This Buddy Won’T Spare Anyone A Dime

The street person wearing a grubby red cap, stained white T-shirt and royal blue sweat pants shuffles toward me on Riverside.

“This guy looks like a likely suspect,” I whisper to the undercover cop who trails me in shorts and sandals.

I smile pleasantly at the man, flashing the fake Rolex on my left wrist. The wad of dimes and quarters in my right pants pocket jingles enticingly with each step.

The derelict looks through me. He makes a beeline to a trash bin where he paws through the soiled contents with the focus of a Nordstrom shopper at a half-yearly sale.

“What’s the story?” I exclaim in a hurt tone. “The guy won’t ask me for a nickel, but he’ll dig through garbage?”

Spokane Police Sgt. Ron Erickson pauses before drilling me with a punch line:

“He apparently has standards.”

Nothing like the buddy banter between two streetwise police partners. Eddie Murphy and Nick Nolte better watch their backs.

As surprising as it may seem, the police let me play Serpico on Tuesday afternoon during one of their beggar busts. They partnered me with Erickson, a 25-year SPD veteran and all-around great guy.

Panhandling is a crime in this city, if you didn’t know. Lately, an aggressive brand of serial moocher has been frightening elderly pedestrians and chasing away shoppers.

Like our downtown needed another distraction.

To crack down on some of these chiselers, police occasionally deploy a stooge to walk around and get hit up for change. When that happens, the bums are given a citation that calls for a mandatory court appearance.

Skipping court can earn them a bench warrant. And as my brothers in blue tell me, warrants are often good tools for getting chronic troublemakers off the streets.

When I heard about the panhandler patrol, I begged to be a part of it. Over the years I’ve been an easy mark for every two-bit grifter in town.

One red-faced woman - known as “The Whiner” because of her annoying voice - probably owns a condo in Hawaii, thanks to my offerings.

“Misssterrr,” she whines. “Misssterrr.”

I give her a buck. Five minutes later she’s “missstering” me like she’s never laid eyes on me.

But on this day, it’s like I’m wearing mooch repellant.

Maybe it’s the heat. Maybe I’m a lousy actor.

I try to follow Erickson’s instructions: Smile. Make eye contact. Look prosperous. I wore my new loafers.

But even the barefoot street kid with the dog won’t ask me for so much as a bus token. And she’ll hit on anybody.

People “probably think we’re a gay couple,” quips Erickson, a truly funny man, as we make another pass by Sprague and Washington.

Working undercover isn’t as thrilling as the movies make it seem. The only panhandler who desires me is an ancient bearded hobo.

He says he’ll give me his filthy hat for a dollar. “I have an earache,” he adds, gassing me with wino breath.

Who says cops are heartless? They let the old cadger off with a warning.

We finally score near a liquor store on Sprague. I can’t claim the collar, alas. The tough-looking scrounge skips me and puts the arm on another pedestrian.

Erickson hears the transaction. He uses the radio in his nylon bag to summon two bike cops.

Another victory in the fight against grime.

As a member of the force, I’m not at liberty to say what my next deep cover assignment will be.

But here’s a tip:

If you see a large, bald hairy-legged hooker on East Sprague, well, I’d think twice before asking her for sex.

MY MISTAKE: Contrary to Tuesday’s column, National Golf is not closed, but merely moved to 9616 E. Sprague. My apologies.