"I can't see you as a woman at all," he said, even as he studied her ripe young body. "You're just a little dove to me."

"Ah, Sergio," she laughed, "joo get such things from the books. I used to watch joo, before we became friends, when I would serve the food to joo and jour companero, companero, the other policeman. Joo would carry books in the coat pocket and read while eating. There is not a place in the real life for little doves. Joo must be strong and work berry hard. Still, I like to hear joo say that I am a dove." the other policeman. Joo would carry books in the coat pocket and read while eating. There is not a place in the real life for little doves. Joo must be strong and work berry hard. Still, I like to hear joo say that I am a dove."

"You're only nineteen years old," he said.

"A Mexican girl is a woman long before. I am a woman, Sergio."

They drove again in silence and Serge deeply enjoyed her enjoyment of the pa.s.sing miles, and vineyards, and towns, which he scarcely noticed.

Mariana was as impressed with the lake as he knew she would be. He rented a motorboat, and for an hour showed her the lakeside Arrowhead homes. He knew she was speechless at such wealth.

"But there are so many!" she exclaimed. "There must be so many rich ones."

"They're many," he said. "And I'll never be one of them."

"But that is not important," she said, leaning an inch closer to him as he steered the boat out into open water. The bright sunlight reflecting off the water hurt his eyes and he put his sungla.s.ses on. She looked a deeper bronze, and the wind caught her deep brown hair and swept it back at least twelve inches from the nape of her exposed neck. It was four o'clock and the sun was still hot when they finished the lunch on a rocky hill on the far side of the lake which Serge had discovered another time with another girl who liked picnics and making love in open places.

"I thought you were bringing Mexican food," said Serge, finishing his fifth piece of tender chicken and washing it down with strawberry soda which was kept chilled by a plastic bucket of ice in the bottom of the shopping bag.

"I heard that Americans take pollo frito pollo frito on a pic-nic," she laughed. "I was told that all Americans expected it." on a pic-nic," she laughed. "I was told that all Americans expected it."

"It's delicious," he sighed, thinking he hadn't had strawberry soda lately. He wondered again why strawberry is by far the favorite flavor of Mexicans, and any Good Humor man in East Los Angeles carries an extra box of strawberry sundaes and Popsicles.

"Senora Rosales wanted me to bring chicharrones chicharrones and beer for joo, but I didn't, because I thought joo would like the other better." and beer for joo, but I didn't, because I thought joo would like the other better."

"I loved your lunch, Mariana," he smiled, wondering how long it had been since he tasted the rich crispy pork rinds. Then he realized he had never tasted chicharrones chicharrones with beer because when his mother made them he was too young to drink beer. He found himself suddenly yearning for some with beer because when his mother made them he was too young to drink beer. He found himself suddenly yearning for some chicharrones chicharrones and a cold gla.s.s of beer. You always want what you don't have at the moment, he thought. and a cold gla.s.s of beer. You always want what you don't have at the moment, he thought.

He watched Mariana as she cleaned up the picnic things, putting the paper plates in an extra shopping bag she brought. In a few minutes he would not have known anyone had eaten there. She was a totally efficient girl, he thought, and she looked dazzling in the red dress and black sandals. She had lovely toes and feet, brown and smooth like the rest of her. He got a sharp pain in the lower part of his chest as he thought about the rest of her and remembered the vow of abstinence he had made to the person he was growing to respect the least in all the world.

When she finished she sat next to him and drew her knees up and put her hands on her knees and her chin on her hands.

"Joo want to know something?" she asked gazing at the water.

"What?"

"I never have seen a lake. Not here. Not in Mexico. Only in movies. This is my first real lake to see."

"Do you like it?" he asked, feeling his palms become a little moist. The pain returned to his chest as his mouth turned dry.

"Joo have given me a fine day, Sergio," she said looking at him with heaviness in her voice.

"So you've enjoyed it?"

"Jas."

"Not jas," he laughed. "Yes."

"Jes," she smiled.

"Like this. Y-y-yes. Here, put your chin forward just a little bit." He held her chin in his fingers and tugged lightly. But her whole face came forward to him.

"Yes," he said, and his fingers trembled. "I told you I'd teach you to say yes."

"Yes," she said.

"You said it."

"Yes, Sergio, oh, yes, yes," she breathed.

"Fly away, little dove," he said not knowing the strange hollow voice. "Please fly away," he said, and yet he held her shoulders fearing she would.

"Yes, Sergio, yes."

"You're making a mistake, little dove," he whispered, but her lip touched his cheek.

"I say yes, Sergio. For you, yes. Para ti, Para ti, yes, yes." yes, yes."

17.

KIDDY COPS.

LUCY WAS MERELY ATTRACTIVE, but her eyes were alert and missed nothing and devoured you when you were talking to her. Yet you were never uncomfortable because of it. Instead, you succ.u.mbed to being devoured and you liked it. Yes, you liked it. Gus took his gaze from the road and examined her long legs, crossed at the ankle, hose sheer, pale and subtle. She sat relaxed much like a male partner and smoked and watched the street as Gus cruised, much like a male partner would, but it was nothing like working with a male partner. With some of the other policewomen there was no difference, except you had to be more careful and not get involved in things where there was the slightest element of danger. Not if you could help it, because a policewoman was still a woman, nothing more, and you were responsible for her safety, being the male half of the team. With some policewoman partners it was almost like being with a man, but not with Lucy. Gus wondered why he liked being devoured by those brown eyes which crinkled at the corners. He was normally shriveled by eyes which looked too hard. but her eyes were alert and missed nothing and devoured you when you were talking to her. Yet you were never uncomfortable because of it. Instead, you succ.u.mbed to being devoured and you liked it. Yes, you liked it. Gus took his gaze from the road and examined her long legs, crossed at the ankle, hose sheer, pale and subtle. She sat relaxed much like a male partner and smoked and watched the street as Gus cruised, much like a male partner would, but it was nothing like working with a male partner. With some of the other policewomen there was no difference, except you had to be more careful and not get involved in things where there was the slightest element of danger. Not if you could help it, because a policewoman was still a woman, nothing more, and you were responsible for her safety, being the male half of the team. With some policewoman partners it was almost like being with a man, but not with Lucy. Gus wondered why he liked being devoured by those brown eyes which crinkled at the corners. He was normally shriveled by eyes which looked too hard.

"Think you're going to stay with police work, Lucy?" asked Gus, turning on Main Street thinking she would probably enjoy touring the skid row streets. Most new policewomen did.

"I love it, Gus," she said. "It's a fascinating job. Especially here in Juvenile Division. I don't think working the women's jail would've been nearly as good."

"I don't think so either. I can't picture you in there pushing those bull daggers around."

"I can't either," she grimaced, "but I guess sooner or later I'll get a.s.signed there."

"Maybe not," said Gus. "You're a good juvenile officer, you know. For just being a few weeks out of the academy I'd say you're exceptional. They may keep you in Juvenile."

"Oh sure, I'm indispensable," she laughed.

"You're smart and quick and you're the first policewoman I ever enjoyed working with. Most policemen don't like working with women." He pretended to watch the road very closely as he said it because he felt the brown eyes. He hadn't meant to say this. It was only 7:00 P.M., P.M., not dark yet, and he didn't want to blush and let her see it. But then, she would probably even see it in the dark with those eyes. not dark yet, and he didn't want to blush and let her see it. But then, she would probably even see it in the dark with those eyes.

"That's a fine compliment, Gus," said Lucy. "You've been a patient teacher."

"Oh, I don't know it all myself yet," said Gus, working hard at not blushing by thinking of other things as he talked, like where they would eat, and that they should walk through the Main Street bus depot and look for runaway juveniles because Sunday night was a slow night, or maybe they should cruise through Elysian Park and look for the kids who would surely be there on a Sunday drinking beer on the gra.s.s. Lieutenant Dilford loved them to make arrests for minors' possession of alcohol and Dilford treated it like patrol watch commanders treated good felony arrests.

"You've been working Juvenile about six months, haven't you?" asked Lucy.

"About five months now. I've still got lots to learn."

"Where did you work before that, Central Vice?"

"Wilshire Vice."

"I can't picture you as a vice officer," she laughed. "When I worked Lincoln Heights Jail on weekend a.s.signments, the vice officers would be in and out all night. I can't picture you as a vice officer."

"I know. I don't look man enough to be a vice officer, do I?"

"Oh, I didn't mean that, Gus," she said, uncrossing her ankles and drilling him with her brown eyes. When they were working they darkened her face which was smooth and milky. "I didn't mean that at all. In fact, I didn't like them because they were loud and talked to policewomen like they talked to their wh.o.r.es. I didn't think all that bravado made them more manly. I think that being quiet and gentle and having some humility is very manly, but I didn't see many vice officers like that."

"Well, they have to construct some kind of defense against all the sordid things they see," said Gus, elated because she as much as admitted that she was fond of him and saw things in him. Then he became disgusted and thought viciously, you simpering little b.a.s.t.a.r.d. He thought of Vickie who was recovering from an appendectomy and he hoped she would sleep tonight, and he swore that he would stop this childish flirtation before it went any further because Lucy would soon see it even though she was not a self-conscious person and did not notice such things. But when she did, finally, she would probably say, that's not what I meant, that's not what I meant at all. Simpering little b.a.s.t.a.r.d, he thought again, and peeked in the rearview mirror at his sandy receding hair which was hardly noticeable. In a few years he would be completely bald and he wondered if he would still be dreaming of a bright, pale, brown-eyed girl who would smile in pity or perhaps revulsion if she knew the thoughts he had about her.

"What time should we check out the unfit home?" asked Lucy, and Gus was glad she had changed the subject. He couldn't help smiling at the man walking up Hill Street who turned his head to look at Lucy as they pa.s.sed. He remembered how men used to turn like that to look at Vickie when they were first married, before she got so heavy. He thought of how he and Lucy must look, two young people, he in a suit and tie and white shirt and her in a modest green dress which fit so well. They might be going to dinner, or to the Bowl for a concert, or to the Sports Arena. Of course, all the street people recognized the plain four-door Plymouth as a police car, and knew the man and woman were juvenile officers, but to anyone else they might just be lovers.

"What time, Gus?"

"It's twenty after seven."

"No," she laughed. "What time do we check out the unfit home the lieutenant mentioned?"

"Oh, let's do it now. Sorry, I was dreaming."

"How's your wife recovering from her appendectomy?" asked Lucy. Gus hated to talk about Vickie to her, but she always asked things about his family as partners did, often in the early morning hours when things were quiet and partners talked.

"She's getting along all right."

"How's your little one? He's talking, isn't he?"

"Chattering," Gus smiled, and he never hesitated to talk about his children to her because she wanted to hear, he was sure of it.

"They look so beautiful in the pictures. I'd love to see them some time."

"I'd like you to," said Gus.

"I hope it's quiet tonight."

"Why? The night pa.s.ses slow when it's quiet."

"Yes, but I can get you talking then," she laughed. "I learn more about being a cop in the late hours when I get you talking."

"You mean when I tell you all the things Kilvinsky taught me?" he smiled.

"Yes, but I bet you're a better teacher than your friend Kilvinsky was."

"Oh, no. Kilvinsky was the best," said Gus, his face burning again. "That reminds me, I've got to write him. He hasn't been answering my letters lately and I'm worried. Ever since he took the trip East to see his ex-wife and children."

"Are you sure he came back?"

"Yes. I got one letter right after he came back, but it didn't say anything."

"Isn't it strange that he never visited his own children before that?"

"He must've had a reason," said Gus.

"I don't think you could abandon your children like that."

"He didn't abandon them," said Gus quickly. "Kilvinsky wouldn't do that. He's just a mysterious man, that's all. He must've had good reasons."

"If your wife ever left you, you wouldn't abandon your children, Gus, not you. Not for any reason."

"Well, I can't judge him," said Gus, glad darkness was settling on downtown as he stopped for a light.

"He's not the father you are, I bet," said Lucy and she was watching him again.

"Oh, you're wrong," said Gus. "Kilvinsky would be a good father. He'd be as good a father as anyone could want. He could tell you things, and when he talked you knew he was right. Things seemed all in place when he explained them."

"It's getting dark."

"Let's go handle the unfit home," said Gus, growing uneasy at the deprecating talk about Kilvinsky.

"Okay, it was on West Temple, wasn't it?"

"It might be a phony call."

"Anonymous?"

"Yeah, a woman called the watch commander and said a neighbor in apartment twenty-three had a cruddy pad and left a little kid alone all the time."

"I haven't been in a real unfit home yet," said Lucy. "They've all turned out to be false alarms."

"Remember how to tell a real unfit?" smiled Gus.

"Sure. If you stomp your foot and the roaches are so tame they don't run, then you know it's a real unfit."

"Right," Gus grinned. "And if we could bottle the smell we'd win every case in court."

Gus drove through the Second Street tunnel and over the Harbor Freeway and turned north, then west on Temple, the setting sun glowing dirty pink on the horizon. It had been a smoggy day.

"I bet it's the white apartment building," said Lucy pointing toward the three-story stucco with an imitation stone facade.

"Eighteen thirteen. That's it," said Gus parking in front and wondering if he had enough money to buy a decent dinner tonight. With anyone else he ate hamburgers or brown bagged it, but Lucy ate well and liked a hot dinner. He went along with her, pretending this was what he wanted too, even though he had less than five dollars to last until payday, and less than a half tank of gas in his car. Monday night he had an argument with Vickie over the check to his mother which had shrunk to forty-five dollars a month because John was in the army, thank G.o.d.

The argument was so violent it made him sick. Lucy had noticed his depression the next evening. And now he thought of how he had blurted it out to Lucy that night, and how kind she had been and how ashamed he had been and still was that he had told her. Yet it had lifted his spirits. And come to think of it, she hadn't asked to eat in a real restaurant since that night, and she had insisted on buying the coffee or c.o.kes more often than she should.

It was built to wear only for a time, like so many southern California apartment houses. Gus parked in front and they climbed the twenty-four steps to the second floor. Gus noticed that the metal railing, which only vaguely resembled wrought iron, was loose. He drew his hand back and guessed that someday a drunk would stagger from his apartment door and hit the railing and plunge twenty feet to the concrete below, but being drunk, he would probably receive only abrasions. Apartment twenty-three was in the back. The drapes were drawn and the door was closed, and this alone made Gus suspect there was no one home, because in all the other occupied apartments the doors were open. All had outside screen doors and the people were trying to catch the evening breeze because it had been a hot smoggy day.

Gus knocked and rang the tinny chime and knocked again. Finally, Lucy shrugged and they turned to go and Gus was glad because he didn't feel like working; he felt like driving through Elysian Park pretending to look for juvenile drinkers and just look at Lucy and talk to her perhaps on the upper road on the east side near the reservoir which looked like black ice in the moonlight.