"I'm sorry, Roy," said Tony, his smooth little face contorted with concern. "I wish I could do more for you. You're our number one patient..."
"Shove it!" said Roy and Tony walked back to his chair, sat down, and continued reading.
Roy stared at the holes in the acoustical ceiling and counted rows but he soon tired of that. When the pain was really bad and they wouldn't give him his medication he sometimes thought of Becky and that helped a little. He thought that Dorothy had been here once with Becky but he couldn't be sure. He was about to ask Tony, but Tony was his night nurse and he wouldn't know if they had visited him. His father and mother had been here several times and Carl had come at least once in the beginning. He remembered that. He had opened his eyes one afternoon and seen Carl and his parents, and the wound started hurting again and his cries of anguish had sent them out and brought the delicious indescribable injection that was all he lived for now. Some policemen had come, but he couldn't say just who. He thought he remembered Rolfe, and Captain James, and he thought he saw Whitey Duncan once through a sheet of fire. Now he was getting frightened because his stomach was clenching like a painful fist as though it didn't belong to him and acted on its own in defiance of the waves of anguish that were punishing it.
"What do I look like?" asked Roy suddenly.
"Pardon, Roy?" said Tony, jumping to his feet.
"Get me a mirror. Hurry up."
"What for, Roy?" Tony smiled, opening the drawer of the table in the corner of the private room.
"Have you ever had a really bad stomachache?" asked Roy. "One that made you sick clear through?"
"Yes," said Tony, bringing the smaller mirror over to Roy's bed.
"Well it was nothing. Nothing, do you understand?"
"I can't give you anything," said Tony, holding the mirror up for Roy.
"Who's that?" said Roy, and the fear swelled and pounded and swelled in him as he looked at the thin gray face with the dark-rimmed eyes and the thousands of greasy globules of sweat that roughened the texture of the face that stared at him in horror.
"You don't look bad at all, now. We thought we were going to lose you for the longest time. Now we know you're going to be alright."
"I've got to have some medication, Tony. I'll give you twenty dollars. Fifty. I'll give you fifty dollars."
"Please, Roy," said Tony returning to his chair.
"If I only had my gun," Roy sobbed.
"Don't talk like that, Roy."
"I'd blow my brains out. But first I'd kill you, you little cocksucker."
"You're a cruel man. And I don't have to stand for your insults. I've done everything I could for you. We all have. We've done everything to save you."
"I'm sorry I called you that. You can't help it if you're a fruit. I'm sorry. Please get some medication. I'll give you a hundred dollars."
"I'm going out. You ring if you really need me."
"Don't go. I'm afraid to be alone with it. Stay here. I'm sorry. Please."
"Alright. Forget it," Tony grumbled, sitting down.
"Dr. Zelko has terrible eyes," said Roy.
"What do you mean?" Tony sighed, putting down the magazine.
"There's hardly any iris. Just two round black little balls like two slugs of double ought buckshot. I can't bear his eyes."
"Is that the kind of buckshot that hit you, Roy?"
"No. I'd be stinking up a coffin now if it had been double ought buck. It was number seven and a half birdshot. You ever hunt?"
"No."
"He hit me from less than two feet away. Some hit my Sam Browne but I got most of it. He was such a silly-looking man. That's why I didn't bring the gun up. He was so silly-looking I just couldn't believe it. And he was a white man. And that sawed-off shotgun was so silly-looking and monstrous I couldn't believe that either. Maybe if he'd been a regular-looking man and had a regular handgun I could've brought my gun up, but I just held it there at my side and he looked so damned silly when he fired."
"I don't want to hear it. Stop talking about it, Roy."
"You asked me. You asked about the buckshot, didn't you?"
"I'm sorry I did. I'd just better go out for a while and maybe you can sleep."
"Go ahead!" Roy sobbed. "All of you can leave me. Look at what you've done to me though. Look at my body. You made me a freak, all you bastards. I got a huge open hole in my belly and you put another one in me and now I can wake up and find a pile of shit on my chest."
"You had to have a colostomy, Roy."
"Yeah? How would you like to have an asshole in your stomach? How would you like to wake up and look at a bag of shit on your chest?"
"I always clean it up as soon as I see it. Now you try to..."
"Yeah," he cried, weeping openly now, "you made me a freak. I got a bloody pussy that won't close and an asshole in front that I can't control and they're both right here on my stomach where I've got to look at them. I'm a goddamn freak." Then Roy wept and the pain worsened but he wept more and the pain made him weep harder and harder until he gasped and tried to stop so that he could control the inexorable pain that he prayed would kill him instantly in one huge crashing red and yellow ball of fire.
Tony wiped his face and was about to speak when Roy's sobbing subsided and he gasped, "I... I've got to... to turn over. It's killing me like this. Please, help me. Help me get on my stomach for a little while."
"Sure, Roy," said Tony, gently lifting him and then letting the bed down flat and taking the pillow away as Roy rested on the throbbing burning wound and sobbed spasmodically and blew his nose in the tissue Tony gave him.
Roy lay like this for perhaps five minutes and then he could bear it no more and turned, but Tony had stepped out into the corridor. He thought the hell with it he'd turn himself over and maybe the effort would kill him and that would be fine. He raised up on an elbow, feeling the sweat streaming over his rib cage and then moved as quickly as he could and fell on his back again. He felt the sweat flowing freely over his entire body. He felt something else and pulled the Scotch tape loose and glanced at the wound and screamed.
"What is it?" said Tony, running in the room.
"Look at it!" said Roy, staring at the fibrous bloody clump which protruded from the wound.
"What the hell?" said Tony, looking toward the hall and then back at Roy with confusion in his eyes.
Roy gaped at the wound and then at Tony and seeing the worried little face on the nurse began to giggle.
"I'll get a doctor, Roy," said Tony.
"Wait a minute," said Roy, laughing harder now. "I don't need a doctor. Oh Christ, this is too funny." Roy gasped and stopped laughing when another spasm struck him but even the pain could not completely destroy the humor of it. "Do you know what that mess is, Tony? That's the goddamn wadding!"
"The what?"
"The wadding of the shotgun shell! It finally worked itself out. Look close. There's even some shot mixed in there. Two little pieces of shot. Oh Christ, that's funny. Oh, Christ. Go make the announcement to the staff that there was a happy event in the police ward. Tell them that Dr. Zelko's monster strained his new pussy and gave birth to a three-ounce pile of bloody wadding. And it had eyes like Dr. Zelko! Oh Christ, that's funny."
"I'll get a doctor, Roy. We'll clean that up."
"Don't try taking my baby away, you goddamn faggot! I once saw a nigger try to eat her baby when I did that to her. Oh, Christ, this is too funny," Roy gasped, wiping the tears away.
AUGUST 1964
Chapter 16
THE SAINT
SERGE STRETCHED AND YAWNED, then put his feet on the desk in the deserted juvenile office at Hollenbeck station. He smoked and wondered when his partner Stan Blackburn would return. Stan had asked Serge to wait in the office while he did some "personal business" which Serge knew to be a woman whose divorce was not final, who had three children that were old enough to get him into trouble when the romance finally ended. An officer would get at least a suspension for conduct unbec
oming, when an adulterous affair was brought to the Department's attention. Serge wondered if he would tomcat around--if--he married.
Serge had accepted the assignment as a juvenile officer only because he was assured he would not be transferred to Georgia Street Station but could remain here in Hollenbeck and work the night watch J-Car. He decided that the juvenile background would look good in his record when he went up for promotion. But first he would have to pass the written exam and it would be extremely doubtful that he would manage that since he couldn't imagine himself knuckling down to a rigid study program. He hadn't been able to make himself study even in his college classes and he smiled as he recalled the brave ambition of a few years ago to work diligently for the degree and advance quickly in his profession. After several false starts, he was now a government major at Cal State and had only accumulated thirty-three units.
But he enjoyed his work here at Hollenbeck and he made more than enough money to support himself. He had a surprisingly sound savings program and he couldn't see any farther than perhaps detective sergeant here at Hollenbeck. That would be enough, he thought. At the end of his twenty years he would be forty-three years old and able to draw forty percent of his salary the rest of his life which would certainly not be lived here in Los Angeles, or anywhere near Los Angeles. He thought of San Diego. It was pleasant down there, but not in the city, some suburb perhaps. There should be a woman and children somewhere in his plans, he knew. It could not be avoided indefinitely. And it was true that he was more and more becoming restless and sentimental. The home and hearth television stories were starting to interest him slightly.
He had been seeing a great deal of Paula. No other girl had ever stirred this much interest in him. She was not a beauty, but she was attractive and her clear gray eyes held your attention unless she was wearing tight-fitting clothes and then she became extremely interesting. He knew she would marry him. She had hinted often enough that she wanted a family. He told her you'd better get started because you're now twenty-two, and she asked him if he'd like to sire her a couple of kids. When he said, "My pleasure," she said they'd have to be legitimate.
Paula had other assets. Her father, Dr. Thomas Adams, was a successful dentist in Alhambra, and would probably bestow a small piece of property on a lucky son-in-law since Paula was his only child and overly indulged. Paula had taken apartment number twelve in his building, formerly occupied by a steno named Maureen Ball, and Serge had hardly noticed the change in women and had begun dating Paula without a break in stride. He knew that some evening, after a good dinner and more than a few martinis, he would probably go through the formality of asking her, and tell her to go ahead and inform the family to prepare the marriage feast because, what the hell, he couldn't go on aimlessly forever.
At eight-thirty the sun had fallen and it was cool enough to take a ride around Hollenbeck. Serge was wishing Stan Blackburn would come back and he was trying to decide whether to resume reading the treatise on the California constitution for the summer school class he wished he hadn't taken, or whether to read a novel which he had brought to work tonight because he knew he would be waiting in the office for several hours.
Blackburn came whistling through the door just as Serge made the decision of the novel over the California constitution. Blackburn had a simpering smile on his face and the evidence of his personal business was easy to see.
"Better wipe the lipstick off your shirt front," said Serge.
"Wonder how it got way down there," said Blackburn with a knowing wink at his mark of conquest.
Serge had seen her once when Blackburn had parked in the alley next to her duplex, and gone inside for a moment. Serge wouldn't have bothered with her even without the dangers of an estranged husband, and children who might report to Daddy.
Blackburn ran a comb through his thinning gray hair, straightened his tie, and dabbed at the lipstick stain on his white shirt.
"Ready to go to work?" asked Serge, swinging his feet off the desk.
"I don't know. I'm kind of tired," Blackburn chuckled.
"Let's go, Casanova," said Serge, shaking his head. "I guess I better drive so you can rest and restore yourself."
Serge decided to drive south on Soto and east toward the new Pomona freeway right-of-way. Sometimes in the late afternoon if it wasn't too hot, he liked to watch the workmen scurrying about to complete another vast Los Angeles complex of steel and concrete, obsolete before it is finished, guaranteed to be strangled by cars one hour after its opening. One thing the freeway had done, it had broken up _Los Gavilanes.__ The doctrine of eminent domain had succeeded in gang busting where the police, probation department, and juvenile court had failed--_Los Gavilanes__ had dissolved when the state bought the property and the parents of _Los Gavilanes__ scattered through East Los Angeles.
Serge decided to drive through the concrete paths at Hollenbeck Park to check for juvenile gang activity. They hadn't made an arrest for a week, mostly because of Blackburn's time-consuming romantic meetings and Serge hoped they might spot something tonight. He liked to do just enough work to keep the sergeant off his back, although nothing had yet been said about their lack of accomplishment this week.
As Serge drove toward the boathouse, a figure disappeared in the bushes and they heard a hollow clunk as a bottle hastily dropped, struck a rock.
"See who that was?" asked Serge as Blackburn lazily ran the spotlight over the bushes.
"Looked like one of the Pee Wees. Bimbo Zaragoza, I think."
"Drinking a little wine, I guess."
"Yeah, that's not like him. He's a glue head."
"Any port in a storm."
"Port. Hah, that's pretty good."
"Think we can drive down below and catch him?"
"No, he's clear across the lake by now." Blackburn leaned back and closed his eyes.
"We better make a pinch tonight," said Serge.
"Nothing to worry about," said Blackburn, eyes still closed as he took the wrappers off two sticks of gum and shoved them in his mouth.
As Serge came out of the park onto Boyle Street he saw two more Pee Wees but Bimbo was not with them. The smaller one he recognized as Mario Vega, the other he couldn't recall.
"Who's the big one?" he asked.
Blackburn opened one eye and shined the light on the two boys who grinned and began walking toward Whittier Boulevard.
"Ape man, they called him. I forget his real name."
As they passed the boys, Serge snorted at the exaggerated cholo walk of ape man: toes turned out, heels digging in, arms swinging freely, this was the trademark of the gang member. This and the curious deliberate ritual chewing on imaginary chewing gum. One wore Levis, the other khakis slit at the bottoms at the seams to "hang tough" over the black polished shoes. Both wore Pendleton shirts buttoned at the cuff to hide the puncture marks which, if they had them, would bring the status of the addict. And both wore navy watch caps as they wear in youth camp, and this showed they were ex-cons whether or not they actually were.
Serge caught a few words of the conversation when they drove slowly past the boys, mostly muffled Spanish obscenities. Then he thought of the books which talked of the formalism of Spanish insults in which acts are only implied. Not so in familiar informal Mexican, he thought. A Mexican insult or vulgarism could surpass in color even the English equivalent. The Chicanos had given life to the Spanish obscenity.
Serge had decided that Blackburn was asleep when at ten past ten the Communications operator said, "All Hollenbeck units, and Four-A-Forty-three, a four-eighty-four suspect just left twenty-three eleven Brooklyn Avenue running eastbound on Brooklyn and south on Soto. Suspect is male, Mexican, thirty-five to forty, five feet eight to ten, a hundred sixty to a hundred and seventy, black hair, wearing a dirty short-sleeved red turtleneck shirt, khaki pants, carrying a plaster statue."
Serge and Blackburn were on Brooklyn approaching St. Louis when the call came out. They passed the scene of the theft and Serge saw the radio
car parked in front, the dome light on and an officer sitting inside. The other officer was in the store talking with the proprietor.
Serge double-parked for a moment beside the radio car, and read LUZ DEL DiA RELIGIOUS STORE on the window.
"What did he get?" he called to the officer who was a new rookie that Serge didn't know.
"A religious statue, sir," said the young officer, probably thinking they were worthy of the "sir" since they were plainclothesmen. Serge was glad to see that his drowsing partner at least opened his eyes when he talked to the rookie. He hated to disillusion the young ones too quickly.
Serge turned south on Soto and began glancing around for the thief. He turned east on First and north on Matthews and spotted the red turtleneck lurching down the street. The witness had given an excellent description he thought, but she didn't say he was drunk.
"Here he comes," said Serge.
"Who?"
"The four-eighty-four suspect from the religious store. This has to be him. Look."
"Yeah, that must be him," said Blackburn, lighting up the weaving drunk with the spotlight. The drunk threw his hands in front of his face.
Serge stopped a few feet in front of the man and they both got out.
"Where's the statue?" asked Blackburn.
"I ain't got nothing, sir," said the man, watery-eyed and bloated. His turtleneck was purple with the stains of a hundred pints of wine.
"I know this guy," said Blackburn. "Let's see, Eddie... Eddie something."
"Eduardo Onofre Esquer," said the man, swaying precariously. "I 'member you, sir. You bosted me lots of times for drunk."
"Yeah. Eddie was one of the Brooklyn Avenue winos for years. Where you been, Eddie?"
"I got a jeer last time, sir. I been in the county for a jeer."
"A year? For drunk?"
"Not for drunk. Petty theft, sir. I was choplifting a couple pairs of woman's stocking to sell for a drink."
"And now you're doing the same damn thing," said Blackburn. "You know petty theft with a prior is a felony. You're going to go for a felony this time."
the New Centurions (1971) Page 27
