Joseph Wambaugh - The Blue Knight

“That’s fine, ’mano! ” Cruz beamed, looking like he’d like to cut loose with a yelp, like he always did when he was drunk.

“I’ll tell her today.” Now I felt relieved, and drained the last of the coffee as I got up to leave. “And I don’t give a damn if I loaf for a month. I’ll just take it easy till I feel like starting my new job.”

“That’s right!” said Cruz, his eyes happy now. “Sit on that big fat nalgas for a year if you want to. They want you as security chief. They’ll wait for you. And you have forty percent coming every month, and Cassie’s got a good job, and you still have a good bank account don’t you?”

“Hell yes,” I answered, walking toward the door. “I never had to spend much money, with my beat and all.”

“Shhh,” Cruz grinned. “Haven’t you heard? We’re the new breed of professionals. We don’t accept gratuities.”

“Who said anything about gratuities? I only take tribute.”

Cruz shook his head and said, “Ahí te huacho,” which is anglicized slang meaning I’ll be seeing, or rather, watching for you.

“Ahí te huacho,” I answered.

After I left Cruz I went back to the vice squad office and found Zoot hanging his head, and Charlie downright happy, so I figured Charlie had done all right.

“I’d like to talk to you alone for a minute, Bumper,” said Charlie, leading me into the next room and closing the door while Zoot sat there looking miserable.

“He told me lots more than he thinks he did,” said Charlie. He was charged up like any good cop should be when he has something worthwhile.

“He thinks you re taking me off his back?” I asked.

“Yeah,” Charlie smiled. “Play along. He thinks I’m going to save him from you. Just lay off him for a while, okay, Bumper? He told me he’s planning on moving his territory out of the division to Alvarado in a couple of weeks but he has to stay around Figueroa for the time being. I told him I’d talk to you.”

“Tell Zoot he doesn’t have to worry about old Bumper anymore,” I said, getting another gas pain. I vowed to myself I’d lay off the soy sauce next time I ate in J-town.

“Yeah, he’ll be a problem for the Rampart vice squad then,” said Charlie, not getting my meaning.

“Want me to take him back to Fig?”

“I’ll take him,” said Charlie. “I want to talk a little more.”

“Do me a favor?”

“Sure, Bumper.”

“You think there’s any chance of something going down because of what Zoot told you?”

“There’s a damn good chance. Zoot half-assed copped that he thinks the broad at the relay spot that takes his action is Reba McClain, and if it is we might be able to swing real good with her.”

“How’s that?”

“She’s Red Scalotta’s girlfriend. We took her down in another relay about six months ago and she got probation with a six months’ jail sentence hanging. She’s a meth head and an ex-con and stir crazy as hell. Kind of a sex thing. She’s got a phobia about jails and bull dykes and all that. Real ding-a-ling, but a gorgeous little toadie. We were just talking last week about her and if we could shag her and catch her dirty we might get to Scalotta through her. She’s a real shaky bitch. I think she’d turn her mama to stay on the street. You bringing in Zoot with that phone number was a godsend.”

“Okay, then I’m really going to ask the favor.”

“Sure.”

“Take her today or tomorrow at the latest. If she gives you something good, like a back office, take it down on Friday.”

“A back office! Jesus, I don’t think she’ll have that kind of information, Bumper. And hell, Friday is just two days away. Sometimes you stake out for weeks or months to take a back office. Jesus, that’s where the book’s records are kept. We’d have to get a search warrant and that takes lots of information beforehand. Why Friday?”

“I’m going on vacation. I want to be in on this one, Charlie. I never took a back office. I want it real bad, and it has to be before I go on vacation.”

“I’d do it for you, Bumper, if I could, you know that, but Friday’s only two days away!”

“Just do police work like I taught you, with balls and brains and some imagination. That’s all I ask. Just try, okay?”

“Okay,” Charlie said. “I’ll give it a try.”

Before I left I put on an act for Zoot so he’d think Charlie was his protector. I pretended I was mad at Charlie and Charlie pretended he was going to stop me from any future attempts to stuff Zoot down the goddamn mail chute.

AFTER I got in my car I remembered the friendly ass bite Cruz gave me and I picked up the hand mike and said, “One-X-L-Forty-five, clear.”

“One-X-L-Forty-five, handle this call,” said the operator, and I grumbled and wrote the address down. “Meet One-L-Thirty, Ninth and Broadway.”

“One-X-L-Forty-five, roger,” I said disgustedly, and thought, that’s what I get for clearing. Probably some huge crisis like taking a chickenshit theft report from some fatass stockbroker who got his wallet lifted while he was reading dirty magazines at the dirty bookstore on Broadway.

One-X-L-Thirty was a rookie sergeant named Grant who I didn’t know very well. He wore one five-year hashmark showing he had between five and ten years on. I’d bet it was a whole lot closer to five. He had a ruddy, smooth face and a big vocabulary. I never heard him swear at any roll-call he conducted. I couldn’t trust a policeman who didn’t swear once in a while. You could hardly describe certain things you see and feelings you have in this job without some colorful language.

Grant was south of Ninth near Olympic, out of his car, pacing up and down as I drove up. I knew it was snobbish but I couldn’t call a kid like him “Sergeant.” And I didn’t want to be out and out rude so I didn’t call these young sergeants by their last names. I didn’t call them anything. It got awkward sometimes, and I had to say, “Hey pal,” or “Listen bud” when I wanted to talk to one of them. Grant looked pretty nervous about something.

“What’s up?” I asked, getting out of my car.

“We have a demonstration at the Army Induction Center.”

“So?” I said, looking down the street at a group of about fifteen marchers picketing the building.

“A lot of draftees go in and out and there could be trouble. There’re some pretty militant-looking types in that picket line.”

“So what’re we gonna do?”

“I just called you because I need someone to stand by and keep them under surveillance. I’m going in to talk to the lieutenant about the advisability of calling a tactical alert. I’d like you to switch to frequency nine and keep me advised of any status change.”

“Look, pal, this ain’t no big thing. I mean, a tactical alert for fifteen ragtag flower sniffers?”

“You never know what it can turn into.”

“Okay,” and I sighed, even though I tried not to, “I’ll sit right here.”

“Might be a good idea to drive closer. Park across the street. Close enough to let them see you but far enough to keep them from trying to bait you.”

“Okay, pal,” I muttered, as Grant got in his car and sped toward the station to talk to Lieutenant Hilliard, who was a cool old head and wouldn’t get in a flap over fifteen peace marchers.

I pulled out in the traffic and a guy in a blue Chevy jumped on his brakes even though he was eighty feet back and going slow. People get black-and-white fever when they see a police car and they do idiotic things trying to be super careful. I’ve seen them concentrate so hard on one facet of safe driving, like giving an arm signal, that they bust right through a red light. That’s black-and-white fever for you.