By Randy Haglund
It seemed like an ordinary night on the streets of Spokane as I did my pizza deliveries. Little did I know the excitement that awaited.
And excitement was no stranger to me during my Pizza Haven adventures.[i] But some things had changed since my previous scrape with would-be robbers.
A few months had passed since my close call with highwaymen in November of 1980. Since then, a string of robberies had happened to deliverymen at both Pizza Haven and a new competitor, Dominoes. The thefts always involved guys with clubs, just like my incident.
But there was a difference.
In my episode, three white guys assaulted me, in the recent accounts they were black. In any case, my manager’s prediction that the newspaper publicity might create copy-cats proved to be true.
On this particular night, everything seemed to be quiet on the western front. That is, until I returned to the Flour Mill late that evening and saw the expression on my dispatcher’s face. Donna looked at me with large wet eyes that told me there was trouble.
“What’s wrong?”
“We got a call that we think is a phony.”
Phonies, our expression for a prank call, were not uncommon in our business, but with the recent muggings we were on high alert.
“So?”
“The phone number may be from a phone booth.”
Back in the day phone booths dotted almost every corner of town. Besides a quick-change location for Superman, they were used to place phone calls in the days before cell phones.
If you had a dime.
The detective assigned to the robbery cases had told us to call him if we suspected a call could be coming from a pay phone, because the hoodlums had been calling from phone booths.
There was no “Caller ID” back then so we tried to protect ourselves from pranksters by calling customers back right away to ask if they ordered pizza. Of course, the suspects would stay at the phone booth to answer the call-back and say, “Why yes! We did!” So the practice didn’t really protect us from anyone except total idiots.
Donna’s quivering voice told me she felt like she was sending me before a firing squad. “I called the police and they want a delivery driver to meet them in the parking lot of Rosauers in Browne’s addition.”
The prospect of helping the police in a sting operation and catch some bad guys perked me right up.
“Great! Where’s the pizza?”
A few minutes later I was at the rendezvous point. After a few minutes a squad car with two uniforms pulled in near me. I got out to talk with them but they rolled down a window and told me to get back in the truck and wait.
I did as I was told but began to worry about this working because of taking so long. The call had come in almost an hour ago. How long would the desperadoes wait until they figured the jig’s up?
Several minutes passed before a second police car rolled in next to the other facing the opposite way. Finally, we’re about to do something. But while they conferred, I waited impatiently.
Then a third cruiser pulled in. Six Cops. This was getting serious. But I just sat there doing nothing while they discussed who-knows-what. My Armitron wrist watch kept telling we that time was a-wastin’.
Finally a Subaru Brat arrived in the lot, and the six officers got out of their cars to meet the driver. They formed a huddle around him like he was Joe Montana or something. I stewed in the cab of my truck thinking they had forgotten about me.
The uniformed policemen all got in their respective cars and drove off, and the signal-caller came over and got in the passenger side of my truck. He didn’t look like a cop. In his thirties, he was short, had a few days growth on his chin and scraggly hair on top. His uniform consisted of jeans and a leather jacket.
“Okay, I’m detective so-and-so. Let’s deliver some pizza.”
I don’t remember his actual name, but he reminded me of Baretta, the TV detective.
The address of the supposed delivery was an apartment in the Browne’s Addition neighborhood about four blocks away. I put it in gear and said, “So, nobody’s told me anything. What am I doing?”
“You’re just delivering a pizza. For all we know, it’s legit. But in case anything happens, I want you to know it’s okay to kick the guy in the balls if you have to.”
His statement startled me a little, but I thought I could do it if things got rough.
“If bullets start flying, hit the dirt.”
I stepped on the brakes. Hard.
“Wait a minute! Since when have guns—”
“There haven’t been any…yet.” He held his hands palms down, signaling that I should stay calm. “I want you to understand that things could escalate. You need to be prepared for anything. But don’t be nervous. In all likelihood, you’re just delivering a pizza.”
But I was nervous. Terrified might be a better word. I began to think Donna might have been right about the firing squad. Against my better judgment, I lifted my foot from the brake and drove with trepidation to the target point.
As I neared the address, Baretta rolled down his window and slumped down in the seat so his eyes peeped over the sill of the side window like Kilroy. When we arrived, I pulled to the curb and took a deep breath.
“There’s somebody hiding behind that car over there.”
“Where?” I swallowed hard. I felt a bead of sweat form on my brow.
He pointed to a red Chevy Nova parked in back. We could see it through an opening between two side-by-side three-story apartment buildings. A pair of tennis shoes peeked from under the car. Someone crouched behind the rear bumper!
My heart rate soared. This is it. Why am I doing this?
“Just deliver a pizza, the way you always do.”
I was pretty sure this wasn’t an ordinary delivery, but I slowly climbed out and withdrew to the tailgate where a propane oven kept the pizza hot. Glancing around uneasily, I failed at trying to look nonchalant.
Carrying the pizza up some stairs to the second floor, I came to room 207. The apartment doors faced outside to the street, so the detective could see me at all times. The front window was dark. Knocking hesitantly, I was certain that whoever lived here did not order pizza.
No one answered at first so I hastened my retreat. But before I had even gone a few steps Baretta called out to me. “Knock harder.”
Why did he do that? Now he’s blown his cover. But I followed orders and rapped more robustly. Waiting longer this time, a man with disheveled hair and a hastily wrapped robe opened the door.
“You didn’t order a pizza did you?”
Scratching his scalp and yawning, he turned to check a clock on the wall. “Yeah, about two hours ago.”
I squinted at him. “Are you sure?”
None of this made sense to me. He couldn’t have ordered pizza. Somebody was out there waiting to jump me right now.
“Yeah, I ordered pizza, but I fell asleep. I thought you weren’t coming.” He nodded to invite me inside. “Let me get my check book.”
“No, you don’t have to pay. It took me a long time to get here. I’m sorry.” I didn’t feel like explaining that he was the target of a police action.
He waved a hand. “No, no! I ordered it, I’ll pay for it.”
While he wrote the check, I looked out the front door and saw that the passenger side of my truck was empty. Now what?”
The sleepy customer handed me his check, I apologized again and left. Baretta was nowhere in sight, but his voice came from around the building, toward where the mystery tennis shoes were. I popped my head around the corner and saw him standing in the back lot talking to someone I couldn’t see.
“Anyway, I’m looking for Frank Johnson. Do you know which apartment is his?”
A voice came from down below the lot, where there was a drop-off. “Uh, yeah. I think he’s in 410.”
“That’s odd, this building is only three stories.” Then he pulled out his badge. “Spokane Police Department. You’re under arrest.”
My fears had ebbed by then, but my confusion hit high tide. You can’t arrest someone for not knowing where Frank Johnson lives.
Three squad cars suddenly appeared, lights flashing. In short order, six officers stood over the suspect as he lay face down on the pavement with his hands cuffed behind his back. One of the cops read him his Miranda rights.
Baretta had disappeared momentarily but came back up from the embankment behind the building. In his hands he carried two gas cans and a hose. I looked over the edge and I saw more containers still in the bushes below.
They had just nabbed a gas siphoner! Then it came to me. The tennis shoes behind the Nova!
The commotion brought out a dozen or so apartment-dwellers, some of whom sounded like they were ready to form a lynch mob. Clearly it wasn’t the first time this gas thief had visited their back lot.
Approaching the detective, I apologized that the pizza delivery turned out to be just that.
“Don’t be sorry. We caught ourselves a criminal tonight and we wouldn’t have if you hadn’t been here to deliver a pizza.”
I can’t help but think about what went through the crook’s head that night as six uniformed officers and an undercover cop descended on him like a SWAT team. He had to be wondering how they were on to him.
***
Have you ever helped the police catch a bad guy?
[i] See my previous Pizza Haven stories Fright on the Monroe Street Bridge and Pizza Face.
As usual that was well written and exciting story Randy.
I do have a completely different kind of story about helping a police officer. My daughter Laura, who was probably 12 at the time, and I were driving home from my sister’s house on a snowy winter night When we noticed in a parking lot a police car that appeared to be stuck in the snow. I had learned a handy little trick wherein I would put a heavy packing blanket under one of the back tires of my car. A packing blanket is very thick and would allow me traction and I always drove right out of wherever I was stuck. I pulled in next to the police car and offered my help. The officer looked over at my small frame and the even smaller frame of my daughter and said, “no thank you I’ve called for help”. I explain the trick I had learned and he begrudgingly allowed me to give it a try. I went back to my car and got the blanket out and then put it under the tire that had been spinning to the point that it had formed ice underneath it. I went to his window and told him to go ahead and give it a try. He put the car into gear and drove straight out of his predicament. He mumbled a humble thank you and basically told us to be on our way. I heard him back on his radio telling dispatch they no longer needed to send someone because a citizen had stopped to help him. I really wish he had told them that it was a little mama and her even littler daughter who had gotten him out of his predicament.
That is very funny! That poor cop just couldn’t accept help from a couple girls! Thanks for sharing!
Wow… your young days were full of adventure!!! Your poor mom!😯🤪❤️ Another well written story Randy! And to think they are all true!!😄👍
Thanks, Verna. I hope I don’t run out of exciting stories very soon!
You never told Mom, did you?
Yeah. She’s the one that showed me the newspaper article.