As his heart pounded more slowly, Gus remembered that he had put off his running program for a week and he must not do that, because if you lose momentum you'll stop. He decided to go to the academy and run tonight after he got off duty. It would be a beautiful night and of course there would be no one else on the track except possibly Seymour, the leathery old motor officer who was a hulking man with a huge stomach, wide hips, and a face like eroded clay from riding the motorcycle more than twenty years. Sometimes Gus would find Seymour out there lumbering around the police academy track at 3:00 A.M. blowing and steaming. After his shower, when he was dressed in the blue uniform, riding breeches, black boots and white helmet, why then Seymour looked formidable again and not nearly as fat. He rode the motor lightly and could do wonders with the heavy machine. He had been a friend of Kilvinsky and how Gus had enjoyed the nocturnal runs when Kilvinsky was with him, and how they would rest on the turf. He had loved listening to Kilvinsky and Seymour discussing the old times on the police department when things were simple, when good and evil were definitive. He remembered how he would pretend to be as tired as Kilvinsky when they had covered their fifteen laps, gone to the steam room and then the showers, but actually he could have run fifteen more without exhausting himself. It was a beautiful night tonight. It would be good to get on the cool grass and run and run. He would try to run five miles tonight, five hard fast miles, and then he would not need a steam bath. He would shower, go home, and sleep into the afternoon tomorrow if it were not too hot to sleep, if the children would let him sleep, and if Vickie would not need him to help her replace a light bulb that was simply too high to reach after she became dizzy standing on a chair. Or to help her shop because it was impossible to shop nowadays alone even if you could leave the children with your neighbor because the markets were horribly confusing and you couldn't find anything, and sometimes you just wanted to scream, especially when you thought of returning to a house with three children and oh, God, Gus, what if I'm pregnant again? I'm five days overdue. Yes I'm sure, I'm sure.
"Ambulance on the way," said Craig, clicking back down the walkway and Gus made a mental note to suggest to Craig that he get rubber-soled shoes or at least to remove the cleat from his heels because even working uniformed patrol, it paid to walk quietly a good part of the time. It was hard enough to do with a jingling key ring and creaking Sam Browne and jostling baton.
"Why did you hit him?" asked Craig, and by now the bloody man was sitting up and wailing as the pain was apparently penetrating the drunken euphoria.
"Ah tol' him I was goin' to do it nex' time he messed wif Tillie. Las' time I came home early I catched them in bed sleepin' an' drunk on mah whiskey an' there they was comf'table wif Tillie's bare ass right up there nex' to him and that thing still there inside her an' I reached ovah an' pulled it out and I woke him up an tol' him if he evah did that again why I would whop him up side the head and I came home early tonight and I catched them agin an' I did it."
"I had it comin', Charlie," said the bloody man. "You right. You right."
Gus heard the wail of the ambulance siren in the distance and looked at his watch. By the time they finished the arrest report it would be end-of-watch and he could go to the academy and run and run.
"Don' you worry, Charlie, I won't have you arrested," said the bloody man. "You the bes' friend I evah had."
"I'm afraid Charlie has to go to jail, friend," said Craig, helping the bloody man to his feet.
"I won' sign no complaint," warned the bloody man and then winced as he stood erect and touched his head tenderly.
"Doesn't matter if you do or not," said Gus. "This is a felony and we're going to put him in jail just in case you up and die on us in the next few days."
"Don' you worry, Charlie," said the bloody man. "I ain't goin' to die on you."
"You can talk to the detectives tomorrow about refusing to prosecute," said Gus as they all walked to the front. "But tonight, your friend is going to jail."
The winking piercing red siren light announced the arrival of the ambulance even though the driver had killed the siren. Gus flashed his light to show the driver the house and the ambulance slid in at the curb and the attendant jumped out. He took the arm of the bloody man as the driver opened the door.
"Don' you worry now, Charlie, I won' persecute you," said the bloody man. "An' ah'll take good care of Tillie too while you in jail. Don' you worry none 'bout her neither. Hear?"
Chapter 12
ENEMA
ROY'S HEART THUMPED as the telephone rang in the receiver which he held pressed to his ear. The door to the vice squad office was locked and he knew the rest of the night watch teams would not be straggling into the office for at least a half hour. He decided to call Dorothy from a police department phone to save the long distance charge. It was hard enough trying to make rent payments in two places and support himself after he sent his monthly payment to Dorothy. Then there was his car payment and it was becoming apparent he would soon have to sell the Thunderbird and settle for a lower priced car when this was one of the few luxuries he had left.
He was almost glad she wasn't home and was about to hang up when he heard the unmistakable pitch of Dorothy's unmistakable voice which so often made a simple greeting sound like a question.
"Hello?"
"Hello, Dorothy, hope I didn't disturb you."
"Roy? I was in the shower."
"Oh, I'm sorry, I'll call back."
"No, it's alright. I'm in my bathrobe. What is it?"
"Is it the gold robe I got you for your last birthday?"
"We were already separated on my last birthday, Roy. It was the year before you got me a gold robe and this isn't it."
"Oh. How's Becky?"
"You just saw her last week, Roy. She's still the same."
"Goddamnit, Dorothy, can't you even spare me an occasional kind word."
"Yes, Roy, but please don't let's get started again on the same old thing. The divorce will be final in just eighty-nine days and that's it. We're not coming back to you."
Roy swallowed hard and the tears rushed to his eyes. He didn't speak for several seconds until he was sure he had control.
"Roy?"
"Yes, Dorothy."
"Roy, this is useless."
"God, I'll do anything you say, Dorothy. Please come home. Don't go through with it."
"We've been over this again and again."
"I'm terribly lonely."
"A handsome man like you? A golden-haired, blue-eyed Apollo like Roy Fehler? You didn't have any trouble finding companionship while we were together."
"Christ, Dorothy, it only happened once or twice. I've told you all about it."
"I know, Roy. It wasn't that. You weren't particularly unfaithful as far as men go. But I just stopped caring. I just don't care for you anymore, can't you understand that?"
"Please give her to me, Dorothy," Roy sobbed brokenly, and then the dam burst and he began crying in the mouthpiece, turning toward the door fearful that one of the other vice officers would come in early, and humiliated that he was doing this and letting Dorothy hear it.
"Roy, Roy, don't do that. I know how you're suffering without Becky."
"Give her to me, Dorothy," Roy sniffed, wiping his face on the sleeve of his orange checkered sport shirt which he wore hanging out of his belt to cover the gun and handcuffs.
"Roy, I'm her mother."
"I'll pay you anything, Dorothy. My father has some money set aside for me in his will. Carl once hinted to me that if I ever changed my mind about going in the family store, I could maybe get my hands on it. I'll get it. I'll give it to you. Anything, Dorothy."
"I'm not selling my baby, Roy! When the hell are you going to grow up?"
"I'll move back with Mom and Dad. Mom could take care of Becky while I work. I've already talked to Mom. Please, Dorothy, you don't know how I love her. I love her so much more than you do."
The line was dead for a moment and Roy was coldly af
raid she had hung up, then she said, "Maybe you do, Roy. Maybe in your own way you do. But I don't think you love her for herself. It's something else you see in her. But it doesn't matter who loves her more. The point is that a child, especially a little girl, needs a mother."
"There's _my__ mother...
"Goddamnit Roy, will you shut up and stop thinking about yourself for just once in your life? I'm trying to tell you Becky needs a mother, a real mother, and I happen to be that mother. Now my lawyer's told you and I've told you that you can have more than adequate visitation rights. You can have whatever is reasonable. I'll be very liberal in that regard. I don't think I've been unfair in my child support demands. And surely, the dollar a year alimony isn't too difficult to manage."
Roy heaved three deep breaths and the sting of his humiliation swept over him. He was thankful he had finally decided to make his final plea by telephone because he feared this might happen. He had been so distraught through the divorce that he could hardly control simple emotions anymore.
"You're very generous, Dorothy," he said, finally.
"I wish you everything good, so help me God I do."
"Thank you."
"Can I give you some advice, Roy? I think I know you better than anyone."
"Why not? I'm vulnerable to anything right now. Tell me to drop dead, I'll probably do it."
"No you won't Roy. You'll be all right. Listen, get on course and go somewhere. You studied criminology after switching your major two or three times. You said you'd only be a policeman for a year or so and it's already more than two years and you're nowhere near your degree. But that's okay if being a policeman is what you want. But I don't think it is. You've never really liked it."
"It's better than working for a living."
"Please don't joke now, Roy. This is the last free advice I'll ever be giving you. Get on course. Even if it's going back to your dad's store. You could do a lot worse. I don't think you'll be a successful policeman. You always seemed unhappy with some aspect of the job or other."
"Maybe I'd be miserable at anything."
"Maybe so, Roy. Maybe so. Anyway, do what you think is best, and I'm sure I'll be seeing you often when you come to get Becky."
"You can bet on that."
"Good-bye, Roy."
Roy sat at the cluttered table in the vice office and smoked, even though he had a severe case of indigestion and suspected an incipient ulcer. He finished the first cigarette and used the smoldering coal to light another. He knew the fire in his stomach would worsen and that was alright too. He thought for an instant about the new untested Smith & Wesson two-inch which rested lightly on his hip and had made him so acutely aware that for the first time in his police career he was working a plainclothes assignment. For the first time he realized how badly he wanted that assignment, and how, when the watch commander had asked him if he would care for a loan to the vice squad for thirty days, he had jumped at it. He began feeling a little better and decided it was foolish and melodramatic to think of the Smith & Wesson as he had for that moment. Things were not that bad yet. He still had hope.
The lock turned and the door swung open in one motion and Roy did not recognize the balding loudly dressed man who came in with a gun belt slung over his shoulder and a paper sack in his hand.
"Hello," said Roy, standing up and hoping the evidence of tears was no longer in his face.
"Hi," said the man, extending his hand. "You must be a new man."
"I'm Roy Fehler. I'm on loan to vice for the month. This is only my third night here."
"Oh? I'm Frank Gant. I been on days off since Monday. I heard we were borrowing someone from patrol." He had a massive hand and shook hands violently. "I didn't think anyone was here. Usually the first night watch guy that arrives unlocks the door."
"Sorry," said Roy. "I'll unlock the door next time."
"Oh that's okay. You met the rest of the crew?"
"Yeah. You were the only one I didn't meet."
"Saved the best till last," Gant smiled, putting the paper sack on top of a metal file cabinet.
"My lunch," he said, pointing to the sack. "You brown bagging it?"
"No, I've bought my lunch the last two nights."
"Might as well brown bag it," said Gant. "You'll find there are lots of disadvantages to working vice. When you take off that blue suit you lose your eating spots. We have to pay for our meals or else brown bag it. I brown bag it. Working vice is expensive enough."
"Guess I'll do the same. I can't stand to spend too much money these days."
"You'll be expected to spend some," said Gant, sitting down at the table and opening the log to make the entry for August third. "They give us a few bucks a week to operate on, and we usually blow that the first night. From then on, you use your own dough if you want to operate. Me, I try not to spend too much. I got five kids."
"I'm with you," said Roy.
"They give you any money yet?"
"We operated a bar last night for liquor law violations," said Roy. "I chitted for two dollars, but really I spent five. I lost three on the deal."
"That's the way vice is," Gant sighed. "It's a damn good job and if you like to work you'll love it here, but the bastards won't give us enough money to work on."
"I'd like to work vice as a regular assignment. Maybe this is a good chance to show what I can do."
"It is," said Gant, opening a bulging manila folder and removing some forms which Roy had already come to recognize as vice complaints. "How long you been in Central, Roy? I don't believe I ever saw you before."
"Just a few months. I came from Newton."
"Down in the jungle, huh? Bet you're glad to get away from there."
"I wanted a change."
"Any change is for the better when you get away from there. I used to work Newton, but that was before the Civil Rights push. Now that they been promised nigger heaven it's not the same working down there. I'll never go back."
"It's a very complicated problem," said Roy, lighting another cigarette as he rubbed his burning stomach and blew a gray plume of smoke through his nose.
"We got some splibs in Central too, but not too many. Just over on the east side and in the projects mostly, and a few others scattered around. Too much business and industry in the downtown area for them to swarm in."
"I'd like to help you with the paper work," said Roy, becoming irritated and uncomfortable as he always did when anyone talked about Negroes like this.
"No, that's okay. These are old vice complaints that there's a follow-up due on. You wouldn't know what to write. Why don't you look through the whore book. It's good to get to know the regulars. Or read over some of the arrest reports to see how vice pinches are made. You made a whore pinch yet?"
"No, we tailed a couple last night but we lost them. We've been mostly operating the bars. We got a bartender for serving a drunk, but that's the only pinch we made in two nights."
"Well Gant's back so we'll go to work now."
"You're not a sergeant are you?" asked Roy, realizing that he still wasn't sure who all were working vice officers and who were supervisors. The whole atmosphere was very informal and different from patrol.
"Hell no," Gant laughed. "I should be, but I can't pass the damned exam. Been failing that son of a bitch for fourteen years. I'm just a policeman like you."
"Not too sure of the chain of command around here," Roy smiled.
"How much time you got on?"
"Almost three years," said Roy and then was afraid Gant would pin him down to months because two years and three months was certainly not "almost three years."
"Different on vice, isn't it? Calling your sergeant by his first name and all that. Far cry from patrol, huh? This is a close group. Vice work has to be. It's intimate work. You'll be in close and up tight with all kinds of people. You'll see every kind of depravity you ever imagined and some you can't even imagine when you see it. They only let a guy work eighteen months of this shit. Too goddamned sordi
d, that and the kind of life you lead. Hanging around in bars all night, boozing and playing around with broads. You married?"
"No," said Roy, and was struck with a spasm of indigestion that made him rub his stomach again.
"The whores don't tempt nobody, at least they shouldn't after you been around them awhile and get to know them. But there's a lot of pretty sexy toadies that hang around in some of these bars, lonely broads on the make, you know, just amateurs, freebies, and we're always hanging around too. It gets kind of tempting. Only thing Sergeant Jacovitch demands of us troops is that we don't play around on company time. If we meet something nice, we should make a date for our night off. Jake says if he catches us fooling around in some gin mill with a babe, she better be a professional whore or he'll bounce us off the squad."
"I'm going through a divorce right now. I'm not really thinking too much about women." Roy said it, and hoped Gant would ask him when the divorce was final or make some other comment about Roy's problem because he had a sudden urge to talk to someone, anyone, about it, and perhaps Gant had also been through it. So many policemen had.
"You know the division pretty well, Roy?" asked Gant, disappointing him.
"Pretty well."
"Well, you can study that pin map on the wall," said Gant, waving aimlessly at the wall as he made an entry on a work sheet which Roy knew would later be typed onto the vice complaint.
"What will we work tonight, whores?"
"Whores, yeah. We got to get some pinches. Haven't been doing too much lately. Maybe some fruits. We work fruits when we need some bookings. They're the easiest."
Roy heard voices and Phillips, a swarthy young man with unruly hair and a bristling moustache, walked through the door.
"Hello everybody," he announced, throwing a binocular case on the table, and carrying a set of walkie-talkies under his arm.
"What're the CC units for?" asked Gant. "Some kind of big deal tonight?"
the New Centurions (1971) Page 18
