The New Centurions

by Joseph Wambaugh

  “Let’s book these assholes,” Jenkins said angrily.

  Serge stood up and ran in a crouch to a telephone pole a few feet to the side of the storefront.

  “You people in there,” Serge shouted, “come out with your hands on top of your head!” He waited for thirty seconds and looked toward Jenkins. He shook his head and pointed to the barrel of the riot gun.

  “You people come out or we’re going to kill every goddamn one of you,” Serge shouted. “Come out! Now!”

  Serge waited another silent half minute and felt the fury returning. He had only momentary seizures of anger tonight. Mostly it was fear, but occasionally the anger would prevail.

  “Jenkins, give them a volley,” Serge commanded. “This time aim low enough to hit somebody.” Then Serge leveled his revolver on the store front and fired three rounds into the blackness and the flaming explosions of the riot gun split the immediate silence. He heard nothing for several seconds until the ringing echo ceased and then he heard a wail, shrill and ghostly. It sounded like an infant. Then a man cursed and shouted, “We comin’ out. Don’t shoot us. We comin’ out.”

  The first looter to appear was about eight years old. He wept freely, his hands held high in the air, his dirty red short pants hanging to the knees, and the loose sole of his left shoe flip-flopped on the pavement as he crossed the sidewalk and stood wailing now in the beam of Jenkins’ spotlight.

  A woman, apparently the child’s mother, came next holding one hand high while the other dragged along a hysterical girl of ten who babbled and held a hand over her eyes to ward off the white beam of light. The next two out were men, and one of them, an old one, was still repeating, “We comin’, don’t shoot,” and the other had his hands clasped on top of his head staring sullenly into the beam of light. He muttered obscenities every few seconds.

  “How many more in there?” Serge demanded.

  “Oney one,” said the old man. “God, they’s oney one, Mabel Simms is in there, but I think you done killed her.”

  “Where’s the one with the rifle?” asked Serge.

  “They ain’t no rifle,” said the old man. “We was jist tryin’ to git a few things before it was too late. Ain’t none of us stole a thing these three days and ever’body else had all these new things and we jist decided to git us somethin’. We jist live across the street, Officer.”

  “There was a man with a rifle ducked in that fucking doorway when we drove up,” said the wrinkled policeman. “Where is he?”

  “That was me, Mister PO-liceman,” said the old man. “It wan’t no rifle. It was a shovel. I was jist bustin’ all the glass out the window so my grandkids wouldn’t git cut goin’ in. I never stole in all my life befo’ I swear.”

  “I’ll take a look,” said the wrinkled policeman, entering the blackened store carefully, and Jenkins followed, the twin beams of their flashlights crisscrossing in the darkness for more than three minutes. They came out of the store one on each side of an immense black woman whose ringlets hung in her eyes. She murmured, “Jesus, Jesus, Jesus.” They half-carried her out to where the others were as she let out an awesome shriek of despair.

  “Where’s she hit?” asked Serge.

  “I don’t think she’s hit,” said the wrinkled policeman as he released her and let her bulk slide to the pavement where she pounded her hands on the concrete and moaned.

  “Kin I look at her?” asked the old man. “I been knowin’ her for ten years. She live next do’ to me.”

  “Go ahead,” said Serge, and watched while the old man labored to get the big woman sitting upright. He supported her with great effort and patted her shoulder while he talked too low for Serge to hear.

  “She ain’t hurt,” said the old man. “She jist scared to death like the rest of us.”

  Like all of us, Serge thought, and then he thought that this was a very fitting end to the military campaign of Serge Duran, leader of men. It was about as he should have expected. Reality was always the opposite of what he at first anticipated. He knew this for certain now, therefore it was about as he should have expected.

  “You going to book them?” asked the wrinkled policeman.

  “You can have them,” said Serge.

  “Don’t fight over us, you honky motherfuckers,” said the surly muscled man whose hands were unclasped now and hung loosely at his sides.

  “You get those hands on top of your head, or I’ll open your belly,” said the wrinkled policeman, as he stepped forward and jammed the muzzle of the shotgun in the man’s stomach. Serge saw the finger tighten on the trigger when the Negro instinctively touched the barrel, but then the Negro looked in the wrinkled policeman’s eyes and removed his hand as though the barrel was on fire. He clasped the hands on top of his head.

  “Why didn’t you try to pull it away?” the wrinkled policeman whispered. “I was going to make you let go.”

  “You can have them,” said Serge. “We’re leaving.”

  “We’ll take this one,” said the wrinkled policeman. “The rest of you people get your asses home and stay there.”

  Jenkins and Peters agreed that they should go to Seventy-seventh Station because they might get relieved since they had been on duty now twelve hours. It did seem that things had quieted down a bit even though Watts substation was under some type of sniper siege, but there were apparently enough units there, so Serge drove to the station and thought he had not died like the heroes of his novels, even though he was at least as neurotic and confused as any of them. He suddenly remembered that last month during a two-day stretch of staying in the apartment and reading, he had read a book on T. E. Lawrence and maybe the romantic heroism of books had triggered his irresistible urge to surround and capture the furniture store which had ended in low comedy. Mariana said he read too many books. But it wasn’t just that. It was that things were breaking apart. He was accustomed to the feeling lately that he was breaking apart, but now everything was fragmented—not in two reasonably neat sections but in jagged chaotic slivers and chunks, and he was one of society’s orderers, as trite as it sounded. Even though he had never felt particularly idealistic before, now, surrounded by darkness and fire and noise and chaos, he, suddenly given the opportunity, had to create a tiny bit of order in that gutted store on south Broadway. But what good had it done? It had ended as all his attempts to do a worthy thing invariably ended. That was why marriage to Paula, and getting drunk occasionally and spending Paula’s father’s money seemed a most appropriate life for Serge Duran.

  To the surprise of all three of them, they were relieved when they reached the station. They muttered a brief good-bye to each other and hurried to their cars before someone changed his mind and made them stay for the rest of the night. Serge drove home by the Harbor Freeway and the skies were still glowing red but it was apparent that the National Guard was making a difference. There were far fewer fires and after reaching Jefferson he turned around and saw no more fires. Instead of going straight to the apartment he stopped at an all night hamburger stand in Boyle Heights and for the first time in thirteen hours, now that he was back in Hollenbeck Division, he felt safe.

  The night man knew Serge as a juvenile officer in plain-clothes and he shook his head when Serge walked inside and sat down in the deserted diner.

  “What’s it like down there?” asked the night man.

  “It’s still pretty bad,” said Serge running his fingers through his hair, sticky and matted from the helmet and soot and sweat. His hands were filthy, but there was no restroom for the customers and he decided to just have a cup of coffee and go home.

  “I almost didn’t know you in the uniform,” said the night man. “You’re always wearing a suit.”

  “We’re all in uniform today,” said Serge.

  “I can understand,” said the night man, and Serge thought his sparse moustache made him look like Cantinflas although he was a tall man.

  “Good coffee,” said Serge, and so was the cigarette, and his stomach unwoun
d for the last time that night as the hot coffee splashed into it.

  “I don’t know why the boss wants me here,” said the night man. “There have been few customers. Everyone’s staying at home because of the mallate. But I shouldn’t use that word. Nigger is a terrible word and mallate means the same thing but is even worse.”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t think the blacks would try to burn the east side. They don’t get along with us Mexicans, but they respect us. They know we’d kill them if they tried to burn our homes. They don’t fear the Anglo. No one fears the Anglo. Your people are growing weak.”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised,” said Serge.

  “I’ve noticed that here in this country, the Mexican is forced to live close to black people because he’s poor. When I first came here the Mexicans wanted to get away from the black who is exactly unlike a Mexican, and to live near the Anglo who is more nearly the same. But the things that’ve been happening, the softness of the Anglo, the way you tell the world you’re sorry for feeding them, and the way you take away the Negro’s self-respect by giving everything to him, I’m starting to think that the Mexican should avoid the Anglo. I can tell you these things? I won’t offend you? I talk so much tonight. I’m sick to my heart because of the riot.”

  “I’m not an easily offended Anglo,” said Serge. “You can talk to me like I was a Mexican.”

  “Some police officers who work in the barrios seem muy Mexicano to me,” smiled the night man. “You, señor, even look a little Mexicano, mostly around the eyes, I think.”

  “You think so?”

  “I meant that as a compliment.”

  “I know.”

  “When I came to this country twelve years ago, I thought it was bad that the Mexicans lived mostly in the east side here where the old ways were kept. I even thought we should not teach our children la lengua because they should completely learn to be Americans. I’ve looked closely and I believe that the Anglos in this place accept us almost like other Anglos. I used to feel very proud to be accepted like an Anglo because I know of the bad treatment of Mexicans not too long ago. But as I watched you grow weak and fearful that you wouldn’t have the love of the world, then I thought: look, Armando—Mira, hombre, los gabachos are nothing to envy. You wouldn’t be one of them if you could. If a man tried to burn your house or hold a knife at your belly you kill him and no matter his color. If he broke your laws you would prove to him that it’s painful to do such a thing. Even a child learns that the burning coal hurts if you get close. Don’t the gringos teach this to their children?”

  “Not all of us.”

  “I agree. You seem to say, touch it six or five times and maybe it burns and maybe not. Then he grows to be a man and runs through your streets and it’s not all his fault because he never learned the hot coal burns. I think I’m glad to live in your country, but only as a Mexican. Forgive me, señor, but I wouldn’t be a gringo. And if your people continue to grow weak and corrupt I’ll leave your comforts and return to Mexico because I don’t wish to see your great nation fall.”

  “Maybe I’ll go with you,” said Serge. “Got any room down there?”

  “In Mexico there’s room for all,” smiled the night man, carrying a fresh coffeepot to the counter. “Would you like me to tell you of Mexico? It always makes me glad to talk of Yucatán.”

  “I’d like that,” said Serge. “Are you from Yucatán?”

  “Yes. It’s far, far. You know of the place?”

  “Tell me about it. But first, can I use your bathroom? I’ve got to wash. And can you fix me something to eat?”

  “Certainly, señor. Go through that door. What would you like to eat. Ham? Eggs? Bacon?”

  “We’re going to talk about Mexico. I should eat Mexican food. How about menudo? You’d be surprised how long it’s been since I ate menudo.”

  “I have menudo,” laughed the night man. “It’s not excellent, but it passes.”

  “Do you have corn tortillas?”

  “Of course.”

  “How about lemon? And oregano?”

  “I have them, señor. You know about menudo. Now I’m ashamed to give you my poor menudo.”

  Serge saw that it was after four but he wasn’t the least bit sleepy and he felt suddenly exhilarated yet relaxed. But mostly he was hungry. He laughed in the mirror at the grimy sweat-stained face and thought, God, how I’m hungry for menudo.

  Suddenly Serge popped his head out the door, his hands still covered with suds. “Tell me, señor, have you traveled a lot in Mexico?”

  “I know the country. De veras. I know my Mexico.”

  “Have you been to Guadalajara?”

  “It’s a beautiful city. I know it well. The people are wonderful, but all the people of Mexico are wonderful and will treat you very good.”

  “Will you tell me about Guadalajara too? I want to know about that city.”

  “A pleasure, señor,” chuckled the night man. “To have someone to talk to at this lonely hour is a pleasure, especially someone who wants to hear about my country. I’d give you free menudo even if you were not a policeman.”

  It was seven o’clock when Serge was driving home, so full of menudo and tortillas he hoped he wouldn’t get a stomachache. He wished he had some yerba buena like his mother used to fix. It never failed to help a stomachache and he couldn’t afford to be ill because in exactly six hours he would have to get up and be ready for another night. The news on the car radio indicated that looting and burning was expected to resume heavily today.

  Serge took Mission Road instead of the freeway and there on North Mission Road he saw something that made him brake sharply and slow to fifteen miles per hour and stare. Eight or ten men, one woman, and two small boys, were lined up at the door of a restaurant which was not yet open. They carried pots and pans of all shapes, but each pot was ample in size and Serge realized they were waiting for the restaurant to open so they could buy a pot of menudo and take it home because they were sick or someone in the house was sick from drinking too much on Friday night. There was not a Mexican who did not believe with all his soul that menudo cured hangovers and because they believed, it did in fact cure the hangover, and even though his stomach felt like a goatskin bag pumped full of the stuff, he would have stopped and bought some more to keep for later if he had a pot. Then he looked at his helmet, but the liner was too grimy from oil and soot to carry menudo in, and he accelerated the Corvette and headed for his bed.

  He felt he would sleep better than he had in weeks even though he had seen the beginning of the end of things, because now that they had a taste of anarchy, and saw how easy it is to defeat the civil authority, there would be more and it would be the white revolutionary who would do it. This was the beginning, and the Anglos were neither strong enough nor realistic enough to stop it. They doubted everything, especially themselves. Perhaps they had lost the capacity to believe. They could never believe in the miracle in a pot of menudo.

  As he looked in the rearview mirror, the queue of forlorn Mexicans with their menudo pots had disappeared, but in a few moments their spirits would be soaring he thought, because the menudo would make them well.

  “They are not good Catholics,” Father McCarthy had said, “but they are so respectful and they believe so well.” Ándale pues, Serge thought. To bed.

  20

  THE CHASE

  “GOOD THING THEY’RE too fucking dumb to make fire bombs out of wine bottles,” said Silverson and Gus cringed as a rock skidded over the already dented deck lid and slammed against the already cracked rear window. A glass fragment struck the Negro policeman whose name Gus had already forgotten, or perhaps it was buried there among the ruins of his rational mind which had been annihilated by terror.

  “Shoot that motherfucker that . . .” screamed Silverson to Gus, but then sped away from the mob before finishing the sentence.

  “Yeah, those Coke bottles aren’t breaking,” said the Negro policeman. “If that last one would’
ve broke, we’d have a lap full of flaming gasoline right now.”

  They had been out only thirty minutes, Gus thought. He knew it was only thirty because it was now five till eight and still it wasn’t dark and it had been seven-twenty-five when they drove from the parking lot at Seventy-seventh Station because it was written here on his log. He could see it. It had only been thirty minutes ago. So how could they survive twelve hours of this? They had been told they would be relieved in twelve hours, but of course they would all be dead.

  “Friday the thirteenth,” muttered Silverson, slowing down now that they had run the gauntlet on Eighty-sixth Street where a mob of fifty young Negroes appeared from nowhere and a cocktail had bounced off the door but failed to burst. This happened after someone had cracked the side window with a rock. Now Gus stared at another rock which was lying on the floor at his feet and he thought, we’ve only been out thirty minutes. Isn’t that incredible.

  “Some organization we got,” said Silverson, turning back east toward Watts where most of the radio calls seemed to be emanating at the moment. “I never worked this crummy division in my life. I don’t know my ass from pork sausage.”

  “I never worked down here either,” said the Negro policeman. “How about you, Plebesly? It is Plebesly, isn’t it?”

  “No, I don’t know the streets,” said Gus, holding the shotgun tightly against his belly and wondering if the paralysis would fade because he was sure he could not get out of the car, but then he supposed that if they succeeded in breaking a fire bomb inside, his instinct would get him out. Then he thought of himself on fire.

  “They just tell you here’s a box of thirty-eights and a shotgun and point out two other guys and say take a car and go out there. It’s ridiculous,” said Silverson. “None of us ever worked down here before. Hell, man, I worked Highland Park for twelve years. I don’t know my ass from sliced salami down here.”

  “Some guys got called down here last night,” said the soft-spoken Negro policeman. “I work Wilshire, but I didn’t get called down here last night.”