It had taken Hanson an hour and a half to process a shoplifter named Gerald McPhee, a twenty-one-year-old junkie, who had tried and failed to steal a leather-look jacket. The old and overweight security guard holding him had, while waiting for the police, finally decided to handcuff him but had managed to cuff only one wrist when McPhee had pulled away and ran for it, out the door and down the hall toward the exit, just as Hanson stepped out of the elevator in front of him. McPhee had swung the open, ratchet-toothed cuff at Hanson’s face but it was a spastic try and Hanson grabbed the cuff chain with one hand and McPhee’s long dirty hair with the other. He waltzed him across the hall, hip-butted him off balance, and smashed his face into the wall, breaking his nose. When McPhee bounced off the wall Hanson kicked his legs out from under him, slamming him to the floor, then drove his knee into McPhee’s shoulder, dislocating it. The paperwork was overwhelming: shoplifting, resisting arrest and assaulting an officer. No assignment card with Problem solved upon departure. Hanson did decide to overlook the needle marks on McPhee’s forearms and save himself from having to write up an 11550 H&S report.
The heat was at its worst, the sun low in the sky, hurtling in flames toward the deep water beyond the bay. Radio sent him to talk to a man who said his car had been stolen. He’d be waiting outside the Exxon station on Broadway, all the way across town.
“2L2, copy,” Hanson said.
Hanson had heard Radio give the same call to 2L4 when he was driving McPhee, his arm in a sling, from ACH to the jail. 2L4 had cleared from the call after a few minutes. Some kind of bogus stolen car, it sounded like, an insurance deal, or maybe the guy’s wife or girlfriend had left him, taken the car, and he was reporting it stolen so she’d be picked up. Nothing Hanson wanted to waste much time on. He was behind in his stats, with the end of the report period coming up. And he was way behind on his paperwork. 2L4 had kissed the call off, and now Radio was giving it to him secondhand.
The inside lights had been turned off in the Exxon station, and the mechanic was about to close, pulling the steel shutters down over the service bays by the time he got there. Two old men stood out front, both in their late seventies or early eighties, wearing ties and wool suits that had been fashionable thirty years ago, tailored to fit them before old age had left them frail. They stood side by side in the hot late afternoon, their hands clasped behind their backs like a preacher and his deacon. They didn’t look bogus.
He pulled up to the front of the station, got out of the car, and asked, “Are you the gentlemen who called about the stolen car?”
“I did. I called the police. Solomon Maxwell. My good friend Mr. Freely,” he said, indicating the other man, who made no effort to hide his exhaustion and anxiety.
“It’s been three hours,” Mr. Freely said, wiping sweat from his face with a damp linen handkerchief. “The other officer thought we’d forgotten where we’d parked it, and at this point…”
“You’re the second officer I’ve had to explain this to. My car was stolen.”
2L2, are you still at that Exxon station call?
“2L2, still here. I’ll advise,” Hanson said. Two old men who lost their car, he thought. Both of them had sweated through their shirt collars.
“Why don’t we go inside, gentlemen? It’s cooler in there and we can sit down to do the paperwork.” He glanced at the mechanic cleaning up one of the bays, who nodded impatiently and looked at the clock. Hanson, who was roasting in his wool uniform, considered him. Uh-huh, he thought.
“We’ll be fine out here, Officer,” Mr. Maxwell said. “The proprietor is about to close for the day.”
“Accommodate me, gentlemen,” Hanson said, ushering them into the air-conditioned waiting room that smelled of old cigarette smoke, Juicy Fruit gum, and motor oil. The concrete block walls needed a coat of white paint, and the plastic chairs were dirty and cracked. There were stacks of old Motor Trend and Sports Illustrated on a counter next to a cracked coffee maker. When the two old men were seated, Hanson asked them, “Do you recall where you parked the car, sir?”
“I do, indeed. A 1982 dark blue Cadillac Seville. It was within a block of this filling station, but it’s gone now.”
“Was it uptown, do you think,” Hanson said, indicating the direction with a nod of his head, “or down there?”
“I can’t be certain. I was busy watching the traffic,” Mr. Maxwell began.
“We’re lucky to be alive in this traffic,” Mr. Freely said. “I remember when the trolley was still running and people were civil to one another.”
“We parked less than a block away. I’m certain of that,” Mr. Maxwell said. “It took us nearly an hour to find a public phone in working order to call the police after we discovered the car was stolen…”
“None of the shops,” Mr. Freely said, “would let us use their phone. They refused to let us in the door.”
“Well,” Mr. Maxwell said.
“They refused to let you in the door?”
“A couple of desperados is how they perceived us, I’m afraid,” Mr. Maxwell said.
“They refused to let you in the door?” Hanson said again. He was outraged. Two formal old men sweating in their suits and the fuckers wouldn’t let them in to call the police.
2L2, are you clear? We’re backed up down here today.
“2L2, negative. I’m still on this stolen vehicle call,” Hanson said, seeing the relief in the old men’s faces at “stolen vehicle.” “I’ll be out here for a while, but I will advise you when I’m clear.”
“I’d hoped to find someone who could fix the clasp on my watch,” Mr. Maxwell said, “but the jewelers we managed to speak to told us they didn’t do that kind of work.”
“We’re gonna close up now, Officer,” the mechanic said, opening the glass door to the service bays, letting in the hot air, holding it open and waiting for them to stand up.
“We’ll be needing the room for a little longer.”
“We’ve got to close up.”
Hanson stood up and looked at him. “Until I’m done.”
The mechanic said, “Yeah. Okay. Sure, Officer.”
Both men looked exhausted, and Mr. Freely was appealing to Hanson with his eyes. Fuck the stats, Hanson thought. He asked them if they’d mind waiting for just five minutes, ten at the most, while he made the check of the area required before he could take a stolen vehicle report.
“I’m sorry to make you wait like this,” Hanson said, “but I’ll be back very shortly.”
Mr. Maxwell told Hanson they’d be glad to wait if that was necessary.
They watched him drive off, and he hoped they’d stay put. He should have told the fucking mechanic to watch them. He didn’t want to have to go looking for them. He put out a description of the car so downtown cars could be watching for it and began circling the blocks, driving slowly, his amber flashers on. He could drive as slow as he wanted to, holding up traffic, and he did. If he didn’t find the car, he wondered how he could get them home, hoped they had the phone number of a friend or one of their children who could come down for them. If not, he’d drive them himself. The relief sergeant, whoever he was today, could kiss his ass. This was a priority call as far as he was concerned.
After checking several blocks around the Exxon station, on the way back to see if he could arrange a ride home for them, he saw the Cadillac Seville. It was less than a block away from the station, if the station had been three blocks to the east.
When Hanson told them he thought he’d found the car, they both looked so exhausted he offered to drive them in the patrol car, though he was embarrassed about putting them in the backseat like prisoners. Mr. Maxwell saw the Cadillac as soon as they turned the corner of the block it was on.
“I apologize for your trouble, Officer. I believe that now I recall parking here.”
From the PAC-set, Radio asked if he was 909 from the S/C stolen vehicle.
“Almost done.”
“Thank you very much for your assistance, Officer Hanson. I’m only sorry my absentmindedness put you to so much trouble,” Mr. Maxwell said.
“No trouble at all, gentlemen,” he said, nodding to acknowledge Mr. Freely. “It’s easy enough to misplace your vehicle in downtown Oakland, especially if you haven’t been down here for a while. There’s a new building going up or down, it seems like, every day. Sometimes I’m surprised I don’t lose my patrol car.”
“Do you have a card, Officer?” Mr. Maxwell asked.
“Of course,” Hanson said, finding one in his wallet. “I should have thought to give it to you earlier. Drive carefully. I’m sorry Oakland put you to so much trouble this afternoon.”
They all shook hands, and Hanson stood in the street, blocking traffic, until the Cadillac pulled from the curb and pulled away. Hanson waved goodbye. He hadn’t asked for a driver’s license or registration, which he should have, to put on his report, but he was afraid the license would be expired. The report would come back to him with the empty boxes circled in red ink, and he’d have to respond with an “incomplete report” form, acknowledging his carelessness, but it was worth it.
The sun had disappeared beneath the ocean, but the distant line of clouds far out on the horizon was in flames.