A Player’s Luck
written by: John McPhee
Let me tell you something, if I had known how great it was to be retired, I would have done it 10 years ago.
After 34 years on the force, I finally handed in my shield and hung up my gun. Sergeant Detective Andrew Player was officially ‘10-7’ or ‘Out of Service’ as we like to say.
I had risen through the ranks to Sergeant Detective, and I was the go-to guy on robbery investigations and especially hostage situations. Turns out I had a knack for talking lunatics out of a bad situation. I never even had a scratch on me in all those years. I was lucky, they said.
Yup, fully retired for two weeks now, and here it was almost 11 on a Wednesday morning, and I was still in my blue silk PJs and matching bathrobe, enjoying my second cup of java.
Yes, sir, retired at 63 on a full pension from the Boston Retirement System, care of the Boston Police Department, and I was living the dream. At least I was until my doorbell chimed.
I looked through the peephole and saw my old Captain Henry Prescott standing on the front porch in full uniform, rubbing his hands together, looking anxious. I didn’t like it, but I liked him, so I opened the door anyway.
“Player, you old son of a —“
“Watch it, Cappy, I’m a retired civilian now. You can’t talk to me that way.”
We laughed, and he grabbed me in his usual bear hug.
“Look at you!” He exclaimed. “Still in your PJs? It’s lunch time.”
I welcomed him into my abode. “Can I get you a coffee, Captain?”
“Nah, what I need Player is for ya to do me a solid. A really big solid.”
Now, I’m not a native Bostonian — moved here when I got on the force— but I learned the vernacular over the years. “What sort of favor, Cappy?”
He took a seat on my couch. Took a deep breath and dove right in.
“I need ya on a Code 99. Right now.”
“What sort of specific threat situation is it?”
“It’s a hostage situation at a bank in the financial district.”
I sat back in my cozy wing chair. “What the hell, Captain! I’m retired. Get O’Malley.”
“I can’t,” he replied. “He’s asking for you.”
“O’Malley is asking for me?” I scoffed. We never liked each other.
“NO! Not O’Malley. The perp is requesting you and only you.”
“WHAT? Ok, what’s the perp’s name?”
“He wouldn’t give it. Said he’s got two men and three women sitting on their hands. Said he knocked out the security guard, too, and took away his gun.”
I was confused. “How the hell did a simple bank job turn into a hostage situation with six civilians?”
Cappy stood up, and started walking around my living room. “He says he got spooked. I don’t know what spooked him, but damn it, Andy, we’ve got to deal with what we’ve got facing us now. And he says he wants you.”
I wasn’t so sure and needed more convincing.
“I know this is a little out of the ordinary —“
“A little?”
“OK, OK, it’s a lot. But we need you, Player. He says he will start shooting hostages if you don’t show up before the end of business today. He might do it. I think this guy’s a bona fide nut case.”
“Thanks, and you want to send me in there with him?”
“Shit Player! You had a spotless record and never even needed so much as a bandage in your entire career. How do you think it will look if this guy starts killing people, and word gets out that he asked for you and you refused to attend the scene? What do you think the general impression will be of you then? Not only on the street, or in the media, but in the department as well.”
That got me. I had no choice.
“Alright, let me get dressed, and you can fill me in on the way to the station.”
Fifteen minutes later, I was listening to Prescott giving me the status report on the drive back. I had decided to wear my ‘lucky’ brown suit. It was comfortable and easily concealed a compact Glock 23. I planned on getting the gun and holster at the station.
I didn’t learn much new info from the assembled team. I studied the floor plan and appreciated, as always, the big, wide windows of the banks. I ordered three snipers to set up at various locations to cover most of the floor.
“Only fire on my order,” I told them. “Let me handle this my way first.” They attached a microphone to my lapel and an earpiece in my right ear. And I got my Glock. It was time for action.
It was almost two in the afternoon when I calmly walked into the bank with my hands high up in the air.
The hostages looked absolutely terrified as they sat on their hands against the wall.
“Who the hell are you?” The perp demanded.
“Well, I’m not the pizza delivery guy,” I replied.
He looked to be about 19-20 years old with flaming red hair and too many freckles for that age. He was skinny, and if I didn’t know better, I’d say he was just as scared as his hostages. His face looked somewhat familiar, but I was sure I’d never met him before.
“You sent for me. Name’s Andrew Player, recently retired Sergeant Detective, Boston Police Department. What’s your name, son?”
Although he was frightened, he knew enough to stay away from the windows. He slowly stood up. “My name is Eric Dawson.”
My mind immediately knew why he looked familiar.
“Eight years ago, you executed my brother in cold blood.” He said with venom in his voice and hatred in his eyes.
“Your brother wasn’t killed in cold blood. He was killed in a botched robbery, and I didn’t kill him.”
“You were in charge!” He screamed.
Over the years on the job, you learn that there’s a time for talking, a time for ducking, and a time for shooting.
When Eric raised his gun at me, I knew the talking part was over. In one swift blur, I dove to my right and snapped the Glock out of its holster. I heard three shots. Two by me; one from him.
He lay dead, and my lucky suit wasn’t so lucky anymore.
The next day, Cappy visited me in the hospital.
“Ya look like crap,” he had a guilty look, despite his bravado.
“Getting shot in the hip will do that to you.”
“I heard it was just a scratch.”
“Got a big bandage for just a scratch. But I’ll live.”
“Can I get ya anything?”
“The department owes me a new suit. And you can do me a solid.” I told him using a Boston accent.
“What?”
“Lose my number, my address, and my name. I might still be A Player, but I’m not THAT player anymore.”
He nodded, “Ya got it, Andy. I’ll forget you ever even worked here.”
Then I saw him cross his fingers behind his back.
- A Player’s Luck - July 13, 2026
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