"What's the matter, kid?" asked Gant walking up to Roy who still had the handkerchief held to his mouth.
"I had a little scuffle in there."
"You did?" said Gant, putting a hand on each of Roy's shoulders.
"I'm sick," said Roy.
"Did you get hurt?" asked Gant, his eyes wide as he examined Roy's face.
"I'm just sick," said Roy, shaking his head. "I just saw the asshole of the world get a blue enema."
"Yeah? Well get used to it, kid," said Gant. "Everything you seen in there will be legal before long."
"Let's get out of here," Simeone called from behind the wheel of the vice car. He pointed at a crawling yellow street cleaner which was inching down Main Street. Roy and Gant squeezed in the car with the arrestees and Simeone and Ranatti.
Roy leaned out the window as they drove away and saw the street cleaner squirt a stream of water over the street and curb around The Cave. The machine hissed and roared and Roy watched the filth being washed away.
AUGUST 1963
Chapter 13
THE MADONNA
SERGE WONDERED IF any of his academy classmates had plainclothes assignments yet. Probably Fehler or Isenberg and a few of the others had made it to vice or to a felony squad. But not many of them, he guessed. He had been astonished when Sergeant Farrell asked him if he would like to work felony cars this month and then if he worked out it might be a permanent assignment.
This was his second week in F-Cars. He had never realized how much more comfortable it could be to do police work in a business suit rather than the heavy woolen uniforms and unwieldy Sam Browne belt. He wore a four-inch lightweight Colt which he had just bought last payday after seeing how heavy the six-inch Smith rides on your hip in a plainclothes holster.
He suspected that Milton had recommended him to Sergeant Farrell for the F-Car. Milton and Farrell were friends and Farrell seemed to like and respect the old man. However he got here, it was fine to get out of the black and white car for a while. Not that the street people did not know them, two men in business suits, in a low priced, four-door Plymouth--two men who drove slowly and watched streets and people. But at least they were inconspicuous enough to avoid being troubled by the endless numbers of people who need a policeman to solve an endless number of problems that a policeman is not qualified to solve, but must make an attempt to solve, because he is an easily accessible member of the establishment and traditionally vulnerable to criticism. Serge happily blew three smoke rings which would have been perfect except that the breeze took them, the breeze which was pleasant because it had been a very hot summer and the nights were not as cool as Los Angeles nights usually are.
Serge's partner, Harry Ralston, seemed to sense his contentment.
"Think you're going to like F-Cars?" he grinned, turning toward Serge who was slumped in the seat, admiring an exceptionally voluptuous girl in a clinging white cotton dress.
"I'm going to like it," Serge smiled.
"I know how you feel. It's great to get out of uniform, ain't it?"
"Great."
"I was in uniform eight years," said Ralston. "I was really ready. Got five years in felony cars now, and I still like it. Beats uniform patrol."
"I've got a lot to learn," said Serge.
"You'll learn. It's different from patrol. You're already learning that, I think."
Serge nodded, dropping the cigarette out the window, a luxury he never could have allowed himself in a black and white car where some citizen with an ax to grind might take his car number and report him to his sergeant for the vehicle code violation of dropping the lighted substance from a car.
"Ready for code seven?" asked Ralston, looking at his watch. "It's not nine o'clock yet, but I'm hungry as hell."
"I can eat," said Serge, picking up the mike. "Four-Frank-One requesting code seven at Brooklyn and Mott."
"Four-Frank-One, okay seven," said the Communications operator and Serge checked his watch to be sure and clear over the radio when their forty-five minutes were up. It irritated him that the Department made them work an eight hour and forty-five minute shift. Since the forty-five minutes was his own time, he made sure he used every minute of it.
"Hello, Mr. Rosales," said Ralston, as they took the booth on the far wall nearest the kitchen. It was noisy and hot from the stoves in this particular booth, but Ralston loved to be near the kitchen smells. He was a man who lived to eat, Serge thought, and his incredible appetite belied his lankiness.
"Good evening, senores," smiled the old man, coming from behind the counter where three customers sat. He wiped the table which needed no wiping. He poured two glasses of water for them after swiping at the inside of Ralston's already sparkling glass with a dazzling white towel he carried over a sloping shoulder. The old man wore a full moustache which exactly suited him, Serge thought.
"What will you have, senores?" asked Mr. Rosales, giving them each a hand-printed menu that misspelled the dishes in Spanish on the right side as well as in English on the left side. They can live here all their lives and never learn English, thought Serge. They never learn Spanish either. Just a strange anglicized version of both, which the educated, old country Mexicans scoff at.
"I'll have _huevos rancheros,"__ said Ralston, with an accent that made Serge wince in spite of himself.
The old man seemed to love it however, when Ralston tried Spanish. "And you, senor?"
"I guess I'll have _chile relleno,"__ said Serge with a pronunciation that was every bit as anglicized as Ralston's. All of the officers knew by now that he spoke no Spanish and understood only a few words.
"Smell the onions and green chile," said Ralston while Mr. Rosales' pudgy little wife was preparing the food in the back room which had been converted into an inadequately ventilated kitchen.
"How can you tell it's green chile?" asked Serge, feeling jovial tonight. "Maybe it's red chile or maybe it's not chile at all."
"My nose never fails," said Ralston, touching the side of his nostril. "You should quit smoking and your sense of smell would become acute like mine."
Serge thought that a beer would go good with the _chile relleno__ and he wondered if Ralston knew Serge better, would he order a beer with his dinner? They were working plainclothes now, and a beer with dinner wouldn't hurt. Vice officers of course drank freely, and detectives were legendary lushes, so why not F-Car officers? he thought. But he realized that he was drinking too much beer lately and was going to have to trim off ten pounds before his next physical or the doctor would surely send his captain "a fat man letter." He hadn't had much beer in Hollywood where martinis were his drink. It had been very easy to get to enjoy martinis. He had been drunk a good deal of his off-duty time. But that was all part of his education, he thought. The body should not be mistreated, at least not badly. He was considering cutting down his smoking to a pack a day and had again begun playing handball at the academy. There was something about being back in Hollenbeck that restored his health.
He looked more than casually at the girl who brought their dinners, holding the burning dishes with two colorful pot holders, the drops of perspiration shining on her bronze cheekbones and on the too long upper lip. She wore her hair braided, close to the head like an Indian and Serge guessed she was not more than seventeen. Her hands were ghostly white from the flour and they reminded him of his mother's hands. He wondered how long she had been this side of the border.
"Thank you," he said, smiling as she set the plate in front of him. She smiled back, a clean smile, and Serge noticed she wore only a little lipstick. The heavy eyelashes and perfect brows were not man-made.
_"Gracias, senorita,"__ said Ralston, leering at the plate of _huevos rancheros__ and ignoring the girl who placed it in front of him.
_"De nada, senor,"__ she smiled again.
"Cute kid," said Serge, toying with the rice and refried beans which were still too hot to eat.
Ralston nodded with enthusiasm and dumped another ladle of homemade ch
ile sauce on the eggs, the rice, everything. Then he sloshed his large flour tortilla around through all of it and took an enormous bite.
Mr. Rosales whispered to the girl and she returned to the table just as Serge's food was becoming cool enough to eat and Ralston's was half gone.
"Joo wan'," she said. "Joo weesh..." She stopped and turned to Mr. Rosales who nodded his approval.
"Coffee," he urged her. "Coff--ee."
"I don' talk _ingles__ good," she laughed to Serge who was thinking how smooth and slim she looked, yet how strong. Her breasts were round and the extra weight womanhood brings could only improve her.
"I'll have some more coffee," Serge smiled.
_"Se, cafe, por favor,"__ said Ralston, a forkful of frijoles poised at his mobile lip.
When the girl disappeared into the kitchen Mr. Rosales came over to the table. "Everything is alright?" he smiled through the great moustache.
"Dee-licious," Ralston murmured.
"Who's the little girl?" asked Serge, sipping at the last of his water which Mr. Rosales hurried to refill.
"She is the daughter of my _compadre.__ She just got here from Guadalajara last Monday. I swore to my _compadre__ many years ago that if I ever made good in this country I would send for his oldest girl, my godchild, and educate her like an American. He said it would be better to educate a boy and I agreed, but he never had a boy. Not to this day. Eleven girls."
Serge laughed and said, "She looks like she'll do."
"Yes, Mariana is very smart," he nodded enthusiastically. "And she was just eighteen. I am sending her to night school next month to learn English and then we shall see what she wants to do."
"She'll probably find some young guy and get married before you have anything to say about it," said Ralston, punctuating his pronouncement with a repressed belch.
"Maybe so," Mr. Rosales sighed. "You know, it is so much better here than in Mexico that the people do not care to make themselves a great success. Just to be here is so much more than they ever dreamed, that it is enough. They become content to work in a car wash or a sewing factory. But I think that she is a smart girl and will do better."
The girl made three trips to their table during the remainder of the meal, but didn't try English again.
Ralston caught Serge watching her because he said, "She's legal, you know. Eighteen."
"You're kidding. I wouldn't raid a nursery."
"Some baby," said Ralston and Serge hoped he wouldn't light one of his cheap cigars. When they were in the car with the windows open they weren't so bad. "She looks like a young Dolores Del Rio to me," said Ralston, blowing two heavy palls of smoke over the table.
She did not resemble Dolores Del Rio, Serge thought. But she had the thing that made Del Rio the beloved woman of Mexico, an object of veneration by millions of Mexicans who had seldom if ever seen her in a movie--she too had the madonna look.
"What's your last name?" asked Serge, as she made her last trip to the table with a coffee refill. He knew it was customary for policemen who had received a free meal to tip a quarter, but he slipped seventy-five cents under a plate.
_"Mande, senor__? _"__ she said turning to Mr. Rosales who was busy with a counter customer.
"Your last name," said Ralston carefully. "Mariana _que?__"
"Ah," she smiled. "Mariana Paloma," and then she turned from Serge's steady gaze and took some of the plates to the kitchen.
"Paloma," said Serge. "A dove. It fits."
"I eat here once a week," said Ralston eyeing Serge curiously. "We don't want to burn the place up with too many free meals."
"Don't worry," said Serge quickly, getting the implication. "This is your eating spot. I'll never come here unless I'm working with you."
"The girl is your business," said Ralston. "You can come off duty if you want, but I'd hate for someone to burn up the eating spot I cultivated for years. He used to charge me half price and now it's free."
"Don't worry," Serge repeated. "And that girl doesn't interest me like that, for God's sake. I've got enough female problems without a kid that can't speak English."
"You single guys," Ralston sighed. "I should have those problems. You got one lined up tonight after work?"
"I got one," Serge answered without enthusiasm.
"She got a friend?"
"Not that I know of," Serge smiled.
"What's she look like?" Ralston leered, now that the hunger drive was apparently slaked.
"A honey blonde. All ass," Serge answered, and that about described Margie who lived in the upstairs rear of his apartment building. The landlady had already warned him about being more discreet when he left Margie's apartment in the morning.
"A real honey blonde, huh?" Ralston murmured.
"What's real?" asked Serge, and then thought, she's real enough in her own way, and it doesn't matter if the glistening honey is the fruit of the hairdresser's art because everything of beauty in the world has been tinted or somehow transformed by a clever artisan. You can always discover how it's done if you look closely enough. But who wants to look? During those times when he needed her, Margie was plenty real, he thought.
"What's a bachelor do besides lay everything in sight?" asked Ralston. "You happy being alone?"
"I don't even want a roommate to share expenses. I like being alone." Serge was the first to get up and turned to look for the girl who was out of sight in the kitchen.
_"Buenas noches,__ Senor Rosales," Ralston called.
_"Andale pues,"__ shouted Mr. Rosales, over the din of a too loud mariachi record that someone had played on the jukebox.
"You watch TV a lot?" asked Ralston when they were back in the car. "I'm asking about single life because me and the old lady aren't getting along very good at all right now and who knows what might happen."
"Oh?" said Serge hoping Ralston would not bore him with a long account of his marital problems which so many other partners had done during the long hours on patrol when the night was quiet because it was a week night, when the people were between paydays and welfare checks, and were not drinking. "Well, I read a lot, novels mostly. I play handball at least three or four times a week at the academy. I go to movies and watch a little TV. I go to a lot of Dodger games. There isn't all the carousing you think." And then he remembered Hollywood again. "At least not anymore. That can get old, too."
"Maybe I'll be finding out," said Ralston, driving toward Hollenbeck Park.
Serge took the flashlight from under the seat and placed it on the seat beside him. He turned the volume of the radio up slightly, hoping it would dissuade Ralston from trying to compete with it, but Serge felt certain he was going to hear a domestic tirade.
"Four-Frank-One, clear," said Serge into the mike.
"Maybe you can entice little Dolores Del Rio to your pad if you play your cards right," said Ralston as the Communications operator acknowledged they were clear. Ralston began a slow halfhearted residential burglar patrol in the area east of the park which had been hard hit by a cat burglar the past few weeks. They had already decided that after midnight, they would prowl the streets on foot which seemed to be the only effective way to catch the cat.
"I told you that babies don't interest me," said Serge.
"Maybe she's got a cousin or a fat aunt or something. I'm ready for some action. My old lady shut me off. I could grow a long moustache for her like that actor that plays in all the Mexican movies, what's his name?"
"Pedro Armendariz," said Serge without thinking.
"Yeah, that guy. It seems like he's on every marquee around here, him and Dolores."
"They were even the big stars when I was a kid," said Serge gazing at the cloudless sky which was only slightly smoggy tonight.
"Yeah? You went to Mexican movies? I thought you don't speak Spanish."
"I understood a little when I was a kid," Serge answered, sitting up in the seat. "Anybody could understand those simple pictures. All guns and guitars."
Ralston quieted down
and the radio droned on and he relaxed again. He found himself thinking of the little dove and he wondered if she would be as satisfying as Elenita who was the first girl he ever had, the dusky fifteen-year-old daughter of a bracero who was well worn by the time she seduced Serge when he himself was fifteen. He had returned to her every Friday night for a year and sometimes she would have him, but sometimes there would be older boys already there and he would go away to avoid trouble. Elenita was everybody's girl but he liked to pretend she was his girl until one June afternoon when the gossip blazed through the school that Elenita had been taken from school because she was pregnant. Several boys, mostly the members of the football squad, began to talk in frightened whispers. Then came the rumor a few days later that Elenita was also found to have been syphilitic and the frightened whispers became frantic. Serge had terrible fantasies of elephantine pus-filled genitals and he prayed and lit three candles every other day until he felt the danger period had passed even though he never knew for sure if it had, or even whether poor Elenita was really so afflicted. He could ill afford thirty cents for candles in those days when the part-time gas pumping job only netted nine dollars a week which he had to give to his mother.
the New Centurions (1971) Page 22
