Tanika Jackson looked at the clock above her on the wall. It read 11:32 P.M., which meant she had been manning the 911 line for almost ten hours. This was the second Friday in a row she had worked overtime-her shift was almost over, thank God. She was thinking about those new slinky three-inch heels she was going to buy with her overtime pay. They were gold with little teensy straps, and they were going to drive Kevin wild with desire when he saw her in them.
She couldn't wait for Shirley to see them, too-the biatch. That would teach her to hang around someone else's man-like she even had a chance with Kevin to start with, with her big-ass booty and fleshy upper arms. Good Lord, that girl was a walking tub of lard. In her cheap leopard-print shirts from Target she looked like a fat hooker. Tanika prided herself on her slim figure, which she kept trim by running, working out three times a week, and watching her diet.
Tanika looked down at her sociology textbook, trying to concentrate, but her mind kept wandering to those sandals. It had been a slow night for a weekend. No stabbings or shootings or anything like that, which is how she liked it. Unlike some of the other 911 operators, who worked the lines because they enjoyed the drama and excitement, Tanika was only here for the money. She just wanted an uneventful shift so she could study for her classes at Mercy College, where she only had six months before getting her degree as a social worker. She didn't like to think of people hurting one another. She had lost a cousin to a gang shooting, and she knew firsthand the toll violence takes on people.
She looked down at her textbook, rubbed her eyes, and yawned. Damn, she was tired. Her line rang. She picked up, and, trying not to let her voice betray her fatigue, she said the words she had said a thousand times:
"911-what's your emergency?"
The voice was soft, almost breathy. "I'd like to report a drunk driver."
Tanika thought it was a man's voice, but she wasn't entirely sure. She could hear music playing in the background. She adjusted her earphones and moved the microphone closer to her mouth. "What is the location?"
"Christopher and Greenwich."
"Has anyone been injured?"
"Not yet, but the driver was very drunk."
"Do you have a description of the car?"
"I have better than that-I can give you the license plate."
"Go ahead."
He described the car and gave a New Jersey tag. She asked him to repeat it, writing it down both times just to be sure.
"I'll alert officers in the area. Do you wish to give your name?"
"No, thank you."
"Thank you for your call."
"Thank you," he said politely, and hung up.
Tanika immediately dispatched a call to the Eleventh
Precinct, in the West Village, alerting them of the complaint. She didn't know what they would do from there, but she hoped they nailed the bastard-she hated drunk drivers. In her neighborhood a sweet little girl had been killed a few months ago by a hit-and-run they never caught. She walked past the girl's shrine every day. Sometimes Tanika bought flowers and laid them next to the yellowing photographs and stuffed animals and packages of Gummi bears. She had a little sister, and she didn't know what she'd do if anything ever happened to her.
She looked back down at her textbook, Sociology for the 21st Century, and stifled another yawn. She looked back up at the wall clock: it was 11:37 P.M.