The Blue Knight

by Joseph Wambaugh

  “Damn, Zoot!” I finally exploded. “You been a friggin’ scammer all your life, fracturing every friggin’ law you had nuts enough to crack, and you sit here now acting like a pious nun. If you wanna play your own tune you better damn well learn to dance to it, and right now you’re gonna do the friggin’ boogaloo, you goddamn hemorrhoid!”

  I took a step toward Zoot’s chair and he snapped up straight in his seat saying, “Okay, Morgan, okay. Whadda you want? For God’s sake I’ll tell you what you wanna know! You don’t have to get tough!”

  “Is the number you phone a relay?” repeated Charlie calmly.

  “I think so,” Zoot nodded. “Sounds like some goofy broad don’t know nothing about the business. I been calling this same broad for six months now. She’s probably just some stupid fucking housewife, sitting on a hot seat and taking them bets for somebody she don’t even know.”

  “Usually record them on Formica,” Charlie explained to me, “then somebody phones her several times a day and takes the action she wrote down. She can wipe the Formica in case the vice cops come busting down her door. She probably won’t even know who pays her or where the phone calls come from.”

  “Fuck no, she ain’t gonna know,” said Zoot, looking at me. “This shit’s too big, Morgan. It’s too goddamn big. You ain’t gonna bother nobody by rousting me. You don’t understand, Morgan. People want us in business. What’s a guy get for bookmaking? Even a big guy? A fucking fine. Who does time? You ever see a book get joint time?” said Zoot to Charlie, who shook his head. “Fuck no, you ain’t and you ain’t going to. Everybody bets with bookies for chrissake and those that don’t, they like some other kind of vice. Give up, Morgan. You been a cop all these years and you don’t know enough to give up fighting it. You can’t save this rotten world.”

  “I ain’t trying to, Zoot,” I said. “I just love the friggin’ battle!”

  I went down the hall to the coffee room, figuring that Charlie should be alone with Zoot. Now that I had played the bad guy, he could play the good guy. An interrogation never works if it’s not private, and Charlie was a good bullshitter. I had hopes he could get more out of Zoot because I had him loosened up. Anytime you get someone making speeches at you, you have a chance. If he’s shaky about one thing, he might be about something else. I didn’t think you could buy Zoot with money, he was too scared of everything. But being scared of us as well as the mob, he could be gotten to. Charlie could handle him.

  Cruz Segovia was in the coffee room working on his log. I came in behind him. There was no one else in the room and Cruz was bent over the table writing in his log. He was so slim that even in his uniform he looked like a little boy bent over doing his homework. His face was still almost the same as when we were in the academy and except for his gray hair he hadn’t changed much. He was barely five feet eight and sitting there he looked really small.

  “Qué pasó, compadre,” I said, because he always said he wished I was Catholic and could have been the godfather for his last seven kids. His kids considered me their godfather anyway, and he called me compadre.

  “Órale, panzón,” he said, like a pachuco, which he put on for me. He spoke beautiful Spanish and could also read and write Spanish, which is rare for a Mexican. He was good with English too, but the barrios of El Paso Texas died hard, and Cruz had an accent when he spoke English.

  “Where you been hiding out all day?” I said, putting a dime in the machine and getting Cruz a fresh cup, no cream and double sugar.

  “You bastard,” he said. “Where’ve I been hiding. Communication’s been trying to get you all day! Don’t you know that funny little box in your car is called a radio and you’re supposed to listen for your calls and you’re even supposed to handle them once in a while?”

  “Chale, chale. Quit being a sergeant,” I said. “Gimme some slack. I been bouncing in and out of that black-and-white machine so much I haven’t heard anything.”

  “You’ll be a beat cop all your life,” he said, shaking his head. “You have no use at all for your radio, and if you didn’t have your best friend for a sergeant, your big ass’d be fired.”

  “Yeah, but I got him,” I grinned, poking him in the shoulder and making him swear.

  “Seriously, Bumper,” he said, and he didn’t have to say “seriously” because his large black eyes always turned down when he was serious. “Seriously, the skipper asked me to ask you to pay a little more attention to the radio. He heard some of the younger officers complaining about always handling the calls in your district because you’re off the radio walking around so much.”

  “Goddamn slick-sleeved rookies,” I said, hot as hell, “they wouldn’t know a snake in the grass if one jumped up and bit them on the dick. You seen these goddamn rookies nowadays, riding down the friggin’ streets, ogling all the cunt, afraid to put on their hats because it might ruin their hair styles. Shit, I actually saw one of these pretty young fuzz sitting in his black-and-white spraying his hair! I swear, Cruz, most of these young cats wouldn’t know their ass from a burnt biscuit.”

  “I know, Bumper,” Cruz nodded with sympathy. “And the skipper knows a whole squad of these youngsters couldn’t do half the police work you old-timers do. That’s why nobody says anything to you. But hombre, you have to handle some calls once in a while instead of walking that beat.”

  “I know,” I said, looking at my coffee.

  “Just stay on the air a little more.”

  “Okay, okay, you’re the macho. You got the huevos de oro.”

  Cruz smiled now that he was through stepping on my meat. He was the only one that ever nagged me or told me what to do. When someone else had ideas along those lines, they’d hit Cruz with them, and if he thought I needed talking to, he’d do it. They figured I’d listen to Cruz.

  “Don’t forget, loco, you’re coming to dinner tonight.”

  “Can you see me forgetting dinner at your pad?”

  “You sure Cassie can’t come with you?”

  “She sure wishes she could. You know Friday’s the last day for her at school and they’re throwing a little party for her. She has to be there.”

  “I understand,” said Cruz. “What day is she actually going up north? She decided yet?”

  “Next week she’ll be packed and gone.”

  “I don’t know why you don’t just take your vacation now and cut out with her. What’s the sense of waiting till the end of the month? That vacation pay isn’t worth being away from her for a few weeks, is it? She might come to her senses and ask herself why the hell she’s marrying a mean old bastard like Bumper Morgan.”

  I wondered why I didn’t tell Cruz that I’d decided to do just that. What the hell was the secret? Friday was going to be my last day, I never cared anything about the vacation pay. Was I really afraid to say it?

  “Gonna be strange leaving everything,” I muttered to my coffee cup.

  “I’m glad for you, Bumper,” said Cruz, running his slim fingers through his heavy gray hair, “If I didn’t have all the kids I’d get the hell out too, I swear. I’m glad you’re going.”

  Cruz and me had talked about it lots of times the last few years, ever since Cassie came along and it became inevitable that I’d marry her and probably pull the pin at twenty years instead of staying thirty like Cruz had to do. Now that it was here though, it seemed like we’d never discussed it at all. It was so damn strange.

  “Cruz, I’m leaving Friday,” I blurted. “I’m going to see Cassie and tell her I’ll leave Friday. Why wait till the end of the month?”

  “That’s fine, ’mano!” Cruz beamed, looking like he’d like to cut loose with a yelp, like he always did when he was drunk.

  “I’ll tell her today.” Now I felt relieved, and drained the last of the coffee as I got up to leave. “And I don’t give a damn if I loaf for a month. I’ll just take it easy till I feel like starting my new job.”

  “That’s right!” said Cruz, his eyes happy now. “Sit on that big fat nalgas fo
r a year if you want to. They want you as security chief. They’ll wait for you. And you have forty percent coming every month, and Cassie’s got a good job, and you still have a good bank account don’t you?”

  “Hell yes,” I answered, walking toward the door. “I never had to spend much money, with my beat and all.”

  “Shhh,” Cruz grinned. “Haven’t you heard? We’re the new breed of professionals. We don’t accept gratuities.”

  “Who said anything about gratuities? I only take tribute.”

  Cruz shook his head and said, “Ahí te huacho,” which is anglicized slang meaning I’ll be seeing, or rather, watching for you.

  “Ahí te huacho,” I answered.

  After I left Cruz I went back to the vice squad office and found Zoot hanging his head, and Charlie downright happy, so I figured Charlie had done all right.

  “I’d like to talk to you alone for a minute, Bumper,” said Charlie, leading me into the next room and closing the door while Zoot sat there looking miserable.

  “He told me lots more than he thinks he did,” said Charlie. He was charged up like any good cop should be when he has something worthwhile.

  “He thinks you re taking me off his back?” I asked.

  “Yeah,” Charlie smiled. “Play along. He thinks I’m going to save him from you. Just lay off him for a while, okay, Bumper? He told me he’s planning on moving his territory out of the division to Alvarado in a couple of weeks but he has to stay around Figueroa for the time being. I told him I’d talk to you.”

  “Tell Zoot he doesn’t have to worry about old Bumper anymore,” I said, getting another gas pain. I vowed to myself I’d lay off the soy sauce next time I ate in J-town.

  “Yeah, he’ll be a problem for the Rampart vice squad then,” said Charlie, not getting my meaning.

  “Want me to take him back to Fig?”

  “I’ll take him,” said Charlie. “I want to talk a little more.”

  “Do me a favor?”

  “Sure, Bumper.”

  “You think there’s any chance of something going down because of what Zoot told you?”

  “There’s a damn good chance. Zoot half-assed copped that he thinks the broad at the relay spot that takes his action is Reba McClain, and if it is we might be able to swing real good with her.”

  “How’s that?”

  “She’s Red Scalotta’s girlfriend. We took her down in another relay about six months ago and she got probation with a six months’ jail sentence hanging. She’s a meth head and an ex-con and stir crazy as hell. Kind of a sex thing. She’s got a phobia about jails and bull dykes and all that. Real ding-a-ling, but a gorgeous little toadie. We were just talking last week about her and if we could shag her and catch her dirty we might get to Scalotta through her. She’s a real shaky bitch. I think she’d turn her mama to stay on the street. You bringing in Zoot with that phone number was a godsend.”

  “Okay, then I’m really going to ask the favor.”

  “Sure.”

  “Take her today or tomorrow at the latest. If she gives you something good, like a back office, take it down on Friday.”

  “A back office! Jesus, I don’t think she’ll have that kind of information, Bumper. And hell, Friday is just two days away. Sometimes you stake out for weeks or months to take a back office. Jesus, that’s where the book’s records are kept. We’d have to get a search warrant and that takes lots of information beforehand. Why Friday?”

  “I’m going on vacation. I want to be in on this one, Charlie. I never took a back office. I want it real bad, and it has to be before I go on vacation.”

  “I’d do it for you, Bumper, if I could, you know that, but Friday’s only two days away!”

  “Just do police work like I taught you, with balls and brains and some imagination. That’s all I ask. Just try, okay?”

  “Okay,” Charlie said. “I’ll give it a try.”

  Before I left I put on an act for Zoot so he’d think Charlie was his protector. I pretended I was mad at Charlie and Charlie pretended he was going to stop me from any future attempts to stuff Zoot down the goddamn mail chute.

  SIX

  AFTER I got in my car I remembered the friendly ass bite Cruz gave me and I picked up the hand mike and said, “One-X-L-Forty-five, clear.”

  “One-X-L-Forty-five, handle this call,” said the operator, and I grumbled and wrote the address down. “Meet One-L-Thirty, Ninth and Broadway.”

  “One-X-L-Forty-five, roger,” I said disgustedly, and thought, that’s what I get for clearing. Probably some huge crisis like taking a chickenshit theft report from some fatass stockbroker who got his wallet lifted while he was reading dirty magazines at the dirty bookstore on Broadway.

  One-X-L-Thirty was a rookie sergeant named Grant who I didn’t know very well. He wore one five-year hashmark showing he had between five and ten years on. I’d bet it was a whole lot closer to five. He had a ruddy, smooth face and a big vocabulary. I never heard him swear at any roll-call he conducted. I couldn’t trust a policeman who didn’t swear once in a while. You could hardly describe certain things you see and feelings you have in this job without some colorful language.

  Grant was south of Ninth near Olympic, out of his car, pacing up and down as I drove up. I knew it was snobbish but I couldn’t call a kid like him “Sergeant.” And I didn’t want to be out and out rude so I didn’t call these young sergeants by their last names. I didn’t call them anything. It got awkward sometimes, and I had to say, “Hey pal,” or “Listen bud” when I wanted to talk to one of them. Grant looked pretty nervous about something.

  “What’s up?” I asked, getting out of my car.

  “We have a demonstration at the Army Induction Center.”

  “So?” I said, looking down the street at a group of about fifteen marchers picketing the building.

  “A lot of draftees go in and out and there could be trouble. There’re some pretty militant-looking types in that picket line.”

  “So what’re we gonna do?”

  “I just called you because I need someone to stand by and keep them under surveillance. I’m going in to talk to the lieutenant about the advisability of calling a tactical alert. I’d like you to switch to frequency nine and keep me advised of any status change.”

  “Look, pal, this ain’t no big thing. I mean, a tactical alert for fifteen ragtag flower sniffers?”

  “You never know what it can turn into.”

  “Okay,” and I sighed, even though I tried not to, “I’ll sit right here.”

  “Might be a good idea to drive closer. Park across the street. Close enough to let them see you but far enough to keep them from trying to bait you.”

  “Okay, pal,” I muttered, as Grant got in his car and sped toward the station to talk to Lieutenant Hilliard, who was a cool old head and wouldn’t get in a flap over fifteen peace marchers.

  I pulled out in the traffic and a guy in a blue Chevy jumped on his brakes even though he was eighty feet back and going slow. People get black-and-white fever when they see a police car and they do idiotic things trying to be super careful. I’ve seen them concentrate so hard on one facet of safe driving, like giving an arm signal, that they bust right through a red light. That’s black-and-white fever for you.

  The marchers across Broadway caught my eye when two of them, a guy and a girl, were waving for me to come over. They seemed to be just jiving around but I thought I better go over for several reasons. First of all, there might really be something wrong. Second, if I didn’t, it looked like hell for a big bad copper to be afraid to approach a group of demonstrators. And third, I had a theory that if enough force could be used fast enough in these confrontations there’d be no riot. I’d never seen real force used quick enough yet, and I thought, what the hell, now was my chance to test my theory since I was alone with no sergeants around.

  These guys, at least a few of them, two black guys, and one white, bearded scuz in a dirty buckskin vest and yellow headband, looked rad
ical enough to get violent with an overweight middle-aged cop like myself, but I firmly believed that if one of them made the mistake of putting his hands on me and I drove my stick three inches in his esophagus, the others would yell police brutality twice and slink away. Of course I wasn’t sure, and I noticed that the recent arrivals swelled their numbers to twenty-three. Only five of them were girls. That many people could stomp me to applesauce without a doubt, but I wasn’t really worried, mainly because even though they were fist shaking, most of them looked like middle-class white people just playing at revolution. If you have a few hungry-looking professionals like I figured the white guy in the headband to be, you could have trouble. Some of these could lend their guts to the others and set them off, but he was the only one I saw.

  I drove around the block so I didn’t have to make an illegal U-turn in front of them, made my illegal U-turn on Olympic, came back and parked in front of the marchers, who ignored me and kept marching and chanting, “Hell no, we won’t go.” And “Fuck Uncle Sam, and Auntie Spiro,” and several other lewd remarks mostly directed at the President, the governor, and the mayor. A few years ago, if a guy yelled “fuck” in a public place in the presence of women or children, we’d have to drag his ass to jail.

  “Hi, Officer, I love you,” said one little female peace marcher, a cute blonde about seventeen, wearing two inches of false eyelashes that looked upside-down, and ironed-out shoulder-length hair.

  “Hi, honey, I love you too,” I smiled back, and leaned against the door of my car. I folded my arms and puffed a cigar until the two who had been waving at me decided to walk my way.

  They were whispering now with another woman and finally the shorter girl, who was not exactly a girl, but a woman of about thirty-five, came right up. She was dressed like a teenager with a short yellow mini, violet panty hose, granny glasses, and white lipstick. Her legs were too damned fat and bumpy and she was wearing a theatrical smile with a cold arrogant look beneath it. Up close, she looked like one of the professionals and seemed to be a picket captain. Sometimes a woman, if she’s the real thing, can be the detonator much quicker than a man can. This one seemed like the real thing, and I looked her in the eye and smiled while she toyed with a heavy peace medal hanging around her neck. Her eyes said, “You’re just a fat harmless cop, not worth my talents, but so far you’re all we have here, and I don’t know if an old bastard like you is even intelligent enough to know when he’s being put down.”