Friday night, Steve went into New York to meet some old friends in midtown. It was a last minute date. Too late to arrange for a babysitter, so I stayed home with a beer and the remote. Poor me.
Around 11:30, I was engrossed in some crappy movie, X-Men 2 or something, when I was startled by loud banging on the window behind me. It was a cop.
I opened the door. Sipowitz gravely asked, "Are you, Laura McKenna?" My first thought was, "they've got me. The Brinks truck? No, no that wasn't me. The explosion in the Village? No, no that was the Weather Underground. Not me either." See, I'm so Catholic that I'm sure that I'm guilty for all crimes before I assure myself of my innocence.
He said, "Do you own a red 1991 Toyota Corolla?"
"Yes. Oh, my, God. Steve's in the car. What happened?! Is he okay? What happened?"
"Can I come in?, he asked without assurence or a smile.
"Yes. yes. Just tell me what happened," I shouted.
He took a lot time to get to the point. He said that NYPD had called them. They caught some kids driving around in Manhattan with my plates. They got a call from NYPD to track me down. They he mentioned NYPD another four or five times. This must be big stuff for our small town cop.
Still shaking, I called Wojohowitz at the 34th precinct to get the full story. Some stupid kids were caught in the act of screwing our license plate on their car outside of the Cloisters.
I asked Wojo how Steve would get home without license plates. Steve's cellphone was turned off, so I had no way of contacting him.
Wojo said with some glee, "Well, he's going to get stopped either by the NYPD, the port authority, the Jersey state police, or any of the local Jersey cops before he gets home. He's in a world of trouble."
It all turned out fine. Steve limped home at 3:00. There was still one plate on the car, so no one bothered him.
Next time we go into the city, we're using a parking lot.