The New Centurions

by Joseph Wambaugh

  “You guys come with me!” shouted a sergeant, crouching as he ran past the fire engine. “We got to clean these snipers out and get the firemen working before the whole goddamn city burns down.”

  But though they walked along Central Avenue in groups of three for over an hour they never saw a sniper but only heard, and they chased and occasionally shot at shadowy figures who scurried in and out of gutted storefronts that were not in flames. Roy did not shoot because the conditions had not been met. Still, he was glad the others were shooting. When Central Avenue reached the point that it was burning more or less quietly and there was little left to steal, Winslow suggested they go elsewhere, but first they should stop at a restaurant and eat. When they asked which restaurant he had in mind, he waved an arm and they followed him to the car and found that the two remaining unbroken windows had been smashed out in their absence and the upholstery had been cut, but not the tires strangely enough, so Winslow drove to a restaurant on Florence Avenue that he said he had noticed earlier. They walked through a gigantic hole in the wall of the cafe where a car must have smashed through. Roy guessed the car had probably been driven by some terrified white man passing through the riot area who had been attacked by the mobs that were stopping traffic and beating whites earlier in the day when they owned the streets before the shooting started. Then again it could have been a looter’s car which the police had chased until he crashed through the restaurant in spectacular fashion. What difference did it make? Roy thought.

  “Shine your flashlight over here,” said Winslow, removing six hamburger patties from the refrigerator which was not running. “They’re still cold. It’s okay,” said Winslow. “See if you can find the buns in that drawer, Fehler. I think the mustard and stuff is behind you there on the little table.”

  “The gas still works,” said Barkley, propping his flashlight on the counter with the beam directed on the griddle. “I’m a pretty good cook. Want me to get them started?”

  “Go head on, brother,” said Winslow in an affected Negro accent, as he squeezed a head of lettuce he found on the floor, peeling away the outer leaves and dropping them in a cardboard box. They ate and drank several bottles of soda pop which were not cold enough, but it wasn’t at all bad there in the darkness and it was after midnight when they finished and sat smoking, looking at each other as the ceaseless crackling small arms fire and ubiquitous smell of smoke reminded them that they had to go back. Finally it was Barkley who said, “Might as well get back out there. But I wish they hadn’t broke our windows out. You know, the one thing that scares me most is that a cocktail will come flying in the car and bust, and fry us. If we only had windows we could roll them up.”

  Roy was more impressed with Winslow as the night wore on. He drove through Watts and west and north through the rest of the gutted city as though he were on routine patrol. He seemed to be listening carefully to the garbled endless, breathless calls that were blaring out at them over the radio. Finally one of the operators with a girlish voice began sobbing hysterically as she was jabbering a string of twelve emergency calls to “any unit in the vicinity,” and she and all of them must realize by now that there were no units in certain vicinities, and if there were they were hard pressed to save their own asses and to hell with anything else. But at 2:00 A.M. Winslow stopped the car on Normandie Avenue which was exceptionally dark except for a building burning in the distance and they watched a gang of perhaps thirty looters ransacking a clothing store and Winslow said, “There’s too many of them for us to handle, wouldn’t you say?”

  “They might have guns,” said Barkley.

  “See the car out front, the green Lincoln?” said Winslow. “I’m going after them when they leave. We’ll get some of them at least. It’s about time we threw some looters in jail.”

  Three men got in the car and even from a half block away in the darkness, Roy could see that the back seat of the Lincoln was filled with suits and dresses. The Lincoln pulled away from the curb and Winslow said, “Dirty motherfuckers,” and the radio car roared forward. Winslow turned on his headlights and red lights and they passed the clothing store and crossed Fifty-first Street at eighty miles per hour and the chase was on.

  The driver of the Lincoln was a good driver but his brakes were not good and the police car had tremendous brakes and could corner better. Winslow ate up the ground which separated them and didn’t listen to Barkley who was shouting directions at him. Roy sat silently in the rear seat and wished they had seat belts in the back seat too. He could see that Winslow was oblivious of both of them and would catch that Lincoln if it killed all of them and then they were going northbound on Vermont. Roy did not look at the speedometer but knew they were traveling in excess of one hundred and this was of course absolutely insane because there were thousands of looters, thousands! But Winslow wanted these looters and Barkley shouted, “Soldiers!” and Roy saw a National Guard roadblock two blocks north and the Lincoln’s driver, a hundred feet ahead, saw it too and burned out the rest of his brakes trying to turn left before reaching the roadblock. A National Guardsman began firing a machine gun and Winslow jammed on his brakes when they saw the muzzle flashes and heard the clug-a-clug-a-clug-a-clug and saw the tracers explode on the asphalt closer to them than to the Lincoln. Roy was horrified to see that the Lincoln did not crash as he was sure it would. The driver made the turn and was speeding west on a narrow dark residential street and Winslow doggedly made the turn and Roy wondered if he could lean out the window and fire the riot gun, or perhaps his revolver because that Lincoln had to be stopped before Winslow killed them all. He was surprised to discover how badly he wanted to live now, and he saw Laura’s face for an instant and was thrown against the door handle when Winslow made an impossible right turn and picked up two hundred feet on the Lincoln.

  Winslow, trying to conserve power, wasn’t using his siren and Roy had lost count of the other cars they had almost hit, but he was thankful that at this hour in this part of the city, there were few civilian autos on the street and Barkley uttered a joyful whoop when the Lincoln bounced over the curb turning left again, and slammed against a parked car. The Lincoln was still skidding in a tight circle when the three looters were leaping out, and Winslow, jaw set, was driving across the sidewalk at the fleeing driver, a slim Negro who was running down the middle of the sidewalk with an occasional terrified glance over his shoulder at the approaching headlights. Roy realized that Winslow was going to run him down as he drove the radio car down the residential sidewalk taking corners off fences and running over shrubbery with the radio car that was too wide for the sidewalk. They were less than thirty feet from the looter when he turned the last time and his mouth opened in a soundless shriek as he dived over a chain link fence. Winslow skidded past him, cursed, and leaped out of the car. Roy and Barkley were out in a second but Winslow, amazingly agile for his size and age, was already over the fence and crashing through the rear yard. Roy heard four shots and then two more as he threw the riot gun over the fence and scrambled after it, ripping his trousers, but in a moment Winslow came walking back reloading his revolver.

  “He got away,” said Winslow. “The motherfucking nigger got away. I’d give a thousand dollars for one more shot at him.”

  When they got back in the car Winslow circled the block and returned to the looter’s green Lincoln which sat awkwardly in the middle of the street, steam hissing from the broken radiator.

  Winslow stepped slowly from the radio car and asked Roy for the riot gun. Roy gave him the gun and shrugged at Barkley as Winslow stepped to the car and fired two flaming blasts at the rear tires. Then he stepped to the front of the car and smashed out the headlights with the butt of the gun and then broke the windshield. Then he circled the car, his shotgun ready like it was a dangerous wounded thing that might yet attack, and he slammed the gun butt into both side windows. Roy looked toward the houses on both sides of the street, but all were dark. The residents of southeast Los Angeles, who had always known how to
mind their own business, were not curious at any sounds they heard this night.

  “That’s enough, Winslow,” Barkley shouted. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

  But Winslow opened the car door and Roy could not see what he was doing. In a second he emerged with a large piece of fabric and Roy watched him in the beam of the headlights as he put his pocket knife away. He removed the gas cap and shoved the piece of material into the tank and dripped gasoline on the street beneath the tank.

  “Winslow, are you nuts?” shouted Barkley. “Let’s get the hell out of here!”

  But Winslow ignored him and made his trickle of gasoline extend a safe distance from the Lincoln and then he shoved the soaked piece of cloth back into the tank except for two feet of it which hung to the ground. He ran to the mouth of the gasoline stream and lit it and there was a small smothered explosion almost instantly and the car was burning well as Winslow got back in the radio car and drove away in the relaxed careful manner of before.

  “How can you fight them without getting just like them?” said Winslow finally to his silent partners. “I’m just a nigger now, and you know what? I feel pretty good.”

  Things became a little quieter after three, and at 4:00 A.M. they drove to Seventy-seventh Station, and after working a fifteen-hour watch, Roy was relieved. He was too tired to change into his civilian clothes, and was certainly too tired to drive to his apartment. And even if he weren’t, he would not go home tonight. There was only one place in the world he would go tonight. It was exactly four-thirty when he parked in front of Laura’s apartment. He could not hear the pop of gunfire now. This part of Vermont had been untouched by fire and almost untouched by looting. It was very dark and still. He only knocked twice when she opened the door.

  “Roy! What time is it?” she asked, in a yellow nightgown and robe, and already he felt the pleasurable ache.

  “I’m sorry to come so late. I had to, Laura.”

  “Well, come in. You look like you’re about to fall on your face.”

  Roy entered and she switched on a lamp and held his arms as she watched him in her unique way. “You’re a mess. You’re really a filthy mess. Take your uniform off and I’ll fill the bath. Are you hungry?”

  Roy shook his head as he walked into the familiar comfortable bedroom and unhooked the Sam Browne, letting it fall to the floor. Then, remembering how tidy Laura was, he pushed it with his foot into the corner by the closet and sat heavily in a padded, hot pink and white bedroom chair. He took his shoes off and sat for a minute wanting a cigarette but too tired to light one.

  “Want a drink, Roy?” asked Laura, leaving the bathroom as the tub filled with a sound of rushing restorative water.

  “I don’t need a drink, Laura. Not even tonight.”

  “One drink won’t hurt you. Not anymore.”

  “I don’t want one.”

  “Okay, baby,” she said, picking up his shoes and putting them in the bottom of the closet.

  “What the hell would I do without you?”

  “I haven’t seen you for four days. I guess you’ve been busy.”

  “I was going to come Wednesday night. That’s when this thing started, but we had to work overtime. And yesterday too. And then tonight, Laura, tonight was the worst, but I had to come tonight. I couldn’t stay away any longer.”

  “I’m very sorry about all this, Roy,” she said, pulling off his damp black socks, as he thanked her silently for helping him.

  “Sorry about what?”

  “About the riot.”

  “Why? Did you start it?”

  “I’m black.”

  “You’re not black and I’m not white. We’re lovers.”

  “I’m a Negro, Roy. Isn’t that why you moved back home in your apartment? You knew I wanted you to stay with me.”

  “I think I’m too tired to talk about that, Laura,” said Roy, standing up and kissing her and then he took off the dusty shirt which was sticking to him. She hung up the shirt and the trousers and he left his shorts and T-shirt on the bathroom floor. He glanced at the concave scar on his abdomen and stepped into the steaming suds-filled tub. Never had a bath felt better. He leaned back with his eyes closed and set his mind free and dozed for a moment, then felt her presence. She was sitting on the floor beside the tub watching him.

  “Thank you, Laura,” he said, loving the flecks in the light brown eyes, and the smooth brown skin and the graceful fingers she laid against his shoulder.

  “What do you suppose I see in you?” she smiled, caressing his neck. “It must be the attraction of opposites, don’t you think? Your golden hair and golden body. You’re just the most beautiful man I know. Think that’s it?”

  “That’s just gold plate,” said Roy. “There’s nothing but pot metal underneath.”

  “There’s plenty underneath.”

  “If there’s anything, you put it there. There was nothing when you found me last year.”

  “I was nothing,” she corrected him.

  “You’re everything. You’re beauty and love and kindness, but mostly you’re order. I need order right now, Laura. I’m very scared, you know. There’s chaos out there.”

  “I know.”

  “I haven’t been this afraid since you dried me out and taught me not to be afraid. God, you should see what chaos looks like, Laura.”

  “I know. I know,” she said, still stroking his neck.

  “I can’t stay away from you anymore,” he said, staring at the faucet which dripped sporadically into the suds. “I didn’t have the guts to stay with you, Laura. I need peace and tranquility and I knew we’d face hatred together and I didn’t have the guts. But now that I’ve been back in that lonely apartment I don’t have the guts to be away from you and now that I’ve been in that darkness and madness tonight, I could never make it without you and . . .”

  “Don’t talk anymore, Roy,” she said getting up. “Wait until tomorrow. See how you feel tomorrow.”

  “No,” he said, grabbing her arm with a wet, soapy hand. “You can’t depend on tomorrow. I tell you the way it is out there, you mustn’t depend on tomorrow. I live for you now. You can never get rid of me now. Never.” Roy pulled her down and kissed her on the mouth and then kissed the palm of her hand, and she stroked his neck with the other hand, saying, “Baby, baby,” as she always did and which never failed to soothe him.

  They were still awake, lying naked on their backs with only a sheet over them when the sun rose in Los Angeles.

  “You should go to sleep,” she whispered. “You’ve got to go back to the street tonight.”

  “It won’t be bad now,” he said.

  “Yes. Maybe the National Guard will have things under control.”

  “It doesn’t matter if they don’t. It still won’t be bad now. My vacation begins September first. It’ll surely be over by then. Do you mind getting married in Las Vegas? We can do it without waiting.”

  “We don’t have to get married. It doesn’t matter if we’re married.”

  “I still have a conventional bone or two in my body, I guess. Do it for me.”

  “Alright. For you.”

  “Weren’t you brought up to respect the institution of marriage?”

  “My daddy was a Baptist preacher,” she laughed.

  “Well then it’s settled. I was brought up a Lutheran, but we never went to church very much except when appearances demanded it, so I think we’ll raise our children as Baptists.”

  “I’m nothing now. Not a Baptist. Nothing.”

  “You’re everything.”

  “Do we have a right to have children?”

  “You’re goddamn right we do.”

  “The golden knight and his dark lady,” she said. “But we’ll suffer, you and me. I promise you. You don’t know what a holy war is.”

  “We’ll win.”

  “I’ve never seen you so happy.”

  “I’ve never been so happy.”

  “Do you want to know why I loved you fr
om the first?”

  “Why?”

  “You weren’t like other white men that flirted with me and that asked me out on dates to their apartments or maybe to some out of the way pretty nice place where lots of mixed couples go. I never really could trust a white man because I could see that they saw something in me that they wanted, but it wasn’t me.”

  “What was it?”

  “I don’t know. Just lust maybe, for a little brown animal. Primitive vitality of a Negro, that sort of thing.”

  “My, you’re intellectual tonight.”

  “It’s morning.”