Gus waited in the hallway while they worked on the boy and when a second doctor was called in to look at the arm, Gus peered through the door and saw the first doctor, a floppy-haired young man, nod to the second doctor and point to the little boy whose battered face, green and blue and purple in the naked light, looked as though it had been painted by a surrealist gone mad. "Dig the crazy clownface," said the first doctor with a bitter smile.
Lucy came out in fifteen minutes and said, "Gus, his rectum was stitched up!"
"His rectum?"
"It had been stitched up! Oh Christ, Gus, I know it's usually the father in these sex things, but Christ, I can't believe it."
"Was it a professional stitching job?"
"Yes. A doctor did it. Why wouldn't the doctor notify the police? Why?"
"There are doctors," said Gus.
"He's afraid of men, Gus. He was just as much afraid of the doctor as he was of you. The nurse and I had to pet him and talk to him so the doctor could get near him." Lucy looked for a moment like she would cry but instead she lit a cigarette and walked with Gus to the phone and waited until he phoned the watch commander.
"He's a bright child," said Lucy, as Gus waited for the lieutenant to come to the phone. "When the nurse asked him who did that to his rectum, he said, 'Daddy did it 'cause I'm a bad boy.' Oh Christ, Gus..."
It was eleven o'clock before they completed their reports on the boy who was admitted to General Hospital. The parents hadn't returned home yet and Lieutenant Dilford had another team staked out on the apartment. Gus and Lucy resumed patrol.
"There's no sense thinking about it," said Gus when Lucy was silent for a half hour.
"I know," she said, forcing a smile and Gus thought of her comforting the child and thought how beautiful she had looked then.
"My gosh, it's almost eleven," said Gus. "You hungry?"
"No."
"But can you eat?"
"You eat. I'll have coffee."
"Let's both have coffee," said Gus, driving to a restaurant on Sunset Boulevard where there were booths for two and anyone who noticed them would think they were lovers or perhaps a young married couple. Gus thought of how he was wrinkling at the corners of his mouth much like his mother. He smiled, because on second thought no one would believe he was a _young__ lover.
When they were seated in the booth in the bright spacious restaurant Gus noticed the rusty smear on the shoulder of her dress and he thought again of how she had been with the child, of how strong she was in every way and how capable. He wondered what it would be like to live your life with someone whom you did not have to take care of and he wondered what it would be like to have someone take care of you occasionally, or at least pretend to. The anger started to build when he thought of Vickie and his mother and at least the army could take care of his brother for a few years. Gus vowed that if his mother let John freeload off her when he returned from the service that she would do it on her county check because he would refuse to give her another cent. As soon as he thought this he knew it was a lie because he too was basically a weakling, his only strength being that he could earn a living. When it came down to it he would go on giving them money because he was too much of a weakling to do otherwise. How much easier would life be, he wondered, being married to a strong girl like Lucy.
"You've got blood on your dress," said Gus, nodding to the smear on her shoulder and he was immediately sorry he said it because he should be trying to cheer her up.
"I don't care," she said, not bothering to look at it, and something had been building up in him. At that moment he almost blurted something. If those steady eyes had been on him instead of on the table he probably would have blurted it but he didn't, and was glad he didn't, because she probably would have looked at him sadly and said, "But that's not what I meant at all."
Gus noticed the three teenage girls in the large booth across from them gossiping in shrill voices and smoking compulsively as they tried in vain to handle the two little boys who kept slipping unnoticed to the floor and scampering down the aisle between the booths.
One of the girls with a proud bulging belly smiled often at the children of her adolescent girlfriends, who had no doubt long since found the mystery of motherhood to be quite different from what had been anticipated. All three girls had ugly hairdos, high, teased, and bleached, and Gus thought that Vickie had been a mother that young. Then the guilt, which he knew was foolish, began to come again, but he forgot it when one of the young mothers grabbed the red-haired tot and cracked him across the face as she whispered, "Sit down and behave you little son of a bitch."
Their coffee was half drunk when Lucy said, "Have you been thinking about the little boy, Gus?"
"Not at all," said Gus.
"Isn't it hard not to?"
"No it's not. Not after you get the hang of it. And you should learn that as soon as you can, Lucy."
"What should I think about?"
"Your own problems. That's what I've been doing. Worrying about my own petty problems."
"Tell me about _your__ problems, Gus," said Lucy. "Give me something else to worry about."
"Well, we haven't made a juvenile arrest for three days. The boss is going to be getting on us. That's something to worry about."
"Do you _really__ like juvenile work, Gus? I mean all things considered do you like being a kiddy cop?"
"I do, Lucy. It's not easy to explain, but it's like, well, especially with the little ones, I like the job because _we__ protect them. Take the boy tonight. His father will be arrested and maybe the D. A. will be able to show that he did those things to the boy and maybe he won't. The boy will be a very bad witness or I miss my guess. Maybe the mother will tell the truth, but that's doubtful. And by the time the lawyers, headshrinkers, and criminologists have their say, nothing much will happen to him. But at least we got the boy out of there. I'm sure juvenile court won't give him back to them. Maybe we've saved his life. I like to think that we protect the children. To tell you the truth, if the door'd been locked I would've broken it down. I'd just about made up my mind. We're the only ones who can save the little kids from their parents."
"Wouldn't you like to take a man like that and make him confess?" said Lucy, smashing her cigarette butt in the ashtray.
"I used to think I could torture the truth out of people," Gus smiled, "but after I was a policeman for a while and saw and arrested some of the really bad ones, I found that I didn't even want to touch them or be with them. I'd never make the grade in a medieval dungeon."
"I had a very proper and square upbringing," said Lucy, sipping her coffee as Gus stared at a place on her white collarbone where the brown hair touched it and caressed it when she moved her head even slightly. He was disgusted because his heart was racing and his hands were clammy. So he stopped staring at that tender patch of flesh. "My dad teaches high school, like I told you, and Mother would have trouble believing that a parent would even let his child go around without freshly washed drawers. They're good people, you know? How can good people conceive of the existence of really bad people? I was going to be a social worker until I found what L. A. P. D. was paying policewomen. How could I ever be a social worker now that I've caught the scent of evil? People aren't basically good after all, are they?"
"But maybe they're not bad, either."
"But they're not good, damn it. All my professors told me they were good! And people lie. God, how they lie. I can't get over how people lie."
"That was the single most difficult thing for me to learn," Gus said. "I believed people for my first year or so on the job. No matter what anybody said. I wouldn't even listen to Kilvinsky. All my life I believed what people told me was the truth, and I was a lousy policeman until I got over that mistake. Now I know they'll lie when the truth would help. They'll lie when their lives depend on the truth."
"What a rotten way to make a living," said Lucy.
"Not for a man. For a woman, maybe. But you'll find someone and get married. Y
ou won't be doing this all your life." Gus avoided her eyes when he said it.
"I'll be sure not to marry a policeman. That would mean I couldn't escape it."
"Cops are terrible husbands anyway," Gus smiled. "Divorce rate is sky high."
"You're a cop and you're not a terrible husband."
"How do you know?" he said, and then was caught and trapped by the brown eyes.
"I know you. Better than I've ever known anyone."
"Well," said Gus, "I don't know... well..." and then he gave up and succumbed to the unblinking eyes, a happy gray rabbit surrendering to the benevolent lethal embrace of the fox and he decided that wherever the conversation went from here he would go with it willingly. Now his heart hammered joyfully.
"You're a good policeman," she said. "You know how things are and yet you're gentle and compassionate, especially with kids. That's a rare thing you know. How can you know what people are and still treat them like they were good?"
"People are weak. I guess I'm resigned to handling weak people. I guess I know them because I'm so weak myself."
"You're the strongest man I've ever known, and the gentlest."
"Lucy, I want to buy you a drink after work tonight. Well just have time for one before the bars close. Will you stop at Marty's Lounge with me?"
"I don't think so."
"Oh, I don't mean anything by it," said Gus, cursing himself for saying such a silly thing, because he meant everything by it and of course she knew he meant everything by it.
"This will be our last night together," said Lucy.
"What do you mean?"
"The lieutenant asked me tonight if I'd like to be loaned to Harbor Juvenile starting tomorrow and if it worked out maybe it could be permanent. I told him I'd like to think about it. I've decided."
"But that's too far to drive! You live in Glendale."
"I'm a single girl who lives in an apartment. I can move."
"But you like police work! The Harbor will be too dull. You'll miss the action you get around here."
"Was it terrible growing up without a father, Gus?" she asked suddenly.
"Yes, but..."
"Could you ever do that to your children?"
"What?"
"Could you ever make them grow up without a father, or with a weekend father, twice a month?"
He wanted to say "yes" to the eyes that he knew wanted him to say "yes," but he faltered. He often thought later that if he hadn't faltered he might have said "yes," and where would things have gone if he had merely said "yes." But he did not say "yes," he said nothing for several seconds, and her mouth smiled and she said, "Of course you couldn't. And that's the kind of man I want to marry me and give me babies. I should've found you about three kids ago. Now how about taking me to the station? I'm going to ask the lieutenant if I can go home. I have a rotten headache."
There must be something he could say but the more he thought, the less sense all this made. His brain was whirling when he parked in the station lot and while Lucy was putting her things away he decided that now, this moment, he would meet her in the parking lot at her car and he would tell her something. They would work out something because if he didn't do it now, right now, he never would. And his very life, no, his soul was on the line.
"Oh, Plebesly," said Lieutenant Dilford, stepping out of his office and beckoning to Gus.
"Yes, sir?" said Gus, entering the watch commander's office.
"Sit down for a second, Gus. I've got some bad news for you. Your wife called."
"What happened?" asked Gus, leaping to his feet. "The kids? Did something happen?"
"No, no. Your wife and kids are okay. Sit down, Gus."
"My mother?" asked Gus, ashamed at his relief that it was his mother, not his children.
"It's your friend Andy Kilvinsky, Gus. I knew him well when I worked University years ago. Your wife said that she was called tonight by a lawyer up in Oregon. Kilvinsky left you a few thousand dollars. He's dead, Gus. He shot himself."
Gus heard the lieutenant's voice droning monotonously for several seconds before he got up and walked to the front door, and the lieutenant was nodding and saying something as though he approved. But Gus did not know what he was saying as he walked weak-legged down the stairway to his car in the parking lot. He was out of the parking lot and on his way home before he started to cry and he thought of Kilvinsky and cried for him. His head bent in anguish and he thought incoherently of the little boy tonight and of all fatherless children. He could no longer see the road. Then he thought of himself and his grief and shame and anger. The tears came like lava. He pulled to the curb and the tears scalded him and his body was convulsed by shuddering sobs for all the silent misery of life. He no longer knew for whom he wept and he was past caring. He wept alone.
Chapter 18
THE HUCKSTER
"I'M SURE GLAD THEY sent me to Seventy-seventh Street," said Dugan, the ruddy-faced little rookie who had been Roy's partner for a week. "I've learned a hell of a lot from working a Negro division. And I've had good partners breaking me in."
"Seventy-seventh Street is as good a place to work as any," said Roy, thinking how glad he'd be when the sun dropped below the elevated Harbor freeway. The streets would begin to cool and the uniform would become bearable.
"You been here quite a while now, haven't you, Roy?"
"About fifteen months. You're busy in this division. There's always something happening so you're busy. There's no time to sit and think, and time passes. That's why I like it."
"You ever work in a white division?"
"Central," Roy nodded.
"Is it the same as a black division?"
"It's slower. Not as much crime so it's slower. Time passes slower. But it's the same. People are all murderous bastards, they're just a little darker down here."
"How long have you been back to work, Roy? If you don't mind talking about it. As soon as I transferred in, I heard right away about how you were shot. Not many guys have ever survived a shotgun blast in the stomach, I guess."
"Not many."
"I guess you hate to talk about it."
"I don't hate to but I'm tired of talking about it. I talked about it for the past five months when I was working light duty on the desk. I told the story a thousand times to every curious policeman who wanted to see how I screwed up and got myself shot like that. I'm just tired of telling it. You don't mind."
"Oh, hell no, Roy. I understand completely. You _are__ feeling okay, now, aren't you. I mean I'll be glad to drive _and__ keep books any night you want to take it easy."
"I'm okay, Dugan," Roy laughed. "I played three hard games of handball last week. I'm doing fine, physically."
"I figure I'm lucky to have an experienced partner who's been around and done everything. But I ask too many questions sometimes. I have a big Irish mouth that I can't control sometimes."
"Okay, partner," Roy smiled.
"Anytime you want me to shut up just say the word."
"Okay, partner."
"Twelve-A-Nine, Twelve-A-Nine, see the woman, four five nine report, eighty-three twenty-nine south Vermont, apartment B as in boy."
"Twelve-A-Nine, roger," said Dugan, and Roy turned into the orange and purple smog-streaked sunset and drove leisurely to the call.
"I used to think most burglaries happened at night," said Dugan. "When I was a civilian, I mean. I guess the biggest portion happen during the day when people aren't home."
"That's right," said Roy.
"Most burglars wouldn't go in an occupied pad at night, would they?"
"Too dangerous," said Roy, lighting a cigarette, which tasted better than the last, now that it was cooling off.
"I'd sure like to nail a good burglar one of these nights. Maybe we'll get one tonight."
"Maybe," Roy answered, turning south on Vermont Avenue from Florence.
"I'm going to continue my education," said Dugan. "I picked up a few units since getting out of the navy but now I'm goi
ng to get serious and go after a degree in police science. You going to school, Roy?"
"No."
"You ever go?"
"I used to."
"Got quite a ways to go for your degree?"
"Twenty units maybe."
"Is that all? That's terrific. You going to sign up this semester?"
"Too late."
"You _are__ going to finish?"
"Of course I am," said Roy and his stomach began to burn from a sudden wave of indigestion and a shudder of nausea followed. Indigestion brought nausea now. His stomach would never be reliable again he supposed, and this bright-eyed rookie was upsetting his stomach with his prying, and his exasperating innocence.
That would change, Roy thought. Not abruptly, but gradually. Life would steal his innocence a bit at a time like an owl steals chicks until the nest is empty and awesome in its loneliness.
"That looks like the pad, partner," said Dugan, putting on his cap and opening the door before Roy stopped the car.
"Wait'll I stop, Dugan," said Roy. "I don't want you breaking a leg. This is only a report call."
"Oh, sorry," Dugan smiled, reddening.
It was an upstairs apartment at the rear. Dugan tapped on the door lightly with the butt of his flashlight as Roy usually did, and as he probably had seen Roy do. Roy also noticed that Dugan had switched to Roy's brand of cigarettes and had bought a new three-cell, big-headed flashlight like Roy's even though his five-cell was only a few weeks old. I always wanted a son, Roy thought, sardonically, as he watched Dugan knock and step carefully to the side of the door as Roy had taught him to do on any call no matter how routine, at any time. And he always had his right hand free, carrying the report notebook and the flashlight in the left. He kept his hat on when they entered a house until they were absolutely sure what they had and only then did they sit down and remove the hats and relax. But Roy never relaxed anymore even when he wanted to relax, even as he concentrated on relaxation, because he must if his stomach would ever heal. He could not afford an ulcer now, could never afford one. He wanted so to relax. But now Dorothy was hounding him to let her new fat middle-aged husband adopt Becky. He had told her he'd see them both dead first and Dorothy had been trying to reach him through his mother whom Dorothy had always found an intercessor. And he was thinking of Becky and how she said "Daddy" and how incredibly beautiful and golden she was. The apartment door was opened by a girl who was not beautiful and golden but Roy thought immediately that she was attractive. She was dark-brown-skinned, too dark he thought, even though her eyes were light brown and flecked with black specks that reminded him of the flecks in his daughter's eyes. Roy guessed she was his age or older and he thought the natural African hairdo was attractive on black women even though he despised it on the men. At least she didn't go in for dangling bone or iron earrings and other pretentious Africana. Just the hairdo. That was alright, he thought. It was natural.
the New Centurions (1971) Page 30
