by Peter Plate
Police helicopters were circling over a Muni bus stuffed to bursting with passengers on Mission Street. Dope dealers and evangelicos were peddling their wares at the corner of Sixteenth Street and Mission. With its brick pavement, news vendor booths, the dopemen selling drugs, and with the evangelicos droning out songs about redemption through their tinny two watt portable amplifiers, screeching the lyrics into feedbacking microphones—the devil was having a lively day at the intersection.
What was the point of everything? Bellamy had to stop and ask himself that question. He watched a horny beetle crawl over the windshield of the squad car. He was entranced by the bug’s inexorable, timeless, unceasing movement. On the hot glass surface the beetle’s swarthy carapace gleamed in the sun. It was the closest he’d ever come to experiencing a moment of meditation. Then the beetle flew away, directly into the traffic, and with it went Bellamy’s question.
I steered the squad car onto Mission Street, driving past Irma’s Papanga Restaurant, the Leandro Soto Apartments, the Wang Fat Fish Market, the Red Tiger Discount Store, and a Public Health Service ambulance loading up a pair of winos who’d been baking like bread on the sidewalk.
“Hey...pull over.”
Bellamy’s voice was low, heated, constricted by a sense of recognition and longing. I scanned the street in front of me, but I didn’t see anything.
“What is it?”
“Got some assholes at five o’clock startin’ shit on the sidewalk.”
I wrenched the wheel sharply to the right, cutting off oncoming traffic. A dozen car horns honked in unison, protesting my authority. The smell of burning rubber filled the air in a second. The squad car came to a smoking halt at the curb. Before I could ask him what was up, Bellamy reached for his baton, opened the door and leaped out, shouting, “Hey, dirtbag! Don’t move! Stay right where you are!”
Bellamy advanced on three men standing in front of a hardware store. The place that used to be a bar, a rocking joint patronized by drag queens and bikers. I didn’t like the looks of the situation. It was one of those things. Bellamy was going to roust two young guys and an older fellow. It was the young blood that worried me: they had icewater flowing in their veins. But it was my partner’s call.
“All right!” Bellamy roared. “I saw everything! Which one of you motherfuckers has the rocks?”
He scowled at the first man. A middle aged black guy wearing an army jacket and a baseball hat squashed down over his forehead. The suspect’s eyes were sunk so far back behind his cheekbones, it was like staring into the mouth of a cave.
“Mighty hot day to be wearing a coat, ain’t it?” Bellamy snickered. He narrowed his eyes until they were mere glints caught in two boiled pouches.
“You didn’t have to call me a motherfucker,” the black man protested.
His voice was no more than a hoarse whisper. He shifted from one foot to the other, then stepped back an inch, edging his way toward the front door of the hardware store. Several black faces were watching Bellamy through the store’s windows.
“Don’t give me that tired shit,” Bellamy complained. “I’ll call you a motherfucker whenever I feel the need to. It’s part of my first amendment rights. Freedom of speech. You know what I’m saying, homes? Now what about you two? What do you gentlemen have in your pockets, ha? Let me have a peek. It’ll be like going on an Easter egg hunt. We can turn it into a game for the whole family to enjoy.”
The two men were Salvadoreños. One of them had his hands in the pockets of his baggy pants. A nappy watch cap was pulled low over his eyes; neither Bellamy nor I could read the expression on his broad boned face. The other guy wore a white, sleeveless t-shirt over a muscular chest covered with tattoos. His mouth was set in a thin line under a carefully manicured mustache.
Straight out of the pen, all pumped up like that, I thought.
“What’s the matter with you, homes? Are you fucking deaf or what? Whatcha got in your pockets? C’mon, pull your hands out so I can see what kind of goodies you got in there. Or maybe you’re jerking off and you want me to wait until you’re done. Why didn’t you say so? I can wait. I’ve got the time. Go ahead. Give your pud a good yank for me. Courtesy of the San Francisco Police Department. Paid for by the taxpaying citizens of the city. Just don’t come on your khakis, man. What would your girl friend say?”
It was a tactic of Bellamy’s designed to make the assholes nervous. And it worked like a charm. The Salvadoreños’ faces were flushed with ill-concealed rage. I could tell they were dying to climb all over Bellamy, but they didn’t move a limb. It was a feat of self control; I had to admire them for that. Then the older vato folded his arms over his chest and gave Bellamy a sneering curl of his lip. A vein pulsed dangerously on his neck. That was not a good sign. Maybe it was time for me to get out of the car, go over there and back up Bellamy.
It was too hot for this bullshit. I opened the car door, stood up, and strapped on my riot helmet. The sun was blinding, reminding me that I’d left my sunglasses on the bus ride into the city from Novato. A massive headache was creeping down my temples. Alice said I’d been gnashing my teeth at night. It actually woke her up. That’s why my head ached all morning long. I placed my right hand on the squad car’s roof. I rested my left hand on the butt of my revolver. The three suspects stood dead quiet on the pavement. Bellamy tried to provoke them to do something rash.
“Okay. I guess we have to play games. But I like playing games. It gives me a thrill like you wouldn’t believe. Because if you think you’re bad, imagine how bad I am. Playing games is my favorite pastime. I’m good at it. Better than you, believe me. But that’s what I like about you assholes. You like to play games, too.”
“You don’t have to call me no asshole,” the black man stammered.
The guy’s voice resembled the contents of a beer can slowly draining itself. Bellamy lifted his billy club and pointed it at the sky. His face was congested with indignation.
“If I want to call you an asshole, what’s the big deal? I’m sure it’s not the first time. Haven’t you gotten used to it by now? Why can’t you shut up and show me the dope? All I want is the fucking dope. I don’t care about you. But if you want to play civil rights, I can play that, too. I’m versatile. I can say the pledge of allegiance. I can do anything.”
The black man gazed at Bellamy with pain leaking out of his sunken, rheumy eyes. There was little those eyes hadn’t seen. Bellamy was one more bad dream. The kind that you remembered with your eyelids pinned back against your skull.
“Answer me, asshole. You hear me?” Bellamy said.
The culprit nodded, swallowing his Adam’s apple in a slow, painful gulp.
“That’s better. Now we’re getting somewhere.”
Bellamy smiled and lowered his cudgel. His right arm was throbbing with the need to hit someone. Whenever he was busting a perpetrator, he couldn’t help notice what they smelled like. Salvadoreños smelled like fruit. Black men smelled like cigarettes and day old sweat. And white trash not only walked and talked shit, they smelled like it, too.
“Easy, partner. Don’t push it,” I called from behind him.
“So what about you two?”
Bellamy spun on the Salvadoreños. He brandished the nightstick, waving it an inch away from the younger man’s nose. The lad, to his credit, did not flinch. I was impressed.
“What about you junior? What have you got in your pants? Haven’t I asked you this already? If so, what’s taking you so long to answer? Do I need a long distance operator to get through to you? I know, you’re retarded. I understand, homes. It’s a cruel world, and then you die. You shouldn’t be out on the streets if you don’t have any brains in your head, ese. Someone might take advantage of you. That could ruin your reputation. Now take your hands out of your underwear, nice and slow. It’s the most simple game I know of. It’s called cooperating with an officer of the law. I tell you what to do, and you do what I say. Simple and sweet. I want to see every finger come out of your
pocket like it was greased with Crisco.”
“He’s just a kid. Why don’t you leave him alone?” the older vato lisped.
I flashed: here comes trouble. I hopped onto the curb, my headache escalating. I unsnapped my holster and eased out the revolver. The metal was cold in my hand. Everything beyond my face was a jail cell. Even the flawless Indian summer blue sky was a prison.
“Well, aren’t you surprising? You’re sticking up for junior. Homes, you’ve become a role model. Did you go to school to learn about the milk of human kindness?”
Bellamy cocked his chin, begging the vato to step out of line with his chilled down blue eyes. He measured the man’s tattooed biceps with a wicked grin.
“If I’m not mistaken,” Bellamy needled. “I’d say you’re a recent graduate of California’s penal institutions. But what happened? Did they let you out for a holiday? From where I’m standing, it looks like you graduated with honors. I love you for that. Do you know why? Because when I bust your ass, you’re going back to the pen faster than you can shake your dick at a dog, that’s why.”
The cast in the Salvadoreño’s eyes wavered between defiance and fear. Bellamy saw the expression, ephemeral but significant. He laughed with an insincere lilt that made my stomach turn, prompting me to think that I’d been drinking too much coffee lately.
“How I love it when you hard guys feel the pain. It’s like ice cream for me. I think we’re looking at a potential parole violation here. Am I right? What do you think of that, Coddy?” Bellamy called over his shoulder.
Bellamy was showboating for the crowd on the sidewalk. A bunch of old guys and a few junkies and whores. But then Bellamy got down to business.
“So who’s got the rocks? The merry and wise rock that everyone in the neighborhood knows and loves. Rock is better than pussy, isn’t it, gentlemen? Let’s be honest now. It’s nothing to be ashamed of. Pussy just doesn’t compare.”
The kid in the watch cap pulled his hand out of his pants and dropped a small plastic vial to the pavement. Bellamy laughed again, this time with genuine pleasure. The things that rolled off Bellamy’s tongue worked a perverted magic in the street. His cruel mouth just wore the assholes down to a nub.
When Bellamy got through laughing, he poked the vial with his boot. “That’s real tasty looking. Yes, it is. My children, you are incredible. Say ten Hail Marys and go to jail without supper. Junior, you are a supreme fuck up. You can be proud of yourself.”
“Leave him alone, cabron.”
Bellamy locked eyes with the muscular vato. The moment built on itself. Junior fell into a crouch and bared his teeth. Bellamy’s face was warped into an ugly grimace.
“Chale, home boy. What’s the matter with you? Do you want to throw some chingasos, ha? If you say one more word, I’m going to wrap this baton around your head. I will straighten out that big nose of yours, and when I’m done with my sacred task, there won’t be a plastic surgeon on this planet who can fix it. Comprende?”
The guy stared at Bellamy with molecules of murder spinning in his eyes. I took another look at the kid in the watch cap. The black man in the army jacket hadn’t moved. It didn’t take me more than a half second to see what was coming. It always happened that way. Everything moved slow as in a dream, then it blew up in your face with the compressed force of a time bomb.
Before I could draw my gun, the vato grabbed Bellamy’s nightstick. Bellamy jumped back, but the guy wouldn’t let go. Instead, he lunged forward, throwing Bellamy off balance. The black man in the army jacket took advantage of the confusion and started walking down the street. The people in the hardware store had their faces flush to the window. But everything was still happening in slow motion. That told me something was wrong.
“Hey, where are you going?”
The black man stopped and looked back at me. His eyes had the sharp light of fear in them. He turned his head to look up the street. The crowd on the sidewalk backed off to make room for him, in case he tried to make a run for it. He jerked a finger at himself, raised his eyebrows under the baseball hat, and said, “Me? I don’t know. I’m not going anywhere.”
Then he turned around and took off helter skelter past an old couple. He got past them, but collided with a woman pushing a baby carriage. He fell over on his side. His baseball hat dropped off his head onto the sidewalk. The young mother put her hand to her mouth and screamed.
“Oh, God, no! Don’t let him kill my baby!”
I flipped out, smacked myself in the forehead with the heel of my palm, aimed my revolver at the culprit.
Everyone in the street flopped down on the pavement. The perpetrator was already flat on the sidewalk with his fingers laced together behind his head, as if he’d been through the mechanics of an arrest procedure in past lives. I gingerly picked my way through the crowd, taking care not to step on anyone. I bent over and yanked the suspect to his feet by the scruff of his neck, and stuck the gun in his ear.
“You stupid bastard! Don’t ever do that again!”
The asshole was awfully light. I hefted him, half flinging him in the direction of the squad car. Folks were pouring out of the New Mission Cafeteria, yelling poorly articulated insinuations about police brutality. Bellamy was still fighting with the older vato. Things couldn’t have been worse in my opinion. The kid in the watch cap was rabbit punching Bellamy in the kidneys. I threw the prisoner onto the trunk of the car, slamming the man’s face into the hood, whooping, “Stay right where you are!”
I took a flying leap into the fight. Everything was moving too slow. I flew through the air, thinking I was never going to come down. If Christ could walk across the water, a policeman could fly through the air.
The surprised look on my opponent’s face when I landed on him told me that I’d done the right thing. I hit the older man in the mouth with the butt of the revolver. After the third blow, the vato was still holding on to Bellamy’s nightstick. The struggle was turning into a testimonial about will power. There was blood on my uniform, blood on the asshole, but none on Bellamy.
The Salvadoreño was drooling on my chest; the look in his eyes was glazed, but I was not feeling confident. On the fourth blow, the asshole loosened his grip on the baton, spitting out a tooth in my face. He sagged against my bulletproof vest and closed his eyes. I put my arms around his shoulders, holding on to him.
The turn of events enabled Bellamy to plant a gloved fist on junior’s chin. The kid, who’d been hanging onto Bellamy’s neck, flew backwards into a news rack. A girl kneeled down and scooped up the vial on the sidewalk. She shrugged her slim shoulders through the crowd and was gone.
I saw this, but I had to let her get away. I wasn’t that young anymore. I couldn’t scuttle after the thieves like I used to.
Bellamy wrestled his captive down to the pavement. I whipped out a pair of handcuffs and getting down on my knees, I slapped them on the vato. With the click of the handcuff’s clasp, it was over. One moment, a guy was admiring the view on Mission Street; the next thing he knew, he was going to the city prison. It was beautiful. The sum of its many jagged and irregular parts. The sky, the garbage on Mission Street, two cops, and an asshole.
“Now I got you, you goddamn fuck!” Bellamy swore.
I got to my feet, shaken and feeling worse for wear. I didn’t register what the enthusiastic shouts coming from the people in the hardware store were about until it was too late. I turned around. To my disgust, I saw my prisoner, the black man in the army jacket jogging across the street and wending a path through the traffic, causing more than one car to slam on its brakes and toot its horn. The baseball hat flew off his head for a second and final time, exposing a head of short white curls. That was the last I saw of him.
“Help me get this guy into the car,” Bellamy wheezed.
The vato was balking at getting into the back seat. Bellamy shoved aside a pile of dirty clothes and said, “See? That’s not so bad, is it?”
I looked over my shoulder, trying to remember wher
e the kid should have been, laying under the news rack. But he was gone, too.
“Shit, Bells, junior took off.”
“Never mind. Let’s get this joker in the back seat. Will you move those blankets?...Yeah, that’s better. And while you’re at it, Coddy, would you wipe the blood off your face? You look awful.”
I walked around to the other side of the battered police vehicle that Bellamy called home. I opened the door and dropped behind the steering wheel. I did it a hundred times a day; I could do it in my sleep if I had to. I was smearing blood over everything I touched. I glanced into the rearview mirror, but I didn’t recognize myself. What would Alice say if she saw me now? She didn’t like it when my uniform got this dirty. I reached for the keys in the ignition. They weren’t there. I searched my pockets, but they were empty.
“Bells?”
“I know, Coddy. I know. I’m not blind. Now what?”
Bellamy was in the back seat, sitting on top of our prisoner. He was pinning the man’s head to the floor. The vato was chanting fierce and sad under his breath, chupa su madre, pinche chota. The smell in the back was awful. I wished that Bellamy would roll down the windows. But what did it matter? Our luck had soured. Someone had stolen the car keys. Now we’d have to catch a taxi cab back to the station.
sixteen
when I was a child, my mother had a magenta bathrobe of ankle-length chenille. It advertised the valley of her abdomen and the droop of her honey colored breasts. That bathrobe was as venerable as anything I’d ever known in my life. My mother’s stare, which by then I already knew was not a friendly, benevolent gaze resembled the Egyptian Sphinx. She was fond of saying to anyone who’d listen, that bringing me into the world had felt like moving her bowels. I don’t think she ever saw me. I had always been someone else for her, someone who’d she hoped never to know. She was always trying to dress me up in the costumes of the unborn.
