Joseph Wambaugh - The Blue Knight

Just then the mini-skirted broad walked up again. “Is he threatening you, John?” she said in a loud voice, looking over her shoulder, but the guys with the camera and mike were at the other end of the shouting line of marchers.

“Save it till they get to this end,” I said, as I now estimated her age to be closer to forty. She was a few years older than he was and the mod camouflage looked downright comical. “Want some bubble gum, little girl?” I said.

“Shut your filthy mouth,” he said, taking a step toward me. I was tight now, I wound myself up and was ready. “Stay frosty, Sitting Bull,” I smiled. “Here, have a cigar.” I offered one of my smokes, but he wheeled and walked away with old lumpy clicking along behind him.

The two black guys hadn’t moved. They too were professionals, I was positive now, but they were a different kind. If anything went down, I planned to attack those two right away. They were the ones to worry about. They both wore black plastic jackets and one wore a black cossack hat. He never took his eyes off me. He’d be the very first one I’d go after, I thought. I kept that flaky look, grinning and waving at any kid who gave me the peace sign, but I was getting less and less sure I could handle the situation. There were a couple other guys in the group that might get froggy if someone leaped, and I’ve seen what only two guys can do if they get you down and put the boots to you, let alone nine or ten.

I hated to admit it but I was beginning to wish Grant would show up with a squad of bluecoats. Still, it was a quiet demonstration, as quiet as these things go, and there was probably nothing to worry about, I thought.

The march continued as it had for a few more minutes, with the young ones yelling slogans, and then headband and mini-skirt came back with six or eight people in tow. These kids were definitely collegiate, wearing flares or bleach-streaked Levis. Some of the boys had muttonchops and moustaches, most had collar-length hair, and two of them were pretty, suntanned girls. They looked friendly enough and I gave them a nod of the head when they stopped in front of me.

One particularly scurvy-looking slimeball walked up, smiled real friendly, and whispered, “You’re a filthy, shit-eating pig.”

I smiled back and whispered, “Your mother eats bacon.”

“How can we start a riot with no riot squad,” another said.

“Careful, Scott, he’s not just a pig, he’s a wild boar, you dig?” said the mini-skirt who was standing behind the kids.

“Maybe you could use a little bore, sweetheart, maybe that’s your trouble,” I said, looking at the guy in the headband, and two of the kids chuckled.

“You seem to be the only Establishment representative we have at the moment, maybe you’d like to rap with us,” said Scott, a tall kid with a scrubbed-looking face and a mop of blond hair. He had a cute little baby hanging on his arm and she seemed amused.

“Sure, just fire away,” I said, still leaning back, acting relaxed as I puffed. I was actually beginning to want to rap with them. One time when I asked some young sergeant if I could take a shot at the “Policeman Bill” program and go talk to a class of high-school kids, he shined me on with a bunch of crap, and I realized then that they wanted these flat-stomached, clear-eyed, handsome young recruiting-poster cops for these jobs. I had my chance now and I liked the idea.

“What’s your first name, Officer Morgan?” asked Scott, looking at my nameplate, “and what do you think of street demonstrations?”

Scott was smiling and I could hardly hear him over the yelling as the ring of marchers moved twenty feet closer to us to block the entrance more effectively after the fat bitch in yellow directed them to do it. Several kids mugged at the cameraman and waved “V” signs at him and me. One asshole, older than the others, flipped me the bone and then scowled into the camera.

“That’s it, smile and say pig, you pukepot,” I mumbled, noticing the two black cossacks were at the other end of the line of marchers talking to purple legs. Then I turned to Scott. “To answer your question, my name’s Bumper Morgan and I don’t mind demonstrations except that they take us cops away from our beats, and believe me we can’t spare the time. Everybody loses when we’re not on patrol.”

“What do you patrol, the fucking barnyard?” said one little shitbird wearing shades and carrying a poster that showed a white army officer telephoning a black mother about her son being killed in Vietnam. She was shown in a corner of the poster and there was a big white cop clubbing her with an oversized baton.

“That poster doesn’t make sense,” I said. “It’s awful damn lame. You might as well label it, ‘Killed by the running dogs of imperialism!’ I could do a lot better than that.”

“Man, that’s exactly what I told him,” Scott laughed, and offered me a cigarette.

“No thanks,” I said, as he and his baby doll lit one. “Now that one’s sort of clever,” I said, pointing to a sign which said “Today’s pigs are tomorrow’s porkchops.”

None of the other kids had anything to say yet, except the shithead with the poster, who yelled, “Like, what’re we doing talking to this fucking fascist lackey?”

“Look,” I said, “I ain’t gonna lay down and play dead just because you can say ‘fuck’ pretty good. I mean nobody’s shocked by that cheap shit anymore, so why don’t we just talk quiet to each other. I wanna hear what you guys got to say.”

“Good idea,” said another kid, a black, with a wild natural, wire-rim glasses, and a tiger tooth necklace, who almost had to shout because of the noise. “Tell us why a man would want to be a cop. I mean really. I’m not putting you on, I want to know.”

He was woofing me, because he winked at the blond kid, but I thought I’d tell them what I liked about it. What the hell, I liked having all these kids crowded around listening to me. Somebody then moved the marchers’ line a little north again and I could almost talk in a normal voice.

“Well, I like to take lawbreakers off the street,” I began.

“Just a minute,” said the black kid, pushing his wire-rims up on his nose. “Please, Officer, no euphemisms. I’m from Watts.” Then he purposely lapsed into a Negro drawl and said, “I been knowin’ the PO-lice all mah life.” The others laughed and he continued in his own voice. “Talk like a real cop and tell us like it is, without any bullshit. You know, use that favorite expression of L.A.P.D.-‘asshole,’ I believe it is.” He smiled again after he said all this and so did I.

“What part of Watts you live in?” I asked.

“One-O-Three and Grape, baby,” he answered.

“Okay, I’ll talk plainer. I’m a cop because I love to throw assholes in jail, and if possible I like to send them to the joint.”

“That’s more like it,” said the black kid. “Now you’re lookin’ so good and soundin’ so fine.”

The others applauded and grinned at each other.

“Isn’t that kind of a depressing line of work?” asked Scott. “I mean, don’t you like to do something for someone once in a while instead of to them?”

“I figure I do something for someone every time I make a good bust. I mean, you figure every real asshole you catch in a dead bang burglary or robbery’s tore off probably a hundred people or so before you bring him down. I figure each time I make a pinch I save a hundred more, maybe even some lives. And I’ll tell you, most victims are people who can’t afford to be victims. People who can afford it have protection and insurance and aren’t so vulnerable to all these scummy hemorrhoids. Know what I mean?”