"Is that the same boy I saw before?" Baxter asked and he believed it was a lie when she said, "Of course it is!"

"What's your name, son?" Baxter asked, stooping and smiling at the child.

"Tommy Rivers," the boy said and looked up at his mother.

"I don't believe that's the same child I saw. He was thin, very very thin."

"So he's gained a few pounds. He was sick. Did my nosy neighbor tell you he was sick?"

And Baxter Slate nodded because the neighbor had said that, and yeta "Look," Baxter said, trying his broad winning smile on Lena Rivers, "this is my second call here. Tell you what, I'll just come in for a look around and then everybody'll be satisfied and you won't see me again. Okay?"

And then the woman stepped out on the porch in the sunlight and Baxter was no longer looking at her through the screen door and could see the yellow pouches around her sparkling demented eyes.

"You been cooperated with all you're gonna be. You got no right here and I want you outta my face and off my property. So I don't keep a spic and span house, so what? My kids're cared for and here's the one you're so goddamn worried about. Now tell that bitch she got any more complaints I'll go over there and kick her ass all over the neighborhood!"

Lena Rivers went inside and slammed the door, leaving Baxter Slate standing indecisively on the front porch.

For months after that Baxter wondered how much of his hesitancy would be attributed to his boarding school politeness and whether perhaps the more obtrusive working class produced the best cops after all, that perhaps police departments were foolish to recruit from any other social group.

But no matter how many times he postulated a hypothetical situation to other policemen, never daring to admit to them he had contact with Tommy Rivers, he had to come to the inescapable conclusion that very few would have stood on that porch. As tentative as Hamlet. Only to wipe sweat from his hat brim and drive away to another call.

The answers to his hypothetical question varied slightly: "I think I'd have called for a backup unit and maybe a supervisor or Juvenile officer and gone on in. I mean if I really suspected she had switched kids on me." That from Father Willie Wright.

"I'da walked over the cunt and looked for the little whelp." That from Roscoe Rules.

Not one of the choirboys, and he asked each privately, had suggested that he would consider that there was not enough probable cause to enter the woman's home or cause her further discomfiture. Most agreed with Francis Tanaguchi who shrugged and said, "I don't worry about it when a little kid's safety's at stake. If the court wants to kick the case out, groovy, but I'll see that the kid's okay."

They thought it absurd even to consider constitutional questions which get in the way of police work. "We'll worry about the United States Supreme Court when we're writing our arrest reports," as Spencer Van Moot succinctly put it. And Baxter Slate believed that was the, general attitude of all policemen, not just the choirboys, It was absurdly easy for any high school graduate with a year's police experience to skirt the most sophisticated and intricate edict arrived at by nine aging men who could never guard against the fact that restrictive rules of law simply produced facile liars among policemen. There wasn't a choirboy who had not lied in probable cause situations to ensure a prosecution of a guilty defendant.

Not a choirboy except Baxter Slate who had heard too much about Truth and Honor and Sin in Dominican schools. Even Father Willie Wright lied but when he did it from the witness stand he always held his hands under his legs, fingers crossed.

And in the case of Tommy Rivers Baxter Slate need not have lied. He simply had to open the unlocked door and enter Lena Rivers' home and walk through her house ignoring her drunken threats and search for the real Tommy Rivers. But since he had only a suspicion, since he was riot sure, since he could never be convinced that people lied so outrageously, since it was too bizarre to suspect foul play when Mrs. Rivers had several other healthy children, since he was Baxter Slate and not Roscoe Rules, he threw in his hand and lost to a bluff. And Lena Rivers was free to continue with her gradual murder of Tommy Rivers.

When Baxter Slate read Bruce Simpson's arrest report the first time, his heart was banging so loud he actually believed the man next to him could hear it, and he foolishly cleared his throat and shuffled his feet on the asphalt tile in the squadroom. The second time through the report he believed his heart had stopped, so shallow was his breathing. The third time through he didn't think about his heart at all.

Bruce Simpson's arrest report was a minor classic in kiddy cop circles because he did not write like most policemen in the bald vernacular: "Person reporting stated Arresting officer Simpson composed a horror story which included every tiny fragment of gruesome detaila"when it was necessary and when it was not. Simpson did it because there was a policewoman named Doris Guber, whose pants Simpson was trying to penetrate, who loved to work the sex detail and always asked teenage runaways about their illicit sex lives and included in her reports exactly how many times an illicit penis was inserted and withdrawn from an illicit vagina. Which wasn't all that important to the prosecution of delinquent youngsters.

Doris always loved to find out about the orgasm, whether it occurred, and if so how big it was and of what duration. She'd get Simpson hot just talking about it so he started doing his reports the same way.

"Did you have an orgasm with the girl?" Doris once asked a surly eighteen year old black boy she wanted to prosecute for banging his neighbor.

"Did I have a what?"

"Did you come?" asked Doris Guber, eyes shining.

"Oh yeah. Like a hound dog."

Bruce Simpson's inimitably colorful prose left nothing out. The pages reeked of agony and death. He described how Lena Rivers had shredded the little sailor suit from Tommy Rivers the first day. He hypothesized how Tommy had resembled the long gone, fair haired sailor who had shattered the romantic dreams of Lena Rivers by taking his discharge from the Navy, and heading for parts unknown. Bruce Simpson delineated in the sharpest detail how Tommy Rivers entered hell that day and was not released from torment until he died ten months later.

Lena Rivers had begun by subjecting Tommy to a sustained barrage of verbal abuse which was unrelenting up to and including the period when daily beatings gave way to starvation and torture. But as cruel as Lena Rivers was to Tommy she was kinder than ever before to her other three children who ranged in age from seven to ten. And she was exceptionally kind to the older children of the neighborhood and frequently entertained the teenage boys by supplying beer and gambling money from her bimonthly checks from the Bureau of Public Assistance and finally by deflowering three of them after a game of strip poker."

It became gossip among the adolescents of the block that Lena Rivers was awfully tough on the new arrival, her six year old son Tommy. Then later it was positively established that at least two of the lads, who were learning more than poker from Lena Rivers, had seen acts amounting to felony crimes committed on Tommy Rivers. Lena had been observed on two occasions thrusting the boy's hand into the flame of the gas stove for bedwetting. On another occasion she had ordered the child to copulate orally one of her poker playing sixteen year old lovers but the older boy claimed he declined, during his testimony at Lena's trial. Finally, no less than three teenage boys who were ordinary products of the ordinary neighborhood saw Lena Rivers carrying the naked, screaming, twenty-eight pound child through the house by a pair of pliers clamped to his penis.

Lena Rivers had less exotic punishment for Tommy Rivers during that ten month siege of terror, such as locking him in a kitchen broom closet every time he cried for his grandmother whom he would never see again. The broom closet eventually became a refuge for Tommy, and Lena Rivers would often forget he was there and leave him alone in the peaceful darkness for hours at a time. His older siblings sometimes brought food to him beyond his daily ration but never enough to sustain him in health, and eventually the broom closet became his permanent bedroom. He built himself a nest of rags and newspapers next to a water heater which was warm in the night.

Baxter Slate was always to rationalize that even if he had been less indecisive that day he might never have found the little figure cowering in the corner of the broom closet, might never have verified his suspicions that Lena Rivers had shown him the wrong son.

Baxter was to question more experienced Juvenile officers at a later time and consult texts on abnormal psychology and ask again and again: "But how could the other children, especially the older neighborhood children, have failed to report it to the police? They knew what was going on. Even the little ones knew how wrong it was!"

But the most frequent explanation was: "Kids are awfully curious and have a morbid fascination for the bizarre. She was supplying booze and sex for the older ones and her own could see by Tommy what could happen to them if Mama stopped loving them, soa"

Later as a kiddy cop Baxter encountered case after case of witnesses who ignored flagrant acts of brutality, not just youngsters, but adults: neighbors and family. Then Baxter Slate, former Roman Catholic, age twenty-six, learned how tenuous is the life of the soul. And realized that his soul, if he truly had one, was starting to die.

Baxter asked for and received a transfer back to patrol for "personal reasons" and decided to quit police work. But he made inquiries and discovered how valueless was his education in the classics. He had an offer to teach elementary school but that job was conditional since Baxter did not have a teaching credential and had not the ambition to get one. And actually, policemen received a better wage.

So he became satisfied with working uniform patrol again and did not aspire to a more exalted position. He never again tried to borrow money from his mother who was now divorced for the fourth time, and most of all he was very cautious never to let anyone know he was intelligent and educated since it could offend people like Roscoe Rules who assumed that Baxter had studied police science in college.

Baxter always made it a point to throw a few "don'ts" in place of "doesn'ts" in his conversation with other policemen and unless he was drunk at choir practice he never used adverbs in the presence of Roscoe Rules who became infuriated because it sounded so faggy.

Tommy Rivers, reduced to a shroud of flesh on a little skeleton, eventually died from the blow of a hammer that a healthy child could probably have survived. Lena Rivers was arrested, giving Bruce Simpson the opportunity to titillate Doris Cuber with his purple prose. And Baxter Slate quit being a Juvenile officer because he thought he was the worst one in history and intensified his relationship with Foxy Farrell. He only broke it off when during their mating she bit into his chest so savagely she tore the skin and kissed him with a bloody mouth crooning, "You liked it, Baxter! You liked it, you bastard! Admit it, you pig motherfucker! Want me to do it again? Or do you want me to tell you what I did to Goldie last night after I left you? Goldie's cock is soa"

And then Baxter was weeping for shame and fury and was backhanding Foxy Farrell and more blood was on her mixing with his blood. Then her eyes glassed over and grabbed his wrists and the words dripped like blood from thin dark lips "That's enough. I know what you like, honey. It's okay. Mama knows. Mama knows."

So after he stopped being a kiddy cop and after he stopped thinking so much about the things Foxy Farrell had taught him about himself which he never, should have learned and after, he started dating other women and trying to enjoy a more ordinary sex life, Baxter Slate became the only choirboy to kill a man in the line of duty. He killed the ordinary guy.

Baxter and Spermwhale liked to meet for coffee with the other north end cars, particularly 7-A-29, manned by Sam Niles and Harold Bloomguard. They would meet at about 7:00 P.M. on week nights at the drive-in on Olympic Boulevard when the air wasn't too busy.

Policemen always asked, "How's the air?" or "The air busy?" referring to the radio airwaves which directed their working lives. "Quiet air" was what the policemen longed for so that they could be free to cruise and look for real crooks instead of being twenty five year old marriage counselors to fifty-five year old unhappily married couples.

To Baxter Slate quiet air meant only a prolonged coffee break at the drive-in, where they might meet one or two other radio cars and hope an angry citizen didn't call the station and report them for bunching up and wasting taxpayers' money by swilling coffee instead of catching burglars and thieves.

It was usually the same outraged citizen who, when getting a traffic ticket by a policeman who was not drinking coffee, would demand to know why he was writing tickets instead of catching burglars and thieves. The same question about burglars and thieves was asked of narcotics officers by dopers and of vice cops by whores, tricks and gamblers. And of motor cops by drunk drivers.

Burglars and thieves sometimes complained that they only committed crimes against property, not like muggers and rapists. Muggers and rapists never faulted policemen at all, which caused the choirboys to comment that as a rule muggers and rapists were the most appreciative people they contacted.

But Baxter just wanted to drink coffee on the night he killed the ordinary guy. He was content to sit at the drive-in with Spermwhale and joke with the carhops.

While Baxter and Spermwhale drank their coffee a Porsche pulled in beside them and Spermwhale remarked to the lone driver that her blonde hair was complemented by the canary yellow Porsche.

The girl laughed and said, "How many girls do you stop for tickets because their hair coordinates with their paint job?"

"None that I ever wrote a ticket to," Spermwhale leered as Baxter automatically put his hand on his gun because a man shuffled over to the left side of the car with his hand inside a topcoat.

It was seventy-five degrees that night but the man wore his tan trench coat turned up. He also wore a black hat with a wide brim that had been out of style for twenty years but was now coming back. His face was round and cleft like putty smashed by a fist.

He reached inside his coat, and while Spermwhale talked to the girl with canary hair, he flipped out toy handcuffs and a plastic wallet with a dime store badge pinned inside. He said, "I'm working this neighborhood. Any tips for me? Anybody you're after? Be glad to help out."

Baxter relaxed his gun hand and still sitting behind the wheel of the radio car, looked up at the man, at the vacant blue eyes peering out from under the hat brim, with a hint of a mongoloid fault in those eyes. Baxter guessed the man's mental age to be about ten.

Spermwhale just shook his head and said, "Partner, you're a born blood donor," because Baxter Slate dug through their notebook and found some old mug shots of suspects long since in jail and gave them to the retardee who could hardly believe his good fortune.

"Gosh, thanks!" said the play detective. "I'll get right on the case! I'll find these guys! I'll help you make the pinch!"

"Okay, just give us a call when you find them," Baxter smiled as the young man shuffled away, beaming at the mug shots.

After being unable to entice a telephone number from the laughing girl in the yellow Porsche, Spermwhale looked at her license number and ran a DMV check over the radio, wrote down her name and address. Then he leaned out the window of the police car and said, "You know, you remind me of a girl used to live up in Hollywood on Fountain, next to where I used to live."

The girl looked stunned and said, "You lived on Fountain?"

"Yeah," Spermwhale said convincingly. "There was this girl, lived in the six thousand block. I used to see her coming out her apartment. I fell in love with her but I never met her. Once I asked the manager of her building what her name was and he said, Norma. You sure look like her."

"I looka but that's me! My name's Norma!" And then she saw Baxter grinning and she reddened and said, "Okay, how'd you know? Oh yeah, my license plate. Your radio. Oh yeah."

"But it coulda happened like that," Spermwhale said, his scarred furry eyebrows pulled down contritely.

"Well, since you have my name and address, I might as well give you my phone number," said the girl with the canary hair who was impressed with the powers of the law and by Baxter's good looks.

While Spermwhale flirted, Baxter sipped coffee and thought of how the smog had been at twilight. How blue it was and even purple in the deep shadows. Poison can be lovely, thought Baxter Slate.

Then another radio car pulled into the drive-in and parked in the last stall near the darkened alley and Baxter decided he'd leave Spermwhale to romance the blonde. Baxter left his hat and flashlight but took his coffee and strolled over to talk with the other choirboys.

And at that moment the rear door window on the passenger side of 7-A-77's car shattered before his eyes! Then the front fender went THUNK!

Calvin Potts screamed "SOMEBODY'S SHOOTIN AT US!" Baxter Slate dove to the pavement as the doors to the black and white burst open. Calvin and Francis were down with him crawling on their bellies and no one else, not even Spermwhale who had a blue veiner, even noticed. Then Spermwhale turned down the police radio which had begun to get noisy and looked across the parking lot at the three choirboys on their bellies just as his windshield shattered and he went flying out the passenger door even faster than Lieutenant Grimsley when they put the angry ducks in his car.

"Did you see the flash?" yelled Baxter, who was on his knees scrambling for the protection of his black and white as business went on around them as usual. Car radios blared cacophonously. Dishes clattered; Trays clanged. People slurped creamy milkshakes. Chewed blissfully on fat hamburgers. Gossiped. No one perceived a threat. No one noticed four blue suited men crawling on their bellies. Finally, a miniskirted carhop stopped and said to Baxter, "Lose your contact lens or something, honey?"

Then all four policemen were on their feet running for a fence which separated the parking lot from the alley where the shots had to have come from.

Baxter got his wits about him and yelled, "Spermwhale, go call for help!"

Then gingerly shining his light through the darkness, Francis Tanaguchi shouted, "There's a rifle in the alley!"

Calvin Potts crawled forward out of sight for a few minutes, then, crouching, ran back out of the alley carrying a modified .22 caliber rifle with a tommy gun grip and an infrared scope lovingly mounted on the stock. The gun could fire hollow points almost as fast as you could pull the trigger, and what possibly saved the policemen was that the sniper had jammed the gun in his excitement.

Baxter Slate was the first to suggest driving around to the street on the west, and while Francis and Calvin quickly cleared glass from the seat, Baxter was squealing out, knocking coffee cups all over the parking lot as the siren of the nearest help car could already be heard in the distance.

Spermwhale asked to be dropped near the mouth of the alley on the next residential block west while Baxter circled one block farther on the theory that a man could run very far and fast after just having tried to ambush some policemen.

On St. Andrew's Place, Baxter Slate saw a dark running shadow. He jammed down the accelerator and the next sixty seconds became a fragmented impression as he screeched to a stop beside the running figure and jumped out in the darkness, gun drawn. He was met by a fanatical scrambling charge by what turned out to be a weaponless man. For once Baxter Slate did not intellectualize. He simply obeyed his instinct and training and emptied his gun at point blank hitting the man three times out of six, one bullet crashed through the left frontal lobe killing him almost at once, discovered that unlike choreographed slow motion movie violence, the real thing is swift and oblique and incoherent.

After an intensive interrogation by the Robbery-Homicide Division shooting team and after his own reports were written, a pale and tense Baxter Slate met the other nine choirboys at MacArthur Park and tried to fill them in as best he could on the details. The trouble was there weren't any.

The young man's name was Brian Greene, and luckily for Baxter his fingerprints were found on the rifle. He was twenty-two years old. He was white. He had no arrest record. He had no history of mental illness. The Vietnam War was long over and he was not a veteran. He was not a student. He cared nothing about politics. He was a garage mechanic. He had a wife and baby.

Francis was beside himself that night at choir practice, not so much in fear but rage. And finally despair.

"So quit talkin about it," Calvin said. "I'm sick a hearin about it. The asshole tried to shoot us and it's over and that's it."

"But Calvin, don't you see? He didn't even know us. We're justa justa blue symbols!"

"Okay, so we're blue," Calvin reminded him. "You only see black and blue around the ghetto when the sun goes down."

"But we were on Olympic Boulevard. That's not a ghetto. He was white. Why'd he shoot? Who was he? Doesn't he know we're more than bluecoats and badges? It's weird. I don't know where these people are coming from. I dunno"

"I dunno where you're comin from," Calvin said angrily.

"I dunno where I'm coming from either," Francis said. "I don't know where my head is."

"What fuckin Establishment did we represent to him?" Spermwhale demanded to know. "I'm tired a bein a symbol! I'm not a symbol to my ex-wives and ex-kids. Why does an ordinary guy wanna shoot me?"

And all the choirboys looked at each other in the moonlight but there were no answers forthcoming.

"I didn't want to kill him," Baxter Slate said quietly. "I never wanted to kill anybody."

It was suddenly cold in the park. They were ecstatic when Ora Lee Tingle showed up and hinted she might pull that train.

TEN.

7-A-29: Sam Niles and Harold Bloomguard.

Lieutenant Finque had a splitting migraine at rollcall on the night Sam Niles and Harold Bloomguard met the Moaning Man and called for choir practice.

The migraine was brought about by his defense of the Police Protective League, the bargaining agent manned by Los Angeles police officers for the department.

"How the fuck can the Protective League do anything for us?" Spermwhale demanded. "As long as brass're members of the league. Don't you see, the league gotta be more like a real union. It's management against labor. You people are management. Only the policeman rank and maybe sergeants should be in the league. The rest of the brass are the enemy, for chrissake!"

"That's not true!" Lieutenant Finque said. "The commanders and the deputy chiefs are just as much police officers asa"

"My ass, Lieutenant!" Spermwhale roared. "When did you last hear of a deputy chief gettin TB or a hernia or whiplash or pneumonia or shot or beat up or stabbed? Only cop's disease they ever get is heart trouble and that's not cause they have to jump outta radio cars and run down or fight some fuckin animal who wants to make garbage outta them, it's cause they eat and drink so much at all those sex orgies where they think up ways to fuck and rape the troops!"

"How many deputy chiefs or commanders ever get suicidal?" Baxter Slate asked suddenly, and for a moment the room was quiet as each man thought of that most dangerous of policemen's diseases.

"Yeah, it's usually the workin cop who eats his gun," Spermwhale said as he unconsciously thought of at least ten men he had served with who had done it.

"I'd hate to be a member of this department if we ever go from the Protective League to a labor union," Lieutenant Finque solemnly announced with the consuming hatred and distrust of labor unions that was prevalent in those police officers who had sprung from the middle class and whose only collective bargaining experiences had been as Establishment representatives facing angry sign wavers on picket lines.

"Protective League my ass!" Spermwhale Whalen said. "They take our dues and wine and dine politicians while I eat okra and gumbo at Fat Ass Charlie's Soul Kitchen."

"I thought you liked eatin like a home boy, Spermwhale," Calvin Potts grinned.