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.