Joseph Wambaugh - Finnegan's week

That night, after eating some leftover meat loaf, Fin stared into the mirror and wondered if Orson Ellis would actually follow through and get him the part. This time, if he got to play a character who was going to be in future TV episodes, who knows, something might happen!

Fin slapped at the flesh between his chin and Adam’s apple, wondering what a little tuck would cost, and whether he could make his medical insurance cover it. After all, he had legitimate acting credits, so why shouldn’t cosmetic surgery be covered as a job-related medical expense?

Orson Ellis had been right. The benchmark birthdays were harder on actors than on normal sane people. It was no consolation to remind himself that Clinton and Gore were considered young by every journalist in America. Forty-five was not young for a cop, and not young for a failed actor.

His middle sister, Bess, the most sympathetic of his three siblings, offered some advice on the subject after he’d mournfully confessed to her how he’d dreaded the last birthday.

Thirteen years older than Fin, and silently suffering the misery of hot flashes, Bess studied her baby brother for a moment and said, “Fin, honey, only sea anemones don’t age. How many movie roles’re out there for sea anemones? Now stop all this male menopause bullshit and have a piece of blueberry pie.”

While Fin Finnegan was contemplating the injustice of being a human being and not an ageless anemone, a Mexican thief named Pepe Palmera had already spotted the abandoned bobtail van on the street in the Rio Zone just below Colonia Libertad . Within a few minutes the van was making its third trip of the day up the hill.

The first thing that Pepe did that evening, after he got near his house, was to park next to the mesquite-dotted canyon and get rid of the useless drums in the back. Pepe could not read English, nor Spanish for that matter, but he understood what the skull and bones meant on the drums. He ransacked the glove compartment but found nothing except registration and insurance papers, which he threw away. He found a pair of new steel-toe shoes on the front seat of the van, and would later profoundly regret not having put them on his feet.

The drums were very heavy, but Pepe was a determined thief. He managed to tip each drum and roll it on its edge to the cargo door, where he put his shoulder to it and pushed. But Pepe tipped the last drum a bit too far and it overturned, slamming onto his left foot before he could jump clear.

Pepe screamed and sat down while the big drum with the death’s head placard rolled across the floor of the van and fell out onto the ground. Pepe knew at once that one toe was broken, perhaps two. He cursed and moaned, but eventually staggered to his feet and crawled out the cargo door.

The truck was parked one hundred meters from the row of shacks where he resided with his mother, and Pepe knew that there was a possibility that some other thief might steal the stolen truck, but that was the chance he had to take. His foot needed immediate attention.

His mother would know of a poultice or some other remedy that would control the swelling, and maybe tomorrow he could use the truck to earn enough money to go to a doctor. But then again, what could a doctor do with broken toes that nature couldn’t do? Better to spend the money on some good marijuana, Pepe thought. That would help the pain better than anything.

Pepe’s mother did her best to minister to her son that night, but the poultice didn’t help very much. Pepe was in great pain from the fractures and didn’t sleep well. And long before he got to sleep his van had been discovered by night prowlers.

The prowlers were not thieves like Pepe Palmera. They couldn’t have stolen the van from Pepe even if they’d wanted to. The older of the pair, Jaime Cisneros, was ten years old. His companion, Luis Zúniga, was nine. But they were precocious in many ways, like most of the children of the border barrios.

Luis decided to run home and borrow some of his brother’s mechanic tools to open the drums. Jaime said there might be motor oil inside them, and if there was, it could be sold for more money than they had ever seen. Even reclaimed motor oil had great value, Jaime said. His father always bought used motor oil for his Plymouth.

While the thief, Pepe Palmera, slept fitfully, Jaime and Luis labored beside the van, working on the bung that was screwed into the drum. They both had to pull on the wrench handle with all their combined weight before they had success, working there by moonlight.

“We don’t know how many pallets’re gone, but we know there’s been a major theft,” the warehouse superintendent said to Detective Bobbie Ann Doggett. “We’ll have to do a complete inventory.”

“When did somebody last see pallets in this spot?” Bobbie asked, indicating the only vacant space in that part of the quayside warehouse.

“Five days ago,” he said. “One of our people can definitely say they were here then.”

“And you’re sure the pallets contained boxes of shoes?” Bobbie asked, glancing at the report she’d received from a patrolman.

“Flight-deck shoes,” the supervisor said. “Like these.” He pulled up his right trouser leg and showed Bobbie his steel-toe high-top shoe. “I could be wrong, but I think there’s hundreds of pairs missing. Maybe more. We’ll soon know.”

“How many civilian truckers would you say had access to this warehouse during the past five days?” Bobbie asked. “Both day and night?”

“Well, we’re prestaging,” he said, “so I’d say a dozen. Maybe a dozen haulers.”

“A dozen. No more than that?”

“Could be more, I don’t really know,” the supervisor said.

It was the same story every time: no suspects, uncertainty as to what was stolen, not sure when the crime occurred. At least this time it was narrowed down to the past five days.

When Bobbie was leaving, the supervisor said, “Guess our security around here ain’t too good, huh?”

“I’d rank it with domestic beer and the House Armed Services Committee,” Bobbie replied.

After returning to the office Bobbie notified Naval Investigative Service of the grand theft, figuring they’d want to deal with it due to the large amount stolen. She got a female special agent on the phone, and after explaining the case to the woman, Bobbie said, “Guess we could handle it if you want us to. A dozen different civilian haulers coulda done it. Maybe more.”

“A dozen? Hopeless,” the special agent said. “We’re still snowed under around here. The Tailhook business is taking forever. Tailhook’s turning into the thing-that-wouldn’t-die. Halloween , part ten!”

“I don’t mind working on this one,” Bobbie said eagerly. “It’s pretty dead around here right now.”

“You got it, honey,” the special agent said. “Let us know if you come up with a suspect.”

After Bobbie hung up she had other things to think about besides navy shoes. Tomorrow night was quarterly qualification with her.45 automatic. They’d be using the North Island pistol range for the night shoot instead of the Border Patrol range. Bobbie liked it when she got to shoot the practical weapons course. She enjoyed the challenge of speed-loading, running, dropping to her knee to shoot multiple targets. But night shooting also had its charms. The smell of cordite and the muzzle flash were thrilling. And it was a relief to discover that the navy’s trusty 1911 model.45 didn’t kick all that much, not like a.357 magnum.

An instructor had said to her: “It’s a great old handgun. When you got a big punkin ball going at your target from that huge black hole, you know that if you hit what you’re aiming at nothing’s gonna be coming back at you. Very reassuring, this old gun.”