by Dale Brown
preggie slacks and a baggy Victoria's Secret silk
blouse, but even without them she carried her baby
close under well-conditioned stomach muscles and
had no sign of a ponderous or waddling walk. She
had let her reddish-brown hair grow long and
straight; it curled seductively over her shoulder and
nestled between her ample baby-ready breasts. "I do
like your attitude better than your brother's-but
you have to remember, he's been trained to drop
bombs on folks for years."
"Yes, I know-the SAC-trained baby-killer," Paul
said with a smile. "What was it you always said
SAC stood for? Your target list, right?-'schools and
children.' Hey, Cargo." Paul grabbed a passing uniformed
cop. "Cargo, meet my brother, Patrick, and
his wife, Wendy. Patrick, Wendy, this is Craig
LaFortier. We call him Cargo." Patrick could see
why-the guy was huge, at least six four and close
to three hundred pounds. "Kicks butt in the Pig
Bowl football game every year. He's my FTO."
Patrick and Wendy shook hands with LaFortier,
the cop's hand engulfing theirs. "I assume an ITO is
the guy you'll be riding with for the first few
months?" Wendy asked.
"Yep," said Lafortier in a deep, foghornlike
voice. "It stands for . . ."
"'Fucking training officer,"' Paul interjected.
"Field training officer," LaFortier corrected him,
with a scowl flerce enough to darken the entire waterfront
. "And that better be,the last time I ever
hear that crack, rook, or you'll be washing patrol
cars at the South Station instead of riding in 'em.
Yes, Paul gets a little on-the-job training for six
months. We start tomorrow night."
"Tomorrow? You just graduated!" Patrick exclaimed
. "They don't give you an orientation or
anything?"
"Normally, yes," said LaFortier, "but my shift
begins tomorrow, and I have off for Christmas, so
instead of waiting two weeks, Paul gets to start
right now. He'll come in a couple of hours early and
we'll get him a locker, show him how to make coffee
the way I like it, all that important stuff. But we
need guys on the street."
"So we heard," Wendy said worriedly. "Seems
like gangs and drugs are worse than ever here in
Sacramento."
"They're bad everywhere, in every big city in
America," LaFortier responded, "but this new wave
of drug activity has got us back on our heels. The
hard stuff is back-LSD, heroin-but now homegrown
junk like methamphetamines are exploding
on the streets. And the competition between the
criminal organizations is increasing too. Northern
California is the collision point-it's a natural
nexus of white, black, Latino, Asian, and even European
gangs. They've all found a home here, and the
violence is bound to escalate."
At the sight of Patrick's face, LaFortier added
hastily, "You don't need to worry about Paul, Mr.
and Mrs. McLanahan. He can handle it. He's the
rising star, the guy everyone's watching. And he
comes from good stock-the Sarge will be watching
over him, I know it. He'll do fine."
As he was speaking, an eerie hush enveloped the
tavern, as if all the air were being sucked out into
space. All four of them turned. The chief of police of
the city of Sacramento, Arthur Barona, was entering
the bar, together with one of the department's captains
, Thomas Chandler, the commander of the Special
Investigations Division.
Patrick was fascinated. In sixteen-plus years in
the U.S. Air Force, he had never seen anything quite
like the open hostility that radiated from the street
cops in that room. But if Barona noticed it as he
made his way to the bar, he wasn't letting on one
bit.
He was a tall, powerfully built man in his early
fifties, and had been the city's chief of police for five
years. He wore a dark suit instead of his chief's uniform
, a political judgment that attested to his administrative
and political career background, first as
a Dade County, Florida, prosecutor, then as a lawenforcement
bureaucrat and consultant to a number
of governors and to the U.S. Department of justice.
It was no secret to anyone that being the police
chief of a major metropolitan city was not Arthur
Barona's ultimate career goal. In fact, it was just a
stepping-stone, a square-filler, a device to get some
practical, on-the-street experience to flesh out his
r6sum6 for higher political office.
Barona's energetic personality, his knowledge of
the newest trends and philosophies of policedepartment
management techniques, and his nationwide
political connections made him popular
with city officials and government leaders, but decidedly
unpopular with his own rank and file, who
generally resented having a politician running their
department. The rumor was that Barona could not
even qualify on the police shooting range and had
had to be given special permission by the state Department
of justice to carry a firearm in California.
But Arthur Barona moved through the bar with
absolute confidence that evening, smiling and greeting
everyone as if he were the most-liked man in
the state. If he caught an eye that didn't seem actively
hostile, he extended a hand and exchanged a
pleasantry. He seemed adept at avoiding empty
handshakes or unreturned greetings. The academy
grads still looking for positions helped break the ice
by going up and introducing themselves to Barona,
handing over business cards and chatting him up,
hoping to stick in the chief's memory when it came
hiring time.
"Well, I heard this was the place to find all the
grads," Barona said cheerfully as he finally approached
Patrick and Wendy at the bar and put out
his hand in greeting. "I'm Arthur Barona. This is
Captain Tom Chandler, one of my boys. We had a
late-night meeting and thought we'd swing by to
congratulate the graduates."
They all shook hands. "I'm Patrick McLanahan,
and this is my wife, Wendy," Patrick said. "Son of
the former owners and honorary bartender tonight.
Welcome."
"Ah yes, another of the Sarge's sons," Barona
said. "Your father was a legend in this town."
"Is a legend in this town, Chief," Craig LaFortier
interjected, not looking up from his beer.
Barona looked at LaFortier and nodded. "Hello,
Craig," he said, acknowledging LaFortier but his
smile dimming a bit in irritation.
Having been away from Sacramento for so long,
Patrick hadn't known about the strained relations
between the city, the chief of police, and the rank
and file. When he returned earlier that year to run
the tavern, he had heard all the crass remarks
against the chief, the sour jokes, the not-too-subtle
digs, the derogatory and sometimes out-and-out
hostile articles in the police officers association's
newsletter. But he assumed this was all standard
employee-employer ribbing. The chief was accused
of siding with the city against the cops in contract
negotiations. That was understandable, of coursehe
reported to the city manager and the mayor-but
to the cops on the street, the chief wasn't "one of
us." He carried a badge under false pretenses, they
thought. And, of course, every other problem associated
with running a big police department was
heaped on Barona's shoulders, with budget and
manpower cuts the big points of conflict.
"What'll you have, Chief Barona?" Wendy asked.
"It's on the house. We're toasting the new officers
tonight."
"Just an ice water, please," the chief replied.
LaFortier snorted his displeasure. "Can't drink a
real drink with the street cops tonight, Chief?" he
asked.
"I've still got a deskful of papers to go through,
and alcohol just slows me down. It can screw up
your judgment and make you say things you wish
you hadn't said too," Barona said. LaFortier just
shook his head and took a deep pull at his beer.
Barona turned to Paul, held out a hand, and said,
"So this is the new lion on the force. Congratulations
on being named honor grad, Officer McLanaban
. Fine job."
"Thank you, Chief," Paul said, shaking hands.
"I'm anxious to get started."
"We need tough, smart young troops like you out
on the street, Paul," Barona went on. "But Captain
Chandler and I were remarking earlier that a man
with your impressive background, with a law degree
and as a member of the bar, might better serve the
city in an advisory role at headquarters, or in SID.
Plenty of high-profile cases coming through the
system-good state and national visibility for a
hard-charging guy such as yourself."
"I appreciate the consideration, sir," Paul responded
, "but I joined the force to work the streets.
My dad said that Patrol was the only place to be."
"It's true that Patrol is our biggest and most important
division, Paul," Barona said, his face indicating
his surprise that Paul wasn't embracing his
generous offer. "But our job is to investigate crime,
and that's accomplished in many ways other than in
a radio car or walking a beat. We have dwindling
resources and manpower, and we can put our most
talented young men and women in many different
areas where their skills can be put to optimal
use . . ."
"So what you're saying, Chief," LaFortier interjected
, still refusing to look up from his glass of
beer, "is that Patrol, which is already only seventyfive
percent manned, might lose another good cop
to go work for you in your office or get stuck behind
a desk in SID on another 'task force' or 'special project
' that some politician in the state house or in
Washington cooked up. Do you really think that's
such a good plan, Chief?"
Barona was not smiling now. It seemed to Patrick
that every cop in the place had moved three paces
closer to listen. "Paul will still have to prove himself
on the street, just like any rookie, Crai
191
Barona said. "Alongside you, I'm positive he will be
a standout. But he was recruited and chosen because
of his unique background and education, and
with all the necessary and vital programs mandated
for us by various government agencies, we need to
utilize every member of this department to their
fullest extent."
"These 'programs/ Chief, are sucking manpower
and resources away from everyday law enforcement
and investigations," LaFortier said, finally facing
Barona. "Every time a new program gets started, another
officer or two is pulled out of squads and
stuck behind a desk shuffling papers and punching
data into a computer. Some city councilman's car
gets keyed by some vandals in broad daylight, so we
have a truancy task force, with six sworn officers
dragging kids out of bed to go to school. You sent
four of my guys to Mexico to work in some joint
DEA-ATF task force, and they come back and say
they sat out on the beach for four days. This
socalled
'new and improved' community-oriented policing
program took three officers off my graveyard
shift just so you can
Chandler tried to lower the temperature. "Craig,
c'mon, ease up."
"Craig, those task forces are necessary in modern
police-force management," Barona responded "and
they bring in plenty of state and federal grant
money to the department
"Where is all this money, Chief?" LaFortier
pressed on forcefully. "South Station is slated to get
only seven new bodies next year, which won't make
up for the'sixteen we lost this year due to layoffs
and early-outs. Half our new radios are still in boxes
because we don't have battery chargers for them.
We're still using shotguns that didn't pass POST armorers
' inspection two years ago; and we still don't
have enough automatic rifles for all the shift sergeants
, when we should have them for every officer-
"
"Corporal LaFortier," Barona interrupted, a stem
edge to his voice, "now is not the time to go
through the entire budget line by line with you. I'll
be happy to discuss it anytime during business
hours. I came by to congratulate the new officers
and wish them well." He shook hands again with
the McLanahans, studiously avoiding LaFortier and
the others who had come over to lend him their
unspoken support. "Whenever you get off graveyard
shift again, Craig," the chief said-meaning, Don't
ever expect to get off---'come by and we'll discuss
your opinions. Good night, all."
Barona continued his good-byes as he headed
toward the door, leaving Captain Chandler with the
others at the bar. "What was that, LaFortier?"
Chandler asked when the chief was out of earshot.
"You making a show for the rookies tonight, or
what?"
LaFortier looked at Chandler with disgust. Like
Paul McLanahan, Tom Chandler had been one of
the department's hot young rookies when he came
on the force twenty-five years ago. Tall, smart,
tough, in excellent physical shape, and with a twogeneration
cop legacy behind him, Chandler was a
fast-burner from the first day. He too had been assigned
to LaFortier as a rookie to hone and polish
his already-formidable cop instincts. He was promoted
through the ranks at breathtaking speed.
But Chandler had lots of outside interests toonamely
, Las Vegas, gambling, exotic cars,- and especially
women. Like most high rollers, he had his
good times and bad. When he was hot, he drove to
work in a Corvette and wore silk suits; when he,
was not, he took the bus and wore mail-order polyester
.
He was now in his early fifties. Two divorces and
seven years after making captain, he was struggling
with a new marriage and a stalled career. As far as
LaFortier could tell, Chandler's newest tactic to try
to jump-start that career and have any chance at all
of making deputy chief or chief was to be the new
department kiss-butt. "Since when did you become
Barona's doorman, Tom?" LaFortier retorted.
"What do you want, Cargo?" Chandler asked.
"The chief plays the hand he's dealt."
"Bullshit, Chandler. I want what we were promised
, that's all," LaFortier said, "and it's his job to
get it for us, not get whatever he can for himself.
The President promises a hundred thousand more
cops on the streets, but after four years Sacramento
gets half of what we were promised because the city
can't come up with the matching funds. After the
North Hollywood shootout, they promise us more
automatic weapons, better armor, better communications
equipment, more training. We haven't seen
shit. My guys handle twenty percent more calls per
hour than they did last year, but when I go to headquarters
, I see all my guys sitting at desks writing
memos or making slides for some presentation the
chief is going to make on yet another trip to Washington
. It sucks, Tom. Patrol is taking it in the ass
again, as usual."
"'If you ain't Patrol, you ain't shitl-is that what
you think, Cargo?" Chandler asked. "All other police
work is a waste, right?"
"No " LaFortier shot back. "But sworn officers to
work a truancy task force, or a graffiti task force, or
a 'traffic-signal dodger' task force? Give me a break.
I need guys on Patrol, not giving speeches in front of
the garden clubs on how we shouldn't try to beat
yellow traffic lights. Do away with all the bullshit,
Tom, that's all I'm saying."
"The chief comes down here to congratulate the
new rookies, and you gotta dump all this shit on
him with the whole place listening in," Chandler
said, shaking his head. "Real smart. Makes you
