Revenue Agent

I was driving my bouncy Japanese jeep down Tubman Boulevard. Right before I reached the turnoff to the Executive Mansion, I  noticed a man waving his arms, whistle dangling from his mouth. He marched over to the car and as I explained to the person on the other end of the line that I had been detoured the officer mimed rolling down the window. I lowered it an inch. "No talking while driving! Let me see your license," he said. I ended the call. "Reverse the car over there," he said, pointing to the side of the road in the opposite lane. He walked away to inspect my license under a flashlight. (Street lights are scarce in Monrovia.) He returned to say that unfortunately, I warranted a ticket. My phone rang incessantly. "At least 20 U.S. dollars," he said. I'm being bribed, I thought. The phone rang again. "I'm sorry, I hadn't known," I said, not at all sure of my offense. I fingered through my nearly empty wallet. He apparently noticed. "Give me 10," he said. I handed over a crumpled $5, just as another officer approached us and asked what was going on. "I'm handling it," the first officer said, swiftly folding the bill into his pocket as my phone continued to ring. "You may go now," he said. I proceeded onto UN Drive and the person on the other end of the line called back. "I know these people," he said, as a way to express his concern. When I described what had happened he quipped "So he was a revenue agent." Yes. A special job only undertaken in the protection of night.