Joseph Wambaugh: The Blue Knight

“She gonna be a blondie like momma?” I asked.

“Yeah,” she smiled. “More blond than me though. And about ten times as smart. I think she’s smarter already. I’m reading books like mad to keep up with her.”

“Those private schools are tough,” I nodded. “They teach them something.”

“You notice this one, Bumper?” she smiled, coming over to me and sitting on the arm of the chair. She was smiling big and thinking about Sissy now. “The dog’s pulling her hair. Look at the expression.”

“Oh yeah,” I said, seeing only a blur and feeling one of those heavy chi-chis resting on my shoulder. Hers were big and natural, not pumped full of plastic like so many these days.

“She’s peeved in this one,” said Glenda, leaning closer, and it was pressed against my cheek, and finally one tender doorbell went right in my ear.

“Damn it, Glenda!” I said, looking up.

“What?” she answered, moving back. She got it, and laughed her hard hoarse laugh. Then her laugh softened and she smiled and her big eyes went soft and I noticed the lashes were dark beneath the eyes and not from mascara. I thought Glenda was more attractive now than she ever was.

“I have a big feeling for you, Bumper,” she said, and kissed me right on the mouth. “You and Sissy are the only ones. You’re what’s happening, baby.”

Glenda was like Ruthie. She was one of the people who belonged to the beat. There were laws that I made for myself, but she was almost naked and to me she was still so beautiful.

“Now,” she said, knowing I was about to explode. “Why not? You never have and I always wanted you to.”

“Gotta get back to my car,” I said, jumping up and crossing the room in three big steps. Then I mumbled something else about missing my radio calls, and Glenda told me to wait.

“You forgot your hat,” she said, handing it to me.

“Thanks,” I said, putting the lid on with one shaky hand. She held the other one and kissed my palm with a warm wet mouth.

“Don’t think of leaving us, Bumper,” she said and stared me in the eye.

“Here’s a few bucks for Sissy,” I said, fumbling in my pocket for a ten.

“I don’t have any information this time,” she said, shaking her head, but I tucked it inside her G-string and she grinned.

“It’s for the kid.”

There were some things I’d intended asking her about some gunsel I’d heard was hanging out in the skin houses and taxi-dance joints, but I couldn’t trust myself alone with her for another minute. “See you later, kid,” I said weakly.

“Bye, Bumper,” she said as I picked my way through the darkness to the stage door. Aside from the fact that Cassie gave me all I could handle, there was another reason I tore myself away from her like that. Any cop knows you can’t afford to get too tight with your informant. You try screwing a snitch and you’ll be the one that ends up getting screwed.

AFTER LEAVING GLENDA it actually seemed cool on the street. Glenda never did anything like that before. Everyone was acting a little ding-a-ling when I mentioned my retirement. I didn’t feel like climbing back inside that machine and listening to the noisy chatter on the radio.

It was still morning now and I was pretty happy, twirling my stick as I strolled along. I guess I swaggered along. Most beat officers swagger. People expect you to. It shows the hangtoughs you’re not afraid, and people expect it. Also they expect an older cop to cock his hat a little so I always do that too.

I still wore the traditional eight-pointed hat and used a leather thong on my stick. The Department went to more modern round hats, like Air Force hats, and we all have to change over. I’d wear the eight-pointed police hat to the end, I thought. Then I thought about Friday as being the end and I started a fancy stick spin to keep my mind off it. I let the baton go bouncing off the sidewalk back up into my hand. Three shoe shine kids were watching me, two Mexican, one Negro. The baton trick impressed the hell out of them. I strung it out like a Yo-Yo, did some back twirls and dropped it back in the ring in one smooth motion.

“Want a choo chine, Bumper?” said one of the Mexican kids.

“Thanks pal, but I don’t need one.”

“It’s free to you,” he said, tagging along beside me for a minute.

“I’m buying juice today, pal,” I said, flipping two quarters up in the air which one of them jumped up and caught. He ran to the orange juice parlor three doors away with the other two chasing him. The shoe shine boxes hung around their necks with ropes and thudded against their legs as they ran.

These little kids probably never saw a beat officer twirl a stick before. The Department ordered us to remove the leather thongs a couple years ago, but I never did and all the sergeants pretend not to notice as long as I borrow a regulation baton for inspections.

The stick is held in the ring now by a big rubber washer like the one that goes over the pipe in the back of your toilet. We’ve learned new ways to use the stick from some young Japanese cops who are karate and aikido experts. We use the blunt end of the stick more and I have to admit it beats hell out of the old caveman swing. I must’ve shattered six sticks over guys’ heads, arms and legs in my time. Now I’ve learned from these Nisei kids how to swing that baton in a big arc and put my whole ass behind it. I could damn near drive it through a guy if I wanted to, and never hurt the stick. It’s very graceful stuff too. I feel I can do twice as well in a brawl now. The only bad thing is, they convinced the Department brass that the leather thong was worthless. You see, these kids were never real beat men. Neither were the brass. They don’t understand what the cop twirling his stick really means to people who see him stroll down a quiet street throwing that big shadow in an eight-pointed hat. Anyway, I’d never take off the leather thong. It made me sick to think of a toilet washer on a police weapon.

I stopped by the arcade and saw a big muscle-bound fruit hustler standing there. I just looked hard at him for a second, and he fell apart and slithered away. Then I saw two con guys leaning up against a wall flipping a quarter, hoping to get a square in a coin smack. I stared at them and they got nervous and skulked around to the parking lot and disappeared.

The arcade was almost deserted. I remember when the slimeballs used to be packed in there solid, asshole to belly button, waiting to look at the skin show in the viewer. That was a big thing then. The most daring thing around. The vice squad used to bust guys all the time for masturbating. There were pecker prints all over the walls in front of the viewer. Now you can walk in any bar or movie house down here and see live skin shows, or animal flicks, and I don’t mean Walt Disney stuff. It’s women and dogs, dykes and donkeys, dildos and whips, fags, chickens, and ducks. Sometimes it’s hard to tell who or what is doing what to who or what.

Then I started thinking about the camera club that used to be next door to the arcade when nudity was still a big thing. It cost fifteen bucks to join and five bucks for every camera session. You got to take all the pictures of a naked girl you wanted, as long as you didn’t get closer than two feet and as long as you didn’t touch. Of course, most of the “photographers” didn’t even have film in their cameras, but the management knew it and never bothered putting in real camera lights and nobody complained. It was really so innocent.

I was about to head back to my car when I noticed another junkie watching me. He was trying to decide whether to rabbit or freeze. He froze finally, his eyes roaming around too casually, hitting on everything but me, hoping he could melt into the jungle. I hardly ever bust hypes for marks anymore, and he looked too sick to be holding, but I thought I recognized him.