"That all there is?"
"Nothin to it, baby," the woman said and smiled at Calvin for the first time, stepping in close and touching his chest with her swooping breasts.
Just then the man at the bar lurched forward drunkenly saying, "Don't you believe nothin this hussy says about my uncle. It's all a shuck. He was senile and she was usin that ol man."
The man was holding something in his arms pressed tightly against his ribs and in the gloom of the bar room it looked like a rusty bath towel. Then Calvin noticed it was leaking down onto the man's cracked leather wing tips and then to the grimy floor.
"Man, you're bleedin!"
"Yeah," the man said. "I is." And as though embarrassed, he pulled the filthy towel away and a mucous trickle spurted out of the puncture in his chest and ran down his rib cage to the floor. The wound bubbled and gaped a bit larger with every breath he took. "That bitch done it to me."
"Okay, bastard!" said the buxom heiress. "Now I'm gonna show em what you done to me!"
As she spoke she squirmed and wriggled and hiked her tight dress over her wobbly buttocks and displayed a soppy Kotex which had been pressed inside her blue panties to stem the flow of blood from an eight inch knife wound across the hip and stomach which peeled back flesh and fat and bared a sliver of gleaming hipbone.
"What the fuck is goin on?" Calvin exploded, waving Francis over and pointing at both ugly wounds.
"You said you wasn't gonna say nothin if I didn't say nothin, you funky ol devil!" the heiress complained.
"Well, he ast me, bitch. What was I gonna say, that I was holdin a pack a bloody meat in this here towel?"
"Did you get cut in the fracas?" Francis asked, shocked at the slash across her belly.
"No, bout five inches above it," the woman answered.
"So, who cut who?" Calvin demanded, disgusted because now they would have to make crime reports and likely book both antagonists in a "mutual combat" situation so common to ghetto policemen.
"I fell on a ice pick," the man said.
"Who cut you?" Francis asked the heiress.
"I fell on a butcher knife," she answered.
"Tell me somethin," the man said as Francis squinted in the bleak dusty light at the chest hole and finally stepped forward to watch the sinister little orifice blow and foam as the man breathed. "If somebody was to attack somebody wif a ice pick, and this here other somebody was to defend hisself wif a butcher knife, would this somebody wif a butcher knife go to jail?"
Before the policemen could answer, the heiress added, "And if this motherfuckin dawg of a lyin wino was really the one to attack a woman with a butcher knife and she had to defend herself with a ice pick, wouldn't this woman be a righteous victim of this other evil ol motherfucker? She wouldn't go to jail, would she?"
"Anybody else see this?" Francis asked, but everyone suddenly turned to his beer for some serious drinking.
"The detectives would book em both and let em hassle it out in court," Calvin scowled contemptuously. "And before it got to a court trial there'd be three continuances by the two defendants and in the end they'd both agree not to prosecute each other and it'd be a big motherfuckin waste of my time and the taxpayers' money."
"Kin you give me a ride to the hospital?" asked the heiress.
"You wanna make a crime report against him?"
"No."
"Take the bus," Calvin said. "The doctor'll sew you up for free. It's an emergency."
"Don't they send you a bill?" she asked, and finally tamped the Kotex compress back into place and squirmed the dress back down.
"Sure, but jist put it with the rest a your bills inside the hole in your shoe."
"Calvin, we better take him anyway," Francis said. "That's a chest puncture. This man's hurt bad."
"You wanna make a crime report against her?" asked Calvin.
"No," the man said and the breath made a rattling bubble on his chest and a soft pop when it burst.
"Groovy," Calvin said, heading for the door. "Jist take two aspirin and stay in bed tomorrow."
"He's hurt bad, Calvin." Francis had to run to catch his long striding partner outside on the sidewalk.
"Hey, jump back, Jack! I made my decision. I ain't fuckin with no more a these people. If they wanna rip each other from the lips to the hips, let em go head on!"
"He could die. His lung could collapse."
"You can't kill these niggers, Francis. I was broke in on the job by a cracker named Dixie Suggs who hated black people like you hate squid. He taught me you gotta practically cut off their heads and shrink em to kill the motherfuckers. Damn, let's work a north end car next month. I can take those big-mouth kikes better than niggers."
"Okay Calvin, okay." Francis watched his partner for a moment before raising the hand mike to clear from the call.
They cruised, Calvin smoking quietly, until darkness settled. Then Calvin patted the breast pocket of his uniform and said, "Let's stop by Easy's and get some smokes."
Francis, who had been drinking heavily the night before, was dozing in his seat, his head bobbing on his chest every few seconds, his long black hair hanging over his thin face as small boy's.
"We get a call?" Francis asked, fumbling for the pencil in his shirt pocket.
"Go back to sleep, Francis. We didn't get no call."
Calvin made a lazy turn onto Venice Boulevard to the liquor store run by Easy Willis, a jolly black man who supplied two packs of cigarettes a day to each of the three cars patrolling the district around the clock. Easy felt that this would promote the reputation that cops came into Easy's at any time, thus discouraging the robbers and potential robbers who lived in the area.
The packs of cigarettes ensured that not only would the officers walk in once on each watch, but they would make it a point to shine the spotlight in the window every time they passed. In truth, a pack of cigarettes did make them drive by a bit more than they would have normally and a policeman's spotlight is most reassuring to liquor store and gas station proprietors in the ghetto. Many of whom have faced a gun and been slugged and attacked more than a squad of policemen and in fact have a far more physically dangerous occupation.
"Say, Calvin, what's shakin?" Easy grinned, as Calvin walked hatless into the store which was stocked wall to wall with beer, hard liquor and cheap wine. The ghetto dwellers were not dilettante drinkers.
"Aw right, aw right, Easy, my man," Calvin said, leaning on the counter while Easy slid three fifths of Scotch into a paper bag for a boozy black woman who had a child in her arms and another hanging from her dress.
Calvin looked around the store at the sagging liquor counters and the display shelves. Like most ghetto establishments the shelves held no candy bars or cigarettes because of juvenile shoplifting. Calvin glanced at the rows of skin magazines and then at the elaborate sprinkler system which the white owner of the store had installed in case there was ever another black riot in Los Angeles.
The proprietor, Lolly Herman, had owned a store in Watts which had been looted and fire-bombed in 1965. He feared another black rebellion more than any antebellum plantation owner. The proprietor had all windows barred and a silent robbery alarm button situated in five strategic locations in the store: behind the counter, in the restroom in case a thief would force him in there, in the cold storage locker if that should be where he was forced to go, near the back door of the store which led out into the yard that was enclosed by a ten foot chain link fence with five strands of barbed wire around the top, and finally in the money room which was just to the side of the counter and enclosed by ceiling high sheets of bulletproof glass. The door to the money room was electrically controlled as was the swinging wrought iron gate which protected the front door when the premises were secured at 2:00 A. M.
Perhaps more formidable than the lonely vicious Doberman which prowled the service yard at the rear and lay flea bitten in the blazing sunshine was the carbine that Mr. Herman had displayed on the wall inside the bulletproof money room to di
ssuade any thief who thought his protection was merely preventative.
Three weeks after he had finished every elaborate antirobbery and antiburglary device, he was sapped by a ninety pound teenager on roller skates when he was getting into his car after closing. Three thousand dollars were stolen from his socks and underwear.
After that, Lolly Herman, with eighteen sutures in his skull, stopped working at the liquor store, retired to his Beverly Hills home and let Easy Willis take over management of the store. Of course, business was not as good. Easy and the other six employees could not be made to hustle without Lolly Herman watching them. They stole about a thousand a month among them to supplement their incomes, but the liquor store was still a gold mine and Mrs. Herman secretly thanked God that the ninety pound teenager, called Chipmunk Grimes, had coldcocked the old man and driven him into retirement.
"Momma made some souse and head cheese, Calvin," Easy said when the customer left. Then Easy flipped two packs of Camels on the counter without asking.
"Thanks but I don't eat much soul these days." Calvin put both packs in his pockets, glad that Francis didn't smoke.
Of course Easy knew that Francis didn't smoke but went along with the charade since they first came in the store together and Calvin said, "This is my new partner, Easy. His name's Francis and he smokes Camels just like me."
Two packs to a car is what Lolly Herman said to give, and Easy didn't give a damn whether it was to one cop or two. In fact, now that Lolly Herman had retired, Easy often popped for two extra packs, and knowing Calvin's drinking problem was reaching an acute stage, bounced for a fifth of Johnnie Walker Black Label once a week.
"Officer!" yelled a young Black man in yellow knits as he burst into the store. "Some dude jist stole a radio out of a car there on La Brea!"
"How long ago?"
"Bout twenny minutes."
"How bout jist skatin on out to the car and wakin up my little partner. He'll take a report."
"Ain't you gonna try and catch him?"
"Man, twenty minutes? Sucker's halfway to Compton by now."
"He ain't from Compton. Wasn't no brother. He was a paddy long hair blondey like dude. I think he was one a them cats what works at that place down the street where they talks to you about a job but the oniest ones that's makin any money is the one talkin about the jobs, and they get it from the gov'ment."
"Yeah, well we'll take a report," Calvin said blandly, "and since that job place is closed tonight the detectives'll check it out tomorrow."
"Oughtta keep the jiveass honkies outta our neighborhoods," said Easy. "Most a these young jitterbug social workers don't look like they got all their shit in one bag anyhow. And they be tryin to tell us how to do it. I think most a them is Comminists or some other off brand types."
"Nother thing," the young man said to Calvin. "The brother what owned the radio is bleedin round the eye. This paddy started talkin some crazy shit when the dude owned the car caught him stealin the radio. Then this honky jist fired on the brother and took the box."
"What he look like when he swung?" Easy asked.
"Baaaaad motherfucker. East hands. Punched like Ali."
"Wasn't none a them do-gooders then," said Easy. "They all sissies. Musta been a righteous paddy crook jist passin through."
After penciling out the brief theft report, Francis was fully awake and the moment they drove away from Easy's liquor store he said, "How about code seven?"
"Too early to eat."
"How about just stopping for a taco at Bennie's?"
"Aw right." Calvin lit another cigarette, grimacing at the thought of one of Bennie's salty guacamole filled drippy tacos which sent Francis Tanaguchi into fits of joy.
"Driver of the pimpmobile looks hinky," Francis said as they crossed Pico Boulevard on La Brea, slowly passing a red and white Cadillac convertible driven by a lanky black man in an orange wide brimmed hat with matching ascot.
"Let's bring him down. Might have a warrant," Calvin said "Anything to keep from smellin those greasy tacos."
The driver pretended not to see the red light nor hear the honking black and white which followed him for a block until Calvin angrily blasted him to the curb with the siren.
"Watch him say 'who me'?" said Calvin as he got out of the car and approached from the driver's side while Francis advanced on the passenger side, shining his light, distracting the driver to protect his vulnerable partner on the street.
"You got a driver's license?" Calvin asked, right hand on his gun, three cell light in his left hand, searching for the right hand of the driver which was hidden from view.
He relaxed when the driver brought his hand up to the steering wheel and said "Who me?"
"You know, I once shot a player like you," Calvin lied. "Dude laid there with two magnums in his belly and when I said, 'Leroy, you got any last words?' he said, 'Who me?' and fell over dead. Now break out somethin with your name on it since I know you ain't got a driver's license."
"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 y
ou, 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 motherfuckin warrants are for more than that. And a bailbondsman 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 ambigupus 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 Choirboys (1996) Page 10
