The Lottery
Ryan had a hard day at the Headquarters hiring office. A little civilian told him he was too fat for the job and had abused him. Right after that some crazy doctor looked at him and then told him to take his shirt off, drop his pants and cough and that he was hired
The crazy doctor then called somebody and said, "I've got one ". Ryan didn't know what one he had, and he was sent to 52 Division, the biggest downtown division, for the rest of the day.
Walking into a new place is difficult at best, but walking into a new world is near impossible and very scary. On entering the Old Building, Ryan was taken aback by the sights sounds and smells of the place. It once had been a mansion and the hidden beauty of the building was everywhere. Marble worn staircases, gumwood mounting painted over with hospital coloured paint and even Cornish mouldings and twelve foot ceilings. It was one of the original men's private clubs in the city before the police took it over; a bastion of male only power and opulence .Now Ryan saw uniform officers running around, Sergeants barking orders, people being dragged to cells, and major investigations taking place in hallways and corridors.
None of this fazed anyone but Ryan openly, but that first day remained a deep memory to him. A deep voice yelled across the desk, “You the new guy”. Ryan looked back in puzzlement and a large-handed, clean fellow was looking at him. Turned out to be the road sergeant - nice man, bad enemy.
Ryan was told to go to the guardroom and wait. The guardroom had a twelve-foot ceiling room made of gumwood and plaster. The walls were stained from the smoke and the tables were mostly wood except for five made of arborite.
The strangest thing, the arborite tables were actually worn in the middle. The older ones were almost bowl-shaped worn into the centre of the table. The covering had been worn down and discoloured and Ryan wondered what these were used for. It appeared, like the stairs, that constant use of the centre of the table had actually worn the thing out somehow.
Ryan found out quickly what the score was in the guardroom. There was a pecking order and he was not part of it yet and would not be for some time. An older uniform officer came into the guardroom. He introduced himself and told Ryan he had to pay $10.00 for the lottery.
Ryan was almost broke as he had been looking for a new job on a shoestring budget, but gave up his last ten to this person he did not know. He figured the lottery was station wide and that it was an Irish Sweeps thing or something.
The senior officer guy took off and the boss came up and directed a man to take Ryan for his uniform. Ryan had escaped the first day at the division intact and was fitted for his uniform and sent away . The stories of training will come later but after six months of trials and tribulations, court cases, dead policemen and terrible car crashes Ryan returned to the division and the lottery.
It was the fall of 1972, and Ryan finally got posted. The first parade was an experience and the first opportunity to try to find out about the lottery. The men were lined up on parade, an old military thing, where they checked your boots and hair and stuff. If you were not perfect, you were sent away to be fixed. This was not a good thing.
The line went from one end of the room to the other with the most senior men to the right of the Sergeant and the rookies to the left. Ryan was last in line and looking down the lineup. The boss would start with the senior guys and run through the 22 patrol cars for the Division. They would post the senior partners of their cars and then move down the line. Rookies didn't have partners or rights.
Ryan waited and got assigned a foot patrol beat in the factory area - alone .The early stories and the trials and tribulation of fitting into the biggest men’s club on the planet would follow. Living through the first few weeks was paramount now.
First of all, Ryan had to live through his first week alone on the beat. He had to try and figure out this lottery thing and he also had to get into the Detective Office because that was all he wanted to be.
The first beat was 17XX post in the southend of the division. The factories and 1800's buildings creaked in the wind. The alarms came fast and furious as assorted types of vermin visited the buildings. You see, a good size rat can set an alarm off, let alone a wandering raccoon.
Every chance Ryan had he would get back to the lottery thing. On 17XX he met up with another beat cop from the adjacent post and they hid and talked about stuff. The lottery was all the rage but he really wasn't sure about it either. He had given his ten dollars and was in – but he had no idea of what it was.
Sunday night came, the prime lottery night. The senior guys got the chance and, funny enough, one of the two partners was missing from parade. Ryan’s friend stated that the missing guy was downstairs getting ready and his partner would cover for him on parade to give them an advantage.
The sergeant paraded the men and unbelievingly listened to the senior man’s story about his partner’s excuse for missing parade and continued through the group. Rookies could never pull that off, but tenure was all important on the job .
It was 12:01 am when Ryan found out the rules to the lottery, as the senior team sped away in the old patrol wagon. The rules were simply: get the old wagon as far away from Toronto and back in an eight hour shift and prove where you had gotten to. Furthest away with proof in one shift won all the money after everyone had their attempt.
Well time marched on and the Lottery continued, Ryan had to get a partner and the partner had to be on the edge if he was going to win.
Al "Crash” Southern was Ryan's choice as a lottery partner. Not a steady partner, because Ryan figured they would be killed in a chase. Turns out "Crash" wanted to drive parkway chase cars as much as Ryan wanted to be a Detective. All Al wanted was a fast car and to be the law. Kinda NASCAR heaven.
Crash had smashed up a least ten cars so far in the name of policework and Ryan had seen his driving ability. If they were going to win, he needed Al. Al could really drive. Sometimes stopping was a problem.
Stories of the lottery committee throwing proof out were everywhere around the station. The thought that policemen would fudge their results was not even nice, but so true. This was the biggest boys’ club of all – better that the one that use to run the building because these guys were the law . Everyone knew the $5,000.00 cash prize was worth any kind of trickery or magic. In those days $5,000 would buy a lot of toys. The rules were simple: get the farthest away in one shift and back and prove it.
Many came back with Burlington Skyway tokens, a mere four hour trip, the boarder guys were so pissed off at Buffalo that they stopping the wagon and would not let the guys into the States.
Kingston P.D. and the OPP were stopping the wagon, asking why the guys where they were going in such a hurry during a prisoner transport and the guys would lie. Ryan figured out that the best scam would be an organ transplant drop and he would even carry an old Styrofoam medical container to back up their bluff. When stopped, they were usually let go by the road constables on patrol. The big worry was O.P.P. Road Sergeants; they would check out the story and they are no-fun.
The entire thing fell apart one day but it wasn't a road sergeant that blew the whistle - go figure.
As their turn got closer Ryan and Al planned the escapade. Al figured he could get to the Eastern Townships of Montreal and see his Uncle, a small town newspaper editor outside Montreal. Ryan, being perplexed, queried why and Al stated that his uncle ran a small paper there and would put their picture on the daily paper to prove they were there. We could get copy as he called it and thus the proof. An 8X10 glossy of a visiting Toronto Police Van in town, dated.
Ryan figured, “Great, who would ever read the paper in Toronto?” Ryan figured no-one would see that paper - Wrong . Now they had to get there and back. Al took this mission more seriously than life itself. He had managed to acquire Jerry cans and had them filled with extra high octane gas. Ryan didn't know where he got the gas but as it turned out it proved to be needed and welcome.
Al would meet with his hero, a parkway traffic cop who drove the interceptor - a police car made by Boeing - at the fire hall. He would provide donuts and other stuff for the fireguys and they would fill his gerrycan with rocket fuel used in the firetrucks.
The day of the lottery approached and their turn was Sunday. The old patrol wagon now had 400,000 miles on it and needed at least new tires for our trip. Wednesday night the two rookies quietly managed to pick up a couple of things and two friends they had dealings with and got the truck to Central Garage. After some bargaining and another favour - unmentionable right now - they got new tires on the truck and a smile on a guy’s face .
Sunday came and Al was ready and loading the truck, Ryan was on parade thinking up a story for Al. He told them that Al was the organist at his Church and he was doing choir practice. This story was great and they bought it, but when Al was asked to play Christmas songs on Christmas day it took some explaining.
The first part of the actual drive was uneventful. Ryan drove and then Al drove the rest of the way in kind of a Daytona 500 type of trance. The high-octane fuel had the old beast just a-flying and that, along with the new tires and the tune up and oil change, helped greatly. The mechanics had figured the oil change helped immensely.
About ten miles out of Kingston, heading East at a buck seventy (170 kms/per hour) we picked up an O. The “O dots” as we call them pulled us over .Al was driving I was talking. The O.P.P. stated we blew his radar at 170 km (about 110 miles per hour) and that it had scared the shit out of him because he had set his radar high and was sleeping when we blew by.
He bought the story of the heart transplant delivery as Ryan told him about the sick little boy in Montreal awaiting the organ. Ryan even started to open up the styrofoam container to show him the bag but the officer, still wiping the sleep from his eyes, tried to get his bearings after waking from a dead sleep and then chasing after us at about 110.
The good news was he did not call the bluff .The bad news was he wanted to help. He gave us an escort to the Quebec border but this was radioed ahead and documented at communications. Ryan figured the jig was up. Al looked across and gave him the Ryan expression, “What could possibly go wrong?“
Well, Q.P.P/ Quebec Provincial Police were waiting. Ttwo bike guys took us to Montreal. Al knew Montreal and managed to take the wrong turn at the bridge over the St.Lawrence and we got lost going eastbound. Still on schedule - even ahead a bit - heading toward some small Quebec town that shall go nameless.
Arriving in town, somewhere in the Eastern townships, and then getting the photo and the paper, they smiled. As Ryan always said, "What could possibly go wrong?" The editor and his wife were waiting. They took pictures and run off a copy of the paper for Ryan and Al. It was a great front page story about the visiting Metro Policeman and his latest escapades in the Big Smoke. Ryan smiled – a great picture and who would ever see it.
Armed with the proof, muffins and French pastry and an extra forty gallons of jet fuel, back they came. The truck was actually clicking like it was melting down when Ryan drove into the lot with some ten minutes to spare. They had pulled it off! The rookies, as they were called, made it and had the lead in the lottery. No one could figure how they got the paper or the distance out of the old truck.
Ryan would not comment on any of the facts. Al was still in a coma from the drive but they were first and all was well until the Bulldogs came up to bat.
The Bulldogs were a couple of Canadian Forces guys that were senior officers and had the pick and choice of where and when they did the Lottery. They decided to see what competition they had before they took their run.
Dan was the older of the two ex-military guys and he had been a Captain in the Army. He was well connected within the Forces and Ryan had no idea of how that was going to help him.
Dan was rough, had a map of scars on his face and rumour had it that he had been an effective sniper in the past. Dan didn't talk Army much but Ryan knew that if he ever needed a guy to walk an alley with, this was the guy. He had bright blue eyes that looked right through you and a steel-faced expression that rarely cracked. .He had seen and been evil.
Jim, his partner, was a leader in the Forces as well. Jim's claim to fame was that he was a “getter”. Jim could get anything, anytime for anyone. He was an aide-de-campe to some high-ranking Army type and Ryan figured out later that he called in a favour to win the Lottery.
It was the last week before the end of the Lottery and the rumours were flying around about an Internal Investigation being started about the scam. Ryan was told not to worry because it was common knowledge that Internal Affairs couldn't find elephant shit at the zoo. There was a rumor about some newspaper man in Quebec and Internal Affairs.
Ryan worried - he wanted first prize but second was good too. Second prize would buy a new television for the house. He and Al watched the A team as they were called and took off Eastbound.
The night was a busy one and the rookies were busy guarding a graveyard for some reason. They heard through the grapevine that they had been beaten by the A team by 200 miles in both directions!
This was impossible, and Ryan awaited the final decree and the explanation of how he and Al had come second.
Going over the rules in his head Ryan mulled - take the wagon as far as possible away from TO and return in eight hours and prove it . Two rules to win. Farthest wins if the proof is accepted.
The dream team drove the van hard to the Kingston area where they drove south into the airport at Trenton. Waiting for them, for its normal supply run to Baggetteville Jet Port, was a Hercules Cargo Plane a C-5. Inside the plane were three jeeps - new ones for the brass - a pile of jet fuel for the F - whatever's and One Old Police Paddy Wagon driven by two cops with smiles on their faces.
The trip was uneventful, the Police Wagon was unloaded, their Polaroid picture was taken with the cargo master of the Jet Port and they returned to Trenton.
Once there they had a casual drive back to the station and were having coffee when the rest of the shift arrived in that morning. They smiled, submitted their distances and proof and laughed at the mere mortal rookie that had tested the real police.
They were the best and they even followed the rules - sort of.
That reminded the rookies of the young bull and Old Bull story. The young bull stated to the Old Bull, “Lets run down and get us a cow.” and the Old Bull stated, “Lets walk down and get them all.” Good advice, but not one of Ryans Rules.
The lottery was over and things were changing rapidly on the force. The club was feeling “heat“.
The next thing that happened was the sting. They figured that some one would catch on but they never figured in would be headquarters. Turns out some bean counter from headquarters was doing a fleet check of mileage, to assess the next kind of car that the Force was going to buy. He found that all the cars in the Division averaged 8 miles to the gallon except the Old Wagon, which got 137 miles to the gallon.
The added fuel and mileage were difficult to explain and they took the wagon away. Ryan and Al got second and never had another chance to do the lottery again.
The stories continued and Internal Affairs could not put a case together in Quebec. It turns out an Old Deputy Chief was going home from the East coast and stopped into town for a coffee break. He bought the local paper and, Voila! one of his Police Vans was on the front page. “What could possible go wrong “.
