Joseph Wambaugh - Hollywood Crows

The gang cop smiled agreeably and said, “Roger that message, F.X. I wish we could still do things like back in the day.”

Referring to the May 1 immigration rally in MacArthur Park, which got negative national attention when the LAPD used force on demonstrators and reporters, F.X. Mulroney sneered and said, “This is May Day all over again. Like, oh, dear me, let’s not rough people up. Shit! Sister Mary Ignatius tuned us up worse than that when I was in the third fucking grade!”

“Roger that,” the gang cop said patiently.

The motor cop said, “When I came on the Job, we were taught, ‘When in doubt, choke ’em out.’ This is why when I retire next year, I’m driving my bike onto the freight elevator at Parker Center and I’m running it right up to the sixth floor and leaving it in front of the door to the chief’s office. With a sign addressed to all LAPD brass, the police commission, and the mayor. A sign that says, ‘Put this crotch rocket between your legs. You got nothing else there.’ That’s what I’m gonna do.”

Clearly, nobody doubted him. Then one of the cops from the night watch turned toward his car to stow his beanbag shotgun.

The old motor cop snorted and said, “Beanbags. When I came on the Job, beanbags were used by little kids to throw at cutout clowns. That’s what they’ve turned LAPD into, a bunch of clowns!”

“Roger that too,” the gang cop said with a sigh. “We hear you, F.X. Loud and clear.”

Now the other cops were even more eager to get away from there, what with F.X. Mulroney on the scene. But the homeboys perched on the fence or leaning against it were giving the old motor cop the stink eye. A few of them actually laughed at him. And then a big mistake was made.

The homie with the gold teeth said in a stage whisper to one of his crew, loud enough for F.X. to hear, “He’s so old they should have training wheels on his baby hog.”

All of the 18th Street cruisers chortled at that one.

The motor cop took three big strides in those black, shiny boots toward the night-watch cop standing by the open trunk of his shop, where he was putting away his beanbag gun.

“Lemme borrow this for a minute,” F.X. said, and he pulled the cop’s Taser from his Sam Browne.

“Hey!” the cop said. “Whadda you think you’re doing?”

“We only got those bulky old piece-of-shit Tasers in our saddlebags. This is the new one, ain’t it?”

“What’re you doing?” the cop repeated.

The old motor cop showed the young night-watch cop what he was doing.

“Homes,” the motor cop said to the banger with the gold teeth, and to all the other food-stamp homeboys in their $200 Adidas, “don’t ever keep an electric appliance around your bathtub. And don’t ever stand in a rain puddle and lean on a chain-link fence. A bolt from heaven could strike.”

And he fired a dart that was attached to the gun by a twenty-one-foot copper wire, right into the tangle of fencing.

When the prongs bit and hooked onto the wet steel, fifty thousand volts made a crackling sound and arced a blue dagger like in Frankenstein’s lab. And the cops watched in astonishment as the homies started doing the Taser dance.

Two dropped off the fence and three fence leaners fell ass-first in the rain puddles. The rest leaped clear after experiencing shocks, mostly imagined, and everyone began screaming and cursing.

“He fucking electrocuted me!”

“I’m suing!”

“All you cops are witnesses!”

“I got a burn on my ass!”

And F.X. Mulroney joined in the chorus, crying out, “But I was only doing a spark check! Shit happens!”

“ Pinchi cop!” Gold Tooth yelled. “He shocked us! You saw it!”

“My lawyer!” a homie yelled. “I’m calling my lawyer!”

Flotsam and Jetsam stared as Officer Francis X. Mulroney spread his arms wide, looked up at the darkening sky, and cried, “God knows I’m innocent! Even Bill Clinton had a premature discharge!”

“I’m fucking suing!” Gold Tooth yelled.

F.X. Mulroney bowed his head then and murmured, “Oh, the horror. The horror!”

Flotsam whispered to Jetsam, “F.X. always goes over the top. He’s, like, way dramatic.”

Jetsam whispered back, “In Hollywood everybody’s an actor.”

All the drama caused Flotsam and Jetsam to walk quietly to their shop, start the engine, and drive away before anyone noticed they were gone.

Most of the other bluesuits were doing the same, and the gang cop pulled Gold Tooth aside and said, “Homes, I think you better forget all about this…accident.”

“Accident, my ass!” the homie said.

The gang cop said, “Can you imagine what’ll happen if this story gets out? That crazy old motor cop can retire anytime. You can’t hurt him. But everybody’ll be laughing like hyenas. At you, dude. At your whole posse. MS Thirteen will laugh. White Fence will laugh. El Eme will laugh. All the Crips and Bloods from Southeast L.A. that done your people wrong, they’ll laugh the loudest. You’ll hear fucking laughter in your sleep!”

Gold Tooth thought it over and huddled with his crew for a minute or two. When he returned, he said, “Okay, but we don’t want nobody to know about this, right? All your cops gotta keep their mouths shut.”

“If there’s one thing cops can do, it’s keep a secret,” the gang cop said.

When they were two blocks from the scene, Flotsam said, “Dude, do you realize we were a witness to Hollywood history being made? That old copper just brought down a whole crew with one fucking shot!”

“We didn’t see nothing, bro,” Jetsam said. “We were already gone when history was being made.” After a pause, he said, “When he’s ready to pull the pin, do you think that loony old motor cop will really, like, drive his bike up to the chief’s office and leave it there with a sign on it?”

“What motor cop?” Flotsam replied.

IT WORRIED RONNIE SINCLAIR that her partner, Bix Ramstead, was so troubled by the encounter with the Somalians. They were at Starbucks on Sunset Boulevard, both doing some paperwork before going end-of-watch. Bix, never garrulous, had been unusually quiet all day.

The third time he brought it up he said, “Sometimes I think being a copper turns you into an animal in more ways than one. The hair on my neck hasn’t settled down since we first laid eyes on that scar-faced Somali. That guy’s fifty-one-fifty, for sure.”

“He’s way out there, no doubt,” Ronnie said, “but what could we do about it? There was no evidence of violent behavior. I gave her every chance to walk outta there and she flat-out refused. What could we do?”

“Nothing, I suppose,” Bix said. “But wasn’t your blue radar blinking? That dude’s gonna hurt that girl.”

“He’s probably hurt her already,” Ronnie said. “Lots and lots of times. He owns her, according to their customs. You know we couldn’t pick her up and bundle her out on the basis of blue radar, Bix.”

“Of course,” he said, “but it still bothers me.”

“The way I look at stuff like that is, it’s not my tragedy. I have to see it, but I don’t have to take it home with me. I let it go.”

“My wife’s told me that for years,” Bix said. “That’s one of the reasons I got into CRO. Her telling me I was bringing too much shit home with me for too many years.”

“She was right,” Ronnie said, thinking that every once in a while she’d run into a cop like Bix Ramstead, someone who didn’t have the right temperament for the Job. Somebody who couldn’t let it go.

He suddenly looked a bit embarrassed, as cops do when they indulge in uncoplike self-revelatory talk. He turned the conversation to her. “You ever gonna get married again, you think?”