"Be careful you don't learn too fast," said Gus and dropped the Plymouth into low as he slowed for the red light because he was getting tired driving. It had been a very quiet evening and policemen toyed with the cars out of boredom after several hours of slow monotonous patrol. It was only nine-thirty. They shouldn't have eaten so early, Gus thought. The rest of the night would drag.

"Have you ever been in a shooting?" asked Craig.

"No."

"How about a real knockdown fight?"

"I haven't," said Gus. "Not a real fight. A few belligerent b.a.s.t.a.r.ds, but not a real fight."

"You've been lucky."

"I have," said Gus, and for a second it started coming over him again, but he had learned how to subdue it. He was seldom afraid for no reason anymore. The times when he was afraid he had good reason to be. He had worked with an old-time policeman one night who had told him that in twenty-three years he had never had a real fight or fired his gun in the line of duty, or even been close to death except in a few traffic chases and he didn't think a policeman had to become involved in such things unless he went out of his way to become involved. The thought was comforting except that this policeman had spent his career in West Valley and Van Nuys Division which was the next thing to being retired, and he had only been in University for a few months, a disciplinary transfer. Still, Gus thought, after two years he had escaped the confrontation he feared. But did he really fear so much now, he wondered? The blue suit and badge, and the endless decisions and arbitration of other people's problems (when he didn't really know the answers but on the street at midnight there was no one else to find an answer except him and therefore he had made the choices for others and on a few occasions lives had depended on his decisions), yes, these decisions, and the blue suit and the badge had given him confidence he never dreamed he might possess. Though there were still agonizing self-doubts, his life had been deeply touched by this and he was as happy as he ever expected to be.

If he could transfer to a quiet white division, he would probably be happier if he were not troubled by guilt at being there. But if he could be satisfied that he had the necessary courage and had nothing further to prove to himself, why then he could transfer to Highland Park, and be closer to home and finally content. But that of course was bulls.h.i.t because if police work had taught him anything it had taught him that happiness is for fools and children to dream of. Reasonable contentment was a more likely goal.

He began thinking of Vickie's widening hips and how twenty pounds even on a pretty girl like Vickie could make such a difference so that sometimes he was unsure whether their infrequent lovemaking was because she was so terribly frightened of another pregnancy, for which he couldn't blame her, or was it because she was growing less and less attractive. It wasn't just the bulkiness which had transformed a sleek body that was made for a bed, it wasn't just that, it was the breakdown of personality which he could only blame on a youthful hasty marriage and three children which were too much for a weak-willed girl of less than average intelligence who had always depended upon others, who now leaned so heavily on him.

He guessed he would be up all night with the baby if her cold wasn't any better, and he felt a tiny surge of purgative anger but he knew he had no right to be angry with Vickie who was the prettiest girl who had ever shown an interest in him. After all, he was certainly not a trophy to cherish. He glanced in the rearview mirror and saw that his sandy hair was very thin now and he had been forced to rea.s.sess his guess; he knew he would be bald long before he was thirty and he already had tiny wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. He laughed at himself for his disappointment in Vickie for getting fat. But that wasn't it, he thought. That wasn't it at all. It was her.

"Gus, do you think policemen are in a better position to understand criminality than, say, penologists or parole officers or other behavioral scientists?"

"My G.o.d," Gus laughed. "What kind of question is that? Is that a test question?"

"As a matter of fact it is," said Craig. "I'm taking psych at Long Beach State and my professor has quite a background in criminology. He thinks policemen are arrogant and clannish and distrust other experts, and believe they're the only ones who really understand crime."

"That's a fair a.s.sessment," said Gus. He reminded himself that this would be the last semester he could afford to rest because he would get out of the habit of going to school. If he ever wanted the degree he would have to get back in cla.s.ses next semester without fail.

"Do you agree with that?" asked Craig.

"I think so."

"Well I've only been out of the academy a few months but I don't think policemen are clannish. I've still got all my old friends."

"I still have mine," said Gus. "But you'll see after a year or so that you feel a little different about them. They don't know, you see. And criminologists don't know. Police see a hundred percent of criminality. We see noncriminals and real criminals who're involved in crime. We see witnesses to crimes and victims of crimes and we see them during and immediately after crimes occur. We see the perpetrators during and right after and we see victims sometimes before the crimes occur and we know they're going to be victims, and we see perpetrators before and we know they're going to be perpetrators. We can't do a d.a.m.ned thing about it even though we know through our experience. We know. know. Tell that to your professor and he'll think Tell that to your professor and he'll think you you need a psychologist. Your professor sees them in a test tube and in an inst.i.tution and he thinks these are criminals, these unfortunate unloved losers he's studying, but what he doesn't realize is that so many thousands of the winners out here are involved in crime just as deeply as his unloved losers. If he really knew how much crime occurs he wouldn't be so d.a.m.ned smug. Policemen are sn.o.bs, but we're not smug because this kind of knowledge doesn't make you self-satisfied, it just scares you." need a psychologist. Your professor sees them in a test tube and in an inst.i.tution and he thinks these are criminals, these unfortunate unloved losers he's studying, but what he doesn't realize is that so many thousands of the winners out here are involved in crime just as deeply as his unloved losers. If he really knew how much crime occurs he wouldn't be so d.a.m.ned smug. Policemen are sn.o.bs, but we're not smug because this kind of knowledge doesn't make you self-satisfied, it just scares you."

"I never heard you talk so much, Gus," said Craig, looking at Gus with new interest, and Gus felt an urge to talk about these things because he never talked about them very much except to Kilvinsky when he was here. He had learned all these things from Kilvinsky anyway, and then his experience had shown Kilvinsky was right.

"You can't exaggerate the closeness of our dealings with people," said Gus. "We see them when n.o.body else sees them, when they're being born and dying and fornicating and drunk." Now Gus knew it was Kilvinsky talking and he was using Kilvinsky's very words; it made him feel a little like Kilvinsky was still here when he used the big man's words and that was a good feeling. "We see people when they're taking anything of value from other people and when they're without shame or very much ashamed and we learn secrets that their husbands and wives don't even know, secrets that they even try to keep from themselves, and what the h.e.l.l, when you learn these things about people who aren't inst.i.tutionalized, people who're out here where you can see them function every day, well then, you really know. know. Of course you get clannish and a.s.sociate with others who know. It's only natural." Of course you get clannish and a.s.sociate with others who know. It's only natural."

"I like to hear you talk, Gus," said Craig. "You're usually so quiet I thought maybe you didn't like me. You know, us rookies worry about everything."

"I know," said Gus, moved by Craig's frank boyishness.

"It's valuable to hear an experienced officer talk about things," said Craig, and it was very hard for Gus to control a smile when he thought of Craig thinking of him as a veteran.

"While I'm philosophizing, you want a definition of police brutality?'' asked Gus.

"Okay."

"Police brutality means to act as an ordinary prudent person, without a policeman's self-discipline, would surely act under the stresses of police work."

"Is that one of the Chief's quotes?"

"No, Kilvinsky said that."

"Is he the guy who wrote the book on police supervision?"

"No, Kilvinsky was a great philosopher."

"Never heard of him."

"On punishment Kilvinsky said, 'We don't want to punish offenders by putting them in inst.i.tutions, we only want to separate ourselves from them when their pattern of deviation becomes immutably written in pain and blood.' Kilvinsky was drinking a little when he said that. He was usually much more earthy."

"You knew him?"

"I studied under him. He also said, 'I don't care if you supply the a.s.shole with dames and dope for the rest of his life as long as we keep him in the joint.' In fact, Kilvinsky would have out-liberaled the most ardent liberal when it came to prison reforms. He thought they should be very agreeable places. He thought it was stupid and useless and cruel to try to punish or or to try to rehabilitate most people with 'the pattern' as he called it. He had it pretty well doped out to where his penal inst.i.tutions would save society untold money and grief." to try to rehabilitate most people with 'the pattern' as he called it. He had it pretty well doped out to where his penal inst.i.tutions would save society untold money and grief."

"Three-A-Thirteen, Three-A-Thirteen," said the operator. "See the man, family dispute, twenty-six, thirty-five south Hobart."

"Well, it's fun to talk on a quiet night," said Gus, "but duty calls."

Craig rogered the call as Gus turned the car north and then east toward Hobart.

"I wish I had had this Kilvinsky for a professor," said Craig. "I think I'd have liked him."

"You'd have loved him," said Gus.

When Gus stepped out of the radio car he realized how unusually quiet a night it had been for a Thursday. He listened for a moment but the street lined on both sides with one-story private residences was absolutely still. Thursday, in preparation for weekend activity, was usually a fairly busy night and then he realized that welfare checks would arrive in the next few days. With no money the people were quiet this Thursday.

"I think it's the house in the rear," said Craig, shining his flashlight to the right of the darkened pink stucco front house. Gus saw the lighted porch and followed Craig down the walk to the rear house where a shirtless Negro stepped out of the shadows with a baseball bat in his hand and Gus had his revolver unsnapped, in his hand, crouching instinctively before he realized why. The man threw the ball bat to the ground.

"Don't shoot. I called you. I'm the one that called. Don't shoot."

"Jesus Christ," said Gus, seeing the Negro lurch drunkenly to his left, waving his big hands to the officers as he held them high overhead."

"You could get killed like that, jumping out with a club," said Craig, snapping his holster.

Gus could not find the pocket in the holster and had to use both shaking hands to put the gun away, and could not speak, did not dare to speak because Craig would see, anyone would see how unreasonably frightened he had been. He was humiliated to see that Craig was merely startled and was already asking questions of the drunken Negro while his own heart was hammering blood into his ears so that he couldn't make out the conversation until the Negro said, "I hit the motherf.u.c.ker with the bat. He layin' back there. I think I done killed him and I wants to pay the price."

"Show us," Craig commanded, and Gus followed the two of them to the rear of the cottage which was pink like the front house, but a frame building not stucco, and Gus sucked deeply at the air to still his beating heart. In the rear yard they found the lanky Negro with a head like a b.l.o.o.d.y bullet lying on his face and beating the ground with a bony fist as he moaned softly.

"Guess I didn' kill him," said the drunken Negro. "Sho' thought he was dead."

"Can you get up?" asked Craig, already obviously accustomed to b.l.o.o.d.y scenes, knowing that most people can shed a great deal of blood and unless wounds are of certain types, people can usually function quite well with them.

"Hurts," said the man on the ground and rolled over on one elbow. Gus saw that he too was drunk and he grinned foolishly at the officers and said, "Take me to the hospital and git me sewed up will you, Officer?"

"Shall I call an ambulance?" asked Craig.

"Doesn't really need one," said Gus, his voice steady now, "but you may as well. He'd get blood all over the radio car."

"Don't want to press no cha'ges Officer," said the b.l.o.o.d.y man. "Jist want sewed up."

What if I'd shot him, thought Gus while Craig's voice echoed through the narrow walkway and was followed by a static explosion. A female voice blared out and Craig adjusted the volume and repeated his request for an ambulance. Someday I'll become scared like that and I will will kill someone and I'll cover it up neatly just as I could have covered up this one because a man leaped out of the darkness with an upraised club. But Craig was only startled; he didn't even clear the holster and there I was crouched with three pounds of pressure on the trigger and thank G.o.d, I didn't c.o.c.k the gun unconsciously or I'd have killed him sure. As it was, the hammer was moving back double action, moving, and G.o.d, what if Craig hadn't been in front of me, I know I'd have killed him. His body had reacted independent of his mind. He'd have to think about that later. This could be the thing that might save him if kill someone and I'll cover it up neatly just as I could have covered up this one because a man leaped out of the darkness with an upraised club. But Craig was only startled; he didn't even clear the holster and there I was crouched with three pounds of pressure on the trigger and thank G.o.d, I didn't c.o.c.k the gun unconsciously or I'd have killed him sure. As it was, the hammer was moving back double action, moving, and G.o.d, what if Craig hadn't been in front of me, I know I'd have killed him. His body had reacted independent of his mind. He'd have to think about that later. This could be the thing that might save him if real real danger came. If it ever comes I hope it comes suddenly, he thought, without warning like a man leaping out of darkness. Then my body might save me, he thought. danger came. If it ever comes I hope it comes suddenly, he thought, without warning like a man leaping out of darkness. Then my body might save me, he thought.

As his heart pounded more slowly, Gus remembered that he had put off his running program for a week and he must not do that, because if you lose momentum you'll stop. He decided to go to the academy and run tonight after he got off duty. It would be a beautiful night and of course there would be no one else on the track except possibly Seymour, the leathery old motor officer who was a hulking man with a huge stomach, wide hips, and a face like eroded clay from riding the motorcycle more than twenty years. Sometimes Gus would find Seymour out there lumbering around the police academy track at 3:00 A.M. A.M. blowing and steaming. After his shower, when he was dressed in the blue uniform, riding breeches, black boots and white helmet, why then Seymour looked formidable again and not nearly as fat. He rode the motor lightly and could do wonders with the heavy machine. He had been a friend of Kilvinsky and how Gus had enjoyed the nocturnal runs when Kilvinsky was with him, and how they would rest on the turf. He had loved listening to Kilvinsky and Seymour discussing the old times on the police department when things were simple, when good and evil were definitive. He remembered how he would pretend to be as tired as Kilvinsky when they had covered their fifteen laps, gone to the steam room and then the showers, but actually he could have run fifteen more without exhausting himself. It was a beautiful night tonight. It would be good to get on the cool gra.s.s and run and run. He would try to run five miles tonight, five hard fast miles, and then he would not need a steam bath. He would shower, go home, and sleep into the afternoon tomorrow if it were not too hot to sleep, if the children would let him sleep, and if Vickie would not need him to help her replace a light bulb that was simply too high to reach after she became dizzy standing on a chair. Or to help her shop because it was impossible to shop nowadays alone even if you could leave the children with your neighbor because the markets were horribly confusing and you couldn't find anything, and sometimes you just wanted to scream, especially when you thought of returning to a house with three children and oh, G.o.d, Gus, what if I'm pregnant again? I'm five days overdue. Yes I'm sure, I'm sure. blowing and steaming. After his shower, when he was dressed in the blue uniform, riding breeches, black boots and white helmet, why then Seymour looked formidable again and not nearly as fat. He rode the motor lightly and could do wonders with the heavy machine. He had been a friend of Kilvinsky and how Gus had enjoyed the nocturnal runs when Kilvinsky was with him, and how they would rest on the turf. He had loved listening to Kilvinsky and Seymour discussing the old times on the police department when things were simple, when good and evil were definitive. He remembered how he would pretend to be as tired as Kilvinsky when they had covered their fifteen laps, gone to the steam room and then the showers, but actually he could have run fifteen more without exhausting himself. It was a beautiful night tonight. It would be good to get on the cool gra.s.s and run and run. He would try to run five miles tonight, five hard fast miles, and then he would not need a steam bath. He would shower, go home, and sleep into the afternoon tomorrow if it were not too hot to sleep, if the children would let him sleep, and if Vickie would not need him to help her replace a light bulb that was simply too high to reach after she became dizzy standing on a chair. Or to help her shop because it was impossible to shop nowadays alone even if you could leave the children with your neighbor because the markets were horribly confusing and you couldn't find anything, and sometimes you just wanted to scream, especially when you thought of returning to a house with three children and oh, G.o.d, Gus, what if I'm pregnant again? I'm five days overdue. Yes I'm sure, I'm sure.

"Ambulance on the way," said Craig, clicking back down the walkway and Gus made a mental note to suggest to Craig that he get rubber-soled shoes or at least to remove the cleat from his heels because even working uniformed patrol, it paid to walk quietly a good part of the time. It was hard enough to do with a jingling key ring and creaking Sam Browne and jostling baton.

"Why did you hit him?" asked Craig, and by now the b.l.o.o.d.y man was sitting up and wailing as the pain was apparently penetrating the drunken euphoria.

"Ah tol' him I was goin' to do it nex' time he messed wif Tillie. Las' time I came home early I catched them in bed sleepin' an' drunk on mah whiskey an' there they was comf'table wif Tillie's bare a.s.s right up there nex' to him and that thing still there inside her an' I reached ovah an' pulled it out and I woke him up an tol' him if he evah did that again why I would whop him up side the head and I came home early tonight and I catched them agin an' I did it."

"I had it comin', Charlie," said the b.l.o.o.d.y man. "You right. You right."

Gus heard the wail of the ambulance siren in the distance and looked at his watch. By the time they finished the arrest report it would be end-of-watch and he could go to the academy and run and run.

"Don' you worry, Charlie, I won't have you arrested," said the b.l.o.o.d.y man. "You the bes' friend I evah had."

"I'm afraid Charlie has to go to jail, friend," said Craig, helping the b.l.o.o.d.y man to his feet.

"I won' sign no complaint," warned the b.l.o.o.d.y man and then winced as he stood erect and touched his head tenderly.

"Doesn't matter if you do or not," said Gus. "This is a felony and we're going to put him in jail just in case you up and die on us in the next few days."

"Don' you worry, Charlie," said the b.l.o.o.d.y man. "I ain't goin' to die on you."

"You can talk to the detectives tomorrow about refusing to prosecute," said Gus as they all walked to the front. "But tonight, your friend is going to jail."

The winking piercing red siren light announced the arrival of the ambulance even though the driver had killed the siren. Gus flashed his light to show the driver the house and the ambulance slid in at the curb and the attendant jumped out. He took the arm of the b.l.o.o.d.y man as the driver opened the door.

"Don' you worry now, Charlie, I won' persecute you," said the b.l.o.o.d.y man. "An' ah'll take good care of Tillie too while you in jail. Don' you worry none 'bout her neither. Hear?"

12.

ENEMA.

ROY'S HEART THUMPED as the telephone rang in the receiver which he held pressed to his ear. The door to the vice squad office was locked and he knew the rest of the night watch teams would not be straggling into the office for at least a half hour. He decided to call Dorothy from a police department phone to save the long distance charge. It was hard enough trying to make rent payments in two places and support himself after he sent his monthly payment to Dorothy. Then there was his car payment and it was becoming apparent he would soon have to sell the Thunderbird and settle for a lower priced car when this was one of the few luxuries he had left. as the telephone rang in the receiver which he held pressed to his ear. The door to the vice squad office was locked and he knew the rest of the night watch teams would not be straggling into the office for at least a half hour. He decided to call Dorothy from a police department phone to save the long distance charge. It was hard enough trying to make rent payments in two places and support himself after he sent his monthly payment to Dorothy. Then there was his car payment and it was becoming apparent he would soon have to sell the Thunderbird and settle for a lower priced car when this was one of the few luxuries he had left.

He was almost glad she wasn't home and was about to hang up when he heard the unmistakable pitch of Dorothy's unmistakable voice which so often made a simple greeting sound like a question.

"h.e.l.lo?"

"h.e.l.lo, Dorothy, hope I didn't disturb you."

"Roy? I was in the shower."

"Oh, I'm sorry, I'll call back."

"No, it's alright. I'm in my bathrobe. What is it?"

"Is it the gold robe I got you for your last birthday?"

"We were already separated on my last birthday, Roy. It was the year before you got me a gold robe and this isn't it."

"Oh. How's Becky?"

"You just saw her last week, Roy. She's still the same."

"G.o.dd.a.m.nit, Dorothy, can't you even spare me an occasional kind word."

"Yes, Roy, but please don't let's get started again on the same old thing. The divorce will be final in just eighty-nine days and that's it. We're not coming back to you."

Roy swallowed hard and the tears rushed to his eyes. He didn't speak for several seconds until he was sure he had control.

"Roy?"

"Yes, Dorothy."

"Roy, this is useless."

"G.o.d, I'll do anything you say, Dorothy. Please come home. Don't go through with it."

"We've been over this again and again."

"I'm terribly lonely."

"A handsome man like you? A golden-haired, blue-eyed Apollo like Roy Fehler? You didn't have any trouble finding companionship while we were together."

"Christ, Dorothy, it only happened once or twice. I've told you all about it."

"I know, Roy. It wasn't that. You weren't particularly unfaithful as far as men go. But I just stopped caring. I just don't care for you anymore, can't you understand that?"

"Please give her to me, Dorothy," Roy sobbed brokenly, and then the dam burst and he began crying in the mouthpiece, turning toward the door fearful that one of the other vice officers would come in early, and humiliated that he was doing this and letting Dorothy hear it.

"Roy, Roy, don't do that. I know how you're suffering without Becky."

"Give her to me, Dorothy," Roy sniffed, wiping his face on the sleeve of his orange checkered sport shirt which he wore hanging out of his belt to cover the gun and handcuffs.

"Roy, I'm her mother."

"I'll pay you anything, Dorothy. My father has some money set aside for me in his will. Carl once hinted to me that if I ever changed my mind about going in the family store, I could maybe get my hands on it. I'll get it. I'll give it to you. Anything, Dorothy."