April Smith: North of Montana

I still haven’t actually seen a gun, nor have I been alerted to any crime, but a reasonable and prudent person does not race out of a bank discarding clothing, which seems to me at that moment of hyperreality to be a legal principle of exceptional solidity and more than enough justification to roll my car in front of his, block his exit as soon as he has closed his door, draw down on him, and ascertain if he would like to meet God.

I am carrying a.357 Magnum which I point against the driver’s window inches from the guy’s ear.

“Freeze — or I’ll blow your head off like a ripe watermelon.”

He stops trying to jam the keys into the ignition and stares up at me with runny eyes.

“I’m really nervous right now, so don’t make me use this because I probably won’t kill you, I’ll just maim you for life.”

The old clichés really work when you want someone to get a very clear, very quick picture of the consequences of his actions.

He seems hypnotized by the barrel of the gun, which must look like a cannon from his point of view, with a blurry, indistinct but clearly assertive person at arm’s length behind it.

“I want both hands on the windshield, real, real, slow.”

He puts the palms out and they cleave against the glass with a moist suction. Graying hair flies around his head in sweaty wisps. A soft belly presses up against the wheel. Somewhere it registers that the subject seems down. Irritated. Sad.

“Don’t move or I’ll blow your face right off.” He doesn’t move. “Now open the door and back out.”

As soon as the door is opened I jam the gun into the base of the skull and remove the bulge from his belt. It is a starter pistol.

“On the ground. Hands behind your back.”

Now he’s proned out on the concrete and I get the handcuffs on him.

“Back into the car. On the front seat. Face down.”

He’s in. He’s down. And the adrenaline rush sweeps through. Suddenly I’m becoming sensory perceptive, feeling things I wasn’t feeling before, like the intense heat of the noon sun, the fact that I can’t catch my breath, sweat coursing under my arms and between my breasts.

And I still haven’t called the damn thing in.

Someone’s loping through the parking lot, past people who have frozen in place like odd statues all facing the same way.

“I can’t believe you’re still here.” It’s the bank manager, also breathing hard. “We’ve just been robbed again … and”—then, incredulously—“you got him!”

“That’s why they pay me the big bucks.”

I pick up the radio. At this moment I want to be very cool: “This is signal 345. A good 211 just occurred at California First Bank, 11712 Pico. I am 10–15 with one male subject. Would appreciate assistance to handle additional inside investigation.”

There is silence on the other end. “Say again?”

Well, that’s about as cool as I get. “ I got the sucker coming out of the bank!”

Another pause. Then: “You gotta be shitting me.”

I hear the information echoed on the police scanner as the emboldened bank manager, my deputy and new best friend, rescued from despair after seven robberies and bursting now with hope for civilization, scurries around the parking lot telling people to “stand away” from the crime scene and suddenly here comes the chopper and all faces turn toward the sky.

An LAPD officer hovering above us bellows through a bullhorn, “Are you okay?”

I give him the international okay sign — a tap to the top of the head — and he banks away as the crazy Latvian cop who has this beat skids through the parking lot with sirens screaming, along with about a dozen other boys from the Wilshire Division who want to see how their brakes and tires really work. It was beautiful.

• • •

The next morning is party time. My squad has a tradition of coffee and donuts at eight a.m. and they are ready for me when I drag myself in after staying at the office until almost midnight the night before pushing the paperwork through.

I get a round of applause and one of those three-foot-long green foam-rubber hands with the fingers forming “number one” and another thoughtful souvenir from the ballpark: a cardboard tray with a Dodger Dog still wrapped in the authentic aluminum foil bag, a double sack of peanuts, and my favorite malted ice milk melted to a fine lukewarm puree.

“We thought about you all nine innings,” says Kyle Vernon. “Of course, damned if we were gonna leave!”

The others laugh. They didn’t have to leave because I had it all tied down.

“Our supervisor’s out jerking them off in Washington, why should we miss Sciosca’s dramatic run in the bottom of the ninth?” says Frank Chang with a sly smile.

“His what? Oh shit!”

Meanwhile Mike Donnato has been lying back in a chair, with tasseled loafers crossed up on his desk, and stroking his blond beard, which is on the way to gray. It is natural to be gathered around him; ten years older than me, he is the senior squad member and spiritual leader.

“So, Donnato,” I smirk, “how was Catalina Island? Nice and peaceful? Go scuba diving?”

He wrinkles his nose. “You got lucky.”

“You’re jealous!”

“You wait your whole career for a break like that. There is no justice.”

“But you and Pumpkin got to see some really neat fish.”

“If you don’t buzz off I’ll make you drive,” Donnato threatens lazily.

“Hey, I’m out of here.”

“You think this bust is your ticket to the C-1 squad?”

“I’m writing my request for transfer today.”

“Get in line, baby. Duane Carter’s really pushing for that transfer to headquarters,” says Kyle.

Duane Carter is the squad supervisor and not much liked.

“Carter’s pissed too many people off,” says Barbara Sullivan, our robbery coordinator, aka The Human Computer. “They’ll never assign him to headquarters, they’ll leave him here to rot.”

“You wish.”

“No, I don’t wish,” says Barbara, whipping the pearl she always wears back and forth on its gold chain. “If he’s going to rot, let him rot in hell.”

“Either way, Duane won’t make it easy,” says Kyle. “He likes torturing you slits.”

Barbara makes a face.

“His word, not mine,” Kyle shrugs.

“As an Afro-American, I would think you’d be especially aware of offensive stereotyping.”

“Forgive me.” Kyle matches her arch tone. “I have misplaced my gender sensitivity manual and I am at a loss as to how to reply.”

“Try this: ‘ Yo! Honky bitch!’ ” says Frank, and we all laugh because we have just been through a multicultural awareness workshop that was one big snore.

“Carter won’t have a choice.” Donnato swings his feet to the floor and breaks off a piece of sugar donut in a matter-of-fact way. “It was the perfect bust.”

I am thrilled. “Thanks.”

His eyes are full of warmth. “You just earned your spurs.”

Rosalind, an administrative assistant who’s worked in this field office twenty years, comes up to our group.

“Ana? Can I talk to you?”

“Join the party.”

“Did you hear about Ana’s perfect bust?” Donnato calls. “If you haven’t, she’ll tell you.”

“Ana,” she repeats impatiently, “I have to talk to you.”

“You better mind.” Kyle smiles toward Rosalind, who is old enough to be his mother, but today she doesn’t want to play. Planted there in the middle of the room, I notice she has a peculiar look.

“What’s the matter?”

She leads me away. Her voice is low.

“A message came for you. It’s bad news, Ana.”

Something went wrong on a case. Which one? My brain is not functioning yet this morning. I’m still back in the parking lot playing Sheena, Queen of the Jungle.