“Stay right where you are, sir,” she ordered.
He froze, his face registering confusion. His complexion was a pale pink, except for the nose, which resembled a gigantic raspberry. Straight amber-colored hair was brushed over his nude chunk of forehead. His beard was thin and blond. He reeked of booze.
Cindy looked for Beaudry’s backup, but it appeared as if her partner had his own problems. The truck also held a passenger as big as the driver. Probably equally drunk because Mr. Passenger’s gait was wobbly. Graham was trying to keep him upright.
Meanwhile, the driver began rocking on his feet. “I do notink.” He nodded vigorously, hair flying over his eyes.
Cindy stood firm, enunciating clearly. “Sir, go back inside the truck.”
“Back?” It came out beck. The man wrinkled his brow, then turned around and showed Cindy his spinal cord.
“No,” Cindy said. “Not your back. Back inside the truck. In the truck! Turn aroun—turn …” She swirled her index finger in a whirlpool motion. The man complied by spinning in circles. “Dees?”
He was drunk as a skunk, but not belligerent. Forget about getting him in the car. She placed a hand on his meaty shoulder to stop his rotating. His body lurched forward while his head continued to loll about. Stumbling, he managed to support his unsteady weight by placing his hands on the hood of the truck. Change the context, and it played as broad comedy. But as the situation stood now, he was a behemoth-size drunk who could turn nasty at any minute.
Warily, Cindy said, “I need to see your license, sir.”
The man managed to make eye contact. The orbs were unfocused.
“Your license … to drive.” Cindy tried to pantomime it. She received a blank stare for her efforts. She called out to Beaudry, “Does your guy speak any English?”
“I don’t think so,” Beaudry answered. “But he has a good set of teeth. I know because he’s smiling a lot.”
Cindy looked up at her charge. “Burly” was a fitting adjective for him. No wonder the former U.S.S.R.’s mascot had been the bear. “Your license to drive.” She steered an imaginary car wheel. “Driving.”
The man nodded. “Da.” He pointed to his truck.
He didn’t get it.
“License,” Cindy repeated louder. As if turning up the volume would increase his comprehension of English. “License.”
The man repeated, “Li-cense.”
She cried out, “Officer Beaudry, can you get the Breathalyzer?” She figured if he was over the legal limit, she wouldn’t even need to see his license. She’d just arrest him on the spot.
“I’m watching someone,” Beaudry said. “Just put him through a field sobriety test.”
Meaning Beaudry didn’t want to leave her alone with two drunken big guys. Okay. That was legitimate. So she’d put the driver through a field sobriety test. She could handle that.
She said, “Are you Anatol Petrukievich?”
The man broke into an instant grin. “Da!” He nodded again. “Da!” He launched into a slur of foreign words, ending his oration with a big smile. She smiled back. Then he grinned like a schoolboy.
Great. They were now buddies.
She said, “Lookie here, Anatol.”
At the use of his name, his eyes went to her face. Again, the goofy grin.
“Look at my leg. See what I’m doing?” Cindy stood on her right foot and lifted her left about three inches off the ground. She counted to ten aloud. Then she pointed to him. “You! Anatol! Anatol does this, okay? You do it. Capische?”
He stared at her.
Which made sense because capische was Italian. She put her leg back down and slowly picked it up a second time, once more counting to ten. She pointed at his chest. “You try it.”
“Da!” He took the challenge and attempted to stand on his right foot. But he faltered as the last of his toes cleared the sidewalk. Anatol reddened, tried again, and failed again. Clearly, the man’s cerebellum was in need of a tune-up. He spoke to her in Russian. From his tone, he appeared to be apologizing.
“No, it’s okay,” she found herself saying.
“O-key?” He smiled brightly.
“No, not okay.” She shook her head. “Not okay, just … do this!” She extended her arms out at her shoulder, made fists, then stuck out her right index finger. She brought the tip of the finger to her nose by bending her elbow. She did it without lowering her arms. “Now, Anatol, you do this. You.”
The man nodded, but didn’t move.
She tried to give him a jump-start by raising his right arm to his shoulder and extending it. But as soon as she let go, the arm fell to his side.
So far, he was getting an F. But there was that thing called a language barrier. Harking back to her life as a grad-school researcher, Cindy decided to gather more objective data before hauling him in. Gently, she turned him around until he faced the Chevy’s side. She took his hands and placed them, palms down, on the roof. Then, she brought them behind his back, one at a time, and cuffed him.
Absolutely no resistance.
He was big and drunk, but a damn happy guy.
Carefully, she led him to the cruiser, his feet dragging against the ground as they approached the patrol car. His body swayed and staggered with each step. Cindy found herself propping him up. The teddy bear was a heavy man with a capital H. She linked her hands around the cuffs and tried to keep his spine erect. But instead of being his guide, she found herself being jerked from side to side as he sidled like a monstrous stoned crab.
Finally, they reached the cruiser.
“Easy does it, Anatol.”
She opened the back door and positioned him parallel to the seat.
“In.” She gave him a gentle prod. “In.” She pushed down on his head so he wouldn’t bump his rather thick skull on the car’s ceiling. Partial success. Anatol’s head and body were safely ensconced inside, but his shoes still dangled in the street’s gutter.
Holding up an index finger, she declared, “Wait here.”
Anatol grinned. He didn’t seem the least bit perturbed. Cindy brought out the Breathalyzer from the trunk. At the sight of the machine, the Russian’s eyes lit up in recognition. Without directions, he took the protective paper off the blow hose and exhaled enough sodden breath to knock out a rhino.
“Whew!” Cindy said. “We’ve got a sizeable BAL. You are drunk, sir.”
Anatol grinned and measured off an inch of space between his thumb and index finger. “Dis much vodka.”
Cindy spread her arms out. “More like this much vodka.”
Anatol laughed.
“Do you have one of these?” Cindy reached in her wallet and pulled out her own license.
Anatol shook his head. “No hev.”
“You don’t have your license or you never had a license?”
The subtlety of English grammar was lost on him. “No hev.”
“I see we’re in a rut.” Cindy bent down, picked up his paint-splattered gunboat-size shoes, and placed them in the car. She shut the door. “Officer Beaudry,” she called out, “I got him trussed and ready to go.”
“I’m