On The Grind ss-8

by Stephen Cannell

  Then a new tape started and we were back to screaming at each other. It went on like that. He detailed the scams, explaining the ways a cop could make extra money in Haven Park. He told me about health code and fire department tickets on Mexican restaurants or any other food business. They would threaten to close kitchens or shops unless they got paid cash. There was a protection scam being run in Fleetwood. Gang money came in envelopes distributed by the watch commanders-weekly payoffs for letting 18th Street Locos have their run of both towns.

  "But if you put something on your tray you gotta remember to only take half and kick the rest up to the guy above you. A piece of everything else has to end up in Mayor Cecil Bratano's pocket. And you gotta get in with the Avilas," Alonzo told me. "If they want you on the PD, you're on."

  "No matter what Ricky Ross says?"

  "Ricky's just a lushed-up paper-pusher who Mayor Bratano picked because he can't find his ass with either hand. The real power on the job are Hector and Manny Avila. They kick back big to the mayor. That's why they got the exclusive towing contract. They run the political machine and most of the graft in both cities."

  "I'm surprised you can get away with all this," I said. "Especially after all the bad publicity Maywood and Cudahy got in the newspapers for police and government corruption."

  "What was going on in Maywood and Cudahy was small-time b. S. compared to this."

  He grinned as he looked up and spotted somebody. "Hector and Manny just got here. Lemme bring these guys over. Say the right shit and before you know it, you're gonna be riding in a new Plain Jane, policing the great cities of Haven Park and Fleetwood."

  Chapter 8

  Alonzo got up from the table and greeted a middle-aged dark wiry guy with a Brillo Pad mustache who, after leaning in and listening for a minute, turned and waved an arm at another guy with the same wire-brush hair. There was a strong family resemblance, but the second man was older and heavier. His hair and mustache were steel gray. After a moment, Alonzo led them both over and made room for them on his side of the upholstered booth. The Avilas sat down and studied me carefully across the wooden table.

  "Hector and Manny Avila, meet an old friend just off the LAPD, Shane Scully," Alonzo said, his voice rising above the escalating mariachi music.

  "Como se?" Manny said.

  "A viente," I replied.

  He smiled. "Hcibla espanol."

  "Si, poquito. Es necesario para la policia en Los Angeles"

  "BuenaManny said. Then he turned and smiled at his stone-faced older brother.

  "Shane had some problems on the LAPD. He got caught fixing a case, taking money, screwing the suspect, la bonita, chica de cinema." Alonzo Bell grinned.

  It was pretty obvious somebody in Haven Park had gone ahead and accessed my POLITE file. Except down here my bad deeds sewed as a recommendation, because Manny smiled and said, "This is not such a big problem."

  "We checked around," Alonzo continued. "Shane has already tried a bunch of other police agencies, but with that felony case-tampering beef, nobody will put him on. He really wants to stay in law enforcement. He gets the picture. He knows how to sing from the hymnal."

  "You have Alonzo swearing for you. You have a very good compadre," Manny Avila said. Hector still hadn't said anything. He just studied me aggressively.

  "I've got some problems with Rick Ross," I said. "He probably isn't going to want me on the force."

  Manny made a dismissive gesture with his hand as if that was of no concern. "Ross es abadesa," he said. "A worthless pimp. You need not worry about the feelings of such a man."

  "That's good to know," I said.

  "If you have our friend Alonzo speaking for you, there is little more to say," Manny yelled over the music. Then he grinned at Alonzo and put a familiar hand on his shoulder, a gesture of friendship. "If Alonzo is telling us that you are a good man, then consider it done."

  "That's what I'm saying." Alonzo smiled.

  Suddenly Hector, the older, more serious brother, spoke for the first time. "You must know that from this point on, things will be expected of you. There are rules, things that must happen. Alonzo can explain, but you must realize these rules cannot be broken. Comprende?"

  "I understand."

  "Money will have to change hands," Hector said. "When you do well, then others must also do well."

  "Pair enough," I said.

  "Okay. Then tomorrow you will go and see Captain Talbot Jones. He will accept your application." They both shook my hand.

  "Welcome to the Haven Park PD," Manny Avila said, and just like that I'd made the worst police department in America.

  I drank beer with Alonzo and met half a dozen guys on the force, including Talbot Jones. He was a huge, glowering presence. A black cop who Alonzo told me later had been thrown off L. A. Vice for excessive violence. Talbot Jones was a patrol captain and Haven Park's acting deputy chief.

  I ended up drinking a few too many Heinekens by the end of the evening. Alonzo and I left A Fuego at a little past midnight. When I went to the curb outside where I'd left my Acura, it was gone.

  "I left it right here," I said. "What happened to my ride?"

  "Got towed. Sorry about that." Alonzo grinned.

  "I was parked legally. This street isn't posted. What's the deal?"

  "Welcome to Haven Park," he said, still smiling.

  It was the third time today somebody had told me that.

  Chapter 9

  Alonzo dropped me at the Haven Park Inn and instructed me to show up around nine A. M. at the station, where Talbot Jones would take care of me. "By then, the Avilas will have the whole deal rigged," Alonzo said before driving off.

  After he left, I went to my room and fell onto the bed with my clothes on, looking at the cracked brown ceiling. I could smell grease in the upholstery and curtains. Somebody had been cooking tacos over a hibachi in here. It had been a long but eventful day. I didn't know what lay ahead, but I was definitely in the cafeteria line.

  I slept fitfully. I heard gunshots and sirens once about two A. M. and woke up, not sure exactly where they were coming from. It sounded like a good-sized police response not too far away. I stayed awake until five, and then slipped into a restless sleep.

  In my dream I was at the L. A. Police Academy in Elysian Park, holding my recruit gear in a small canvas bag, dressed in jeans and an LAPD sweatshirt. I was very exeited because I had just been accepted on the department and, with my arrival at the academy, had finally found an identity I could believe in.

  "This is going to be bitchin'," I said to the guy standing next to me. I could hardly wait to get started.

  When I woke up at seven I could barely face the grim prospect of starting work on the Haven Park PD.

  I arrived at city hall after a short walk of two and a half blocks down Pacific Avenue. I felt dirty even though I had taken a shower. The heavy glass door with the police department seal and Ricky Ross's name in gold letters greeted me. I pushed it open and entered. I stated why I was there and was led by a civilian employee down a long corridor decorated with old black-and-white photos of Haven Park arrests dating back to the forties.

  She showed me into Talbot Jones's office. He was in a captain's uniform this morning, seated behind a large mahogany desk. The office was typical of a deputy chief. Plaques everywhere, pictures of the captain shaking hands with politicians and business leaders. I saw one photo of Jones with Ricky Ross, who was a skinny, dweeby-looking guy with thin sandy blond hair styled in a comb-over. He looked innocent enough, but you couldn't fool me. I'd seen violence flare behind those hazel eyes.

  There was also the mandatory Haven Park Little League photo. This particular team was sponsored by Big Kiss Bail Bonds. Two coaches were holding up a KISS JAIL GOODBYE sign behind a bunch of grinning ten-year-olds. I wondered how many of these players would grow up to one day need the services of their Little League sponsor.

  There were several pictures of a short but compactly built Hispanic man who s
eemed to favor white Panama hats. I knew from pictures I'd seen of him in the L. A. paper that this was Haven Park's mayor, His Honor Cecil Bratano.

  "Scully, huh?" Talbot said in a deep baritone after I reintroduced myself. He seemed to have forgotten we'd met each other at A Fuego the previous night. He glanced down at a computer printout on his desk. "Says here you got jammed up in L. A."

  "Misunderstanding," I said.

  "Let's not sling a lot of bullshit at each other, okay? I've got your IA package right here in front of me. You left a long slimy trail on the sidewalk over there."

  "If you say so, Captain." I was not sure how to play the guy. I needed this job. He was a big, imposing, six-foot four-inch, muscle-bound ass-kicker. One of those black guys who can project simmering anger without saying a word. Since he'd been thrown off the L. A. cops for beating up street people while on the Vice squad, I really didn't think my IA record should scare him off. He flipped through my application. "You know the score down here?" he said, not even looking up.

  "Alonzo Bell told me a lot of it last night. I'm not a troublemaker, Captain. I know how to go along to get along."

  He grunted, said nothing, as he continued to peruse my application for a long minute more.

  "Your app says you were a marksman on the LAPD gun range and were current on all of your field expediency ratings before you resigned. That right?"

  "Yeah, I was in good standing until I had my little problem."

  "Uh-huh," he said, still glaring down at the pages. "I understand you talked to the Avilas last night. They give you the story from their end?"

  "Yes, sir. I got a pretty good idea how it all works."

  He finally looked up at me. "Okay, Scully. Then here's the riff from my end. This ain't police work like you're used to in L. A. We got our own way of doing the job down here. Most of the residents in Haven Park and Fleetwood are undocumented. But that doesn't mean we're the fucking immigration police. We're not busting these people for being here without papers. The reason they live in Haven Park in the first place is because this is a sanctuary city. We straight on that?"

  "I understand."

  "This department is vertically integrated with city hall. Know what that means?"

  "Everything flows up through one chain of command, right to the mayor's office."

  "Exactly. You step out of that chain, you create any kind of backwater or eddy of discontent, you're gone. We don't need Wyatt Earp down here. We also don't need William Kunstler. All you gotta do is play by the rules that the city council puts forth and it all glides and slides."

  "Are those rules written down somewhere so I can see them?" I asked.

  "You bet." He pushed a small booklet over at me. "You a smart guy, Scully?"

  "I try to be."

  "Stay in line and don't change the way things are done in my city. It says in that booklet that you will adhere to our police guidelines and deal with street crises according to the mandates set down in writing there. You don't freelance, you don't go into business for yourself. Except for towing kickbacks, when something is put on your tray, the prescribed amount, which is half, gets passed up to the guy above you."

  "Cafeteria policing."

  He didn't say anything, just sat there staring at me. Finally, he cleared his throat. "You know where the Haven Park Elementary School is?"

  "No, sir, but I'll find it."

  "Two blocks over on Pine Street. It's an old decommissioned school that our department's using as a training and locker facility. Report to Arnold Bale, he's our equipment manager. He'll give you a gun and uniform and get you set up. Since you're LAPD-trained and field-sawy, Tm going to waive our Haven Park Police Academy program for the time being and just put you right on the street. We're a little short-handed with this new Fleetwood contract and can use the manpower. There might be some tests and stuff you'll have to take later."

  "I appreciate that."

  "Your training and probation officer is Sergeant Alonzo Bell. He swore for you, so he can train you."

  "That suits me fine, sir."

  "A few other things. One: We're not here to protect and serve like in L. A. This is an ash can. You try to protect and serve the lettuce-pickers who live in this toilet, you're gonna get played. Don't make friends with any of them. They're assholes. Two: This department is not an equal opportunity employer. We got no Dickless Tracys on the job down here. You want to work with a woman, go somewhere else. We got very few Hispanics, one or two. Mostly we're made up of black and white officers, and a few Asians. I understand you speak some Spanish, which will come in very handy. We are not looking for any civil libertarians. We don't want or need a fucking police union. We're happy with things the way they're currently run. If any of that doesn't sit well with you, there's the door." He pointed behind me.

  "All sounds good to me, Captain," I said.

  "Raise your right hand." I did.

  "Using the power vested in me for and by the City of Haven Park, California, I do solemnly swear that I, Shane Scully, will abide by all the terms, covenants and conditions set forth in the policing guide and will faithfully fulfill the duties of a Haven Park peace officer to the best of my abilities, so help me God."

  I started to repeat that long, confusing oath, but Captain Jones stopped me.

  "Don't say it back. This isn't the fucking Boy Scouts. Just say I do."

  "I do."

  "Welcome to the Haven Park PD. Get out of here and go check in with Arnie Bale at the school."

  I left Talbot Jones's office. I was tired of walking and wanted to get my Acura back. I tried to do this by borrowing a phone at the front desk to call Blue Light Towing. I got a recording saying that they were closed for the holiday.

  "What holiday is today?" I asked, frowning at the civil employee on the other side of the desk.

  "Cinco de Mayo," she said, acting as if I'd just asked when Christmas was.

  I walked out of city hall a newly minted member of the Haven Park Police Department. I was back on the job. I'd been vouched for by crooks and sworn in by a scoundrel.

  Chapter 10

  Haven Park Elementary was a long-abandoned sprawl of one-story stucco buildings badly in need of paint and repair. The exterior walls of the fifties-style structure served as canvas for endless amounts of gang graffiti. The rest of the property, including a half-sized athletic field with a baseball diamond and an old-style bow-truss gymnasium, was enclosed by a rusting chain-link fence.

  I walked up to an ancient civil service employee who was sitting by the gated entrance to the school reading a Mexican comic book. "I'm a new police officer. Looking for Arnie Bale," I told him.

  "Got some ID?" he asked.

  I showed him my driver's license. He wrote my name on a sheet.

  "To the right, up the stairs. The equipment building is that one over there that says Tuck the Police' on it."

  "Interesting sentiment."

  "Taggers. We clean it off. They spray it back on. Entertainment for everybody. Arnie should be inside."

  Arnie Bale, when I found him, reminded me of my first junior high school baseball coach. A stringy brown-skinned guy who was all cords and muscles. He had an Adams apple the size of a prune. I couldn't take my eyes off the damn thing when he talked. Up and down, up and down — like a ball on a rubber band.

  "You look like about a size forty regular," he said, giving me the once-over.

  "Close enough."

  "Here's the equipment list." He shoved a printed sheet of blue paper into my hand and said, "We got most of it. Some is out of stock, so check what I can't supply, and I'll reorder. Follow me."

  He led me down a narrow hallway, opening one cupboard after another. He gave me a dark blue Haven Park patrol officer's uniform with the Haven Park Police Department seal emblazoned in white and gold on the right shoulder and a half moon patch that said FOREVER VIGILANT on the other. I received a gunbelt, a steel-blue Smith amp; Wesson. 38 with a four-inch barrel and two speed loaders, along
with a Maglite, baton and shoulder radio rover. All standard issue. Then Arnie reached into a box and handed me a three-inch-long leather object with a wrist strap.

  "What's this?" I asked, looking at the thing, which weighed about two pounds.

  "Sap," Arnie said.

  "You mean like to hit guys over the head with?"

  "Yep."

  "I don't think I've seen or heard about a police officer using a sap since the NAACP and the ACLU were formed."

  "Yeah, well… I won't tell 'em if you won't."

  "I really get to use this?"

  "Part of our standard equipment package. Swing it in good health," he joked.

  By the time I got to the end of the corridor, I was loaded up with gear. Arnie took me into the old elementary school locker room outfitted with benches that ran in front of rows of battered gray metal lockers. He showed me to an empty one and handed me a combination padlock.

  "Set your own combination number. Our roll calls are in the gym. Then we walk the two blocks over to city hall to get our black-and-whites out of the police lot there."

  "Okay."

  "Put on your uniform. We don't supply shoes, but those you got on look fine. Meet me in my office when you're in harness."

  He left me in the locker room. I dressed quickly. It felt a little funny because I hadn't been in street blue, except for police funerals, since I last rode Patrol in L. A. over ten years ago. It felt strange to be harnessing up for a street tour, as if my life hadn't progressed much since those early days on the LAPD. Arnie had a good eye for sizes and everything fit pretty well.

  When I finished dressing I found him in an old coach's office located inside a wire cage. He was seated behind a scarred metal desk, and looked up at me as I entered.