Lee Goldberg - King City

“Thank you so much, Officer,” she said. “You have no idea how many of my flowers he’s killed.”

“What’s your name, ma’am?”

“Dorothy Copeland,” she said.

“I’m Tom Wade, the sergeant at your local police station. The officer behind me is Billy Hagen.”

“We have a police station?” she asked.

“You do now.” He looked back at the man, who was in a sitting position on the ground. “What have you got against Mrs. Copeland’s garden?”

“She’s a crazy old bitch,” the man said. “Always yelling at people.”

“He makes a huge mess in the alley,” she said. “Look what I swept up this morning.”

She opened the lid of a garbage can. Wade glanced inside and saw syringes, beer bottles, fast?food wrappers, and used condoms on top of her neatly bagged trash.

“He left all of that?” Wade asked.

“He and his drug?addict friends come at night while I’m watching my programs,” she replied. “I try so hard to keep things clean, but the mess never ends.”

Wade regarded the man again. “What’s your name?”

“Terrill Curtis,” he said, scratching at his arm.

“You’re under arrest, Mr. Curtis, for public urination and vandalism.”

“You’re shitting me,” Terrill said.

“Stand up, put your hands on your head, and lean facedown over the hood of car,” Wade said.

Terrill did as he was told. Wade read him his rights as he patted him down, discovering a switchblade, a crack pipe, and a tiny square of aluminum foil, which he unfolded to reveal a pebble of crack cocaine.

“We’re charging you with possession of illegal narcotics on top of everything else,” Wade said.

Terrill glared threateningly at the woman.

Wade handcuffed Terrill and spun him so they were face?to?face.

“Mrs. Copeland and her garden are under my protection, Mr. Curtis. Whatever happens to her, or her flowers, will happen to you, whether you are the one responsible for it or not.”

“What if somebody else pisses on them?”

“Then I will piss on you,” Wade said.

“That’s not fair,” he whined.

“I got to aim at something,” Wade said and led Terrill over to Billy. “Put him in the car.”

While Billy got Terrill into the backseat, Wade went to the trunk, opened it, and took out a bullhorn, which he carried over to Mrs. Copeland.

“I’ll be back in the next day or two to check on you. In the meantime, Mrs. Copeland, I want you to have this.” He gave her the bullhorn. “You see anybody making a mess in the alley, just press the red trigger and yell at them with this. If that doesn’t work, you give me a call, any time of the day or night.”

He wrote his number down on a piece of paper and handed it to her.

“I can’t believe you’re doing all this for me,” she said.

“It’s my job, Mrs. Copeland.”

“This used to be such a nice neighborhood,” she said. “You should have seen it.”

“I still can.” Wade motioned to her garden. “Right here.”

“It smells like piss in this car,” Terrill whined from the backseat as they continued their patrol.

“Then you should feel right at home,” Billy said and then looked at Wade. “Why did we bother arresting him? He’s not exactly a major felon.”

“He is to Mrs. Copeland,” Wade said.

And he was sure that she was already talking about the arrest to all of her friends. Word would spread quickly, especially after she started using the bullhorn to yell at the junkies and hookers in the alley.

The news wouldn’t irritate guys like Fallon and Timo much, but Wade hoped it might give the law?abiding residents some comfort.

“What Terrill said was true,” Billy said.

“Which was what?”

“Nobody pees on the dirt. We always have to pee against a tree or a bush or a rock.”

“It’s instinct,” Wade said.

“You think it’s about marking territory.”

“I think it’s about aiming,” Wade said.

“So we’re using our dicks like guns,” Billy said.

“Dicks came before guns,” Wade said.

“So we’re using our guns like dicks.”

“Most of the time,” Wade said.

The blocks that followed were a mix of small homes and boxy, two?story apartment buildings built over open carports. On the retail boulevards, the liquor stores were as ubiquitous as the Starbucks coffeehouses were in New King City. There seemed to be a liquor store on every corner, second only in number to the nail salons.

He wondered if the women here were really passionate about decorating their nails or if they just enjoyed getting high on the fumes.

He kept heading east until he reached the freeway, the massive concrete interchange looming over the warren of small warehouses, repair shops, and storage units on the street and casting them in constant shadow.

One of the warehouses had a line of street people leaning against the wall out front, waiting to get inside. “Mission Possible” was painted in big letters on the windowless white cinder block. Wade wondered what the building was before it was a mission.

There was a man in a short?sleeve black shirt with a clerical collar and blue jeans walking down the line passing out water bottles from a shoulder bag. He appeared to Wade to be in his late twenties, with a shading of a beard that looked like it had been applied with a black marker to give his chin definition.

Wade pulled up to the curb and got out, meeting the priest on the sidewalk beside the police car.

The priest looked past Wade to Terrill Curtis in the backseat. “It’s a little early for you to be dropping people off here, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know,” Wade said. “Is it?”

“At least you had the courtesy to stop your car before kicking him out.”

“This isn’t his destination. He’s on his way to jail. I just stopped by to introduce myself and to let you know we’re here if you ever need us. I’m Sergeant Tom Wade and this is Officer Billy Hagen.” Billy nodded from his seat in the car. “We’re working out of the new substation across from the Pancake Galaxy.”

“I’m sorry, Sergeant,” the man said, offering his hand. “I’m Ted Fryer, but everyone calls me Friar Ted-you know, like Friar Tuck.”

“Cute,” Wade said, shaking the man’s hand.

“But I’m not actually a friar, or an ordained priest,” Friar Ted said.

“Then why are you wearing a collar?” Billy asked through the open window.

“To show my faith. I used to be one of them,” Friar Ted said, gesturing to the row of transients. “Until I was saved two years ago.”

“By Jesus,” Billy said.

“By a 2003 GMC Yukon,” Friar Ted said. “I was high, staggered into the street, and got run over. I broke every bone in my body. It’s hard to score any crack when you’re in traction.”

“Bet I could do it,” Terrill said.

“I was also a captive audience for the bored hospital pastor. He read aloud to me from the Bible for hours every day. It led me to God.”

“It would have led me to drugs,” Billy said.

Ted looked back at the line. “I tried to lead them to him, but some just can’t be saved. But I know he loves them anyway.”

Wade nodded toward Terrill. “Does the guy in the backseat live here? Is that why you thought we were bringing him back?”

Friar Ted glanced at Terrill. “I’ve seen him around. He’s come inside a few times for a hot meal, but he doesn’t live here. I saw the police car and a drug addict in the backseat and jumped to the wrong conclusion. I apologize.”

“You must have had a good reason,” Wade said.

“The only time I see the police is at night as they are speeding away.”