The New Centurions

by Joseph Wambaugh

  At eight-thirty the sun had fallen and it was cool enough to take a ride around Hollenbeck. Serge was wishing Stan Blackburn would come back and he was trying to decide whether to resume reading the treatise on the California constitution for the summer school class he wished he hadn’t taken, or whether to read a novel which he had brought to work tonight because he knew he would be waiting in the office for several hours.

  Blackburn came whistling through the door just as Serge made the decision of the novel over the California constitution. Blackburn had a simpering smile on his face and the evidence of his personal business was easy to see.

  “Better wipe the lipstick off your shirt front,” said Serge.

  “Wonder how it got way down there,” said Blackburn with a knowing wink at his mark of conquest.

  Serge had seen her once when Blackburn had parked in the alley next to her duplex, and gone inside for a moment. Serge wouldn’t have bothered with her even without the dangers of an estranged husband, and children who might report to Daddy.

  Blackburn ran a comb through his thinning gray hair, straightened his tie, and dabbed at the lipstick stain on his white shirt.

  “Ready to go to work?” asked Serge, swinging his feet off the desk.

  “I don’t know. I’m kind of tired,” Blackburn chuckled.

  “Let’s go, Casanova,” said Serge, shaking his head. “I guess I better drive so you can rest and restore yourself.”

  Serge decided to drive south on Soto and east toward the new Pomona freeway right-of-way. Sometimes in the late afternoon if it wasn’t too hot, he liked to watch the workmen scurrying about to complete another vast Los Angeles complex of steel and concrete, obsolete before it is finished, guaranteed to be strangled by cars one hour after its opening. One thing the freeway had done, it had broken up Los Gavilanes. The doctrine of eminent domain had succeeded in gang busting where the police, probation department, and juvenile court had failed—Los Gavilanes had dissolved when the state bought the property and the parents of Los Gavilanes scattered through East Los Angeles.

  Serge decided to drive through the concrete paths at Hollenbeck Park to check for juvenile gang activity. They hadn’t made an arrest for a week, mostly because of Blackburn’s time-consuming romantic meetings and Serge hoped they might spot something tonight. He liked to do just enough work to keep the sergeant off his back, although nothing had yet been said about their lack of accomplishment this week.

  As Serge drove toward the boathouse, a figure disappeared in the bushes and they heard a hollow clunk as a bottle hastily dropped, struck a rock.

  “See who that was?” asked Serge as Blackburn lazily ran the spotlight over the bushes.

  “Looked like one of the Pee Wees. Bimbo Zaragoza, I think.”

  “Drinking a little wine, I guess.”

  “Yeah, that’s not like him. He’s a glue head.”

  “Any port in a storm.”

  “Port. Hah, that’s pretty good.”

  “Think we can drive down below and catch him?”

  “No, he’s clear across the lake by now.” Blackburn leaned back and closed his eyes.

  “We better make a pinch tonight,” said Serge.

  “Nothing to worry about,” said Blackburn, eyes still closed as he took the wrappers off two sticks of gum and shoved them in his mouth.

  As Serge came out of the park onto Boyle Street he saw two more Pee Wees but Bimbo was not with them. The smaller one he recognized as Mario Vega, the other he couldn’t recall.

  “Who’s the big one?” he asked.

  Blackburn opened one eye and shined the light on the two boys who grinned and began walking toward Whittier Boulevard.

  “Ape man, they called him. I forget his real name.”

  As they passed the boys, Serge snorted at the exaggerated cholo walk of ape man: toes turned out, heels digging in, arms swinging freely, this was the trademark of the gang member. This and the curious deliberate ritual chewing on imaginary chewing gum. One wore Levis, the other khakis slit at the bottoms at the seams to “hang tough” over the black polished shoes. Both wore Pendleton shirts buttoned at the cuff to hide the puncture marks which, if they had them, would bring the status of the addict. And both wore navy watch caps as they wear in youth camp, and this showed they were ex-cons whether or not they actually were.

  Serge caught a few words of the conversation when they drove slowly past the boys, mostly muffled Spanish obscenities. Then he thought of the books which talked of the formalism of Spanish insults in which acts are only implied. Not so in familiar informal Mexican, he thought. A Mexican insult or vulgarism could surpass in color even the English equivalent. The Chicanos had given life to the Spanish obscenity.

  Serge had decided that Blackburn was asleep when at ten past ten the Communications operator said, “All Hollenbeck units, and Four-A-Forty-three, a four-eighty-four suspect just left twenty-three eleven Brooklyn Avenue running eastbound on Brooklyn and south on Soto. Suspect is male, Mexican, thirty-five to forty, five feet eight to ten, a hundred sixty to a hundred and seventy, black hair, wearing a dirty short-sleeved red turtleneck shirt, khaki pants, carrying a plaster statue.”

  Serge and Blackburn were on Brooklyn approaching St. Louis when the call came out. They passed the scene of the theft and Serge saw the radio car parked in front, the dome light on and an officer sitting inside. The other officer was in the store talking with the proprietor.

  Serge double-parked for a moment beside the radio car, and read LUZ DEL DíA RELIGIOUS STORE on the window.

  “What did he get?” he called to the officer who was a new rookie that Serge didn’t know.

  “A religious statue, sir,” said the young officer, probably thinking they were worthy of the “sir” since they were plainclothesmen. Serge was glad to see that his drowsing partner at least opened his eyes when he talked to the rookie. He hated to disillusion the young ones too quickly.

  Serge turned south on Soto and began glancing around for the thief. He turned east on First and north on Matthews and spotted the red turtleneck lurching down the street. The witness had given an excellent description he thought, but she didn’t say he was drunk.

  “Here he comes,” said Serge.

  “Who?”

  “The four-eighty-four suspect from the religious store. This has to be him. Look.”

  “Yeah, that must be him,” said Blackburn, lighting up the weaving drunk with the spotlight. The drunk threw his hands in front of his face.

  Serge stopped a few feet in front of the man and they both got out.

  “Where’s the statue?” asked Blackburn.

  “I ain’t got nothing, sir,” said the man, watery-eyed and bloated. His turtleneck was purple with the stains of a hundred pints of wine.

  “I know this guy,” said Blackburn. “Let’s see, Eddie . . . Eddie something.”

  “Eduardo Onofre Esquer,” said the man, swaying precariously. “I ’member you, sir. You bosted me lots of times for drunk.”

  “Yeah. Eddie was one of the Brooklyn Avenue winos for years. Where you been, Eddie?”

  “I got a jeer last time, sir. I been in the county for a jeer.”

  “A year? For drunk?”

  “Not for drunk. Petty theft, sir. I was choplifting a couple pairs of woman’s stocking to sell for a drink.”

  “And now you’re doing the same damn thing,” said Blackburn. “You know petty theft with a prior is a felony. You’re going to go for a felony this time.”

  “Please sir,” sobbed Eddie. “Don’ bost me this time.”

  “Get in, Eddie,” said Serge. “Show us where you threw it.”

  “Please don’ bost me,” said Eddie, as Serge started the car and drove east on Michigan.

  “Which way, Eddie?” asked Serge.

  “I didn’ throw it, sir. I set it down at the church when I saw what it was.”

  Blackburn’s spotlight lighted up the white robe and black cowl and black face of Martin de Porres on the ste
ps in front of the drab gray building on Breed Street.

  “When I saw what it was, I put it there on the steps of the church.”

  “That ain’t no church,” said Blackburn. “That’s a synagogue.”

  “Anyway, I put it there for the priest to find,” said Eddie. “Please don’ bost me, sir. I’ll go straight home to my room if you give me a break. I won’ steal no more. I swear on my mother.”

  “What do you say, partner?” asked Serge, grinning.

  “What the hell. We’re juvenile officers, ain’t we?” said Blackburn. “Eddie’s no juvenile.”

  “Go home, Eddie,” said Serge, reaching over the seat and unlocking the rear door of the car.

  “Thank you, sir,” said Eddie. “Thank you. I’m going home.” Eddie stumbled over the curb, righted himself and staggered down the sidewalk toward home as Serge retrieved the statue from the steps of the synagogue.

  “Thank you, sir,” Eddie shouted over his shoulder. “I didn’ know what I was taking. I swear to God I wouldn’ steal a saint.”

  “You about ready to eat?” asked Blackburn, after they left black Martin at the religious store, telling the proprietor they found him undamaged on the sidewalk two blocks away, and that perhaps the thief had a conscience and could not steal Martin de Porres. The proprietor said, “Quizás, quizás. Quién sabe? We like to think of a thief with a soul.”

  Blackburn offered the old man a cigarette and said, “We’ve got to believe there are good ones, eh señor? Young men like my compañero here, they don’t need anything, but when they get a little older like you and me they need some faith, eh?”

  And the old man nodded, puffed on the cigarette and said, “It is very true, señor.”

  “Ready to eat?” Serge asked Blackburn.

  Blackburn was silent for a minute, then said, “Take me to the station, will you, Serge?”

  “What for?”

  “I want to make a call. You go eat, and pick me up later.”

  Now what the hell’s going on? Serge thought. This guy had more personal problems than any partner he ever had.

  “I’m going to call my wife,” said Blackburn.

  “You’re separated, aren’t you?” asked Serge, and was then sorry he said it because innocent remarks like that could leave an opening for a lurid confession of marital problems.

  “Yeah, but I’m going to call her and ask her if I can come home. What am I doing living in a bachelor pad? I’m forty-two years old. I’m going to tell her we can make it if we have faith.”

  That’s just swell, Serge thought. Black Martin worked his magic on the horny old bastard.

  Serge dropped Blackburn at the station and drove back to Brooklyn deciding he’d have some Mexican food. Some carnitas sounded good and there were a couple of places on Brooklyn that gave policemen half price and made carnitas Michoacán style.

  Then he thought of Mr. Rosales’ place. He hadn’t been there in a few months and there was always Mariana who looked better and better each time he stopped. One of these days he might ask her out to a movie. Then he realized he hadn’t dated a Mexican girl since high school.

  He didn’t see Mariana when he first entered the restaurant. He had been coming in once or twice a month, but had missed the last few months—because of a thirty-day vacation and a waitress that Blackburn was trying to seduce at a downtown drive-in who was unaccountably interested in the old boy and was supplying them with hot dogs, hamburgers, and occasional pastramis courtesy of the boss who did not know she was doing it.

  “Ah, señor Duran,” said Mr. Rosales, waving Serge to a booth. “We have not seen you. How are you? Have you been sick?”

  “Vacation, Mr. Rosales,” said Serge. “Am I too late to eat?”

  “No, of course not. Some carnitas? I have a new cook from Guanajuato. She can make delicious barbacoa and birria.”

  “Maybe just a couple tacos, Mr. Rosales. And coffee.”

  “Tacos. Con todo?”

  “Yes, lots of chile.”

  “Right away, señor Duran,” said Mr. Rosales, going to the kitchen, and Serge waited but it was not Mariana who returned with the coffee, it was another girl, older, thinner, inexperienced as a waitress, who spilled a little coffee while pouring.

  Serge drank the coffee and smoked until she brought him the tacos. He was not as hungry as he thought, even though the new cook made them just as good as the last one. Every bit of fat was trimmed off the tiny chunks of pork and the onions were grated with care, with cilantro sprinkled over the meat. The chile sauce, Serge thought, was the best he ever tasted, but still he was not as hungry as he thought.

  Midway through the first taco, he caught Mr. Rosales’ eye and the little man hurried to his table. “More café?” he asked.

  “No, this is fine. I was just wondering, where’s Mariana? New job?”

  “No,” he laughed. “Business is so good I have two waitresses now. I have sent her to the market. We ran out of milk tonight. She will be back soon.”

  “How’s her English? Improving?”

  “You will be surprised. She is a very smart one. She talks much better than I do.”

  “Your English is beautiful, Mr. Rosales.”

  “Thank you. And your Spanish, señor? I have never heard you speaking Spanish. I thought you were Anglo until I learned your name. You are half Anglo, perhaps? Or a real Spaniard?”

  “Here she comes,” said Serge, relieved to have Mariana interrupt the conversation. She was carrying two large bags and closed the door with her foot, not seeing Serge who took a grocery bag from her hand.

  “Señor Duran!” she said, her black eyes glowing. “How good it is to see joo.”

  “How good it is to hear you speak such beautiful English,” Serge smiled, and nodded to Mr. Rosales, as he helped her take the milk to the kitchen.

  Serge returned to the table and ate heartily while Mariana put on an apron and came to his table with a fresh pot of coffee.

  “Two more tacos, Mariana,” he said, noting with approval that she had gained a few pounds and was now rounding into womanhood.

  “Joo are hungry tonight, señor Duran? We have missed you.”

  “I’m hungry tonight, Mariana,” he said. “I’ve missed you too.”

  She smiled and returned to the kitchen and he was surprised that he could have forgotten that clean white smile. Now that he saw it again, he thought it astonishing that he could have forgotten. It was still too thin and delicate a face. The forehead was ample, the upper lip still a bit long, the black eyes heavy-lashed and full of life. It was still the madonna face. He knew the tiny fire of longing still lived in spite of what the world had told him, and that flame was glowing red hot at this moment. He thought he’d let it smolder for a while because it was not unpleasant.

  When Mariana brought the second plate of tacos, he brushed against her fingers. “Let me hear you speak English,” he said.

  “What do joo wish me to say?” she laughed, self-consciously.

  “First of all, stop calling me señor. You know my name, don’t you?”

  “I know it.”

  “What is it?”

  “Sergio.”

  “Serge.”

  “I cannot say that word. The end is too harsh and difficult. But Sergio is soft and easy to say. Try it jurself.”

  “Ser-hee-oh.”

  “Ay, that sounds berry comic. Can you no’ say Sergio?” she laughed. “Sergio. Two sounds. No more. No’ three sounds.”

  “Of course,” he smiled. “My mother called me Sergio.”

  “Joo see,” she laughed. “I knew that joo could say it. But why don’ joo ever talk Spanish?”

  “I’ve forgotten,” he smiled, and thought, you couldn’t help smiling at her. She was a delightful little child. “You’re a dove,” he said.

  “What is a dove?”

  “Una paloma.”

  “But that is my name. Mariana Paloma.”

  “It fits. You’re a little dove.”

&n
bsp; “I am no’ so little. It is that joo are a big man.”

  “Did you ever see a man so big in your country?”

  “No’ many,” she said.

  “How old are you, Mariana, nineteen?”

  “Jas.”

  “Say yes.”

  “Jes.”

  “Y-y-yes.”

  “J-j-jes.”

  They both laughed and Serge said, “Would you like me to teach you to say yes? Yes is easy to say.”

  “I wish to learn all English words,” she answered, and Serge felt ashamed because her eyes were innocent, and she didn’t understand. Then he thought, for God’s sake, there are plenty of girls even if Paula wasn’t enough which she most certainly was. What would it prove to take a simple child like this? Had he lived so long alone that self-gratification had become the only purpose for living?

  Still he said, “You don’t work Sundays, do you?”

  “No.”

  “Would you like to go somewhere with me? To dinner? Or to a theater? Have you ever seen a real play? With music?”

  “Joo want me to go with joo? De veras?”

  “If Mr. Rosales will let you.”

  “He will let me go anywhere with joo. He thinks joo are a good man. Joo mean it?”

  “I mean it. Where shall we go?”

  “To a lake. Can we go to a lake? In the afternoon? I will bring food. I have never seen a lake in this country.”

  “Okay, a picnic,” he laughed. “We call it a picnic when people bring food and go to a lake.”

  “That is another hard word,” she said.

  Serge thought several times on Saturday of calling Mr. Rosales’ restaurant and calling off the outing. He never was aware of having any particular respect for himself. He realized that he was always one who wanted only to get along, to do things the easiest, least painful way, and if he could have a woman, a book, or a movie, and get drunk at least once a month, he thought that he had mastered life. But now there was the lust for the girl and it was not that he was Don Quixote, he thought, but it was a totally unnecessary bit of cruelty to take a child like her who had seen or done nothing in a short difficult life, and to whom he must seem something special with a one-year-old Corvette and expensive gaudy sports coats which Paula bought for him. He was degenerating, he thought. In three years he’d be thirty. What would he be then?