Joseph Wambaugh - The Blue Knight

“Hello, Morgan,” he said, with a crooked phony grin that told me he wished he’d have slunk off long before now. He was a pale, nervous guy, about forty-five years old, with a bald freckled skull.

“Hello, Zoot,” I said, putting my baton back inside the ring, and measuring the distance between us.

“You got your rocks off once by busting me, Morgan. Why don’t you go back over to your beat, and get outta my face? I moved clear over here to Figueroa to get away from you and your fucking beat, what more do you want?”

“How much action you got written down, Zoot?” I said, walking closer. “It’ll inconvenience the shit out of you to let it go in the box, won’t it?”

“Goddamnit, Morgan,” said Zoot, blinking his eyes nervously, and scratching his scalp which looked loose and rubbery. “Why don’t you quit rousting people. You’re an old man, you know that? Why don’t you just fuck off outta here and start acting like one.”

When the slimeball said that, the blackness I felt turned blood red, and I sprinted those ten feet as he let the letter slide down inside the box. But he didn’t get his hand out. I slammed the door hard and put my weight against it and the metal door bit into his wrist and he screamed.

“Zoot, it’s time for you and me to have a talk.” I had my hand on the mailbox package door, all my weight leaning hard, as he jerked for a second and then froze in pain, bug-eyed.

“Please, Morgan,” he whispered, and I looked around, seeing there was a lot of car traffic but not many pedestrians.

“Zoot, before I retire I’d like to take a real good book, just one time. Not a sleazy little handbook like you but a real bookmaker, how about helping me?”

Tears began running down Zoot’s cheeks and he showed his little yellow teeth and turned his face to the sun as he pulled another time on the arm. I pushed harder and he yelped loud, but there were noisy cars driving by.

“For God’s sake, Morgan,” he begged. “I don’t know anything. Please let my arm out.”

“I’ll tell you what, Zoot. I’ll settle for your phone spot. Who do you phone your action in to?”

“They phone me ,” he gasped, as I took a little weight off the door.

“You’re a liar,” I said, leaning again.

“Okay, okay, I’ll give you the number,” he said, and now he was blubbering outright and I got disgusted and then mad at him and at me and especially at the bookmaker I’d never have a chance to get, because he was too well protected and my weapons were too puny.

“I’ll break your goddamn arm if you lie,” I said, with my face right up to his. A young, pretty woman walked by just then, looked at Zoot’s sweaty face and then at mine, and damn near ran across the street to get away from us.

“It’s six-six-eight-two-seven-three-three,” he sobbed.

“Repeat it.”

“Six-six-eight-two-seven-three-three.”

“One more time, and it better come out the same.”

“Six-six-eight-two-seven-three-three. Oh, Christ!”

“How do you say it when you phone in the action?”

“Dandelion. I just say the word Dandelion and then I give the bets. I swear, Morgan.”

“Wonder what Red Scalotta would say if he knew you gave me that information?” I smiled, and then I let him go when I saw by his eyes that I’d guessed right and he was involved with that particular bookmaker.

He pulled his arm out and sat down on the curb, holding it like it was broken and cursing under his breath as he wiped the tears away.

“How about talking with a vice cop about this?” I said, lighting a fresh cigar while he began rubbing his arm which was probably going numb.

“You’re a psycho, Morgan!” he said, looking up. “You’re a real psycho if you think I’d fink on anybody.”

“Look, Zoot, you talk to a vice cop like I say, and we’ll protect you. You won’t get a jacket. But if you don’t, I’ll personally see that Scalotta gets the word that you gave me the phone number and the code so we could stiff in a bet on the phone clerk. I’ll let it be known that you’re a paid snitch and when he finds out what you told me you know what? I bet he’ll believe it. You ever see what some gunsel like Betnie Zolitch can do to a fink?”

“You’re the most rottenest bastard I ever seen,” said Zoot, standing up, very shaky, and white as paste.

“Look at it this way, Zoot, you cooperate just this once, we’ll take one little pukepot sitting in some phone spot and that’ll be all there is to it. We’ll make sure we come up with a phony story about how we got the information like we always do to protect an informant, and nobody’ll be the wiser. You can go back to your slimy little business and I give you my word I’ll never roust you again. Not personally, that is. And you probably know I always keep my word. Course I can’t guarantee you some other cop won’t shag you sometime.”

He hesitated for a second and then said, “I’ll settle for you not rousting me no more, Morgan. Those vice cops I can live with.”

“Let’s take a ride. How’s your arm feeling?”

“Fuck you, Morgan,” he said, and I chuckled to myself and felt a little better about everything. We drove to Central Vice and I found the guy I wanted sitting in the office.

“Why aren’t you out taking down some handbook, Charlie?” I said to the young vice cop who was leaning dangerously back in a swivel chair with his crepe-soled sneak shoes up on a desk doping the horses on a scratch sheet.

“Hi, Bumper,” he grinned, and then recognized Zoot who he himself probably busted a time or two.

“Mr. Lafferty decide to give himself up?” said Charlie Bronski, a husky, square-faced guy with about five years on the Department. I broke him in when he was just out of the academy. I remembered him as a smart aggressive kid, but with humility. Just the kind I liked. You could teach that kind a little something. I wasn’t ashamed to say he was Bumperized.

Charlie got up and put on a green striped, short-sleeved ivy-league shirt over the shoulder holster which he wore over a white T-shirt.

“Old Zoot here just decided to repent his evil ways, Charlie,” I said, glancing at Zoot who looked as sad as anyone I’d ever seen.

“Let’s get it over with, Morgan, for chrissake,” said Zoot. “And you got to swear you’ll keep it confidential.”

“Swear, Charlie,” I said.

“I swear,” said Charlie. “What’s this all about?”

“Zoot wants to trade a phone spot to us.”

“For what?” asked Charlie.

“For nothing,” said Zoot, very impatient. “Just because I’m a good fucking citizen. Now you want the information or not?”

“Okay,” Charlie said, and I could tell he was trying to guess how I squeezed Zoot. Having worked with me for a few months, Charlie was familiar with my M.O. I’d always tried to teach him and other young cops that you can’t be a varsity letterman when you deal with these barf-bags. Or rather, you could be, and you’d probably be the one who became a captain, or Chief of Police or something, but you can bet there’d always have to be the guys like me out on the street to make you look good up there in that ivory tower by keeping the assholes from taking over the city.

“You wanna give us the relay, is that it?” said Charlie, and Zoot nodded, looking a little bit sick.

“ Is it a relay spot? Are you sure?” asked Charlie.

“I’m not sure of a goddamn thing,” Zoot blubbered, rubbing his arm again. “I only came ’cause I can’t take this kind of heat. I can’t take being rousted and hurt.”

Charlie looked at me, and I thought that if this lifelong handbook, this ex-con and slimeball started crying, I’d flip. I was filled with loathing for a pukepot like Zoot, not because he snitched, hell, everybody snitches when the twist is good enough. It was this crybaby sniveling stuff that I couldn’t take.