The New Centurions

by Joseph Wambaugh

  “Hell no,” Gant laughed. “I should be, but I can’t pass the damned exam. Been failing that son of a bitch for fourteen years. I’m just a policeman like you.”

  “Not too sure of the chain of command around here,” Roy smiled.

  “How much time you got on?”

  “Almost three years,” said Roy and then was afraid Gant would pin him down to months because two years and three months was certainly not “almost three years.”

  “Different on vice, isn’t it? Calling your sergeant by his first name and all that. Far cry from patrol, huh? This is a close group. Vice work has to be. It’s intimate work. You’ll be in close and up tight with all kinds of people. You’ll see every kind of depravity you ever imagined and some you can’t even imagine when you see it. They only let a guy work eighteen months of this shit. Too goddamned sordid, that and the kind of life you lead. Hanging around in bars all night, boozing and playing around with broads. You married?”

  “No,” said Roy, and was struck with a spasm of indigestion that made him rub his stomach again.

  “The whores don’t tempt nobody, at least they shouldn’t after you been around them awhile and get to know them. But there’s a lot of pretty sexy toadies that hang around in some of these bars, lonely broads on the make, you know, just amateurs, freebies, and we’re always hanging around too. It gets kind of tempting. Only thing Sergeant Jacovitch demands of us troops is that we don’t play around on company time. If we meet something nice, we should make a date for our night off. Jake says if he catches us fooling around in some gin mill with a babe, she better be a professional whore or he’ll bounce us off the squad.”

  “I’m going through a divorce right now. I’m not really thinking too much about women.” Roy said it, and hoped Gant would ask him when the divorce was final or make some other comment about Roy’s problem because he had a sudden urge to talk to someone, anyone, about it, and perhaps Gant had also been through it. So many policemen had.

  “You know the division pretty well, Roy?” asked Gant, disappointing him.

  “Pretty well.”

  “Well, you can study that pin map on the wall,” said Gant, waving aimlessly at the wall as he made an entry on a work sheet which Roy knew would later be typed onto the vice complaint.

  “What will we work tonight, whores?”

  “Whores, yeah. We got to get some pinches. Haven’t been doing too much lately. Maybe some fruits. We work fruits when we need some bookings. They’re the easiest.”

  Roy heard voices and Phillips, a swarthy young man with unruly hair and a bristling moustache, walked through the door.

  “Hello everybody,” he announced, throwing a binocular case on the table, and carrying a set of walkie-talkies under his arm.

  “What’re the CC units for?” asked Gant. “Some kind of big deal tonight?”

  “Maybe,” said Phillips nodding to Roy. “Just before we went home last night we got a call from Ziggy’s bull dagger informant that The Cave was going to have some lewd movies going tonight. We might try to operate the place.”

  “Hell, Mickey the bartender knows every goddamn one of us. How we going to operate it? I made so damn many pinches in there, they’d know me if I came in a gorilla suit.”

  “A gorilla suit would be normal dress in that ding-a-ling joint,” said Phillips.

  “You know The Cave?” asked Gant to Roy.

  “That fruit joint on Main?” asked Roy, remembering a fight call he had received there on his first night in Central Division.

  “Yeah, but it’s not just fruits. There’s lesbians, sadists, masochists, hypes, whores, flim flammers, paddy hustlers, hugger muggers, ex-cons of all descriptions, and anybody else with a kink of some kind or other. Who in the hell’s going to operate for us, Phillips?”

  “Guess?” said Phillips, grinning at Roy.

  “Oh yeah,” said Gant. “Nobody around the streets knows you yet.”

  “I was there in uniform once,” said Roy, not relishing the idea of going alone into The Cave.

  “In uniform you’re just a faceless blue man,” said Gant. “Nobody will recognize you now that you’re in plainclothes. You know, Phillips, I think old Roy here will do alright in there.”

  “Yeah, those fruits’ll go for that blond hair,” said Phillips with a chuckle.

  The other night watch team came in. Simeone and Ranatti were neighbors as well as partners and drove to work together. Sergeant Jacovitch came in last and Roy, still an outsider not accustomed to the vice squad routine, read arrest reports while the others sat around the long table in the cluttered office doing their paper work. They were all young men, not much older than himself except for Gant and Sergeant Jacovitch, who were approaching middle age. They all dressed nearly alike with bright-colored cotton shirts hanging outside their pants, and comfortable cotton trousers which it didn’t matter if they soiled or tore while climbing a tree or crawling along a darkened hedge as Roy had done the night before when they had followed a whore and a trick to the trick pad, but had lost them when they entered the dingy apartment house because they were spotted by a tall Negro with processed hair who was undoubtedly a lookout. Roy noticed they all wore soft-soled shoes, crepe or ripple soles, so they could creep and peek and pry and Roy was not completely certain that he would like to receive an eighteen-month assignment to vice because he respected the privacy of others. He believed that this undercover surveillance smacked of fascism and he believed that people, damn it, were trustworthy and there were very few bad ones despite what cynical policemen said. Then he remembered Dorothy’s admonition that he had never really liked this job, but what the hell, he thought, vice work should be fascinating. At least for a month.

  “Bring your arrest reports in here, Roy,” called Jacovitch, who slid his chair to the side. “Might as well sit in here and listen to all the bullshit while you’re reading the lies on those arrest reports.”

  “What lies?” asked Ranatti, a handsome, liquid-eyed young man who wore an upside-down shoulder holster over a T-shirt. His outer shirt, a long-sleeved navy blue cotton was hung carefully over the back of his chair and he checked it often to make sure the tail was not dragging the floor.

  “The Sarge thinks we exaggerate sometimes on our arrest reports,” said Simeone to Roy. He was younger looking than Ranatti, rosy cheeked, and had slightly protruding ears.

  “I wouldn’t say that,” said Jacovitch. “But I’ve tried a dozen operators on Ruby Shannon and you guys are the only ones ever did any good.”

  “What’re you beefing about Jake, we got a case on her didn’t we?” Ranatti beamed.

  “Yeah,” said Jacovitch, with a wary glance first at Ranatti, then at Simeone. “But she told me you zoomed her. You know the lieutenant doesn’t want any hummer pinches.”

  “Aw, it was no hummer, Jake,” said Simeone, “she just went for old Rosso here.” He jerked a finger toward the grinning Ranatti.

  “Sure seems funny,” said Jacovitch. “She can usually smell a cop a block away, and Ranatti fooled her. Shit, he looks like he’s fresh off the beat.”

  “No, look, Jake,” said Ranatti. “We really hooked her legal, honest we did. I operated her in my own inimitable style. You know, played a slick young pool room dago, and she went for it. Never dreamt I was the heat.”

  “Another thing, it’s unusual for Ruby to go on a six-forty-seven A,” said Jacovitch. “She groped you, huh, Rosso?”

  “Honest to God, she honked my horn,” said Ranatti, raising a rather stubby right hand heavenward. “Gave it two toots with a thumb and forefinger before I laid the iron on her wrists.”

  “I don’t trust either of you bastards,” said Jacovitch to the grinning young men. “Lieutenant Francis and me were cruising the whore spots last week and we stopped and talked to Ruby at Fifth and Stanford. She mentioned the cute little Eye-talian cop that booked her on a hummer. She claims she laid a hand on your knee and you pinched her for lewd conduct right then.”

  “L
ook, boss, I’m lewd from the knee on up. Don’t you believe those Latin lover stories?”

  They all chuckled and Jacovitch turned to Roy. “What I’m trying to tell these guys is to lay off the hummers. We got a lieutenant that’s very explicit about nice legal pinches. If the whore doesn’t say the right words to you for a violation or if she doesn’t grope you lewdly, there’s no basis for a legal bust.”

  “What if she shakes you down for a gun, Jake?” asked Simeone, lighting a fat cigar that looked comical in the puffy young lips. “If she does that, I say she ought to get busted for lewd conduct. You can embellish your report a bit.”

  “Goddamn, Sim, no embellishment. That’s what I’m trying to get through to you. Look, I’m not the whole show, I’m just one of the clowns. The boss says we do police work straight arrow.”

  “Okay, Jake, but vice is a different kind of police work,” said Gant, joining in the conversation for the first time.

  “Look,” said Jacovitch in exasperation. “Do you really want to roust these whores? If you do, you got to make what amounts to a false arrest report and then perjure yourself to convict her. It’s not worth it. There’ll always be whores. Why risk your job for a lousy misdemeanor? And while I’m on the subject, the boss is a little hinky about some of these tails you been pulling where you tail the whore to the trick pad and hear her offer the guy a French for ten bucks.”

  “So?” said Simeone, not smiling now. “We made one like that last week. Something wrong with it?”

  “The lieutenant told me he drove by one of the apartment houses where a team made a bust like that. He didn’t say it was you, Sim, but he did say that the goddamn place had a windowless concrete wall on the side where the offer was supposed to be heard by the officers.”

  “Goddamn it,” said Gant, standing up suddenly, and striding across the room to his lunch sack, where he removed another cigar. “What does that fucking boy-lieutenant think this is, a college debating class with all the fucking rules laid down. I never bitched about him before, Jake, but do you know one night he asked me if I’d been drinking? Can you beat it? Ask a vice officer if he’s been drinking. I said fuck, yes, Lieutenant, what the hell do you think I should do when I’m operating a bar. Then he asked me if we always pay for our booze and whether we accept sandwiches from bar owners who know we’re heat. He wants a bunch of goody goody teetotalers with their lunch money pinned to their underwear. I’m quitting the squad if this prick gets any worse.”

  “Take it easy. Jesus,” said Jacovitch, looking fearfully toward the door. “He’s our boss. We got to have a little loyalty.”

  “That guy’s blossoming out, Jake,” said Simeone. “He’s trying to be the youngest captain on the job. You got to watch the blossomers, they’ll use their troops for manure.”

  Jacovitch looked helplessly at Roy and Roy was certain he would be admonished later by Jacovitch to keep silent about the bitching in the vice squad. He was a poor example of a supervisor if he let it die like this, thought Roy. He should never have let it go this far, but now that it had, he should set them straight. The lieutenant was the officer in charge, and if Roy were in charge, by God, he would hope his sergeant did not permit the men to insult him.

  “Let’s talk about something else, you mutineers,” Jacovitch announced nervously, jerking his glasses off and wiping them although they seemed to Roy perfectly clean.

  “Did you guys hear how many marines Hollywood vice busted last weekend?” asked Simeone, and Roy thought Jacovitch looked obviously relieved that the conversation had shifted.

  “What’s happening in Hollywood?” asked Gant.

  “What always happens?” said Simeone. “The joint is lousy with faggots. I hear they got twenty marines in fruit pinches last weekend. They’re going to notify the general at Camp Pendleton.”

  “That pisses me off,” said Gant. “I was in the corps, but things were different in those days. Even marines are different now.”

  “Yeah, I hear there’re so many fruit marines being busted, the jarheads at Camp Pendleton are afraid to be seen eating a banana,” said Ranatti. “They eat it sideways now like an ear of corn.”

  “Anybody had a chance to work on the vice complaint at the Regent Arms?” asked Jacovitch.

  “Maybe we could use our loaner here for that one,” said Ranatti, nodding at Roy. “I think operating that joint is the only way. We prowled it. I got a ladder up to the balcony on the second floor and saw the room where those two whores are tricking, but I couldn’t get close enough to the window.”

  “Trouble is, they’re damn particular who they take,” said Simeone. “I think one or maybe two bellboys are working with them and sending up the tricks. Maybe Roy here could check in and we could set something up.”

  “Roy’s too young,” said Gant. “We need an old guy like me, but I been around so long one of those whores would probably recognize me. How about you, Jake? You’re old enough and prosperous looking. We’ll make you an out of town sport and set something up.”

  “Might be alright,” said Jacovitch, running his fingers through his thinning black hair. “But the boss doesn’t like the sergeants to operate too much. I’ll see what he thinks.”

  “The Clarke Apartments is expanding their operations too,” said Ranatti. “Apartments six, seven, and eight all have hot beds in them now. Sim and me were staked out there last night for less than an hour and we must’ve seen these three whores take twelve or thirteen tricks in there one after another. The trick checks in at the desk each time too, so the place is making a fortune.”

  “One hot bed can make you plenty,” Jacovitch nodded.

  “These three are really busy. They don’t even bother changing sheets,” said Ranatti.

  “That used to be a square place,” said Gant. “I used to take a date there after work whenever I’d get lucky. Too bad they had to get involved in prostitution. Nice old guy runs the joint.”

  “Too much money in vice,” said Jacovitch looking at each of them. “It can corrupt anybody.”

  “Hey, you guys hear what Harwell did in the restroom at the Garthwaite Theater?” asked Simeone.

  “Harwell’s a day watch vice officer” said Jacovitch to Roy. “He’s about as psycho as Simeone and Ranatti. We all got our crosses to bear.”

  “What did he do this time?” asked Gant, completing his scribbled notes on a page of yellow legal-size paper.

  “He was working the restroom on the vice complaint from the manager, and he spots a brand-new glory hole between the walls of the toilets, so he plops his big ass down on the last stool without dropping his pants and he just sits there smoking his big cigar and pretty soon some fruit comes in and goes straight to the glory hole and sticks his joint through at old Harwell. Lopez was watching from the trap behind the air conditioning on the east wall and he could see real good since we had the manager take the doors off all the johns to discourage the fruits. He said when the guy’s joint came poking through the hole, why old Harwell tapped the ashes off that big cigar and blew on the coal till it was glowing red then ground it right into the head of the guy’s dick. Says the fruit was screaming on the floor when they left.”

  “That bastard’s psycho,” Jacovitch murmured. “This is his second tour on vice. I had my doubts about him. Bastard’s psycho.”

  “You ever hear about the glory hole in Bloomfield’s Department Store in the ladies dressing room?” asked Ranatti. “Where the wienie wagger shoved it through at the old babe changing clothes and she stuck a hatpin clear through it and the son of a bitch was pinned right there when the cops arrived.”

  “I heard that one for years,” said Phillips. “I think some cop dreamed that one up for a good locker room story.”

  “Well, the one about Harwell is true,” said Simeone. “Lopez told me. Said they got the hell out right away. Harwell wanted to book the fruit. Can you imagine, after he damn near burned his dick off, he wants to put him in jail? Lopez told him, ‘Let’s get the hell out of he
re and the fruit’ll never know it was a cop that did it.’”

  “Bastard’s going to get fired someday,” Jacovitch grumbled.

  “Look, you got to keep your sense of humor working this job,” Ranatti grinned. “You’d go nuts if you didn’t.”

  “I’d like to’ve seen that,” said Gant. “Was the fruit a white guy?”

  “Pretty close,” said Simeone. “He was Italian.”

  “You asshole,” said Ranatti.

  “You guys remember this is trash night,” said Jacovitch.

  “What a pain in the ass,” said Simeone. “I forgot. Jesus Christ, I wore decent clothes tonight.”

  “Trash night is the night we help the day watch,” said Jacovitch to Roy. “We’ve agreed to rummage through the garbage cans real late at night on the night before the weekly trash pickup. The day watch gives us the addresses of the places they suspect are bookie joints and we check their trash cans.”

  “I can tell all my friends I’m a G-man,” Ranatti muttered. “G for garbage.”

  “It worked pretty good so far,” said Jacovitch to Roy. “We’ve found betting markers in garbage cans in three places. That gave day watch something to work on.”

  “And I go home smelling like a garbage dump,” said Ranatti.

  “One night we were rummaging in the cans back of Red Cat Sam’s restaurant,” said Simeone, grinning at Jacovitch, “and we find a big hog’s head. Goddamn hog had a head like a lion. Old Red Cat’s a splib, specializes in soul food. Anyway, we brought the head back for Jake, here. We stuck it in his wall locker and went home. Next night we come to work early to make sure we see him open it and that’s the goddamn night this new lieutenant gets transferred in, unbeknownst to us. And they gave Jake’s locker to him. He opened that door and didn’t say a goddamn thing. Nothing! Nobody said nothing. We just all pretended like we were doing our paper work or something, and didn’t say nothing!”

  “He told me later that he thought this was an initiation for the new commander,” said Jacovitch, lighting a cigarette and coughing hoarsely. “Maybe that’s why he’s made it so tough on us.”