"I don't mind paying for dinner," said Serge.

"You don't have anything against paying half price, do you? We have a place in our area that pops for half."

"I don't mind at all," Serge smiled.

"We actually do have a place that bounces for everything. It's called El Soberano, that means the sovereign. We call it El Sobaco. You know what that means, don't you?"

"No," Serge lied.

"That means the armpit. It's a real scuzzy joint. A beer joint that serves food. Real ptomaine tavern."

"Serves greasy tacos, I bet." Serge smiled wryly, knowing what the place would look like. "Everybody drinking and dancing I bet, and every night some guy gets jealous of his girlfriend and you get a call there to break up a fight."

"You described it perfect," said Galloway. "I don't know about the food though. For all I know, they might drive a sick bull out on the floor at dinner time and everybody slices a steak with their blades."

"Let's. .h.i.t the half-price joint," said Serge.

"Tell her to repeat!" Galloway commanded.

"What?"

"The radio. We just got another call."

"Son of a b.i.t.c.h. Sorry, partner, I've got to start listening to that jumble of noise." He pressed the red mike b.u.t.ton. "Four-A-Forty-three, repeat."

"Four-A-Forty-three, Four-A-Forty-three," said the shrill voice, who had replaced the schoolmarm, "Three-three-seven South Mott, see the woman, four-five-nine suspect there now. Code two."

"Four-A-Forty-three, roger," said Serge.

Galloway stepped down unexpectedly on the accelerator and Serge bounced off the back cushion. "Sorry," Galloway grinned. "Sometimes I'm a leadfoot. I can't help stomping down on a four-five-nine call. Love to catch those burglars."

Serge was glad to see his partner's blue eyes shining happily. He hoped the thrills of the job would not wear off too soon on himself. They obviously hadn't on Galloway. It was rea.s.suring. Everything in the world seemed to grow so dull so quickly.

Galloway slowed at a red light, looked both ways carelessly and roared across First Street as a westbound station wagon squealed and blasted its horn.

"Jesus," Serge whispered aloud.

"Sorry," said Galloway sheepishly, slowing down but only a little. Two blocks farther, he streaked through a partially blind intersection with a posted stop sign and Serge closed his eyes but heard no squealing tires.

"I don't have to tell you you shouldn't drive like this, do I?" said Galloway. "At least not while you're on probation. You can't afford to catch any heat from the sergeants while you're on probation." Galloway made a grinding right turn and another left at the next block.

"If I obeyed all the G.o.dd.a.m.n rules of the road like they tell us to, we'd never get there quick enough to catch anyone. And I figure it's my a.s.s if we get in an accident, so what the h.e.l.l."

How about my a.s.s, you dumb a.s.s, Serge thought, one hand braced on the dashboard, the other gripping the top of the back cushion. He had never envisioned hurtling down busy streets at these speeds. Galloway was a fearless and stupidly lucky driver.

Serge realized that he could not afford to get a quick reputation of troublemaker. New rookies should be all ears and short on mouth, but this was too much. He was going to demand that Galloway slow down. He made the decision just as his sweaty left hand lost its grip on the cushion.

"This is the street," said Galloway. "It's about mid-block." He turned off his headlights and glided noiselessly to the curb, several houses from where the address should have been. "Don't close your door," said Galloway, slipping out of the car and padding along the curb while Serge was still unfastening his seat belt.

Serge got out and followed Galloway, who wore ripple-soled shoes and his key ring tucked in his back pocket. Serge now saw the reason as his own new leather-soled shoes skidded and crunched noisily on the pavement. He tucked the jingling key ring in the back pocket and walked as softly as he could.

It was a dark residential street and he lost Galloway in the gloom, cursing as he forgot the address they were sent to. He broke into a slow run when Galloway, standing in the darkness of a driveway, startled him.

"It's okay, he's long gone," said Galloway.

"Got a description?" asked Serge, noticing the side door of the leaning stucco house was standing open and seeing the tiny dark woman in a straight cotton dress standing near Galloway.

"He's been gone ten minutes," said Galloway. "She doesn't have a phone and couldn't find a neighbor at home. She made the call at the drugstore."

"She saw him?"

"Came home and found the pad ransacked. She must've surprised the burglar, because she heard someone run through the back bedroom and go out the window. A car took off down the alley a second later. She didn't see the suspect, the car or anything."

Two more radio cars suddenly glided down the street, one from each direction.

"Go broadcast a code four," said Galloway. "Just say the four-five-nine occurred ten minutes ago and the suspect left in a vehicle and was not seen. When you're finished come in the house and we'll take a report."

Serge held up four fingers to the policemen in the other cars indicating a code four, that no a.s.sistance was needed. As he returned to the house from making the broadcast, he decided that this payday he would invest in a pair of ripple soles or get these leather soles replaced with rubber.

He heard the sobbing as he approached the open side door and Galloway's voice coming from the front of the small house.

Serge did not go into the living room for a moment. He stood and looked around the kitchen, smelling the cilantro and onion, and seeing jalapeno chili peppers on the tile drainboard. He remembered as he saw the package of corn tortillas that his mother would never have any but homemade tortillas in her house. There was an eight-inch-high madonna on the refrigerator and school pictures of five smiling children, and he knew without examining her closely that the madonna would be Our Lady of Guadalupe in pink gown and blue veil. He wondered where the other favorite saint of the Mexicans was hiding. But Martin de Porres was not in the kitchen, and Serge entered the living room, which was small and scantily furnished with outdated blond furniture.

"We bought that TV set so recently," said the woman, who had stopped weeping and was staring at the dazzling white wall where the freshly cut two-foot antenna wire lay coiled on the floor.

"Anything else missing?" asked Galloway.

"I'll look," she sighed. "We only made six payments on it. I guess we got to pay for it even though it's gone."

"I wouldn't," said Galloway. "Call the store. Tell them it's stolen."

"We bought it at Frank's Appliance Store. He's not a rich man. He can't afford to take our loss."

"Do you have theft insurance?" asked Galloway.

"Just fire. We was going to get theft. We was just talking about it because of so many burglaries around here."

They followed her into the bedroom and Serge saw him-Blessed Martin de Porres, the black holy man in his white robe and black cloak and black hands which said to the Chicano, "Look at my face, not brown but black and yet even for me Nuestro Senor delivers miracles." Serge wondered if they still made Mexican movies about Martin de Porres and Pancho Villa and other folk heroes. Mexicans are great believers he thought. Lousy Catholics, really. Not devout churchgoers like Italians and Irish. The Aztec blood diluted the orthodox Spanish Catholicism. He thought of the various signals he had seen Mexicans make to their particular version of the Christian deity as they genuflected on both knees in the crumbling stucco church in Chino. Some made the sign of the Cross in the conventional Mexican fashion, completing the sign with a kiss on the thumbnail. Others made the sign three times with three kisses, others six times or more. Some made a small cross with the thumb on the forehead, then touched the breast and both shoulders, then returned to the lips for another cross, breast and shoulders again, and another small cross on the lips followed by ten signs on the head, breast and shoulders. He loved to watch them then, particularly during the Forty Hours when the Blessed Sacrament was exposed, and he being an altar boy was obliged to sit or kneel at the foot of the altar for four hours until relieved by Mando Renteria, an emaciated altar boy two years younger than he who was never on time for Ma.s.s or anything else. Serge used to watch them and he recalled that no matter what sign they made to whatever strange idol they worshiped who was certainly not the traditional Christ, they touched their knees to the floor when they genuflected and did not fake a genuflection as he had seen so many Anglos do in much finer churches in the short time he still bothered to attend Ma.s.s after his mother died. And they had looked at the mute stone figures on the altar with consummate veneration. And whether or not they attended Ma.s.s every Sunday, you knew that they were communicating with a spirit when they prayed.

He remembered Father McCarthy, the pastor of the parish, when he had overheard him say to Sister Mary Immaculate, the princ.i.p.al of the school, "They are not good Catholics, but they are so respectful and they believe so well." Serge, then a novice altar boy, was in the sacristy to get his white surplice which he had forgotten to bring home. His mother had sent him back to get it because she insisted on washing and starching the surplice every time he served a Ma.s.s even though it was completely unnecessary and this would wear it out much too soon and then she would have to make him another one. Serge knew who Father McCarthy meant when he said "they" to the tall craggy-faced Irish nun who cracked Serge's hands unmercifully with a ruler during the first five years of grammar school when he would talk in cla.s.s or daydream. Then she had changed abruptly the last three years when he was a gangling altar boy tripping over his ca.s.sock that was one of Father McCarthy's cut-down ca.s.socks because he was so tall for a Mexican boy, and she doted over him because he learned his Latin so quickly and p.r.o.nounced it "so wondrously well." But it was easy, because in those days he still spoke a little Spanish and the Latin did not seem really so strange, not nearly so strange as English seemed those first years of grammar school. And now that he had all but forgotten Spanish it was hard to believe that he once spoke no English.

"Ayeeee," she wailed suddenly, opening the closet in the ransacked bedroom. "The money, it's gone."

"You had money?" said Galloway to the angular, dark little woman, who stared in disbelief at Galloway and then at the closet.

"It was more than sixty dollars," she cried. "Dios mio! "Dios mio! I put it in there. It was sitting right there." Suddenly she began rummaging through the already ransacked bedroom. "Maybe the thief dropped it," she said, and Serge knew that she might destroy any fingerprints on the chest of drawers and the other smooth-surfaced objects in the bedroom, but he had also learned enough by now to know there were probably no prints anyway as most competent burglars used socks on their hands, or gloves, or wiped their prints. He knew that Galloway knew she might destroy evidence, but Galloway motioned him into the living room. I put it in there. It was sitting right there." Suddenly she began rummaging through the already ransacked bedroom. "Maybe the thief dropped it," she said, and Serge knew that she might destroy any fingerprints on the chest of drawers and the other smooth-surfaced objects in the bedroom, but he had also learned enough by now to know there were probably no prints anyway as most competent burglars used socks on their hands, or gloves, or wiped their prints. He knew that Galloway knew she might destroy evidence, but Galloway motioned him into the living room.

"Let her blow off steam," Galloway whispered. "The only good place for prints is the window ledge anyway. She's not going to touch that."

Serge nodded, took off his hat and sat down. After a few moments, the furious rustling sounds in the bedroom subsided and the utter silence that followed made Serge wish very much that she would hurry and tell them what was missing so they could make their report and leave.

"You're going to find out before too long that we're the only ones that see the victims," said Galloway. "The judges and probation officers and social workers and everybody else think mainly about the suspect and how they can help him stop whatever he specializes in doing to his victims, but you and me are the only ones who see what he does to his victims-right after it's done. And this is only a little burglary."

She should pray to Our Lady of Guadalupe or Blessed Martin, thought Serge. Or maybe to Pancho Villa. That would be just as useful. Oh, they're great believers, these Chicanos, he thought.

5.

THE CENTURIONS.

"HERE COMES LAFITTE," said the tall policeman. "Three minutes till roll call but he'll be on time. Watch him." said the tall policeman. "Three minutes till roll call but he'll be on time. Watch him."

Gus watched Lafitte grin at the tall policeman, and open his locker with one hand, while the other unb.u.t.toned the yellow sport shirt. When Gus looked up again after giving his shoes a last touch with the shine rag, Lafitte was fully dressed in his uniform and was fastening the Sam Browne.

"I'll bet it takes you longer to get into your jammies at night than it does to throw on that blue suit, eh Lafitte?" said the tall policeman.

"Your pay doesn't start till 3:00 P.M.," P.M.," Lafitte answered. "No sense giving the Department any extra minutes. It all adds up in a year." Lafitte answered. "No sense giving the Department any extra minutes. It all adds up in a year."

Gus stole a glance at Lafitte's bra.s.s b.u.t.tons on his shirt pocket flaps and epaulets and saw the tiny holes in the center of the star on the b.u.t.tons. This proved the b.u.t.tons had seen a good deal of polishing, he thought. A hole was worn in the middle. He looked at his own bra.s.s b.u.t.tons and saw they were not a l.u.s.trous gold like Lafitte's. If he had been in the service he would have learned a good deal about such things, he thought. On the opposite side of the metal lockers was the roll call room, lockers, rows of benches, tables, and the watch commander's desk at the front, all crammed into one thirty by fifty foot room. Gus was told that the old station would be replaced in a few years by a new station, but it thrilled him just as it was. This was his first night in University Division. He was not a cadet now; the academy was finished and he could not believe it was Gus Plebesly inside this tailored blue woolen shirt which bore the glistening oval shield. He took a place at the second row of tables from the rear of the room. This seemed safe enough. The rear table was almost filled with older officers, and no one sat at the front one. The second row from the rear should be safe enough, he thought.

There were twenty-two policemen at this early night watch roll call and he felt rea.s.sured when he saw Griggs and Patzloff, two of his academy cla.s.smates, who had also been sent to University Division from the academy.

Griggs and Patzloff were talking quietly and Gus debated about moving across the room to their table but he decided it might attract too much attention, and anyway, it was one minute to roll call. The doors at the rear of the room swung open and a man in civilian clothes entered, and a burly, bald policeman at the rear table shouted, "Salone, why ain't you suited up?"

"Light duty," said Salone. "I'm working the desk tonight. No roll call."

"Son of a b.i.t.c.h," said the burly policeman, "too sick to ride around with me in a radio car? What the h.e.l.l's wrong with you?"

"Gum infection."

"You don't sit on your gums, Salone," said the burly policeman. "Son of a b.i.t.c.h. Now I guess I'll get stuck with one of these slick-sleeved little RE-cruits."

Everyone laughed and Gus's face turned hot and he pretended he didn't hear the remark. Then he realized why the burly policeman had said "slick-sleeved." He glanced over his shoulder and saw the rows of white service stripes on the lower sleeves of the policemen at the rear table, one stripe for each five years' service, and he understood the epithet. The doors swung open and two sergeants entered carrying manila folders and a large square board from which the car plan would be read.

"Three-A-Five, Hill and Matthews," said the pipe-smoking sergeant with the receding hairline.

"Here."

"Here."

"Three-A-Nine, Carson and Lafitte."

"Here."

"Here," said Lafitte, and Gus recognized the voice.

"Three-A-Eleven, Ball and Gladstone."

"Here," said one of the two Negro policemen in the room.

"Here," said the other Negro.

Gus was afraid he would be put with the burly policeman and was glad to hear him answer "Here" when he was a.s.signed with someone else.

Finally the sergeant said, "Three-A-Ninety-nine, Kilvinsky and Plebesly."

"Here," said Kilvinsky and Gus turned, smiling nervously at the tall silver-haired policeman in the back row who smiled back at him.

"Here, sir," said Gus, and then cursed himself for saying "sir." He was out of the academy now. "Sirs" were reserved for lieutenants and higher.

"We have three new officers with us," said the pipe-smoking sergeant. "Glad to have you men. I'm Sergeant Bridget and this ruddy Irishman on my right is Sergeant O'Toole. Looks just like the big Irish cop you see in all the old B movies, doesn't he?"

Sergeant O'Toole grinned broadly and nodded to the new officers.

"Before we read the crimes, I want to talk about the supervisor's meeting today," said Sergeant Bridget as he thumbed through one of the manila folders.

Gus gazed around the room at the several maps of University Division which were covered with multicolored pins that he thought must signify certain crimes or arrests. Soon he would know all the little things and he would be one of them. Or would he be one of them? His forehead and armpits began to perspire and he thought, I will not think that. It's self-defeating and neurotic to think like that. I'm just as good as any of them. I was tops in my cla.s.s in physical training. What right do I have to degrade myself. I promised myself I'd stop doing that.

"One thing the captain talked about at the supervisor's meeting was the time and mileage check," said Bridget. "He wanted us to remind you guys to broadcast your time and mileage every every time you transport a female in a police car-for any reason. Some b.i.t.c.h in Newton Division beefed a policeman last week. Says he took her in a park and tried to lay her. It was easy to prove she lied because the policeman gave his mileage to Communications at ten minutes past eleven when he left her pad and he gave his mileage again at eleven twenty-three when he arrived at the Main Jail. His mileage and the time check proved he couldn't have driven her up in Elysian Park like she claimed." time you transport a female in a police car-for any reason. Some b.i.t.c.h in Newton Division beefed a policeman last week. Says he took her in a park and tried to lay her. It was easy to prove she lied because the policeman gave his mileage to Communications at ten minutes past eleven when he left her pad and he gave his mileage again at eleven twenty-three when he arrived at the Main Jail. His mileage and the time check proved he couldn't have driven her up in Elysian Park like she claimed."

"Hey Sarge," said a lean swarthy policeman near the front. "If the Newton Street policeman who she accused is Harry Ferndale, she's probably telling the truth. He's so h.o.r.n.y he'd plow a dead alligator or even a live one if somebody'd hold the tail."

"d.a.m.n it, Leoni," grinned Sergeant Bridget as the others chuckled, "we got some new men here tonight. You roll call pop-offs ought to be trying to set some kind of example, at least on their first night. This is serious s.h.i.t I'm reading. The next thing the captain wanted us to bring up is that some Seventy-seventh Street officer in traffic court was asked by the defendant's lawyer what drew his attention to the defendant's vehicle to cite it for an illegal turn, and the officer said because the defendant was driving with his arm around a well-known Negro prost.i.tute."

The roll call room burst into laughter and Bridget held up a hand to quiet them. "I know that's funny and all that, but number one, you can prejudice a case by implying that you were trying to suppress prost.i.tution, not enforce traffic laws. And number two, this little remark got back to the guy's old lady and he's beefing the policeman. An investigation started already."

"Is it true?" asked Matthews.

"Yeah, he was with a wh.o.r.e I guess."

"Then let the a.s.shole beef," said Matthews, and Gus realized that they used "a.s.shole" as much here in the divisions as the instructors did in the academy and he guessed it was the favorite epithet of policemen, at least Los Angeles policemen.

"Anyway, the captain says no more of it," Bridget continued, "and another thing the old man says is that you guys are not at any any time to push cars with your police vehicle. Snider on the day watch was giving a poor stranded motorist a push and he jumped the b.u.mper and busted the guy's taillights and dented his deck lid and the p.r.i.c.k is threatening to sue the city if his car isn't fixed. So no more pushing." time to push cars with your police vehicle. Snider on the day watch was giving a poor stranded motorist a push and he jumped the b.u.mper and busted the guy's taillights and dented his deck lid and the p.r.i.c.k is threatening to sue the city if his car isn't fixed. So no more pushing."

"How about on the freeway, or when a stalled car has a street bottled up?" asked Leoni.

"Okay, you and I know there are exceptions to everything in this business, but in almost all cases no pushing, okay?"

"Has the captain ever done police work out in the street?" asked Matthews. "I bet he had some cushy office job since he's been on the Department."

"Let's not get personal, Mike," smiled Bridget. "The next thing is these preliminary investigations in burglary and robbery cases. Now, you guys aren't detectives, but you aren't mere report writers either. You're supposed to conduct a preliminary investigation out there, not just fill in a bunch of blanks on a crime report." Bridget paused and lit the long-stemmed pipe he had been toying with. "We all know that we seldom get good latent prints from a gun because of the broken surface, but Jesus Christ, a couple weeks ago an officer of this division didn't bother worrying about prints on a gun a suspect dropped at the scene of a liquor store robbery! And the d.i.c.ks had a d.a.m.ned good suspect in custody the next day but the dumb a.s.s liquor store owner was some idiot who claimed he was new in the business in this part of town and he couldn't tell Negroes apart. There wouldn't have been any case at all because the officer handled the suspect's gun and ruined any prints there might have been, except for one thing-it was an automatic. Lucky for the officer, because he might've got a couple days suspension for s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g up the case like that."

"Were the prints on the clip?" asked Lafitte.