The New Centurions

by Joseph Wambaugh

  When Roy had at last decided to come back to duty and move to the apartment again it had been Carl who was the most bewildered by it all. Christ, I need to relax, Roy thought, looking at Dugan who was driving slowly checking license numbers against the hot sheet. Dugan checked thousands of license numbers against the hot sheet.

  “Drive to Eighty-second and Hoover,” said Roy.

  “Okay, Roy. What for?”

  “I want to use the call box.”

  “To call the station? I thought we were going in with the burglary report anyway.”

  “I want to call R & I. And I don’t want to go in just yet. Let’s patrol for a while.”

  “Okay. There’s a call box just down the street.”

  “Doesn’t work.”

  “Sure it does. I just used it the other night.”

  “Look, Dugan. Take me to Eighty-second and Hoover. You know that’s the call box I always use. It works all the time and I like to use it.”

  “Okay, Roy,” Dugan laughed. “I guess I’ll start developing habits too when I get a little more experience.”

  Roy’s heart thumped as he stood behind the opened metal door of the call box and drank hopefully. He might only have to make one call to R & I tonight, he thought grimly. He’d have to be extremely careful with a rookie like Dugan. His throat and stomach were still burning but he drank again and again. He was very nervous tonight. Sometimes it happened like this. His hands would become clammy and he would feel light-headed and he had to relax. He screwed the lid back on the bourbon and replaced the bottle in the call box. Then he stood for a moment sucking and chewing on three breath mints and an enormous wad of chewing gum. He returned to the car where Dugan was impatiently tapping on the steering wheel.

  “Let’s go to the station now, Dugan my lad,” said Roy, already more relaxed, knowing the depression would dissolve.

  “Now? Okay, Roy. But I thought you said later.”

  “Got to go to the can,” Roy grinned, lighting a cigarette and whistling a themeless tune as Dugan accelerated.

  While Dugan was in the report room getting a DR number for his burglary report, Roy started, wavered, and started again for the parking lot. He debated with himself as he stood by the door of his yellow Chevrolet, but then he realized that another drink could not possibly do more than relax him a bit more and completely defeat the towering specter of depression that was the hardest thing to combat unassisted. He looked around, and seeing no one in the dark parking lot, unlocked the Chevrolet, removed the pint from the glove compartment and took a large fiery mouthful. He capped the bottle, hesitated, uncapped it and took another, then one more, and put the bottle away.

  Dugan was ready when he walked back in the station.

  “Ready to go, Roy?” Dugan smiled.

  “Let’s go, my boy,” Roy chuckled, but before they had patrolled for half an hour, Roy had to call R & I from the call box at Eighty-second and Hoover.

  At 11:00 P.M, Roy was feeling marvelous and he began thinking about the girl. He thought of her bottle too and wondered if she were feeling as fine as he was. He also thought of her smooth lithe body.

  “That was a pretty nice-looking girl, that Laura Hunt,” said Roy.

  “Who?” asked Dugan.

  “That broad. The burglary report. You know.”

  “Oh, yeah, pretty nice,” said Dugan. “Wish I could write a ticket. I haven’t got a mover yet this month. Trouble is, I haven’t learned to spot them yet. Unless a guy blasts right through a red light three seconds late or something obvious like that.”

  “She was put together,” said Roy. “I liked that, didn’t you?”

  “Yeah. Do you know a good spot to sit? Some good spot where we could get a sure ticket?”

  “An apple orchard, huh? Yeah, drive down Broadway, I’ll show you an apple orchard, a stop sign that people hate to stop for. We’ll get you six tickets if you want them.”

  “Just one will do. I think I should try to write one mover a day. What do you think?”

  “One every other day is enough to keep the boss happy. We got more to do than write tickets in this goddamn division. Hadn’t you noticed?”

  “Yes,” laughed Dugan, “I guess we’re busy with more serious things down here.”

  “How old are you, Dugan?”

  “Twenty-one, why?”

  “Just wondering.”

  “I look young, don’t I?”

  “About eighteen. I knew you had to be twenty-one to get on the job, but you look about eighteen.”

  “I know. How old are you, Roy?”

  “Twenty-six.”

  “Is that all? I thought you were older. I guess because I’m a rookie, everyone seems much older.”

  “Before we get that ticket, drive down Vermont.”

  “Any place in particular?”

  “To the apartment. Where we took the burglary report.”

  “Any special reason?” asked Dugan, looking at Roy warily, exposing large portions of the whites of his large, slightly protruding eyes, and the eyes shining in the darkness made Roy laugh.

  “I’m going to do a little pubic relations, Dugan my boy. I mean public relations.”

  Dugan drove silently and when they reached the apartment building he turned off on the first side street and shut his lights off.

  “I’m still on probation, Roy. I don’t want to get in trouble.”

  “Don’t worry,” Roy chuckled, dropping his flashlight on the street as he got out of the car.

  “What should I do?”

  “Wait right here, what else? I’m just going to try to set something up for later. I’ll be back in two minutes for heaven’s sake.”

  “Oh, that’s good. It’s just that I’m on probation,” said Dugan as Roy strode unsteadily to the front of the building and almost laughed aloud as he stumbled on the first step.

  “Hello,” he grinned, before she had a chance to speak, while the door chime still echoed through the breezeway. “I’m almost off duty and I wondered if you were really going to get drunk. I plan to, and one sad drunk always seeks out another, doesn’t he?”

  “I’m not really surprised to see you,” she said, holding a white robe at the bosom, not looking particularly friendly or unfriendly.

  “I really am sad,” he said, still standing in the doorway. “The only sadder face I’ve seen lately is yours. The way you were tonight. I thought we could have a few drinks and sympathize with each other.”

  “I have a head start on you,” she said, unsmiling, pointing to the fifth on the breakfast bar that was no longer full.

  “I can catch up,” said Roy.

  “I have to get up early and go to work tomorrow.”

  “I won’t stay long. Just a drink or two and a friendly pair of eyes is all I need.”

  “Can’t you find the drink and eyes at home?”

  “Only the drink. My place is as lonely as this one.”

  “What time do you get off?”

  “Before one. I’ll be here before one.”

  “That’s late as hell.”

  “Please.”

  “Alright,” she said, and smiled a little for the first time and closed the door softly, as he crept down the stairway, holding the handrail in a tight grip.

  “We got a call,” said Dugan. “I was about to come and get you.”

  “What is it?”

  “Go to the station, code two. Wonder what’s up?”

  “Who knows?” said Roy, lighting a cigarette, and opening a fresh stick of gum in case he would be talking to a sergeant at the station.

  Sergeant Schumann was waiting in the parking lot when they arrived, along with two other radio car teams. Roy walked care-fully when they parked their car and joined the others.

  “Okay, everyone’s here, I guess,” said Schumann, a young sergeant with an imperious manner who annoyed Roy.

  “What’s up?” asked Roy, knowing that Schumann would make an adventure out of an assignment to write parking tickets.


  “We’re going to tour Watts,” said Schumann. “We’ve gotten several letters in the last week from Councilman Gibbs’ office and a couple from citizens groups complaining about the drunken loafers on the streets in Watts. We’re going to clean them up tonight.”

  “You better rent a couple semi’s then,” said Betterton, a cigar-smoking veteran, “one little B wagon ain’t going to hold the drunks that hang out on one corner.”

  Schumann cleared his throat and smiled self-consciously as the policemen laughed, all except Benson, a Negro who did not laugh, Roy noticed.

  “Well, we’re going to make some arrests, anyway,” said Schumann. “You men know all the spots around a Hundred and Third and down around Imperial and maybe Ninety-second and Beach. Fehler, you and your partner take the wagon. You other men, take your cars. That’ll make six policemen so you shouldn’t have any trouble. Stick together. Fill the wagon first, then scoop up a few in your radio cars and bring them in. Not here, take them to Central Jail. I’ll make sure it’s okay at Central. That’s all. Good hunting.”

  “Oh, sweet Jesus,” Betterton groaned, as they walked to their cars. “Good hunting. Did you hear that? Oh, sweet Jesus. I’m glad I retire in a couple years. This is the new breed? Good hunting, men. Oh, Jesus.”

  “Want me to drive the wagon, Roy,” asked Dugan eagerly.

  “Of course. You’re driving the car tonight, aren’t you? You drive the wagon.”

  “You don’t need a chauffeur’s license, do you?”

  “It’s just a beat-up panel truck, Dugan,” said Roy as they walked to the rear parking lot. Then Roy stopped, saying, “I just thought of something. I want to get a fresh pack of cigarettes from my car. Get the wagon and meet me in front of the station.”

  Roy could hear Dugan racing the engine of the wagon as he fumbled in the darkness for his car keys and at last was forced to use the flashlight, but this side of the parking lot was still and quiet and he knew he was worrying unnecessarily. He wouldn’t do it if he weren’t feeling a little depressed again. Finally he unlocked the car, held the button on the door post in so the overhead light stayed out as he opened the bottle one-handed, expertly, and sat with his legs out of the car ready to jump out in case he heard footsteps. He finished the pint in four or five swallows and felt in the glove compartment for the other but couldn’t find it, and he realized there was no other. He had finished it this morning. Funny, he chuckled silently, that’s pretty funny. Then he locked the car and walked woodenly to the wagon which Dugan was revving in front of the station. He chewed the mints as he walked and lit a cigarette he didn’t really want.

  “Might be kind of fun working a drunk wagon,” said Dugan, “I’ve never done it before.”

  “Oh yeah,” said Roy. “Soon as a drunk pukes on you or rubs his shit-covered pants against your uniform, let me know how you like it.”

  “Never thought of that,” said Dugan. “Do you think I should get my gloves? I bought some.”

  “Leave them. We’ll just hold the door open and let the other guys throw the drunks in.”

  The rattling bumping panel truck was making Roy slightly sick as he leaned his head out the window. The summer breeze felt good. He began to doze and awakened with a start when Dugan drove over the curb into the parking lot at Ninety-second and Beach and the arrests began.

  “Maybe we’ll find somebody with a little marijuana or something,” said Dugan, jumping out of the wagon as Roy looked sleepily at the throng of Negroes, who had been drinking in the parked cars, shooting dice against the back wall of the liquor store, standing, sitting, reclining in discarded chairs, or on milk crates, or on hoods and bumpers of ancient cars which always seemed to be available in any vacant lot or field in Watts. There were even several women among them in the darkness and Roy wondered what the hell was the attraction in these loitering places amid the rubble and broken glass. But then he remembered what some of the houses were like inside and he guessed the smell outdoors was certainly an improvement, although it wasn’t any too good because in the loitering places were always packs of prowling hungry dogs and lots of animal and human excrement and lots of winos with all the smells they brought with them. Roy walked carefully to the rear of the wagon and slid the steel bolt back and opened the double doors. He staggered as he stepped back and this annoyed him. Got to watch that, he thought, and then the thought of a drunken policeman loading drunks in the drunk wagon struck him as particularly funny. He began giggling and had to sit in the wagon for a few minutes until he could control his mirth.

  They arrested four drunks, one of whom was a ragpicker, lying almost unnoticed against the wall behind three overflowing trash cans. He held a half-eaten brown apple in one bony yellow hand and they had to carry him and flip him into the wagon onto the floor. The other drunks sitting on the benches on each side of the wagon didn’t seem to notice the foul bundle at their feet.

  They patrolled One Hundred and Third and then drove down Wilmington. In less than a half hour the wagon was filled with sixteen men and each radio car held three more. Betterton waved to Roy and sped ahead toward the Harbor Freeway and downtown as the slower wagon rumbled and clunked along.

  “Mustn’t be too comfortable back there,” said Dugan, “maybe I should drive slower.”

  “They can’t feel anything,” said Roy, and this struck him as very amusing. “Don’t take the freeway,” said Roy. “Let’s go on the surface streets. But first go up Hoover.”

  “What for?”

  “I want to call the station.”

  “We can go by the station, Roy,” said Dugan.

  “I want to call in. No sense going in. It’s out of the way.”

  “Well, your favorite call box is out of the way, Roy. I think you can use another call box.”

  “Do as I ask you, please,” said Roy deliberately. “I always use the same call box.”

  “I think I know why. I’m not completely stupid. I’m not driving to that call box.”’

  “Do as I say, goddamnit!”

  “Alright, but I don’t want to work with you anymore. I’m afraid to work with you, Roy.”

  “Fine. Go tell Schumann tomorrow that you and me have a personality conflict. Or I’ll tell him. Or tell him whatever you want.”

  “I won’t tell him the truth. Don’t worry about that. I’m no fink.”

  “Truth? What the hell is the truth? If you’ve got that figured out, let me know, not Schumann.”

  Roy sat silently as Dugan drove obediently to the call box and parked in the usual place. Roy went to this box and tried to put his car key in the lock, then he tried his house key, and finally used the call box key. This was very funny too and restored his good humor. He opened it and drank until he finished. He threw it behind the hedge as he always did after his last call of the evening, and he laughed aloud as he walked back to the wagon when he wondered what the resident there thought when he found an empty half-pint in his flower garden each morning,

  “Drive up Central Avenue,” said Roy. “I want to drive through Newton and see if I see any of the guys I used to know.” He was talking slightly slurred now. But as long as he knew it he’d be alright. He was always very careful. He put three fresh sticks of gum in his mouth and smoked as Dugan drove silently.

  “This was a good division to work,” said Roy, looking at the hundreds of Negroes still on the streets at this hour. “People never go home in Newton Street. You can find thousands of people on the corners at five in the morning. I learned a lot here. I used to have a partner named Whitey Duncan. He taught me a lot. He came to see me when I was hurt. When not many other guys came, he came to see me. Four or five times Whitey came and brought me magazines and cigarettes. He died a few months ago. He was a goddamn drunk and died of cirrhosis of the liver just like a goddamn drunk. Poor old drunk. He liked people too. Really liked them. That’s the worst kind of drunk to be. That’ll kill you fast. Poor old fat bastard.”

  Roy began dozing again and checked his
watch. After they got rid of the drunks and got back to the station it would be end of watch and he could change clothes and go see her. He didn’t really still want her so much physically, but she had eyes he could talk to, and he wanted to talk. Then Roy saw the huge crowd at Twenty-second and Central.

  “There’s a place you can always get a load of drunks,” said Roy, noticing that his face was becoming numb.

  Dugan stopped for the pedestrians and Roy had a hilarious thought.

  “Hey, Dugan, you know what this wagon reminds me of? An Italian huckster that used to peddle vegetables on our street when I was a kid. His panel truck was just like this one, smaller maybe, but it was blue and closed in like this one and he’d bang on the side and yell, ‘Ap-ple, ra-dish, coo-cumbers for sale!’” Roy began laughing uproariously and Dugan’s worried look made him laugh even harder. “Turn left quick and drive through the parking lot where all those assholes are standing around shuckin’ and jivin’. Drive through there!”

  “What for, Roy? Damn it, you’re drunk!”

  Roy reached across the cab and turned the wheel sharply to the left, still chuckling.

  “Okay, let go,” said Dugan, “I’ll drive through, but I promise you I’m not working with you tomorrow night or ever!”

  Roy waited until Dugan was halfway through the parking lot, parting the worried throngs of loiterers before him, moving slowly toward the other driveway and the street. Some of the more drunken ones scurried away from the wagon. Roy leaned out the window and slapped the side of the blue panel truck three times and shouted, “Nig-gers, nig-gers, niggers for sale!”