by John Knoerle
"How are your injuries?"
"Fine, sir. I'll be fine."
The Chief settled in the matching chair. He leaned forward. "Officer Bell is some character, isn't he?"
Wes, braced for interrogation, was happy to agree. "Yes, sir. He is that."
They paused, conjuring up mental images of Officer Bell. Wes saw him leaning back in the LTD, hand splayed out to the afternoon wind. The Chief sat back in the chair, resting his arms on the armrests. The Emperor in repose. "Officer…" After a moment's hesitation he apparently decided against attempting to pronounce Lyedecker. "How do you imagine you came to be hired at this department?"
"I don't know, sir."
"A graduate of an out-of-state Academy, unfamiliar with the area, the California penal code. How do you think that this happened?" The Chief tapped his chest. "I turned down a local boy, high school graduate, good family. I superseded city hiring guidelines." The Chief ran his palms along the top of his uniform pants as if to dry them. "But I was impressed with your resume. Your education. I'm concerned that Bell may have seduced you."
Wes bounced his skull off the upholstery.
"Intellectually," the Chief hastened to add, badly mangling his l's and r's. "The position of training officer rotates equally between all patrol officers with at least three years experience. I was…distressed when I learned that you would be paired with Bell. Too many things happen around him. But…" The Chief shrugged. "It's a training system I devised myself." The Chief leaned forward. He met Wes Lyedecker's eyes and held them. "I will follow the progress of your law enforcement career with great interest," he said softly, paternally. "You have a great future ahead of you."
Wes lowered his eyelids, mesmerized by exhaustion, codeine and the sound of the Chief's voice. When his father had had serious talks with him in the parlor, dispensing advice, recalling his own childhood misbeaviour, Wes had often grown drowsy.
The Chief lowered his voice to a whisper. "Don't let loyalty to Officer Bell ruin your career."
-----
"Guard the chunit," said Bell to Lyedecker as he slammed the car door and stepped into the middle of the intersection. A detached one car garage on Exeter was fully engulfed in flames. Bell directed traffic onto T Street and away from the just-arrived lemon yellow fire truck. They were in the first hour of shift at 3:12 PM.
Exeter Street was strung with a ragged jumble of pre-war bungalows and late 60's quickie-construction duplexes. Residents teemed into the street to see the excitement. Wes was surprised. On weekdays, his neighborhood in Braintree was a ghost town before 6PM.
Two firemen unfurled a high-pressure hose, a third firefighter unlocked a hydrant with a socket wrench and a fourth readied a smaller hose connected to an onboard tank. Wes admired the easy fluidity of their movements. Nobody spoke, nobody got in anybody's way, everybody knew precisely what to do. Behind the garage was a fat palm tree with a brown beard of dead fronds. Wes had seen these go up like matchsticks on the nightly news.
The two firemen, loping like a four-legged animal, positioned the hose below the palm tree. The third fireman cranked the socket wrench with both hands. A geyser of water whooshed up the tree trunk. The fourth dabbed his onboard hose at the orange flame spurting from the garage.
Wes felt disappointed in himself. He hadn't mastered the teamwork yet. Hadn't found his rhythm in big play situations. Yes, getting off two rounds at an assailant was better than having his service weapon ripped from his holster. But it was Cyril Reese who won the day. When Wes had rolled over for a better look Bell was peeking over the roof of the squad car and Cyril Reese was climbing cooly to his feet, the suspect proned out below him, sucking air.
The bungalows and duplexes disgorged more people - a Hmong boy, his face cratered with chicken pox scars, wearing electric pink bicycle shorts and flip-flops in the cutting wind - a pregnant Latina, not much over four feet tall, trailing a yellow shirtdress behind her like a train - a red-bearded, bare-chested white man with a big gut above low-slung jeans, wincing across the street on swollen red feet. They moved slowly, drawn to the steaming structure like zombies. Wes watched them edge forward, blinking against the wind-whipped cinders. The Chumash Indians were right. Wislow truly was The Last Place.
Bell jacked open the door and plopped down behind the wheel. "Look's like they got it knocked," he said. "Time to head back to the firehouse and flip some burgers. You ever think it's weird how much firemen like to barbecue?"
"What?" said Wes.
"Forget it," said Bell, turning his attention to the smoldering garage. "What did you and the Chief talk about in there all alone?"
"Nothing much."
"No? You just held hands and looked deeply into each other's eyes?"
"Pretty much."
"The Emperor didn't recruit you to be his snitch, did he? Tell you that Officer Bell is inherently evil and sleeps with the devil and anything you can do to reign him in will earn you the undying gratitude of a grateful nation and a quick promotion. He didn't say that did he?"
Wes sighed, sending a wave of pain from right to left down his torso. "He told me he was my secret mentor."
Bell squinted at Lyedecker from the driver's seat, nose thrust forward. "Is that all?"
Wes felt his left calf start to cramp. He stretched out his leg till his shoe hit the firewall and flexed and unflexed his calf muscle. Jesus, he thought, why is this just like high school?
Bell grew bored waiting for a response, fired up the Ford and said, "If it was me I wouldn't stroke myself in the mirror too hard over that 'secret mentor' thing." Bell swung left on T Street, goosing the siren at the firefighters. The third fireman waved back. Bell nosed down the street at 25 mph. "He tells that to all the rookies."
-----
"You know, ol' Boss Hogg's gonna be a civilian here real soon," said Bell. They were cruising Gate Road, the east/west artery on the north side of town. Bell, though never comfortable in the second seat, had granted Wes Lyedecker's request to drive. He maintained control by issuing directions.
"Which means the Harbor Bomber will be working for our dear personal show business friend Florence Jillison, which means that all that chin music up in his office this morning means squat."
Wes was beginning to wonder whether Bell's endless certitude was bedrock American optimism or simple dementia. 'Krumrie for Mayor - the Strength of Experience' posters featuring a full-color picture of the candidate were everywhere. Green and white 'Jillison for Mayor - a New Beginning' signs were few and far between. Wes was thinking these things as he entered a school zone. The cement-pod grammar school was mostly deserted at 4:51 PM. Three older kids still scrambled on the lawn, playing keep-away with somebody's coat. Bell waggled his fingers out the window as they approached an elderly crossing guard sitting at the corner in his day-glo vest. The crossing guard waved back at Bell with his stop sign.
From the corner of his eye Wes caught a glimpse of octagonal sign swinging back and forth. He lurched forward and stood on the brakes, bringing the rear end of the Ford screeching around to his left. He remembered his tactical pursuit training and managed to remove his foot from the brake while cranking the steering wheel into the skid. By the time he did so, however, the squad car had smoked its tires to a sideways stop in the middle of the crosswalk. Bell leaned his head out the window and shrugged at the startled crossing guard. "He's a rookie," said Bell.
Wes drove back to Gate Road and took a right. The Santa Ynez Valley expelled hot dry air in the form of a late afternoon sundowner and pedestrians walked with their heads down. A plastic grocery bag soared playfully overhead. They passed a '76 Mercury in the number two lane wearing an old woolen sock for a gas cap.
"You wanna know who really got you hired?" asked Bell.
They were in uptown Wislow now. The newly-developed northeast corner with block-long stacks of adobe pink townhouses and a shopping center to match. Wes Lyedecker's color was just returning to normal after his most recent humiliation. "Sure," he said.
Bell sighted down his right arm. "That shopping center got you hired. Raised the tax base a couple mill. We're gonna get four new-hires out of there before it's all said and done. And that's an army. Give me four good cops and I'll rule the world. Ah. The international police signal."
Wes looked right. A ten-year-old boy was waving a bag of donuts. Wes eased up the driveway and onto the brand new blacktop of the shopping center parking lot. It was like driving on velvet. The boy, a portly Hispanic with a bowl haircut, backed up several paces as the squad car pulled up.
"You handle it," said Bell. He put a cautionary hand on Lyedecker's forearm and winked. "And watch yourself."
Wes climbed out and approached. The kid clutched the bag of donuts to his chest, staring at Lyedecker in terror and darting glances over his shoulder at an older boy who leaned up against the pay phone at the Chevron station on the corner.
"What seems to be the problem?" said Wes, closing in. The boy looked like he was about to bolt. Wes placed an open palm in the air, both a peaceful gesture and a command to stop. The boy stopped fidgeting and seemed to disinflate. It was the first direct command Wes had given as a police officer. He liked it that the boy obeyed.
The kid pointed at the older boy by the phone box. "That guy, he said for me to give up my donuts. He said for me to give it up".
"Did he threaten you?"
The boy shrugged his shoulders.
"Did he say he was going to hurt you in any way?"
"He said he was gonna call up some gangbangers to come up and to…kick my ass," said the boy, looking down, either lying or embarrassed.
Wes called to the older boy. "Can I speak with you for a minute?"
The kid shambled over, taking his time. Bell climbed out of the unit and stood by the open door. Wes felt a bowstring of tension across his chest. He was conducting his first solo investigation.
The older kid was skinny, with a helmet of blonde hair styled short in front and long in back. He stopped a few feet from the portly boy and shoved his hands in the pockets of his stonewashed jeans. Wes surveyed the two. It was Prince Valiant versus Friar Tuck.
"My name is Wes. What's yours?"
"Hector," said the younger boy, chewing a thumbnail.
At this point in the investigation most old line cops would have whipped out their notepads and started jotting down particulars. But Wes knew better. Initiating paperwork prematurely could have a chilling effect on interpersonal communication.
"My name's Jess Ringwald," said the older boy, returning Lyedecker's look with cool aqua eyes. "I gave Hector two bucks to get us a baker's dozen while I called my mom, you know, to let her know whassup. She wan't home. So then, I'm like lookin' over, and I see Hector come out of the donut shop and book."
"No, I din't, no, I din't," squealed Hector. "I don't even know him before this. I din't!"
Wes tried to pin Hector with an inquisitive look but the kid's corneas pinballed around his eye sockets. Wes realized he had made a tactical error. The Academy recommended first name interaction whenever possible, but, by asking Hector's name, he had revealed key information to a conflicting subject. Further investigation was necessary.
"How do you two know each other?" From the gap in their ages Wes figured Hector for grammar school, Jess, junior high.
"We're donut freaks," said Jess, shrugging at the obvious. He glanced over at the hangdog Hector. "Jelly donuts expecially."
Wes noted the small purple stains at the corners of Hector's mouth.
-----
Bell piloted the LTD west on Gate Road. Wes sat on the passenger's side, filling out a MS card. "So you made the fat kid give the skinny kid half his donuts?"
"That's right," said Wes.
Bell roared past a slow-moving Senior Citizen's Council jitney bus then settled back to a comfortable 20 mph above the posted limit before asking, "What clues did you develop that led you to side with the skinny boy?"
Wes stopped writing. "Hector, the younger boy.."
"The beaner."
Wes clenched his jaw. "The younger boy was nervous and evasive during questioning. He refused to make eye contact."
Bell turned right on P Street, a dim canyon of gimlet-eyed apartment boxes, rust stains weeping from the windows. Bell parked behind an '82 red Chevy pole truck, its bed stacked with pool cleaning equipment.
"So what? You're a cop. You make everybody nervous. Yer true blue psychotic can make eye contact for hours without blinking." Bell bugged his blue eyes at Lyedecker. “Sometimes not acting suspicious is the most suspicious thing of all."
"Whatever," said Wes. "That kid didn't need a dozen donuts in any case."
Bell tugged at a phantom beard. He chuckled to himself. "That's our motto. Take from the fat, and give to the thin." Bell drove on. He turned west on Sherman Road, a jumble of commercial establishments and rundown homes.
"So," said Wes, watching EZ Lock Storage slide by on his right. "What do we do now?"
"What do we do?" Bell stopped at a stop sign, directed a black bicylist across the intersection with his index finger. "We drive around and around in circles chasing bullshit calls till quitting time, punch out and go home. That's what we do. That's the gig."
Wes adjusted the kevlar vest under his only surviving uniform shirt. He had been issued a new vest after his old one was taken into evidence. But Sgt. Harrick had confiscated his bullet-riddled $65 shirt. "I was wondering if we shouldn't take another crack at Esteban. I mean, it seems to me that there's one thing in the whole chain of events that does not compute. Besides Bjornstedt giving himself a massive overdose, I mean."
"He did give himself a massive overdose and what is it?" said Bell.
"Ramon, the big deal dope dealer. Why would he sell to a street punk like Rodriguez? We pulled four kilos from his satchel. He wasn't exactly selling dime bags on the street corner."
"So maybe ol' Esteban wan't a customer, eh? Could be they were using him as a mule and payin' him with product."
"Could be. And if he was bringing the stuff in it stands to reason he knows where it comes from."
Bell slitted his eyes. "But the Emperor he-uh say you toe the rine or you die, GI!"
"If Esteban tells us anything we'll give it to the narcs."
Wes waited for his training officer to respond to his suggestion but Bell didn't say a word, just scoped left and right and executed a radical U-turn.
Chapter 13
"Ol' CJ he got some splainin' to do," said Officer Bell. Wes braced his feet and grabbed the duct-taped arm rest as the Firebird fishtailed around a corner and headed uphill. It was 2:28 PM on Thursday, their day off.
The houses grew larger the higher they climbed. Bell sharked another hard right when they reached the uppermost street that marked the steep ascent of the mountains. They passed a three-story Colonial braced against the downslope, a Mexican gardener herding dead leaves down the driveway with a motorized blower. He watched the Firebird rocket by. The neighboring home was ranch-style, commanding the ridge and a 270 degree view of the Wislow Valley. The hedges along the curb were perfect.
"The Prince of Darkness lives there," said Bell, giving the house a one-fingered salute. "You'll notice it's above the stack." The Firebird shot through an intersection and smoked a left into Foster Park, a rolling expanse of green at the base of the mountains. Converted from a WWII Air Force spotting station, the park preserved for the public a glimpse of the Olympian vistas commanded by the rich. Bell slowed for a speed bump. The Firebird purred through the parking lot with its tail in the air. Bell swung around and parked between the white lines, nose out.
Bell and Lyedecker trudged up the green grass to a picnic table sheltered by a willow tree. A tall acnescarred man sat waiting.
When Bell and Lyedecker had arrived at the hospital the previous day they discovered that Esteban Rodriguez, supposedly too weak to require a police guard, had coldcocked a hospital orderly and escaped in the man's scrubs. They went to the jail in hopes of interro
gating Ramon, the drug dealer from Cherrywood Lane. The jailer told them Ramon was on a suicide watch and off limits, though he did allow them to observe Ramon pacing the cell in his jockey shorts. He had attempted to hang himself with his pants. This prompted Bell to call CJ's beeper and arrange a meet.
"CJ," said Bell.
"To-mas," said the narc in a smoky late-night DJ kind of voice.
"Thanks for showing, man."
CJ shrugged. Wes thought he looked sad, sitting in the middle of an empty picnic table, his bony shoulders slumping inside his beat-up bomber jacket. He looked at Wes. Wes nodded.
Bell plunked himself down beside CJ and gave him a one-armed hug. "Is this gonna make my butt hurt?" asked CJ.
Bell's left hand strayed under CJ's brown leather collar, ruffling the split ends of CJ's long, thin hair that glinted, where the sun caught it, metallic orange. "Only if you don't relax," grinned Bell.
A chainsaw rent the air with a spurt of gas-powered fury. They swiveled to see a city tree-trimming crew preparing to attack an overgrown cottonwood on the far side of the park. The sound waves lengthened as the blade bit wood.
Bell said, "Estebang beats feet, Ramon tries to off himself. What the fuck is goin' on?"
CJ slipped his hands into their opposing sleeves so that it looked like he was wearing a straight jacket. He did not reply.
Bell continued. "I know the Emperor told you not to talk to me, us, but, hey, I am the man who stood by you when you were strung out, got you a job and singlehandedly saved your life!"
Bell paused to remove his face from CJ's. Wes turned and pretended to admire the view of Wislow dissolving into mist and distance as it approached the Pacific. The mist was so thick the setting sun looked like a rising moon.
"I'm cashing in my marker," said Bell.
CJ dug in his jacket pocket and pulled out a crumpled pack of Camels. He lit a cigarette. Bell made a face and waved his hand in front of his face.
"OK," said CJ. "In case you haven't heard, the old prope dope days are gone. Bikers don't run the meth trade anymore. The Mexican drug lords do. Ramon is a Mexican national. He knows if he does the right thing they won't torture his family to death down in Sinaloa. He's not going to say a word." CJ took a drag on his cigarette. "And Esteban, well, after he gave up Ramon he knew they'd be waiting when he got discharged from the hospital so he checked himself out. Doesn't matter. Eight to five he's already dead."
