The Mushroom Shift

By Joe Clifford Faust

Based on 4 1/2 years Joe Clifford Faust spent working in Law Enforcement, The Mushroom Shift is a snapshot of a different world that isn’t that far in the past. Yet while it comes from a time before political correctness, its theme of men struggling to hang on to their jobs is as relevant now as when the book was first written. It’s also the most unusual police story you’ll ever read, with no gunshots or car chases, where the mundane becomes a grind. Profane and darkly funny, it captures all the humor and horror, the triumphs and tragedies that are a part of daily life for those who wear a badge.

It tells the story of Clarence Raymond Monmouth, a deputy with the Badlands County Sheriff’s Department in Modern Times, Wyoming, who is finishing his third year on the despised Mushroom Shift – midnight to eight a.m. – in the final weeks of 1985.
As the year draws to a close, Monmouth comes to realize that the county’s aging Sheriff will soon be succeeded by the political enemy who put Monmouth on the Mushroom Shift to begin with. Survival mode kicks in and he begins to consider his options, interrupted by his crumbling marriage, his drinking, and the never-ending parade of drunk drivers, family fights and perverts that make up small town police work.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jabberwocky Literary Agency, Inc.
• Release date: Dec 8, 2011
• ISBN: 9781625670601

Joe Clifford Faust

Joe Clifford Faust was born in North Dakota, raised in Alberta and Wyoming, went to college in Oklahoma, and now lives in Ohio. He has been married for more than thirty years to the same woman, has two adult children, and has worked at a local advertising agency since 1997. When not writing, he can be found ministering to his Church family, eating chili, badly singing and playing original songs on the guitar, playing wargames, and reading books on his Kindle.

Book preview

978-1-625670-60-1

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Dedication

Clicks

Family Feuds

The Mushroom Shift

Brand New Cadillac

The Monster's Mouth

The Scales Tip

Trash

The Parts Man

Billings

Flip of a Coin

Christmas Presence

The Dam Breaks

Ringing Out the Old

Lines of Succession

About the Author

Also by Joe Clifford Faust

For everyone who worked at the one-seven between 1981 and 1985.

Chapter One

Clicks

If Monmouth had not been kicked in the groin by the Madame he was trying to arrest for drunk driving, then he wouldn't have caught Braverman trying to get laid, Norelda wouldn't have gotten fired, and Sheriff Tibbs wouldn't have had to hire The Cowboy.

But catching Braverman in flagrante delicto was the farthest thing from his mind on that clear December night in 1985. He was too busy watching an ancient green Plymouth wobble its way down a stretch of two-lane highway that went between nowhere and nowhere. The Plymouth swerved once, twice, three times. Then it overcorrected, skewed back to the right shoulder, and flattened a delineator post.

Shit, he said. He didn't want a drunk tonight. As a matter of fact, he didn't want anything tonight. He had just had another in a series of fights with his wife about the hours he was forced to keep, and he had promised to get home right after work for a bowl of her stiff, lumpy oatmeal. If he took this drunk he was looking at a minimum of two hours worth of paperwork plus the fact that a drunk at such an early hour would surely be on the fight.

He activated the radar, trying to gather more probable cause. He already had plenty, but if he took this one, he wanted a guarantee of a thousand dollars' worth of tickets to slap on the driver. The driver, however, was only doing thirty-two miles per hour on a county road with a posted limit of forty-five. With the icy conditions of the road, it was perfectly reasonable to be taking it slow.

Son of a bitch, spat Monmouth as the Plymouth ate another post. He switched on the overhead lights and grabbed his microphone.

S.O., Badge Ten, he said, disgruntledly.

There was no answer.

S.O., Badge Ten. He put the bite of authority in the words this time, a signal that he wasn't just stopping to take a leak.

Still no answer. He cursed bitterly and another post went under the wobbling car.

He keyed the mike and growled, S.O., Badge Ten, I'll be out with a dark green Plymouth four door, Montana plates George Adam George Zero Six Nine, about three miles in on Bentine Road, possible dewey.

While waiting for a reply he shined the spotlight through the rear window and squeaked the siren. The vehicle slowed and came to rest on top of a fourth delineator post. Monmouth stared angrily at the silent radio. Finally, he heard click click, the signal of recognition from the dispatcher. He bailed out of the patrol car and stalked toward the Plymouth. Had he waited another five seconds, he probably never would have left the vehicle.

Click, the radio said as the door slammed. Click click. Click. Click click click click click.

Hand on his nightstick, Monmouth cautiously stepped up to the car and watched as the fog-clouded window descended. To his horror, the face that grinned back up at him was that of the Montana Madame. Pained, he rubbed his forehead.

Daisy, he said, what in the hell are you doing here?

Going to Billings, she slurred. See the Lieutenant Governor. Appointment.

Billings?

She nodded.

Daisy, you're nowhere near Billings. You're in Wyoming.

Woming? She looked confused.

Monmouth nodded.

I'll be damned.

Daisy, I'm afraid your driving has been rather erratic. Would you please step out of the car?

She howled with glee and threw the door open. It smacked Monmouth in the knee and he screamed in distress, limping in circles and cursing. Daisy approached him with open arms, every boy's nightmare of a spinster aunt.

Oooohh. Poor knee.

Monmouth straightened up. Stay away from me. He had heard stories about women like Daisy. When they got as advanced as the Montana Madame, the syphilis germs didn't wait for sexual contact. One touch and they would grapple from body to body like pirates in an old Errol Flynn movie and overnight your hair would turn white, your spine would twist into a pretzel, and your penis would turn black and fall off.

The Madame stopped cold. Standing hunched as he was, Monmouth still towered over her. Her eyes widened.

How long have you been drinking, Daisy?

She blinked. Since I left home for Billings.

And when was that?

Her eyes, red and gluey, squinted. Tuesday.

And do you know what day it is now, Daisy?

Tuesday.

Monmouth stamped his foot in the snow. NO, he shouted. "It is not Tuesday. It's Thursday, Daisy, Thursday, and you've just ruined my life!"

Her spinster aunt look returned. You poor thing. With one deft motion, her hand went to her mouth and plucked out her false teeth.

No! Monmouth shrieked. None of that! Not from you!

What do you want? She slipped her teeth back in dejectedly.

I want you to say the alphabet. Can you do that for me, Daisy?

She smiled confidently. A.

Monmouth smiled back. The look on her face had frozen. What next?

What next?

In the alphabet.

Oh. A.

And after that?

B.

Daisy, do you know the alphabet?

I graduated from the Missouri College of Business in...

Then say the fucking thing!

A, she said decisively. B. C. D. E... F... G... H- She paused and began to sing I've got a gal in Kalamazoo...

Monmouth shook his head.

You know, Daisy giggled, I think I've had too much to drink.

No kidding. Now I'd like you to do something else for me. I want you to close your eyes, hold your right leg straight out, and count to ten. He demonstrated the maneuver for her. Do you think you can do that?

Certainly. She closed her eyes for a moment, then quickly opened them, disturbed.

What's wrong?

Will I go to jail if I can't do it?

Let's worry about doing it first, okay?

She looked him over.

Daisy, I'll take you in now if you want.

She set her jaw in determination. No. No, I'll try it.

Thank you.

She took a step toward Monmouth and snapped her right foot out, aiming it at his crotch. It connected with his left testicle in a punting effort worthy of a Superbowl, and Monmouth's throat closed as if the organ in question had lodged between his tonsils. He bent double and staggered back, gasping for breath, unaware that Daisy Loretta Sellers had thrown back her head, closed her eyes, and was counting to ten.

Eyes watering, Monmouth staggered and grabbed the portable radio from his belt, trying desperately to remember who was available for backup.

Braverman! he bellowed into the radio. Braverman get out here! He took three steps away from the Montana Madame and heard the signature click click. He looked at the woman and managed a smile. You've had it now, bitch.

Click.

Monmouth's eyebrows twitched.

Click. Click click click click click.

His eyes got wide and he snorted, breath pouring from his nostrils in jets of steam.

Click. Click. Click click. Click click click click click click click. Click.

Monmouth ground his teeth and threw the radio as hard as he could. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the Madame approaching. Something in her hand glinted off of the headlights.

Trouble, he thought, and in a split second his brain made a decision and he reacted. Shutting down the pain from his groin he straightened up as the Madame came within reach and tossed out his right fist in a vicious uppercut. It caught her precisely on the chin. Her dentures flew out and she grunted, falling flat on her back into the crisping snow. He smiled at the crumpled figure, then staggered to the patrol car and collapsed over the hood.

* * *

The patrol car fishtailed into the parking lot and slid into a reserved slot, the safety bumper recoiling as it nicked the brick of the building. The door flew open and Monmouth emerged carrying a handcuffed and toothless Daisy Sellers with one massive hand. He threw her over his shoulder face up so she wouldn't gum him and stomped inside, pausing only to unlock the doors that stood in his way. He stopped in the booking room long enough to deposit the screaming woman in a chair, startling the jailer, who was leafing through a yellowing copy of Hustler.

Where'd you get this one? Milt asked.

Never mind. What the hell's wrong with the radio?

Milt shrugged. I dunno. Our scanner's been in the shop since...

Monmouth sneered. When was the last time you checked dispatch?

Milt looked at his watch.

Forget it. I'll do it.

He stepped around the jailer and stalked down the hall, pulling his key to unlock the security door.

Why don't you just buzz?

Monmouth jumped. Milt was right behind him, following like a lost puppy. He pointed at the print room. Go, he said. Go watch the Madame.

What if there's trouble?

I'll handle it. You go watch the Madame. She's dangerous.

Milt paled. She is?

Monmouth nodded. He reached into his jacket and produced a crinkled blue and white tube. She came at me with this.

Milt took it and screwed up his face. KY Jelly?

Go, snapped Monmouth. He turned back to the door and gently turned the key, inching the door open. He slipped through and quietly closed it. As he neared the corner, he heard a moan.

He froze. His heart was pounding and his throat tightened. His left testicle ached.

Monmouth unsnapped the trigger guard and eased his revolver from its holster, finger cradling the trigger. Back against the wall, he slid into a crouch. He eased the trigger back and looked around the corner, weapon at the ready.

Another moan.

He looked up at the dispatch room window and saw nothing. He swallowed hard and eased toward the door, sights trained.

There was a series of moans and gasps in quick succession. Monmouth felt his finger tighten on the trigger.

Oh Stanley, said a voice. Not yet. Not yet.

He heard a familiar grunt.

Now! The voice cried. Now! Give it to me, Stanley! I want it now! Oh, Stanley! Oh, oh, oh...

Monmouth looked up at the desk he was using for cover. On it was a portable radio. The volume was turned down, but he could hear a distinct sound; click click click click click.

BRAVERMAN! He was up on his feet, roaring toward the radio room. BRAVERMAN YOU SON OF A BITCH!

Revolver aimed at the ceiling, Monmouth put the heel of his foot to the jamb of the door and it flew open, banging against the wall. He took a step into the frame of the door and snarled.

There was Stanley Oscar Braverman in a half crouch, slobbering and drooling over the half-clad Norelda June Stephens, a barely existent breast cupped in each hand.

Oh baby, he said. Baby baby baby.

Monmouth squinted at the scene. Norelda was sitting on the table with her back against the radio, the right cheek of her unclad buttock flopping against the transmit button.

Click click click.

Oh Stanley... Norelda cocked her head toward Monmouth and opened her eyes. Her face went from pleasure to shock and she screamed.

Easy baby, Braverman slobbered. I'm almost-

She screamed again. Braverman stopped in mid stroke and looked at her, grinning stupidly. Maybe we should do this at your place. Milt's gonna hear you... He trailed off as he saw a towering figure out of the corner of his eye. Oh, shit!

Norelda brought her knees together, knocking Braverman to the floor. She grabbed her errant garments and bolted past Monmouth, limping with only one shoe.

I'll kill you, Monmouth burned. I'll wring your neck!

Braverman rolled away from the advancing giant, struggling to get his pants up from around his knees.

You bastard, Monmouth foamed. I'm out in the middle of Bentine fucking nowhere getting pelted with lubricant and you're in here knocking off a hot pork sandwich. I should pull your legs off.

Braverman struggled to his feet, pants knotted together with one hand. You got it wrong. She was making me do it, y'know? You've heard the stories...

I've heard! he roared. I know about the single man's duty to give her a hosing, but don't do it on duty! That's why you've got days off!

Braverman paled. You're not going to kill me are you, Clar?

"Kill you? Monmouth was outraged. Kill you? It's too good for you! If I didn't have this gun in my hand..." He trailed off. He was looking at Braverman down the barrel of his .357. He smiled and relaxed his hand. With one smooth motion, Monmouth rolled the piece into his holster and snapped the trigger guard. Braverman sighed so hard his shoulders sank.

You son of a bitch, Monmouth laughed. You stupid son of a bitch.

* * *

He was exhausted and bleary-eyed by the time he dropped his report on the arrest of Daisy Loretta Sellers into the shift basket, forty-two minutes after his tour of duty ended. Mona's oatmeal would be coming out of the pan by the time he got home. He might save face after all.

His weary brain became lost in the sound of his footfalls in the tiled hall, so he didn't see Al Renfew coming out of the Men's room, and consequently he collided with him. What in hell are you doing here? he croaked.

Renfew shrugged. Penniman is finally going this morning at eight. Gotta review for court.

Crucify him, Monmouth said. And when you do, drive in a nail for me. He shook his head. I'd stick around but I'm dead.

Renfew raised his finger and opened his mouth. Ah...

Monmouth set his jaw. What now, Al?

Renfew cleared his throat. Before I, uh... stopped, I was coming to give you a message. He looked down and scratched his nose. Uh... the big guy wants to see you.

He rolled his eyes. About Sellers, no doubt.

Renfew cleared his throat again. I would assume so.

Assume, my ass. I broke her jaw, didn't I?

The smaller officer hitched a thumb over his shoulder. I dunno. She's not back from the hospital yet.

Monmouth clapped his hand over Renfew's mouth. Save it. You're going to need all the breath you can get to screw Penniman. His lawyer's a real shark, so watch out.

Renfew nodded. Monmouth dropped his hand and dragged through the halls to the Sheriff's Office. Tibbs was nowhere to be seen, but Braverman was sitting in one corner, eyes receding into his skull, face devoid of color.

He knit his eyebrows. Not you, too.

You said you wouldn't tell. Braverman's eyes were moist and there was a quiver in his voice.

Monmouth plopped down next to him. I didn't say a word.

Not even to Roughrider?

Not even to the Corporal.

I'll bet it was Norelda.

It wasn't Norelda.

Then how did Tibbs find out?

Monmouth put a massive hand on his shoulder. Stanley, you're making one assumption that you can't afford make. You're assuming that Tibbs found out you screwed Norelda.

Why else would he call us both in?

So he can make an example of me. An object lesson is useless if someone doesn't see it.

What if he asks why I didn't back you up?

Monmouth clucked his tongue. Well, we'd better cook up a good story.

The doorway darkened and a bent figure strode in, slamming the door. It got halfway to the desk and stopped as if it had forgotten something.

What's all this about a good story?

Braverman gulped.

Monmouth laughed. I was going to tell Stan here about this faggot that goes into a bar and orders a gin-

Tibbs pointed to each cheek in succession. I'm going to put an ice cube here and an ice cube here and I'm going to coldcock that son-of-a-bitch. The figure finished the trip to a large desk that dominated one corner of the room and sat. That joke is older than I am, Clarence.

Monmouth shrugged. It was new to me.

The Sheriff looked at his deputies and drilled them with metallic eyes. You gentlemen are probably wondering why I gathered you here.

Actually- started Braverman.

Shuddup, Monmouth hissed out of the side of his mouth, jamming his elbow into Braverman's ribs.

The Sheriff pointed a finger at the shaking man. You, he growled. I have a question for you.

Braverman managed a weak Yessir?

Tibbs produced a handful of lacy pink cloth and held it open with both hands. What, pray tell, is this?

Braverman coughed. He could feel the sweat running down the back of his neck. It looks like a brassiere, sir.

The Sheriff let the garment dangle. What kind of a brassiere?

He didn't understand. Except for the color and the lace - and the fact that the cups were obviously designed for use with a low cut dress - it looked like a run of the mill bra. I'm afraid I don't understand, sir.

Monmouth snickered. He was enjoying this.

Never mind, said Tibbs. I'll answer it myself. It's a Norelda June Stephens model brassiere. I hope you have a good answer for my next question.

Sir?

What was it doing in my out basket?

"Your out basket?" Braverman was on the verge of puking, passing out, or both.

Tibbs waved the bra like a flag, oblivious to the fact that the office staff was gathering outside the windows of his office to watch. I came in and found this little number in my out basket this morning. It happens to correlate with what a little voice told me about the two bumps in Miss Stephens' sweater this morning, to wit; lack of said garment.

Sir, choked Braverman, that cloth isn't enough to cover what little Norelda June has. I mean... well, as for the bumps... well, it's been cold, and...

Braverman. Sheriff Tibbs stood and looked out his window. The office staff, seeing him rise, scattered. Braverman, have you been fucking Norelda June Stephens?

The air left the boy's lungs. He heard Monmouth whisper, Come clean.

Only once, sir, he gulped.

Her idea?

Well... she went along with it.

Tibbs nodded gravely. That's what I thought. You might hide the truth from your friends, but there's no hiding from me.

Sir? Braverman squeaked.

Stanley, I'm a heterosexual male so I know what it's like to have masculine urges. It's worse for you of course, because you can't just go home and diddle the wife.

Neither can I, muttered Monmouth.

Now I understand that taking matters into your own hands isn't exactly a bowl of cherries - pardon the expression - and I know what it means for a young man like yourself to get a living, breathing outlet for your anxieties, but Norelda June Stephens? Damn it to hell, Braverman, can't you be a little bit more selective?

Selective? Braverman passed from fear into disbelief.

Stanley, more people have been in her than have been in Israel. She's a walking semen receptacle. She may be easy and have lots of experience, but there's no prestige in rolling her. You're better off doing it by hand. If you're going after something nice and hot, why don't you go after... He looked out his window. Young Belinda there. Fine looking girl. Imagine what the guys would say if they knew you were banging her.

Excuse me, Sheriff, Monmouth said. I believe that Belinda is married.

Tibbs furrowed his brow. Oh. So she is. Well, you see my point, don't you, Braverman?

Oh, yes sir.

Fine. Now I don't want you to worry about the sudden appearance of any little Bravermans around the office, if you get my meaning. I know for a fact that Norelda's been spayed.

Thank you, sir.

But you're not completely off the hook.

I'm not?

Tibbs walked around the desk and held out his fist. Braverman cupped his hands. A dozen foil packets fell into them.

These are alcohol swabs, Stanley. Use these to clean off your member, one twice a day until they're gone. Another price to pay for experience.

Yes sir.

Understand that I don't mind my men going out and getting laid. A man needs a good lay at least twice a week, otherwise semen backs up into the brain and causes problems. And I don't mind Norelda going out and getting rolled if that's what she's into. She's providing an essential service. But I'll not have my men coupling with other personnel, understand? Remember that in or out of uniform, you're a member of this department, and the whole county associates your actions with me. If you're fucking a piece of trash, they think I'm doing it too. Got me?

Braverman nodded gravely.

Tibbs smiled. "Find a nice girl... then hump her brains out."

Yessir.

I'm done with you.

Braverman stood.

Sit down.

Yessir.

Tibbs returned to his desk and sat. Mister Monmouth.

Sheriff Tibbs.

It is my understanding that you had a slight run in with Daisy Sellers this morning.

That's correct.

You initially stopped her for DUI, driving left of center, and destruction of county property. During the stop she attempted to stab you and you punched her lights out.

Monmouth licked his lips. Actually sir, she came at me with a tube of KY Jelly, which I thought-

Tibbs held up his hands. Beside the point. You thought your life was in danger and acted accordingly.

Sir, Daisy Sellers is seventy-eight-

Enough! Tibbs commanded. When the room was still, he began to snicker. You know, I was just on the phone with Doctor Sales at the Emergency Room. He said that Daisy's jaw is going to be wired shut for at least eight weeks. He had descended into laughter. It's going to be a long time before she fellates any of the men of this county again.

Monmouth and Braverman watched the man laugh as if he had been told something profoundly funny. When he saw they weren't privy to his mirth, he quickly sobered.

"Clarence, that woman has been a chagrin to the men and boys of this county ever since I was sworn to this office. I've been trying to find a way to get back at that bitch for years.

Not only have you done that for me, but you've also given me some good, solid charges. I may even convince you to press charges for assault.

I couldn't, Monmouth protested.

Before you make any decisions, make sure your testicle is in working order. Understand?

Yes, sir.

That was a damn fine piece of police work you did out there this morning. The whole department should be proud of you.

Thank you. Monmouth began to wonder if he could convert this good will into a transfer to another shift.

The Sheriff dismissed them. They slowly rose, both amazed to find that they were unscathed. But when Braverman touched the doorknob, Tibbs barked his name.

Sir?

I want you to use Clarence here for a role model. He's a damn fine cop. Damn fine. You spend your time watching him rather than diddling the dispatcher.

Yes, sir.

Tibbs' eyes were no longer on the pair of them. They were riveted to the desk, where he wrote with pencil on a yellow legal pad.

And you needn't worry about Norelda stirring your loins by wearing those indecent garments.

I needn't?

Tibbs shook his head, not missing a beat with his pencil. Nope. I fired the little slut.

And that was the moment when Clarence Raymond Monmouth first began to have serious doubts about the Sheriff's sanity.

Chapter Two

Family Feuds

Monmouth knew trouble was coming when he stepped out of his car. As his huge booted foot crushed into the snow he could hear sounds coming from the small house that he called home.

It was music, and it was loud. Loud enough to be rattling the doorknob when he put his hand on it. He stared blankly at the slab of wood. It needed varnishing. Mona had been after him to do it all winter, and he had countered by saying that the varnish wouldn't dry when it was below freezing. He didn't know if that was true but it sounded good, and Mona had quit bitching about it after that.

He cocked his head and listened to what was coming from inside the house. Some woman was warbling about pulling a train of love for some guy, accompanied by what had to be the worst pedal-steel player in Nashville.

Oh, shit, said Clarence Raymond Monmouth.

He twisted the knob and pushed on the door. It has been snowing since the arrest of Daisy Sellers and ice had built up under the door, making it stick. He bumped it with his shoulder and it popped open, the ice cracking loudly in protest. Sound engulfed him. He took a deep breath and put on the happiest face he could muster, then stepped inside, shouting in a singsong tone.

Dar-ling! Your little old crime-fighter is home!

No answer.

"Mo-na!" he called musically.

Still nothing. He stepped inside the house and slammed the door. Son of a bitch.

You're in a good mood as usual, a sour voice complained.

Startled, he looked over one shoulder to see Mona, a rag and a can of furniture wax in her hand.

I thought you were gone, Monmouth said, trying to settle her. I was disappointed.

Disappointed that you wouldn't get breakfast, no doubt, she snapped.

He puckered his lips. Give us a kiss, Monakins.

She took a small step his way. The next step was bigger, and the third step was bigger still. The steps continued in quick succession with no sign of stopping, and they carried Mona Monmouth past her husband and into another room of the house, where she slammed the door shut.

Clarence Monmouth blinked bovinely at the door and dropped the pucker. He sighed and went about the business of removing his coat and boots. As he closed the closet door, he heard a voice from the other room.

Your breakfast is on the table.

He shuffled to the kitchen, grabbed the day's edition of the Casper Star Tribune from the coffee table and checked the headlines. There were terrorists who had blown the hell out of some other terrorists with bombs, someone back east had flipped out and was sitting on