The question mark is optional.) Frank was a cop. Somehow. He writes the Dancing Max Royster crime novels about the world's only ballroom dancing detective.

March 25, 2026

"I Got Him! I Got Him!" by Frank Hickey "I got him!" I shout over the police radio, "Got him cold!" He races ahead of me in his stolen car. We rocket into the steamy swamp of Savannah, Georgia, on a July night. He hits 110 miles an hour. Scared, I try keeping up. Death-fast driving always scares me. He brakes and bolts out of the car. "I got him!" I keep shouting like a kid. Yanking my gearshift, I leap out of my car. He runs just ahead of me. "Police!" I holler. "Stop!" Something hits my leg. It hurts. The fender of apolice car bumps me again. Stunned, I whip around to look. It is my own car. I had moved too fast. I had left my car in the "drive" gear. My own car was hitting me. The teenage driver turns his head and sees this. He starts laughing. He chokes, out of control. "PO-lice run over hisself!" he hollers. Panicked, I leap towards my car. The car migh hit a tree and destroy itself. I am making about ten dollars an hour, after deductions. Buying a new police car would ruin me,. Scared, I leap inside my car. "PO-lice run over hisself!" he keeps singing out. My foot stabs the brake pedal. The car stops. The driver chokes again, still laughing. He giggles so hard that he cannot run. Adrenaline hits me. I rocket up to him, grab the belt and yank him down to the swamp mud. He keeps whooping his chant as my handcuffs click on his wrists. My sergeant and other cops arrive. The driver is still laughing, choking, and repeating his words. "What's he saying, Hickey?" my sergeant demands. "Did ya run him over or something? I gotta know." "Naw, sarge," I say, starting to shake myself. Adrenaline makes me feel sick. "Don't pay him no mind. He's all messed up in the head. I think he's on drugs." ***Frank Hickey was a cop. Somehow. He writes the Dancing Max Royster crime novels about the world's only ballroom dancing detective.

March 25, 2026

Read Above.

"You Make! You Make!" * by Frank Hickey*. I land in Hong Kong looking for an honest private investigator job. Arriving without contacts feels risky. A poised young secretary ushers me into a detective agency. "Whom do you know in Hong Kong?" she purrs. "I met a cab driver at the airport," I say. "How is your Cantonese?" she asks. "Can count up to ten," I answer. "And say 'I love you.'' "That's useful," she says. "Your resume says New York District Attorney's Office as a detective." "Yes," I brag like a kid. "America's best and most honest District Attorney's office.". She ushers me into a cubicle of white beaverboard. A pouchy spoiled young man commands the cubicle. He shows fat cheeks under a greasy black pompadour. Different KITSCH from the Royal Hong Kong Police choke the desk and walls. A white ceremonial baton rolls near his hands, bearing the insignia. A plastic tissue box echoes the same theme. Banners and plaques complete the image. "You are Hong Kong Police?" I ask in shaky Cantonese. "No," he answers. "Just friends." Back in New York, cops would call him 'a buff.' He hungers to be a cop but cannot pass the psychology tests. So he hangs with cops, sucks up their culture, badges and toys. "I give you good job," he says in ruptured English. He scans my resume. "Says you speak French?" He pronounces it 'Fransh.' "Yes," I answer. "Talk Fransh me," he commands. I do. Then I come up for air. "You speak Fransh?" I ask. He's got me copying his pronunciation. "No," he answers short, like a warlord. I continue my monologue. At this time, England still controls Hong Kong. It is an open market. Anyone can run a detective agency with no government license or control. Sometimes, it feels like the Wild West. "Okay," he wheezes. "Dere a lady here, Hong Kong. She Fransh. You talk Fransh to her, hol' her hand, you kissy her, hah!" He winks. It looks obscene. "You make her you galfriend!" he spouts. "I take picture!" "I can't do that," I protest. "I'm a Godly boy." "You make! You make!" he shouts. The shouts excite his sex. Something sweaty oozes in the cubicle. "I worked important cases," I gripe. "Micromanaged by legions of lawyers.In flawless suits. This ain't the same kinda movie. . "A joker like you might get your pictures and kill both of us, me and la Mademoiselle.". He squeezes to his feet. A fat hand hovers near the white billy club on his desk. "Hold on there, cow-flop," I say. "I don't have to sweat any Internal Affairs or Supervising Detectives anymore. I'm a civilian. "You touch that surrogate joy-stick and you won't believe what happens next." Fuming, I grab my resume. He takes it. The paper rips down the middle. He holds the part with my name and home phone in New York. Feeling righteous, I stride out of the cubicle, past the secretary and back into the Hong Kong alleys. Breathing fresh air, I'm ready for the next interview. The next day, my mother phones me. "Listen, Frank," she says. "This very nice woman from Hong Kong keeps calling. She's with a detective agency and they have a good job for you". **Frank Hickey Frank was a cop. He writes the Dancing Max Royster crime novels about the world's only ballroom dancing detective.

March 24, 2026