Michael Prescott - Riptide

“We had an earthquake and it was on the news night and day, every channel. You know how many people died? Zero . Not one single person. But when people are getting murdered around here, it doesn’t make the news…”

Behind her, Jennifer heard a husky baritone say quietly, “Check her out.”

“Tight little ass. But I can’t see her face. Could be a skank.”

“So? Do her doggy style. If she be fugly, you ain’t gotta look.”

With a start she realized they were talking about her. She flashed on a memory of San Francisco-the rainswept streets, the dark underpass, the faceless stranger throwing her down-

Slowly she crossed her legs.

“See that, bro? She’s covering up. She don’t want you poking around in her snatch.”

The two of them laughed.

“So that’s where we are, people.” Sandra was winding up a long harangue. “Too poor to get protection, too middle-class to attract any media attention.”

On cue, a bored photographer clicked off a few flash photos. He seemed to be the only member of the press in attendance.

“We’re not as sexy as Rampart or South-Central, and away from the canal district we’re sure as hell not as affluent as Westwood and Los Feliz.”

One of the creeps behind her started touching Jennifer’s hair. She jerked her head away.

“We get lost in the shuffle. And that’s why we need to get together as a community and take action , put pressure on the authorities, make our voices heard .”

She stopped, giving the audience a chance to be heard right now. More amens blew through the room. A tall man in gray dreadlocks raised a fist and yelled, “Right on!” The sweatshirted figure rocked faster.

Someone was touching Jennifer’s hair again. She whirled to face him. “Quit it, asshole,” she hissed.

The guy and his friend couldn’t be older than seventeen. They laughed at her-stupid, giggly laughter-but at least the hand was withdrawn.

“All right, then. Now I know we want to be fair and balanced , as a certain right-wing news operation says”-boos from the crowd-“so I’ve invited representatives of the LAPD’s Pacific Area station to address these issues. Two officers have kindly consented to join us. Sergeant Casey Wilkes and Detective Roy Draper, please come on down and face the music.”

She said it with a humorous flourish that drew a few halfhearted chuckles, sounding like dry coughs. The rest of the crowd was unnervingly quiet.

Jennifer’s own relief surprised her. It felt good to have allies in the room.

Casey and Draper stood up from the front row of bleachers and made their way to the stage. From her vantage point she hadn’t seen them, but it made sense that they would be here. Casey, as watch commander, often pulled public-relations duty. And Draper was a homicide cop.

She wished the crowd hadn’t fallen so silent, though.

Casey, in uniform, was first to speak. He observed that police resources were stretched thin all over, which was why residents of affluent communities like Bel Air typically hired private security patrols.

“We ain’t rich enough for rent-a-cops, so we’re outta luck?” The shout came from one of the two guys directly behind her.

“That’s not what I’m saying,” Casey answered.

“It’s what you’re thinkin’ , man.”

“You cops don’t give a shit about us,” his friend chimed in. “You don’t even live in the neighborhood .”

Someone from the top row called out, “They live in Simi Valley with all the other fascists!”

“How ’bout it, Porky,” yelled the first guy, the one who’d touched her hair, “you live in these parts?”

His friend echoed the question. “Yeah, Porky, what say you? Huh? What say you? ”

The word “Porky” excited the other malcontents scattered throughout the audience. They started to chant the word. Casey shifted his weight, his face reddening.

“Porky… Porky… Porky…”

The hippies were getting into it, too. For them it would always be 1968.

Sandra waved her arms as if semaphoring. “Let the officer speak.” Her plea quieted the crowd for the moment.

Casey cited the department’s COMPSTAT figures to explain that violent crime rates had actually declined in Pacific Area. A woman with a reedy voice shrieked that the cops were cooking the books. She’d seen an article about it in the L.A. Reader.

“No one is fudging any numbers,” Casey said. “Our area commanders are just as concerned about safety as you are. They’ve seen a significant, ongoing downtrend in crimes across the board, especially violent crimes-”

The pair behind Jennifer started stamping on the bleachers.

“No way, man, my nephew was shot just last week!”

“Cops want us shot! More of us get killed, easier it is for white folks to move in and take over!”

“What d’ya say ’bout that, Porky?”

“Porky… Porky… Porky…”

Casey gave up and yielded the floor to Draper, who didn’t look happy about it.

Draper was smart enough not to compete with the crowd. He stood facing them in cold silence until the commotion died away. In the unflattering overhead light his face looked more sallow than usual, his eyes lost in dark hollows. He seemed to unman the noisier elements of the audience.

“Sandra Price is right,” he began, speaking softly enough that people were obliged to stay quiet if they wanted to hear. “There are three unsolved homicides in this division. The most recent was on Centinela Avenue in Mar Vista. That one happened on Monday night.”

He was talking about the Diaz killing. Jennifer thought of the bloated tongue, the bloodshot eyes.

“The other two occurred seven months and eighteen months ago, respectively. We believe they were so-called stranger homicides, meaning the victims didn’t know their assailants. Those are the most difficult cases to clear. In the same time period we’ve had three other homicides in Pacific Area, and solved them all. We-”

“You didn’t solve nothing!” screamed someone in the top row. “You rigged them scenes. You put cases on them people!”

“You framed those brothers!” another man shouted.

Instantly the kids behind Jennifer were on their feet, shouting, “Frame, frame, frame!” They stamped on the bench where she was seated, their heavy sneakers slamming down on both sides of her. “Frame, frame, frame !”

Chaos rippled through the stands. Other chants broke out, a babble of slogans competing with each other. The man in gray dreadlocks repeated his war cry: “Right on!” The sweatshirted figure swayed frantically, clutching his knees.

Jennifer eyed the exit, estimating her distance to the door. She wasn’t sure she dared leave. The men behind her might follow. She could be safer in here…unless a riot broke out…

Above the hubbub rose a long earsplitting shriek: “An-ar-chy!!!”

The shrieker was a young woman strategically positioned in the middle row, directly opposite the dais, who rose to her feet and unzipped her nylon jacket. She wore nothing underneath. Her bare breasts, several sizes too large for her, sprang into view. She shrugged off the jacket, let it fall, and stood topless, arms raised. “An-ar-chy! An-ar-chy!!!”

The crowd burst into whistles and hoots. The photographer, no longer bored, snapped off a rapid series of shots.

Lady Godiva had made the scene.

Draper and Casey exchanged a glance, shrugged, and walked off the dais and out of the room with as much dignity as possible. As Casey passed Jennifer’s seat, he nodded to her almost imperceptibly. Draper didn’t look her way at all. Then they were out the door, pursued by the topless anarchist’s screams.