by Tom Wolfe
Nestor saw the big one edging ever so slowly toward the barred window, which also meant toward the door, which remained slightly ajar. The Sergeant must have noticed it, too, out of the corner of his eye, because he turned his head slightly toward Nestor and said out of the side of his mouth, “Manténla abierta.”
Those two words instantly lit up an entire network of deductions… and Nestor was expected to comprehend it all instantly. First, every Cuban cop knew that speaking Spanish to each other in front of black people in Overtown or Liberty City made them paranoid… followed by infuriated. In the insusurro campaign, all Latin cops, and especially Cuban, were told not to do it unless it was absolutely necessary. So the Sergeant’s very choice of language was an alarm. Manténla abierta meant keep it open. What was it that was open? Only one thing of any obvious importance: the front door—toward which the big man was edging. And why was that important? Not merely to make it easier to enter the house and search it—but also to make it legal. They had no search warrant. They could enter legally only if one of two situations arose. One was, if they were invited in. This occurred surprisingly often. If a cop said, “Mind if we look around?” the amateur sinner was likely to say to himself, “If I say ‘Yes, I do mind,’ they’ll take that as a sign of guilt.” So the sinner says, “No, I don’t mind,” even when he knows the evidence the cops are looking for is right out in the open. The other legal way was “in hot pursuit.” If a suspect ran through a door into his house to elude the cops, the cops could follow him through the door into the house… in hot pursuit—but only if the door was open. If it was closed, the cops couldn’t force it open, couldn’t break in—without a warrant. “Manténla abierta”—two words only. “Nestor, don’t let that big cózzucca close that front door.” Cózzucca was the way many Latins, even those fluent in English, pronounced “cocksucker.” Cózzucca was the way the Sergeant himself pronounced it. Nestor heard him. He had said it aloud two minutes ago. Cózzucca lit up in the great chain of cop logic.
“So why don’t you tell me what kind of work you do here.”
Silence. All that turned on in the one second before the skinny one said, “I ’unno. Ain’t no work. I’m just sitting here.”
“Just sitting here?” asked the Sergeant. “What if I told you some cózzucca just gave you five dollars for a little package.” He put his forefinger near his thumb to show how small it was. “Whattaya call that? You don’t call that work?”
The moment the big man saw the Sergeant’s finger charade of the drug sale, he began moving crabwise in front of the bars on the window, toward the door. Nestor moved with him from three feet away. The moment the Sergeant said the words “call that work,” the big man bolted for the door. Nestor sprang onto the porch after him, yelling, “STOP!” ¡Manténla abierta! The big man reached the door before Nestor could stop him. But he was so big, he had to open the door another two feet just to get through it. Nestor lunges for the doorjamb… manages to get his foot between the frame and the door just as the big man tries to slam it shut. Hurts like hell!… not wearing good cop shoes with a leather sole but CST sneakers. The big man kicks at Nestor’s toe, then tries to stomp on it. An adrenal wave sweeps through Nestor’s body. Nestor has the willpower the willpower the willpower the willpower, and he gains about three inches—just enough to use his lungs to yell, “Miami Police! Show me your hands! Show me your hands!” All at once the resistance on the other side of the door—no longer exists! Nestor finds himself hurtling forward—the eyes!—he sees all these eyes!—in the dark and tubercular blue glow of a TV set in the millisecond before he lands sprawling on the floor. ::::::Where’s the big guy? I’m inside the house, completely vulnerable. In the time it takes me to get back on my feet, if the big guy has a gun—what is this?—can’t see a goddamn thing!… It’s these $29.95 CVS Cuban cop supremo darkest shades with the gold bar… plunged from the sun outside to here in the dark—they’ve covered the windows so nobody can see in—damned Cuban cop shades! I’m in and I still can’t see; I’m practically blind.:::::: He starts scrambling to his feet… The moment lengthens lengthens l e n g t h e n s for an eternity, but his motor responses are paralyzed paralyzed p a r a l y z e d… all he can see are eyes eyes eyes e y e s… and the tubercular glow! He’s on his feet—the eyes—what the hell is that? Jesus Christ! It’s a white face! Not just a light-skinned black woman but pure white!… holding a black child she is… ::::::what the hell is this place?::::::
—and all of that rushed through his head in the less than two seconds since he came hurtling through the contested doorway—and he still can’t find that black hulk he was after—::::::I’m nothing but a big fat target now… no shield but my authority… I am a cop:::::: starts bellowing, “MIAMI POLICE! SHOW ME YOUR HANDS! SHOW ME”
—four seconds—
“YOUR HANDS!”… Babies start crying—Jesus Christ! Babies!… Off to one side, four or five feet away: a tan-faced boy and girl, six or seven years old ::::::I can’t see them:::::: scared to death, holding the palms of their hands up before him… obediently! WE SHOW YOU OUR HANDS!… Babies crying! Almost directly ahead a big momma holding a bawling baby… a momma?—a bawling baby?—in a dope den? Look at her!—sitting down holding the baby, but that doesn’t obscure her bulging belly… too much for the too-tight jeans she should have never even looked at… gray hair frizzed out in some kind of wannabe-young ’do… big jowls, deep lines in her face… belligerent: “Whatchoo trying to do to my son? You people—he ain’t done nothing! He ain’t never spent a day in jail, and you—”
—six seconds—
“come in here—” She begins shaking her head in disgust… Jesus Christ, this ain’t a dope den, it’s a goddamned nursery! A small room it is, a hovel of a room, filthy… no light… the windows are blocked… two plates on the floor, bits of food left on them, abandoned… a girl about ten squatting over another plate… Jesus, they eat on the floor… got next to no furniture… one small couch against the back wall with a fat boy cowering on it with wide eyes… an old wooden table in the back and a TV set somewhere over here glowing like it’s radioactive… Shit! Nestor hears a low voice saying, “Fuck the cops… ram the bastards… your call,”
—eight seconds—
“dude… He whack you… or you whack him, the motherfucker”… followed by the squeal of tires and a loud crash… broken glass tinkling on the pavement… “Take that, pigs”… all the words in a low voice, however… Nestor swings his head toward that part of the room… the tubercular blue glare of a television set… two boys, eleven or twelve years old, maybe thirteen or fourteen… Nestor advances toward them… “MIAMI POLICE! SHOW ME YOUR HANDS!”… Wait a minute, brickhead! The two black kids aren’t even intimidated… the blue glow of the TV screen lights up their young faces in the sickliest conceivable way… The low voice again, like somebody having a conversation in the background… “Up yours, you”
—eleven seconds—
“fatass cops! Gon’ come out through your fucking nose!” Nestor gets a look at the screen… a title comes up: “Grand Theft Auto Overtown”… “Grand Theft Auto Overtown?”… heard of Grand Theft Auto, video game… but what the fuck? This is Overtown!… There is this fucking world in which Overtown has heroes!—brave hell-driving men who don’t give a shit about you cops and all your so-called authority! Fuck you, Officer! Up yours, Officer! And these two children—they’re ready! Some Cuban cop comes in with a badge hanging around his neck and his supremo darkest shades and a holster on his belt, screaming, “Miami Police! Show me your hands!” and so what are they supposed to do—cringe?—grovel?—beg for mercy? Hell, no. They’re going right back to Grand Theft Auto Overtown. Some people recognize Overtown for what it is… a place where dudes got heart… and tell the fucking foreign invaders to go fuck themselves. Whoever made this game knew that much. They say right there on the screen when we show we got heart, you fucking Spanishit motherfuckers! Grand Theft Auto Overtown!
—fourteen seconds—<
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Another momma! She’s sitting on the floor with a terrified little girl… looks too old to still be sucking her thumb, but she’s sucking it for all she’s worth… This momma’s not fat at all. She looks broad-shouldered and rangy… gray hair pulled back on the sides… but she hates the occupying forces… What is this place?… Who the fuck ever raided a drug den that’s all women and children?… and crying babies!… and resentful children so contemptuous of you and your authority, they’re playing Grand Theft Auto Overtown Fuck the Cops right in your face… eyes and eyes and eyes—and over there—the pure white face again—a young woman—afraid—
—eighteen seconds—
Voice behind him back at the door yelling, “MIAMI POLICE! SHOW ME YOUR HANDS!” It’s Sergeant Hernandez, charging into the hovel behind him as backup… Must have turned the skinny light-skinned kid over to Nuñez… Sergeant Hernandez shouts, “Nestor, ¿tienes el grueso? ¿Localizaste al grueso?” (Did you find the heavyset one?)
“¡No!” said Nestor. “¡Mira a detrás de la casa, Sargento!” (Keep an eye on the back of the house, Sergeant!)
“Speak English, damn you!” It’s the big momma. She’s on her feet, still holding the baby, which is bawling its head off. She’s built like an oil burner, the big woman. She’s had enough. She’s not gonna put up with your army of occupation any longer. “You don’t come in my house jabbering like a bunch a baboons!”
“This is your house?” roared the Sergeant.
“Yeah, it’s my house—and it’s—”
“What’s your name?”
“—these people’s house.” She swung her hand about as if to include everybody in the room. “It’s the co-mmunity’s—”
—thirty seconds—
“What’s your name?” said the Sergeant. He was boring his most intensive Cop Look squarely between her eyes.
But the big momma played it tough. “What business ’at s’pose be a yo’s?”
“S’pose a be you and yo’ big mouth, Momma, are under arrest! Everybody in this room is under arrest! You’re selling drugs outta here!”
“Selling druuuuuugs,” said the big momma with ultimate mockery. “This is a co-mmunity center, man”—and the baby in her arms went off on another wailing jag.
From behind: “MIAMI POLICE! NOBODY MOVES!” and “Miami Police! Nobody moves!” sounded out in a curious atonal harmony. It was Nuñez and García, coming in through the front door. Two more babies started wailing, making three in all. It was damned disorienting. Here was stern Sergeant Jorge Hernandez’s big baritone voice saying, “You’re under arrest! You’re selling drugs!” And a choral response of wailing babies, sometimes three, sometimes two… when one of the trio goes into a terrifying paroxysmal silence—seconds go by—will she ever come out of it or will her little lungs burst?… and then she comes out of it—fully recharged—screaming bloody infanticide… How do you deal with an opera like this? How do you snap everybody to cop-style attention in a dark little room full of big-mouth mommas cradling tiny howling tantrums in their arms?
Whuhhh—Nestor sees the table in the back of the room rising up four or five inches on one side… ping a ping a ping ping, knives and forks and spoons, sliding off onto the floor… The Sergeant sees it, too… springs toward it… Nestor springs toward it from the other side… Bursting out from underneath it—it’s that big sonofabitch rising up like a monster… “Police! FREEZE, YOU PIECE A SHIT!” bellows the Sergeant… The hulk hesitates an instant to size up the threat… he’s seeing red… makes a move toward the Sergeant… to squeeze him like a bug… the Sergeant unsnaps the flap over his holster with his forefinger—No, Sarge!—too late! The giant’s on top of him, going for his throat… the gun—useless—the Sergeant’s clawing with both hands trying to pry loose the huge fingers around his neck. Nestor hurls himself WHOMP onto the giant’s back. The man is huge, he’s powerful, he outweighs Nestor by close to a hundred pounds… Nestor wraps his legs around the giant’s abdomen and locks his ankles together… He must feel like a little amok monkey to the giant, who lifts his arms to reach behind his shoulders and swat this nuisance away… frees the Sergeant from being throttled just long enough to begin drawing the gun from the holster… “No, Sarge!” says Nestor—thrusts both his arms under the brute’s armpits and clasps his hands together at the base of his skull… Oh, Nestor remembers very well!… in high school wrestling this was known as a “full nelson”… illegal because if you pressed down on the base of the skull, you might break your opponent’s neck… Oh, does he remember!… the leg lock was known as a “figure four”… the nelson and the figure four—ride him!—ride that sonofabitch until he can’t move anymore!… force the bastard’s head and neck down until he wants to beg for mercy—but can’t get words out because of his constricted throat… “Unnnnggggh… unnnnggggghh”… trying desperately to pry Nestor’s hands off the back of his head… getting nowhere… Nestor and his Rodriguez’s Gym rope-climbing arms. The giant can’t stand the pain… Unnnnggggghhhheeeee!… Unnnnnngggggghhhhhheeeeeee!… Nestor feels himself going over backward… the giant’s propelling himself backward to bodyslam his little tormentor… crush him by making him hit the floor under all that weight… they’re both keeling over… Nestor uses his leg lock to torque the giant’s body… they crash to the floor… not the big one on top of the little one but side by side. The giant rolls over, trying to flatten Nestor with his great weight crackle but every time he rolls over crackle Nestor still has a leg lock on him. The giant rolls and rolls crackle crackle, he crackles every time he rolls facedown on his abdomen… rolls over onto his belly crackle with the little monkey on top, the little monkey stays locked upon his back and ’bout like to break his neck—“Sarge, no!” Sergeant Hernandez is free and on his feet, gun drawn, trying to get a clean shot at the giant… too much rolling and writhing. ::::::Which one is he gonna end up hitting?:::::: “No, Sarge, don’t! I’ve got him!”… The full nelson has the giant’s head keeled over toward his chest… His moans are escalating into screams uuunnngohohohohOGHOHHHH!… one last strangled scream and all at once he’s just a great sack of fat—he’s struggling… the giant is gasping… trying to suck air… starts thrashing his legs… tries to launch his great thighs, as if that’s going to break the grip of Nestor’s figure four leg lock. Big mistake… used up every last pocket of air in his lungs… rasping sounds, rasping sounds… pathetic heaves and whimpers… struggling for oxygen… Nestor’s able to force the great bull’s skull down as far as his own arms will go… The giant’s eyes are glassy, his mouth is wide open… he sounds like a huge dying creature… Good! “Let’s roll, motherfucker!” he shouts into the brute’s ear and presses down even harder on his neck… the bull attempts to roll once more to get some kind of relief… Nestor lets him roll crackle until his already bloody face is mashed once more into the floor… and he gives up all hope—slummmp—all muscular contraction is gone from his body. He goes slack… he’s finished… he can’t do anything but lie on the floor with his lungs forcing dying sounds up from his gullet in their struggle for air.
“Okay, you uhhh stu-pid uhhh uhhh uhhh,” says Nestor, who is out of breath himself. Oh, how ardently he wanted to say pussy!—to announce to the entire room his male elation over turning a 250-pound man into a helpless pussy!… He stops himself on the very edge of the cliff—but then takes the plunge: “You stupid pussy! If I uhhh let you uhhh up uhhh you gon’ be uhhh good uhhh uhhh uhhh—good boy?”
The giant grunts. He can no longer make a sound. Nestor releases his clasped hands from behind the man’s skull and looks about for the first time. The Sergeant is standing over him, smiling… but with a smile that says, “That’s great—and I think maybe you’ve lost your mind.” That was how Nestor read it. He struggled to sound calm and speak in a low, slow voice. “Sarge… unhh… tell Hector to get me some uhhh wrist ties… I uhhh… I don’t uhh believe uhh this uhhh uhhh uhhh uhhh bastard will keep his word.”
Hector Nuñez came in with the wr
ist ties, and they bound the giant’s wrists together behind his back… He just lay there… He didn’t move at all, aside from his chest heaving as his lungs struggled to replenish their oxygen supply… Nestor was now on his feet. He, Nuñez, and the Sergeant stood over their great beached whale.
“Sarge, let’s roll him over,” said Nestor. “Did you hear that kind of crackling sound every time he rolled?” He hadn’t. “I heard it every time we rolled over and he was on the bottom, Sarge. It was like he had something on his belly or chest and it made this crackling noise.”
So they rolled the man over until he was on his back. The guy was so massive and at the same time so out of it, it took all three of them to do it. It was like trying to roll a 300-pound sack of cement over. His eyes opened once, and he looked at them blearily. His face was absolutely expressionless. The only part of it that worked was his mouth. He kept it open under orders from his lungs. He made a sawing sound somewhere deep in his throat.
“You see something weird?” said the Sergeant.
“What, Sarge?”
“He’s got his T-shirt tucked in. Look at him. That’s the first dirtbag I’ve seen in Overtown with his shirt tucked in in five years, maybe ten.”
“There’s something under it,” said Nuñez. “It’s like sort of… lumps or something.”
Nuñez and Nestor leaned over the man and began pulling the T-shirt out of his pants. His belly was so big and his chest was heaving so much, and his T-shirt was tucked so far down his pants—pulling it out was a job and a half. The man was finally coming around. His breathing had calmed down from mortal panic to mere frantic fear.
