“Sure, Officer,” the man said, stepping out onto the street without being told after Calvin jerked open the door of the Cadillac.
Calvin shined his light over the alligators and crab apple green knicker suit with silky orange knee length socks while the man fumbled in the kangaroo wallet nervously.
“Here it is, Officer,” he smiled, as Calvin admired the five inch hammered medallion on the bare chest of the young man.
Calvin took the slip of paper which was a speeding ticket issued one week earlier by an LAPD motor officer.
“This all you got with your name on it?” Calvin asked.
“That was gave me by one of your PO-licemen. It’s official, ain’t it?”
“Shit,” Calvin said. “Fuckin motor cops only care about writin a ticket. Bet he took your word about who you are. Bet you keep this ticket for ID until it’s time to go to warrant and then get another ticket and use that for a while. Bet every fuckin one is in a different name. What’s your real name?”
“Jist like it say there, James Holiday.”
“Why you sweatin, James?” Calvin asked, flashlight in his sap pocket now, both fists on his hips, stretching so that he could be taller than the pimp and look down on him.
“You makin me nervous cause you don’t believe me.” The man licked his lips when they popped dryly.
“Gimme that wallet,” Calvin said suddenly.
“Ain’t that illegal search and seizure, Officer?” asked the pimp.
“Gimme that wallet, chump, or it’s gonna be a search and squeez-ure of your fuckin neck!”
“Okay, okay” the young man said, handing Calvin the wallet. “Looky here, I ain’t no crook or nothin. I owns two or three bars in San Diego.”
“Two or three,” Francis observed.
“Three, probably” said Calvin, pulling a bail receipt out of an inner compartment of the wallet.
“Uh oh,” said the man.
“Uh huh,” said Calvin.
“What’s his real name?” Francis asked, stepping to the open door of the radio car and pulling the hand mike outside to run a make.
“Omar Wellington,” Calvin said. “How about savin us a little time, Omar? You got warrants out or what?”
“Uh-huh,” said Omar Wellington. “Couple traffic warrants.”
“Well that ain’t so bad,” said Calvin.
“Oh man, I don’t wanna go to jail tonight!”
“No big thing,” Calvin said, touching his handcuffs. “We don’t have to hook you up, do we?”
“Handcuffs? Naw, I ain’t gonna give nobody no trouble. I’m nonviolent. How come you stopped me? It’s them fuckin license plates, ain’t it?”
Calvin looked at the personalized license plate and replied, “Didn’t even notice em, Omar.”
“Then how’d you tumble? They’s lots a players around here in Cadillacs. It was my orange hat, wasn’t it? You wouldn’t even a saw me if it wasn’t for that motherfuckin hat.”
“Yeah, it was the hat, Omar,” Francis said to pacify the pimp, who like most street people believed superstitiously that there was one explainable reason for being singled out.
“What do your friends call you, Omar?”
“They jist calls me Omar.”
“Okay Omar, get in the black and white. Let’s get goin so you can bail out tonight.”
“I only got a hundred bucks on me. The mother fuckin warrants are for more than that. And a bail-bondsman don’t work on traffic cases. And I ain’t got no one I can get hold of for four hours. Ain’t this some bullshit?”
“Tell me, Omar,” Francis said, sliding in beside the pimp in the back seat. “Why don’t you just pay the tickets when you get them?”
“Shee-it! You don’t give The Man your money till you has to!” Omar Wellington looked at Francis as though he were a cretin. “Y’unnerstan?”
After booking the pimp Calvin repeated that he wasn’t hungry Nothing Francis said seemed to help Calvin out of his depression this night and Francis was constrained to try his last resort.
“Calvin, is the periscope still in the trunk?” he asked innocently.
“Now jist a minute, Francis. Jist one fuckin minute!”
“Pull over, Calvin. Lemme just see it.”
“Gud-damn you, Francis, you promised.”
“Wolfgang’s working alone tonight in a report car. He’s all alone!” Francis said, trying his inscrutable smile on Calvin Potts.
Wolfgang Werner, a twenty-four year old formidable specimen in tailored blue, had been in America from Stuttgart ten years before joining the police department. Francis and Wolfgang had shared a radio car the month before Calvin Potts and Francis formed their partnership. Francis didn’t mind working with Wolfgang. At first he found Wolfgang hilarious. “If you dundt sign zat traffic ticket we must luck you in ze slummer!” He only began to hate Wolfgang when the huge German went to Lieutenant Finque and asked to be assigned to another partner because of a personality conflict.
Francis thought it reprehensible of the German. It was customary on the Los Angeles force for police supervisors to leave unquestioned the ambiguous phrase “personality conflict” which masked a plethora of problems. Often it simply meant that two cops hated each other’s guts and would be venting their feelings on the citizens if left together for a protracted period in the incredibly gritty intimate world of the radio car. Francis was furious because too many “personality conflicts” would result in a policeman’s receiving a reputation of “not being able to get along.”
The department was still controlled by men who wanted subordinates who could “get along” and who firmly believed that “a good follower makes a good leader.”
Francis Tanaguchi never believed in following since there was no one to follow when you were making life and death decisions on the street at night. So Francis said that Wolfgang Werner was a schmuck. He said he knew the real reason that Wolfgang had dumped him. It was because he couldn’t abide what Harold Bloomguard named them, which was quickly picked up by the other officers. Harold called them The Axis Partners.
One night, after Francis had stopped being an Axis Partner and had become half of the Gook and the Spook team, they were cruising Crenshaw Boulevard on a quiet Wednesday when Francis spotted Wolfgang talking with a red haired motorist whom he had stopped near Rodeo Road ostensibly to write a ticket for a burned out taillight.
“Vell, I dunt sink ve neet to write ze ticket zis time, miss,” Wolfgang lisped, standing tall in the street next to the lime Mustang, staring at the driver’s license, memorizing the address, eyes hidden under the brim of his hat which was always pulled too far forward à la Roscoe Rules.
“Thank you, Officer,” the girl giggled, measuring the massive shoulders and chest of this young Hercules who dripped with Freudian symbolism. There were the phallic objects: the gun, the badge. Not to mention the oversized sap hanging from the sap pocket. And in Wolfgang’s case (he was the only night-watch officer who never got out of his car without it) there was the nightstick. The obtuse girl had not the slightest understanding of the siege these accoutrements laid to her libido.
When Wolfgang handed her back the license with a practiced Teutonic grin, Francis knew that Wolfgang would now say, “Vut say ve meedt ufter vork for a little chin and tunick?”
“That phony krauthead,” Francis complained as he watched the pantomime from his passenger seat in the radio car.
He ordered Calvin to park near the opposite corner, saying, “I’m gonna sink that sausage eating Aryan son of a bitch.” Later that night he bought a plastic periscope at a five-and-dime. Francis knew Wolfgang Werner could not abide an assault on his dignity The U-boat attacks began.
On the evening of the first attack Wolfgang was working solo taking reports. Francis turned his police hat around backward, scooted down in his seat with Calvin Potts driving and brought his new toy slowly up over the window ledge.
“Do you have a mirror in your periscope?” Calvin asked.
&n
bsp; “No.”
“Then you can’t see a fuckin thing?”
“No, you gotta tell me when I’m sighted in on Wolfgang.”
“Is that all you’re gonna do, sight in on Wolfgang?”
“No, that ain’t all. We’re gonna sink that pendejo,” Francis replied, lapsing into Spanish. “Bring her alongside.”
Wolfgang was stopped on Wilshire Boulevard between Western and Muirfield. This time his quarry was out of the Mercedes. She was brunette, leggy bejeweled and pissed off because she rightly suspected that Wolfgang didn’t really give a shit about the burned out light over her license plate. It was ten o’clock. A starless night. The traffic was light on Wilshire and Francis was afraid Wolfgang would see them cruising in.
“Turn out your lights,” Francis commanded.
Calvin shrugged and did so, bringing the black and white into the curb behind Wolfgang’s radio car when Francis suddenly said, “Not behind them, turkey! Pull up next to them. And slow.”
Then Francis Tanaguchi took a breath and said, “Ssssswwwwwoooooooooooosh,” causing Wolfgang to turn and stare at them quizzically.
“Amiss!” Francis said suddenly. “Dive! Dive! Dive!”
“What?”
“Get the fuck outta here!” Francis yelled and Calvin pulled away, leaving Wolfgang and the baffled brunette staring after them in wonder.
It took them more than an hour to find Wolfgang Werner the next night they attacked. They finally located him by listening for his calls given by a new radio voice which Calvin suspiciously thought almost as sexy as the Dragon Lady’s.
“Seven-X–L-Five, Seven-X–L-Five, see the woman, prowler complaint, Crescent Heights and Colgate.”
“He’ll drop everything to roll on that one,” said Francis. “I know how his mind works. He’ll figure it’s a peeping tom complaint and that she might be good enough to deserve the peeping. All ahead full!”
Francis turned his hat around backward and brought the periscope out from under the seat as they glided toward Wolfgang’s car.
The big German was getting out of the car, flashlight in one hand and report notebook in the other. He didn’t see them as they cruised closer, their engine cut by Calvin Potts.
Then Francis yelled, “Achtung! Fire one! Fire two!”
Wolfgang whirled, the flashlight clattered and broke on the asphalt and the German had his clamshell holster open and was halfway into a draw when Francis Tanaguchi said, “Ssssswwwwwooooosh.”
“Francis, did we get him?” Calvin asked as he switched on the engine and lights and dropped a yard and a half of smoking LAPD rubber on the asphalt.
“Banzai! Banzai!” Francis giggled mysteriously.
They didn’t see Wolfgang until end-of-watch in the locker room when he came to Francis’ locker before changing and said with a tight grin, “Okay, Francis, you sunk me vunce. Vut say ve meg a truce?”
Francis only smiled inscrutably and left with Calvin to choir practice to brag to Harold Bloomguard that he was driving Wolfgang crackers. He called his U-boat the S.S. Chorizo after the spicy Mexican sausage.
The very last time Francis’ boat went to sea was the night he had blood on his hands, when Wolfgang Werner was standing in front of Wilshire Police Station talking to his newest girlfriend: a big rosy lusty girl named Olga who waited tables at a La Brea drive-in which fed the car in the area for free.
“Let it go, baby,” Calvin said as they pulled out of the station parking lot onto Venice Boulevard and Francis Tanaguchi leered at Olga and turned his cap around.
“Go back,” Francis said grimly and pulled the periscope from under the seat.
“That dude is gonna kick your little ass and I ain’t woofin.”
“Go back, Calvin.”
“That cat is gonna tear your head off and piss in the hole, Francis.”
“You scared of him?”
“You gud-damn right.”
“If you take me on one more attack I promise I’ll throw away my periscope.”
“Okay, but why now?”
“I’m in love with Olga. She’s so big! Go back and I swear I’ll never fire another torpedo.”
“You swear?”
“Yes.”
“You swear to Buddha?”
“Knock off that Jap stuff, goddamnit. That fuckin Lieutenant Finque made me go to another Nip luncheon today. How’d you like a shirt full of vomity squid, asshole?”
“Okay, I’m goin back. But that storm trooper is gonna burn you down.”
“Let’s go!” Francis said as Calvin wheeled the radio car around and headed back toward Venice Boulevard.
Wolfgang was turned away from them as they drove in from the west, this time in a fast glide and with lights on because of the westbound traffic.
“This is the last fuckin time I go to sea, Francis,” Calvin warned.
“Okay okay, now you’re making me nervous,” said the commander, as he sighted in, peeking up over the window ledge because the eyehole of the periscope revealed nothing but a three inch color photograph of a hairy vagina which Calvin had cut from a Playboy magazine and glued inside the plastic tube to amuse Francis.
“Steer an evasive course afterward,” Francis ordered as Wolfgang turned from Olga who was dressed in the sheerest tightest hiphugging bellbottoms Francis Tanaguchi had ever seen. She was pantyless and her crotch was dark beneath the sheer yellow bells.
Francis leaned out the window, periscope extended, and aimed it not at Wolfgang but at Olga’s bulging fluff.
“Ssssswwwwwooooosh,” cried Francis Tanaguchi and Calvin Potts sped away, fearfully stealing a glance at the grim face of Wolfgang Werner.
That night in the locker room Wolfgang grabbed Francis by the throat without warning and said, “If you efen tink uf putting your lousy torpedo vere you pudt it tonight, I vill tvist you neg off. You vood be smart to decommission your U-boat, Francis.”
Wolfgang made Francis promise by squeezing and encouraging him to bob his head. Then he left Francis gasping in front of the locker while Calvin Potts pretended to need another trip to the urinal, away from Wolfgang Werner.
When Calvin returned he said, “I think we better put the S.S. Chorizo in dry dock for good, Francis.”
That last dangerous attack on the German came after the call which would awaken Francis sweating in the night with red in the crevices of his knuckles and under his nails.
“Seven-A-Seventy-seven, see the woman, unknown trouble, Pico and Ogden.”
“Seven-A-Seventy-seven, roger,” Francis muttered and threw the hand mike on the seat. “Damn it, I’m drooling for a guacamole taco!”
“This must be it,” Calvin said five minutes later and Francis looked up as Calvin hit the high beam, lighting a man and woman who stood in front of a seedy apartment house which was still located in a predominantly white neighborhood, but which was experiencing a high vacancy factor because blacks were getting more numerous.
“Hope this is a quickie,” Francis said as they gathered up their flashlights, hats and notebook. The smog hung over the streets and the building like airbrushed, painted smoke.
“I’m the one that called,” said a woman in a quilted bathrobe, her orange hair frizzing beneath a hairnet.
A balding man with a sloppy grin sat on the steps beside her. There were six empty beer cans between them.
“What’s the problem?” Francis asked, slightly uneasy over an “unknown trouble” call, which can mean anything but sometimes means only that the communications officer who took the call could not think of a convenient category in which to classify it.
“I’m the manager,” said the woman, bunching the robe at the bosom as though she were not twenty years past the age when most policemen would look. “I got a tenant up there in number twelve. Name’s Mrs. Stafford. She got three little kids and I shouldn’t oughtta have rented to her cause we don’t want no more than one kid per apartment.”
“So what happened?” Calvin asked impatiently, wondering if Franci
s would object too strongly if he were to stop by McGoon’s Saloon and have a little taste. Just maybe one little Johnnie Walker on the rocks …
“Well, see don’t you think it’s unusual? I hear this noise about two hours ago just when it was getting dark. Then I don’t hear nothing. They go to bed awful early, her and her kids. I feel so sorry for them I loaned them an old TV. She just got here from Arkansas and ain’t eligible for welfare or nothing yet so she’s trying to find work as a waitress. But it’s hard.”
“The noise,” Calvin said. “The noise.”
“Yeah, so then I thought I heard screaming. Not too loud, but a scream. But kids always holler. And then, then about twenty minutes ago I see a man go out and then nothing. There ain’t no lights on in there. Just nothing. I went up and knocked but nothing.”
“So?”
“They’re home. They didn’t go out. I woulda saw them if they went out.”
“So they’re asleep.”
“The TV’s on.”
“They just forgot…”
“Look sir,” the woman said, turning to Francis, “it’s an old TV but it works good. I can hear the station. It’s the same channel as I’m watching. And I peek in through the drapes and I can see the screen and it’s all white and sparkly You can’t hardly make out the picture.”
“What’s that mean?”
“I don’t know, sir.” The woman turned to Calvin again. “She don’t have many friends. Poor little woman stays with her kids all day and all night. Just trying to find work is only time she leaves them and then I keep an eye on them.”
“Why don’t you use your passkey and go on in?”
“That’s the problem, I ain’t got one. Last tenant didn’t turn his in and I gave her my passkey. Can you just go in and see if everything’s all right?”
“Don’t suppose you want us to break the door down?” Calvin muttered as the two policemen started up the steps.
“Can’t you just slip the lock like all the cops in the movies?”
“No, and I can’t open a safe by listenin to the tumblers either,” Calvin said as Francis reached the landing first and knocked loudly on the door of number twelve.
The Choirboys Page 11
