Joseph Wambaugh - The Blue Knight

I ALWAYS TRY to learn something from the people on my beat, and as I drove away I tried to think if I learned anything from all Wimpy’s chatter. I’d heard this kind of bullshit from a thousand hypes. Then I thought of the hemorrhoid ointment for shrinking hype marks. That was something new. I’d never heard that one before. I always try to teach the rookies to keep their mouths shut and learn to listen. They usually give more information than they get when they’re interrogating somebody. Even a guy like Wimpy could teach you something if you just give him a chance.

I got back in my car and looked at my watch because I was starting to get hungry. Of course I’m always hungry, or rather, I always want to eat. But I don’t eat between meals and I eat my meals at regular times unless the job prevents it. I believe in routine. If you have rules for little things, rules you make up yourself, and if you obey these rules, your life will be in order. I only alter routines when I have to.

One of the cats on the daywatch, a youngster named Wilson, drove by in his black-and-white but didn’t notice me because he was eyeballing some hype that was hotfooting it across Broadway to reach the crowded Grand Central Market, probably to score. The doper was moving fast like a hype with some gold in his jeans. Wilson was a good young copper, but sometimes when I looked at him like this, in profile when he was looking somewhere else, that cowlick of his and that kid nose, and something else I couldn’t put my finger on, made me think of someone. For a while it bothered me and then one night last week when I was thinking so hard about getting married, and about Cassie, it came to me-he reminded me of Billy a little bit, but I pushed it out of my mind because I don’t think of dead children or any dead people, that’s another rule of mine. But I did start thinking of Billy’s mother and how bad my first marriage had been and whether it could have been good if Billy had lived, and I had to admit that it could have been good, and it would have lasted if Billy had lived.

Then I wondered how many bad marriages that started during the war years had turned out all right. But it wasn’t just that, there was the other thing, the dying. I almost told Cruz Segovia about it one time when we used to be partners and we were working a lonely morning watch at three a.m., about how my parents died, and how my brother raised me and how he died, and how my son died, and how I admired Cruz because he had his wife and all those kids and gave himself away to them fearlessly. But I never told him, and when Esteban, his oldest son, died in Vietnam, I watched Cruz with the others, and after the crushing grief he still gave himself away to them, completely. But I couldn’t admire him for it anymore. I could marvel at it, but I couldn’t admire it. I don’t know what I felt about it after that.

Thinking all these foolish things made a gas bubble start, and I could imagine the bubble getting bigger and bigger. Then I took a bubble buster, chewed it up and swallowed it, made up my mind to start thinking about women or food or something good, raised up, farted, said “Good morning, Your Honor,” and felt a whole lot better.

IT ALWAYS MADE ME FEEL GOOD just to drive around without thinking, so I turned off my radio and did just that. Pretty soon, without looking at my watch, I knew it was time to eat. I couldn’t decide whether to hit Chinatown or Little Tokyo today. I didn’t want Mexican food, because I promised Cruz Segovia I’d come to his pad for dinner tonight and I’d get enough Mexican food to last me a week. His wife Socorro knew how I loved chile relleno and she’d fix a dozen just for me.

A few burgers sounded good and there’s a place in Hollywood that has the greatest burgers in town. Every time I go to Hollywood I think about Myrna, a broad I used to fool around with a couple years ago. She was an unreal Hollywood type, but she had a good executive job in a network television studio and whenever we went anywhere she’d end up spending more bread than I would. She loved to waste money, but the thing she really had going as far as I was concerned is that she looked just like Madeleine Carroll whose pictures we had all over our barracks during the war. It wasn’t just that Myrna had style and elegant, springy tits, it’s that she really looked like a woman and acted like one, except that she was a stone pothead and liked to improvise too much sexually. I’m game for anything reasonable, but sometimes Myrna was a little too freaky about things, and she also insisted on turning me on, and finally I tried smoking pot one time with her, but I didn’t feel good high like on fine scotch. On her coffee table she had at least half a key and that’s a pound of pot and that’s trouble. I could just picture me and her getting hauled off to jail in a nark ark. So it was a bummer, and I don’t know if it’s the overall depressant effect of pot or what, but I crashed afterwards, down, down, down, until I felt mean enough to kick the hell out of her. But then, come to think of it, I guess Myrna liked that best of all anyway. So, Madeleine Carroll or not, I finally shined her on and she gave up calling me after a couple weeks, probably having found herself a trained gorilla or something.

There was one thing about Myrna that I’d never forget-she was a great dancer, not a good dancer, a great dancer, because Myrna could completely stop thinking when she danced. I think that’s the secret. She could dig hard rock and she was a real snake. When she moved on a dance floor, often as not, everyone would stop and watch. Of course they laughed at me-at first. Then they’d see there were two dancers out there. It’s funny about dancing, it’s like food or sex, it’s something you do and you can just forget you have a brain. It’s all body and deep in your guts, especially the hard rock. And hard rock’s the best thing to happen to music. When Myrna and me were really moving, maybe at some kid place on the Sunset Strip, our bodies joined. It wasn’t just a sex thing, but there was that too, it was like our bodies really made it together and you didn’t even have to think anymore.

I used to always experiment by doing the funky chicken when we first started out. I know it’s getting old now, but I’d do it and they’d all laugh, because of the way my belly jumped and swayed around. Then I’d always do it again right near the end of the song, and nobody laughed. They smiled, but nobody laughed, because they could see by then how graceful I really am, despite the way I’m built. Nobody’s chicken was as funky as mine, so I always stood there flapping my elbows and bowing my knees just to test them. And despite the raw animal moves of Myrna, people also looked at me . They watched both of us dance. That’s one thing I miss about Myrna.

I didn’t feel like roaming so far from my beat today so I decided on beef teriyaki and headed for J-town. The Japanese have the commercial area around First and Second Streets between Los Angeles Street and Central Avenue. There are lots of colorful shops and restaurants and professional buildings. They also have their share of banks and lots of money to go in them. When I walked in the Geisha Doll on First Street, the lunch hour rush was just about over and the mama-san shuffled over with her little graceful steps like she was still twenty instead of sixty-five. She always wore a silk slit-skirted dress and she really didn’t look too bad for an old girl. I always kidded her about a Japanese wearing a Chinese dress and she would laugh and say, “Make moah China ting in Tokyo than all China. And bettah, goddam betcha.” The place was plush and dark, lots of bamboo, beaded curtains, hanging lanterns.