THEY STOPPED FOR coffee at the Town Square without notifying radio. They both had packsets, little walkie-talkie radios, on their belts, so they could monitor radio traffic inside.
The Town Square was cool and humid, like the inside of a refrigerator that needed cleaning. It was “mother’s day,” the day that welfare checks came in the mail, and the bar was crowded.
“Look here,” a woman at the bar said, “better act right, ya’ll. It’s the po-lice.”
No one looked, watching the TV on the shelf over the cash register. The fuzzy picture throbbed with unnatural blues and greens, warping then flopping back into shape every few seconds as Godzilla lurches through exploding oil tanks, back-handing high-rise apartments into plaster dust and twisted girders.
“Yeah!” someone at the bar shouted, “The rent? You want the rent, motherfucker? My man Godzilla got something for you.”
A hundred Japanese movie extras run in place, screaming, as chunks of concrete rain down. One of them points up, his mouth working nonstop–without a sound–until a measured English voice finally issues from his throat, “Look. The monster comes.”
“Run, you gook motherfuckers,” someone shouted from a table in the corner, “Didi fucking mau.”
“Should of drafted old Godzilla. Sent him to The ’Nam. We’d own that fucked-up country now.”
The movie cut to a news anchor, looking up from his desk, his tie loosened. “Coming up at six,” he said, “charges that the United States abandoned its allies in Vietnam, and,” he went on, smiling now, “a look behind the scenes at a Las Vegas …”
Hanson walked around the divider that separated the bar from the lunch counter, its plastic flowers fuzzy with grease and dust, studded with the sparkling bodies of dead green flies. “Good afternoon, Gladys,” he said as he sat down at the counter.
Gladys looked up from a Watchtower magazine, her harlequin-frame glasses magnifying her eyes.
“Hello, Hanson. Coffee?”
“Yes, ma’am, if you would.”
“And coffee for me,” Dana said, sitting down.
“Two coffees,” she said.
When Hanson heard Fox’s voice on the packset, he turned up the volume and stared at it.
Go ahead Bravo One
“Could we get a meet with the district car at Mississippi and Fremont?”
Five Six Two?
Hanson picked up the packset, looked at Dana, then spoke into it, “Uh, we’re quite a ways off the district,” he lied. “Out by the airport …”
You’re the only car available, Five Six Two. Bravo One wants to talk to you on channel three.
Hanson held the mike against his leg. “But we don’t want to talk to them,” he said.
“Switching to three,” he said turning the channel knob on the radio. “Here,” he said, handing the packset to Dana, “You talk to him, okay?”
“Bravo One. Five Sixty Two. What’s up?” Dana said.
Uh, Five Six Two. We’ve got a deal going down in your district, and we could use a little backup.
Hanson rolled his eyes, and shook his head “no.”
“We are a ways off,” Dana said.
We’ll wait. In the back of the Mor-4-Les lot on Union.
Dana shrugged. “Give us fifteen minutes.”
“We got a deal going down,” Hanson said, imitating Fox. “Da-da da-da daaaah-da,” he hummed, the theme from the TV show Police Story. “Shit,” he said.
Fox and Peetey didn’t have to live in the district like he and Dana did, eight hours a day. They’d drive in from the freeway with search warrants to kick in doors, insult and humiliate suspects and their families, trash houses looking for dope, then drive away. Hanson didn’t want the neighborhood to think they worked together, that he and Dana were no different from the narcs.
Gladys set their coffee on the counter.
“Thanks, Gladys,” he said, but she’d gone back to reading her Watchtower, the cover a montage of disasters–fiery volcanos, tidal waves cresting above cowering bathers, blue-green monsoons, fissures splitting a highway, swallowing family sedans, and the words, “THE END OF THE WORLD: WHAT THE BIBLE TELLS US.”
Pharaoh came through the lunchroom door, wearing his yellow hard hat, talking to himself, “It ain’t done. Ain’t done yet, never done. I been knowin’ that,” and sat down next to Hanson.
“How you gentlemens makin’ out?” he asked Hanson.
“Doin’ all right, Pharaoh. How about you?” Hanson said.
“Pharaoh know the way, Hanson. I got my eye on you.”
“On me?” Hanson said, looking at Dana, raising an eyebrow. “Is that right?”
“That’s exactly right.”
“What you looking for?”
“That don’ make a bit of difference to anybody but me, so don’t you worry about it. Worry don’t do no good. I just do my work ever’ day, and heed the call when it comes. That way, don’t you see, I’ll earn my reward.”
Pharaoh put in a twelve-hour day, six days a week, pushing a Safeway cart up and down Union Avenue. He kept a broom jammed in the frame of the cart and it rose above him like a flag as he collected beer and pop bottles.
“How much is the chili?” he asked Gladys.
“How much was it last time?”
Pharaoh looked at Hanson, smiled, and shook his head.
“Forty cents,” Gladys said. “Like it always is.”
“Gimme some o’ that chili then. If it’s not too much trouble.”
“Not a bit of trouble,” Gladys said.
“We better get back on the street,” Dana said.
“You young gentlemen be careful out there. You brave and got the will, but don’t be too brave. You might whup the demons, but Satan takes many shapes and guises.”
Fox and Peetey were waiting in their windowless van in the parking lot, dressed in their narc costumes, Fox in a fatigue jacket and wraparound sunglasses, Peetey wearing a red and white polka dot cap, his ponytail sticking out the back. He was shirtless, wearing a cheap Mexican vest, to show off his chest and arms, and to hide the pistol stuck in the back of his jeans.
“Thanks for rolling by, Dana,” Fox said when they pulled alongside, ignoring Hanson. “We’ve got a guy dealing out of an apartment around the corner. One of my informants made a buy from him, and I’ve got a warrant.”
“What’s he selling?” Dana asked.
“Grass for sure. Probably some heroin. He left his place about fifteen minutes ago–I had my informant call him about a buy–so we’re gonna go on in and wait for the asshole to get back.”
“Okay,” Dana said. “We’ll follow you.”
“His informant,” Hanson snorted as they followed the van around the corner. “Some junkie or wino who’ll tell him whatever he wants to hear. He’s been using Riley ‘the Retard’ Marx as a snitch.”
A Ford Pinto with no windshield and four flat tires was parked in front of the cinder block apartment building where silver duct tape zig-zagged across cracked windows, and others had been replaced with the sides of cardboard boxes–Seagrams, Chlorox, New Improved Charmin.
They slipped in through the back and walked past closed doors down the shotgun hallway toward the common bathroom at the end of the hall where a radio was playing.
“… no doubt about it. Have no fear, Wardell is here, an’ he say, check this out …” his voice fading into the twitchy, ominous beginning of “The Theme from Shaft.”
Fox stopped at room 216 and rapped softly on the door.
“Robert,” he called. “Robert.”
He smiled and said, “Time for a surreptitious entry.” He pulled a little zippered wallet out of his pocket, a set of lock-picking tools, like strangely shaped, oversized typewriter keys, and sorted through them.
“… who’s the black private dick, who’s a sex machine to all the chicks? That’s right, uh-huh, Shaft …”
The doorjamb had been splintered and repaired and repainted half a dozen times, and looked like it was held together with bent nails and wood putty. “Let me try, John,” Hanson said, lifting the door by the doorknob and pushing it open.
“How about that?” he said, looking at Fox.
“That’s just fine, but he’ll probably notice that the door’s been forced,” Fox said, pointing to some pieces of dried putty that had fallen on the floor. “I could have done that if I’d wanted to be sloppy.”
“Let’s just sweep it away,” Hanson said, brushing the dust into the room, “and go inside.”
“… Shaft. He’s a bad muh-tha … Watch your mouth …”
The four of them went inside and closed the door of the small room. It smelled of old sweat, stale cigarette smoke, rotting food and roach spray. More like a bus station than a place to live. Styrofoam burger containers and pizza boxes lay on the scarred dresser and the unmade bed. A Playboy centerfold girl pouted from the water-stained wallpaper above the bed.
Down the hall, someone flushed the toilet. The radio got louder, “…an’ you know what? That Mr. Jones is one bad muh-tha … huh. You know what I’m saying. Check him out. Mid-night to morning. Takin’ you through the dark …”
“Okay,” Fox said, “here you go,” pointing to an ashtray on the gouged and cigarette-burned dresser. There was enough marijuana in the ashtray to make one generous cigarette.
Hanson laughed.
“Just an indicator,” Fox said. “Where there’s smoke, there’s fuckin’ fire. Believe me, I’ve been doing this job long enough to know,” he said. They tossed the mattress, emptied the closet on the floor, and dumped dresser drawers full of wadded-up dirty clothes.
“Hey,” Hanson said, “Fox. How come you gotta dump the guy’s clothes on the floor? Can’t you just open the fucking drawers and look through them? We gotta come down here and get along with these people every day.”
“I’m not gonna put my hands in that shit,” Fox said, turning around. “Fuck these people. Look at this. What did I tell you,” he said, holding up a hypodermic syringe.
“Oh no,” Hanson said, throwing his arms out. “You’ve got proof. This guy uses illegal drugs. You know what?” he said, stepping closer, “If I had to live in a dump like this, I’d shoot as much heroin as I could find.”
“You’re fucked up, man,” Peetey said, “John’s right. You’re fuckin’ weird.”
“And you’re fuckin’ dumb as they come,” Hanson said.
“Fuck you.” Peetey dropped his big shoulders and took a step toward Hanson.
“Fuck you, stupid,” Hanson said.
“Forget it,” Dana said, stepping in between them.
“Cool it,” Fox said, looking out the window. “Here comes our man.”
His footsteps came slowly down the hall, and when he stepped through the door Fox yelled, “Freeze.”
“Freeze, motherfucker,” Peetey screamed as they both pointed guns at his face.
“Freeze!”
He wore black trousers and a T-shirt with the words, “I’M A PEPPER” across the front. His eyes went wide, and Peetey threw a body block into him, slamming him back out the door and bouncing him off the hallway wall. Fox holstered his pistol, while Peetey kept his High Power pointed at the man’s head. Fox grabbed a double handful of his T-shirt and bounced him off the wall again.
“Man,” the guy said, standing as passively as he could, fighting the urge to raise his hands for protection, “man, don’t hurt me. Don’t hurt me now.”
“Get your hands behind your back,” Fox said, turning him around and handcuffing him. “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say …”
“You the police?” he said, twisting around to look at Fox.
“Who the fuck you think we are?” Peetey said.
“Man, I don’t know.”
“Shut up,” Fox said. “I’ll do the talking. Anything you say can and will be held against you.”
“Hey,” Peetey said, jabbing him in the chest with his finger, “Is that true? Are you a pepper, man?”
“You have the right to …”
“Hey, fucker, I asked you a question. Are you a pepper? Are you?”
“If you cannot afford an attorney …”
“You better answer me, asshole. Are you a pepper?” Peetey went on, shoving him, “Are you? Well? Are you?”
“Yes sir. Okay.”
“Okay what? Say it. ‘I’m a pepper.’”
“I’m a … pepper.”
“I couldn’t hear you, man.”
“I’m a pepper.”
“All right,” Peetey said, smiling, “the man’s a pepper.”
“Understanding your rights,” Fox went on, “are you willing to talk to me?”
“What?” the man said, looking from Peetey to Fox.
“Jesus Christ,” Fox said, “you dumb … understanding your rights …”
“Hey, John,” Hanson said, “If you want to keep fuckin’ with him, I think we’ll go.”
Dana stood at the door with his hands in his pockets.
“We need you to transport this guy. We can’t transport him in the van.”
“You all done, Peetey?” Hanson said.
Peetey just looked at him.
“Fine. Let’s go. I’ll see you down at the jail.”
“Okay,” Fox said, “he’s under arrest for possession of marijuana, sale of marijuana, possession of a controlled substance, and for resisting arrest.”
“You need anything out of your room?” Hanson asked the man.
“I got some cigarettes. I didn’t resist arrest. How did I resist arrest?”
“Where are the cigarettes?”
“Top drawer of the, uruh, the dresser.”
Hanson found the pack of Kools. “Let’s go,” he said.
Back at the patrol car he told him, “I’m gonna search you. You got any guns or knives on you?”
“No, sir.”
“You got any razor blades or shit in your pockets that’s gonna cut me?”
“No, sir.”
Hanson found a handful of change, a half-smoked cigarette, a folded page of newspaper, and a scratch-off sweepstakes game from McDonalds. He’d won a free order of fries. Hanson unfolded the section of newspaper, checking it for more dope. It was the want ads. Two janitor’s jobs were circled with pencil. He stuck the paper back in his pocket and opened the patrol car door. “Get on in. Watch your head,” he said, then closed the door.
“I’ll tell you something,” Fox said in a low voice, walking up to Hanson. “Irregardless of what your personal feelings about me are–and I couldn’t care less–you don’t argue with another officer in front of a prisoner. Save it till later. It looks real bad. It puts every police officer’s life in jeopardy on the street if it looks like we’re …”
“Fuck you. And if you charge this guy with resisting arrest, don’t expect me to back you up in court.”
“Fine. I knew I couldn’t depend on you. A lot of people know that. You’re a fucking weirdo. You’ve got no business in this job if you can’t do the work, and I’ll tell you …”
“Why don’t you suck my dick instead?”
“End of conversation. I’m a professional, Hanson. We will discuss this later.”
Hanson puckered his lips and made a loud kiss. “I love it when you look tough, John. Bye, bye.”
Dana got out of the car. “Let’s just unload this guy and get back on the street,” he said.
“How do you work with this guy?” Fox said.
“We’ll meet you at the jail,” Dana said.
Hanson got in the car, picked up the mike and said, “Five Sixty Two’s jackpot with one adult male.”
Five Sixty Two. Jackpot.
“Hey. Hey, man,” the prisoner said from behind the plexiglass shield, “Hey,” he said, leaning forward, his hands cuffed behind him, trying to keep his balance as Dana pulled the patrol car out onto the street.
“Shut up,” Hanson said, filling in the arrest report.
“Hey,” the prisoner said, “I didn’t resist arrest. I didn’t do anything but get beat up. I didn’t even know it was the police till they had me handcuffed.”
“Who the fuck did you think it was, the fucking KGB?”
“I never heard of them, officer.”
“I don’t think they’re gonna charge you with resist arrest,” Hanson said.
“But what’d they arrest me for? I didn’t do anything.”
“You’re under arrest for possession of marijuana, possession of a controlled substance, and sale of marijuana.”
“Man, I didn’t sell anything.”
“Yeah, you did. Think back.”
“I didn’t … Oh, man. That dude on Sacramento. He kept wanting to know if I could get him some weed. Every time I saw him he’s wanting some weed. The dude wouldn’t leave me alone. I think he’s a little, you know, retarded or something.”
“He wear a funny hat?”
“Yeah. You know him?”
“Riley Marx.”
“I bought an ounce of weed, turned around and sold it to him. I didn’t even make any money.”
“But you kept a little for yourself, right? The stuff in that ashtray.”
“I took out a little. For my trouble.”
“He dropped the dime on you, so I guess that makes you stupider than he is. See this paperwork I gotta do?” he said, holding up the clipboard. “Maybe that makes me stupider than both of you.”
He filled in some more boxes on the arrest report. At a stop sign a couple of black kids on bikes waved. “Po-lice,” one of them said. They looked at the prisoner. Hanson forced a smile and waved back as they drove off.
“I’m sorry you got to do the paperwork, officer.”
“Look,” Hanson said, glancing at the prisoner over his shoulder, “You know how it works. Just be cooperative at the jail. Do what they tell you to do. If they charge you with selling it, tell the public defender what you told me. Tell him you sold it to a guy who works for the police. Say it was entrapment.”
“Say what?”
“Entrapment. Entrapment, okay? But if you say you heard that from me, I’ll say you’re a liar and that you resisted arrest.”
They passed Fox and Peetey on the stairs after they’d dropped off the prisoner.
“Why don’t you people just stay off my district?” Hanson said.
“Come on,” Dana said, putting an arm around Hanson and hustling him past.
“We’d like to,” Fox said behind them, “but you don’t seem to be able to take care of it by yourself.”
“I’m glad it’s the weekend tomorrow,” Dana told Hanson. “Why don’t you get laid or something?”
In the patrol car, Hanson said, “Do you think Peetey and I had a meaningful exchange back in that room?”
“‘Fuck you,’” he said, in a low voice.
Then in a higher voice, “No. Fuck you.
“Oh yeah? Fuck you first.”
They both laughed. “You know, Dana, communication is very important. Communication is the key ingredient in any kind of work. I read that in the Sunday paper. Ka-moon-i-kay-shun. Yeah. You got to ka-moon-i-cate with people if you want to succeed. Eee-yi-eeeyi-yo.”