"I must have shot high," said Jenkins and Serge saw the pellet pattern seven feet up on the rear wall. They heard screaming and saw a white-haired toothless Negro clutching his ankle which was bleeding freely. He tried to rise, fell, and crawled to a mutilated queen-sized gilded bed. He crawled under it and curled his feet under him.
"They're gone," said the sergeant in wonder. "One minute they were crawling over us like ants and now they're gone!"
"I didn't mean to shoot," said Jenkins. "One of them fired first. I saw the flash and I heard it. I just started shooting back."
"Don't worry about it," said the sergeant. "Goddamn! They're gone. Why the hell didn't we start shooting two nights ago? Goddamn! It really works!"
In ten minutes they were on their way to General Hospital and the moans of the old Negro were getting on Serge's nerves. He looked at Peters who was sitting against the door of the car, his helmet on the seat beside him, his thinning hair plastered down with sweat as he stared at the radio which had increased in intensity as they sped northbound on the Harbor Freeway. The sky was black now on three sides as the fires were leaping over farther north.
"We'll be there in a minute," said Serge. "Can't you stop groaning for a while?"
"Lord, it hurts," said the old man who rocked and squeezed the knee six inches above the wet wound which Jenkins seemed unwilling to look at.
"We'll be there in a minute," said Serge, and he was glad it was Jenkins who had shot him, because Jenkins was his partner and now they would book him at the prison ward of General Hospital and that meant they could leave the streets for an hour or two. He felt the need to escape and order his thinking which had begun to worry him because blind fury could certainly get him killed out there.
"Must have hit him with one pellet," said Peters dully. "Five rounds. Sixty pellets of double ought buck and one looter gets hit in the ankle by one little pellet. But I'll bet before this night's over some cop will get it from a single shot from a handgun fired at two hundred yards by some asshole that never shot a gun before. Some cop'll get it tonight. Maybe more than just one."
How did I get stuck with someone like him? Serge thought. I needed two strong partners today and look what I got.
Jenkins held the elbow of the scrawny old man as he limped into the hospital and up the elevator to the prison ward. After booking the prisoner they stopped at the emergency entrance where Serge had his cut hands treated and after they were washed he saw that the cuts were very superficial and a few Band-Aids did the trick. At nine o'clock they were driving slowly south on the Harbor Freeway and the Communications operators were reciting the calls perfunctorily--calls which, before this madness, would have sent a dozen police cars speeding from all directions but now had become as routine as a family dispute call. "Officer needs help! Four Nine and Central!" said the operator. "Officer needs help, Vernon and Central! Officer needs assistance, Vernon and Avalon! Officer needs assistance, One one five and Avalon! Looting, Vernon and Broadway! Looting, Five eight and Hoover! Looters, Four three and Main!" Then another operator would cut in and recite her list of emergencies which they had given up trying to assign to specific cars because it was obvious now to everyone that there weren't enough cars to even protect each other, let alone quell the looting and burning and sniping.
Serge blundered into a sniper's line of fire on Central Avenue, which was badly burned. They had to park across from a flaming two-story brick building and hide behind their car because two fire trucks had come in behind them and blocked the street and had then been abandoned when the sniping started. The sniping, for all but the combat veterans of Korea and World War II, was a terrible new experience. As Serge hid for forty minutes behind his car and fired a few wild shots at the windows of a sinister yellow apartment building where someone said the snipers were hiding, he thought this the most frightening part of all. He wondered if a police force could cope with snipers and remain a police force. He began thinking that something was going on here in this riot, something monumental for all the nation, perhaps an end of something. But he had better keep his wits about him and concentrate on that yellow building. Then the word was passed by a grimy young policeman in a torn uniform who crawled to their position on his stomach that the National Guard had arrived.
At five past midnight they responded to a help call at a furniture store on south Broadway where three officers had an unknown number of looters trapped inside. One officer swore that when a lookout had ducked inside after the police car drove up, he had seen a rifle in the looter's hands, and another policeman who worked this area said that the office of this particular furniture store contained a small arsenal because the owner was a nervous white man who had been robbed a dozen times.
Serge, without thinking, ordered Peters and one of the policemen from the other teams to the rear of the store where a blue-clad white helmeted figure was already crouched in the shadows, his shotgun leveled at the back door. They went without question, and then Serge realized he was giving commands and thought wryly, at last you are a leader of men and will probably get a slug in your big ass for your trouble. He looked around and several blocks south on Broadway he saw an overturned car still smoldering and the incessant crackling of pistol fire echoed through the night, but for five hundred yards in each direction it was surprisingly quiet. He felt that if he could do something in this gutted skeleton of a furniture store, then a vestige of sanity would be preserved and then he thought that that in itself was insane thinking.
"Well, what's next, Captain?" said the wrinkled grinning policeman who knelt next to him behind the cover of Serge's radio car. Jenkins had the riot gun resting across the deck lid of the car pointed at the store front with its gaping jagged opening where plate glass used to be.
"I guess I _am__ giving orders," Serge smiled. "You can do what you want, of course, but somebody ought to take charge. And I make the biggest target."
"That's a good enough reason," said the policeman. "What do you want to do?"
"How many you think are in there?"
"A dozen, maybe."
"Maybe we should wait for more help."
"We've had them trapped for twenty minutes, and we put in maybe five requests for help. You guys are the only ones we've seen. I'd say offhand there isn't any help around right now."
"I think we ought to arrest everyone in that store," said Serge. "We've been racing around all night getting shot at and clubbing people and mostly chasing them from one store to another and one street to another. I think we ought to arrest everyone in that store right now."
"Good idea," said the wrinkled policeman. "I haven't actually made a pinch all night. I just been acting like a goddamn infantryman, crawling and running and sniping. This is Los Angeles not Iwo Jima."
"Let's book these assholes," Jenkins said angrily.
Serge stood up and ran in a crouch to a telephone pole a few feet to the side of the storefront.
"You people in there," Serge shouted, "come out with your hands on top of your head!" He waited for thirty seconds and looked toward Jenkins. He shook his head and pointed to the barrel of the riot gun.
"You people come out or we're going to kill every goddamn one of you," Serge shouted. "Come out! Now!"
Serge waited another silent half minute and felt the fury returning. He had only momentary seizures of anger tonight. Mostly it was fear, but occasionally the anger would prevail.
"Jenkins, give them a volley," Serge commanded. "This time aim low enough to hit somebody." Then Serge leveled his revolver on the store front and fired three rounds into the blackness and the flaming explosions of the riot gun split the immediate silence. He heard nothing for several seconds until the ringing echo ceased and then he heard a wail, shrill and ghostly. It sounded like an infant. Then a man cursed and shouted, "We comin' out. Don't shoot us. We comin' out."
The first looter to appear was about eight years old. He wept freely, his hands held high in the air, his dirty red short pants hanging to the knees,
and the loose sole of his left shoe flip-flopped on the pavement as he crossed the sidewalk and stood wailing now in the beam of Jenkins' spotlight.
A woman, apparently the child's mother, came next holding one hand high while the other dragged along a hysterical girl of ten who babbled and held a hand over her eyes to ward off the white beam of light. The next two out were men, and one of them, an old one, was still repeating, "We comin', don't shoot," and the other had his hands clasped on top of his head staring sullenly into the beam of light. He muttered obscenities every few seconds.
"How many more in there?" Serge demanded.
"Oney one," said the old man. "God, they's oney one, Mabel Simms is in there, but I think you done killed her."
"Where's the one with the rifle?" asked Serge.
"They ain't no rifle," said the old man. "We was jist tryin' to git a few things before it was too late. Ain't none of us stole a thing these three days and ever'body else had all these new things and we jist decided to git us somethin'. We jist live across the street, Officer."
"There was a man with a rifle ducked in that fucking doorway when we drove up," said the wrinkled policeman. "Where is he?"
"That was me, Mister PO-liceman," said the old man. "It wan't no rifle. It was a shovel. I was jist bustin' all the glass out the window so my grandkids wouldn't git cut goin' in. I never stole in all my life befo' I swear."
"I'll take a look," said the wrinkled policeman, entering the blackened store carefully, and Jenkins followed, the twin beams of their flashlights crisscrossing in the darkness for more than three minutes. They came out of the store one on each side of an immense black woman whose ringlets hung in her eyes. She murmured, "Jesus, Jesus, Jesus." They half-carried her out to where the others were as she let out an awesome shriek of despair.
"Where's she hit?" asked Serge.
"I don't think she's hit," said the wrinkled policeman as he released her and let her bulk slide to the pavement where she pounded her hands on the concrete and moaned.
"Kin I look at her?" asked the old man. "I been knowin' her for ten years. She live next do' to me."
"Go ahead," said Serge, and watched while the old man labored to get the big woman sitting upright. He supported her with great effort and patted her shoulder while he talked too low for Serge to hear.
"She ain't hurt," said the old man. "She jist scared to death like the rest of us."
Like all of us, Serge thought, and then he thought that this was a very fitting end to the military campaign of Serge Duran, leader of men. It was about as he should have expected. Reality was always the opposite of what he at first anticipated. He knew this for certain now, therefore it was about as he should have expected.
"You going to book them?" asked the wrinkled policeman.
"You can have them," said Serge.
"Don't fight over us, you honky motherfuckers," said the surly muscled man whose hands were unclasped now and hung loosely at his sides.
"You get those hands on top of your head, or I'll open your belly," said the wrinkled policeman, as he stepped forward and jammed the muzzle of the shotgun in the man's stomach. Serge saw the finger tighten on the trigger when the Negro instinctively touched the barrel, but then the Negro looked in the wrinkled policeman's eyes and removed his hand as though the barrel was on fire. He clasped the hands on top of his head.
"Why didn't you try to pull it away?" the wrinkled policeman whispered. "I was going to make you let go."
"You can have them," said Serge. "We're leaving."
"We'll take this one," said the wrinkled policeman. "The rest of you people get your asses home and stay there."
Jenkins and Peters agreed that they should go to Seventy-seventh Station because they might get relieved since they had been on duty now twelve hours. It did seem that things had quieted down a bit even though Watts substation was under some type of sniper siege, but there were apparently enough units there, so Serge drove to the station and thought he had not died like the heroes of his novels, even though he was at least as neurotic and confused as any of them. He suddenly remembered that last month during a two-day stretch of staying in the apartment and reading, he had read a book on T. E. Lawrence and maybe the romantic heroism of books had triggered his irresistible urge to surround and capture the furniture store which had ended in low comedy. Mariana said he read too many books. But it wasn't just that. It was that things were breaking apart. He was accustomed to the feeling lately that _he__ was breaking apart, but now everything was fragmented--not in two reasonably neat sections but in jagged chaotic slivers and chunks, and he was one of society's orderers, as trite as it sounded. Even though he had never felt particularly idealistic before, now, surrounded by darkness and fire and noise and chaos, he, suddenly given the opportunity, had to create a tiny bit of order in that gutted store on south Broadway. But what good had it done? It had ended as all his attempts to do a worthy thing invariably ended. That was why marriage to Paula, and getting drunk occasionally and spending Paula's father's money seemed a most appropriate life for Serge Duran.
To the surprise of all three of them, they were relieved when they reached the station. They muttered a brief good-bye to each other and hurried to their cars before someone changed his mind and made them stay for the rest of the night. Serge drove home by the Harbor Freeway and the skies were still glowing red but it was apparent that the National Guard was making a difference. There were far fewer fires and after reaching Jefferson he turned around and saw no more fires. Instead of going straight to the apartment he stopped at an all night hamburger stand in Boyle Heights and for the first time in thirteen hours, now that he was back in Hollenbeck Division, he felt safe.
The night man knew Serge as a juvenile officer in plain-clothes and he shook his head when Serge walked inside and sat down in the deserted diner.
"What's it like down there?" asked the night man.
"It's still pretty bad," said Serge running his fingers through his hair, sticky and matted from the helmet and soot and sweat. His hands were filthy, but there was no restroom for the customers and he decided to just have a cup of coffee and go home.
"I almost didn't know you in the uniform," said the night man. "You're always wearing a suit."
"We're all in uniform today," said Serge.
"I can understand," said the night man, and Serge thought his sparse moustache made him look like Cantinflas although he was a tall man.
"Good coffee," said Serge, and so was the cigarette, and his stomach unwound for the last time that night as the hot coffee splashed into it.
"I don't know why the boss wants me here," said the night man. "There have been few customers. Everyone's staying at home because of the _mallate.__ But I shouldn't use that word. Nigger is a terrible word and _mallate__ means the same thing but is even worse."
"Yes."
"I don't think the blacks would try to burn the east side. They don't get along with us Mexicans, but they respect us. They know we'd kill them if they tried to burn our homes. They don't fear the Anglo. No one fears the Anglo. Your people are growing weak."
"I wouldn't be surprised," said Serge.
"I've noticed that here in this country, the Mexican is forced to live close to black people because he's poor. When I first came here the Mexicans wanted to get away from the black who is exactly unlike a Mexican, and to live near the Anglo who is more nearly the same. But the things that've been happening, the softness of the Anglo, the way you tell the world you're sorry for feeding them, and the way you take away the Negro's self-respect by giving everything to him, I'm starting to think that the Mexican should avoid the Anglo. I can tell you these things? I won't offend you? I talk so much tonight. I'm sick to my heart because of the riot."
"I'm not an easily offended Anglo," said Serge. "You can talk to me like I was a Mexican."
"Some police officers who work in the _barrios__ seem _muy Mexicano__ to me," smiled the night man. "You, senor, even look a little _Mexicano,__ mos
tly around the eyes, I think."
"You think so?"
"I meant that as a compliment."
"I know."
"When I came to this country twelve years ago, I thought it was bad that the Mexicans lived mostly in the east side here where the old ways were kept. I even thought we should not teach our children _la lengua__ because they should completely learn to be Americans. I've looked closely and I believe that the Anglos in this place accept us almost like other Anglos. I used to feel very proud to be accepted like an Anglo because I know of the bad treatment of Mexicans not too long ago. But as I watched you grow weak and fearful that you wouldn't have the love of the world, then I thought: look, Armando--_Mira, hombre, los gabachos__ are nothing to envy. You wouldn't be one of them if you could. If a man tried to burn your house or hold a knife at your belly you kill him and no matter his color. If he broke your laws you would prove to him that it's painful to do such a thing. Even a child learns that the burning coal hurts if you get close. Don't the gringos teach this to their children?"
"Not all of us."
"I agree. You seem to say, touch it six or five times and maybe it burns and maybe not. Then he grows to be a man and runs through your streets and it's not all his fault because he never learned the hot coal burns. I think I'm glad to live in your country, but only as a Mexican. Forgive me, senor, but I wouldn't be a gringo. And if your people continue to grow weak and corrupt I'll leave your comforts and return to Mexico because I don't wish to see your great nation fall."
"Maybe I'll go with you," said Serge. "Got any room down there?"
"In Mexico there's room for all," smiled the night man, carrying a fresh coffeepot to the counter. "Would you like me to tell you of Mexico? It always makes me glad to talk of Yucatan."
"I'd like that," said Serge. "Are you from Yucatan?"
"Yes. It's far, far. You know of the place?"
the New Centurions (1971) Page 34
