Joseph Wambaugh - The Blue Knight

“ Por Dios, I thought I made enough for twenty,” said Socorro.

“You did, you did, Sukie,” I said, enjoying being the whole show now, and finishing it in three big bites. “I’m just extra hungry tonight, and you made it extra good, and there’s no sense leaving leftovers around to spoil.” With that I ate half a chile relleno and swallowed some beer and looked around at all the eyes, and Nacho burped and groaned. We all busted up, Ralph especially, who fell off his chair onto the floor holding his stomach and laughing so hard I was afraid he’d get sick. It was a hell of a thing when you think of it, entertaining people by being a damn glutton, just to get attention.

After dinner we cleared the table and I got roped into a game of Scrabble with Alice and Marta and Nacho with the others kibitzing, and all the time I was swilling cold beer with an occasional shot of mescal that Cruz brought out in the open now. By nine o’clock when the kids had to go to bed I was pretty well lubricated.

They all kissed me good night except George and Nacho, who shook hands, and there were no arguments about going to bed, and fifteen minutes later it was still and quiet upstairs. I’d never seen Cruz or Socorro spank any of them. Of course the older ones spanked hell out of the younger ones, I’d seen that often enough. After all, everyone in this world needs a thumping once in a while.

We took the leaf out of the table and replaced the lace tablecloth and the three of us went into the living room. Cruz was pretty well bombed out, and after Socorro complained, he decided not to have another beer. I had a cold one in my right hand, and the last of the mescal in my left.

Cruz sat next to Socorro on the couch and he rubbed his face which was probably numb as hell. He gave her a kiss on the neck.

“Get out of here,” she grumbled. “You smell like a stinking wino.”

“How can I smell like a wino. I haven’t had any wine,” said Cruz.

“Remember how we used to sit like this after dinner back in the old days,” I said, realizing how much the mescal affected me, because they were both starting to look a little fuzzy.

“Remember how little and skinny Sukie was,” said Cruz, poking her arm.

“I’m going to let you have it in a minute,” said Socorro, raising her hand which was a raw, worn-out-looking hand for a girl her age. She wasn’t quite forty years old.

“Sukie was the prettiest girl I’d ever seen,” I said.

“I guess she was,” said Cruz with a silly grin.

“And still is,” I added. “And Cruz was the handsomest guy I ever saw outside of Tyrone Power or maybe Clark Gable.”

“You really think Tyrone Power was better looking?” said Cruz, grinning again as Socorro shook her head, and to me he honestly didn’t look a bit different now than he ever had, except for the gray hair. Damn him for staying young, I thought.

“Speaking of pretty girls,” said Socorro, “let’s hear about your new plans with Cassie.”

“Well, like I told you, she was gonna go up north to an apartment and get squared away at school. Then after the end of May when Cruz and me have our twenty years, she’d fly back here and we’d get married. Now I’ve decided to cut it short. I’ll work tomorrow and the next day and run my vacation days and days off together to the end of the month when I officially retire. That way I can leave with Cassie, probably Sunday morning or Monday and we’ll swing through Las Vegas and get married on the way.”

“Oh, Bumper, we wanted to be with you when you get married,” said Socorro, looking disappointed.

“What the hell, at our age getting married ain’t no big thing,” I said.

“We love her, Bumper,” said Socorro. “You’re lucky, very lucky. She’ll be perfect for you.”

“What a looker.” Cruz winked and tried to whistle, but he was too drunk.

Socorro shook her head and said, “sinvergüenza,” and we both laughed at him.

“What’re you going to do Friday?” asked Socorro. “Just go into rollcall and stand up and say you’re retiring and this is your last day?”

“Nope, I’m just gonna fade away. I’m not telling a soul and I hope you haven’t said anything to anyone, Cruz.”

“Nothing,” said Cruz, and he burped.

“I’m just cutting out like for my regular two days off, then I’m sending a registered letter to Personnel Division and one to the captain. I’ll just sign all my retirement papers and mail them in. I can give my badge and I.D. card to Cruz before I leave and have him turn them in for me so I won’t have to go back at all.”

“You’ll have to come back to L.A. for your retirement party,” said Cruz. “We’re sure as hell going to want to throw a retirement party for you.”

“Thanks, Cruz, but I never liked retirement parties anyway. In fact I think they’re miserable. I appreciate the thought but no party for me.”

“Just think,” said Socorro. “To be starting a new life! I wish Cruz could leave the job too.”

“You said it,” said Cruz, his eyes glassy though he sat up straight. “But with all our kids, I’m a thirty-year man. Thirty years, that’s a lifetime. I’ll be an old man when I pull the pin.”

“Yeah, I guess I’m lucky,” I said. “Remember when we were going through the academy, Cruz? We thought we were old men then, running with all those kids twenty-one and twenty-two years old. Here you were thirty-one, the oldest guy in the class, and I was close behind you. Remember Mendez always called us elefante y ratoncito ?”

“The elephant and the mouse,” Cruz giggled.

“The two old men of the class. Thirty years old and I thought I knew something then. Hell, you’re still a baby at that age. We were both babies.”

“We were babies, ’mano ,” said Cruz. “But only because we hadn’t been out there yet.” Cruz waved his hand toward the streets. “You grow up fast out there and learn too much. It’s no damn good for a man to learn as much as you learn out there. It ruins the way you think about things, and the way you feel. There’re certain things you should believe and if you stay out there for twenty years you can’t believe them anymore. That’s not good.”

“You still believe them, don’t you, Cruz?” I asked, and Socorro looked at us like we were two raving drunks, which we probably were, but we understood, Cruz and me.

“I still believe them, Bumper, because I want to. And I have Sukie and the kids. I can come home, and then the other isn’t real. You’ve had no one to go to. Thank God for Cassie.”

“I’ve got to go fix school lunches. Excuse me, Bumper,” said Socorro, and she gave us that shake of the head which meant, it’s time to leave the drunken cops to their talk. But Cruz hardly ever got drunk, and she didn’t really begrudge him, even though he had trouble with his liver.

“I never could tell you how glad we were when you first brought Cassie here for dinner, Bumper. Socorro and me, we stayed awake in bed that night and talked about it and how God must’ve sent her, even though you don’t believe in God.”

“I believe in the gods, you know that,” I grinned, gulping the beer after I took the last sip of the mescal.

“There’s only one God, goddamnit,” said Cruz.

“Even your God has three faces, goddamnit,” I said, and gave him a glance over the top of my beer bottle, making him laugh,

“Bumper, I’m trying to talk to you seriously.” And his eyes turned down at the corners like always. I couldn’t woof him anymore when his eyes did that.

“Okay.”

“Cassie’s the answer to a prayer.”

“Why did you waste all your prayers on me?”

“Why do you think, pendejo ? You’re my brother, mi hermano. ”