What if a man the size of Kilvinsky resisted arrest? Gus thought. How could I possibly handle him? There were things he wanted to ask, but was ashamed to ask Kilvinsky. Things he might ask a smaller man, after he got to know him, if he ever did get to really know him. He had never had many friends and at this moment he doubted that he could find any among these uniformed men who made him feel like a small boy. Maybe it had all been a mistake, he thought. Maybe he could never be one of them. They seemed so forceful and confident. They had seen things. But maybe it was just bravado. Maybe it was that.

But what would happen if someone's life, maybe Kilvinsky's life, depended on his conquest of fear which he had never been able to conquer? Those four years of marriage while he worked in a bank had not prepared him to cope with that. And why hadn't he the courage to talk to Vickie about things like this, and then he thought of the times he had lain beside her in the darkness, particularly after lovemaking, and he had thought of these things and prayed to have the courage to talk to Vickie about it, but he hadn't, and no one knew that he he knew that he was a coward. But what would it ever have mattered that he was a coward if he had stayed in the bank where he belonged? Why could he do well in wrestling and physical training, but turn sick and impotent when the other man was not playing a game? Once in P.T. when he was wrestling with Walmsley he had applied the wristlock too firmly as Officer Randolph had shown them. Walmsley became angry and when Gus saw his eyes, the fear came, his strength deserted him and Walmsley easily took him down. He did it viciously and Gus did not resist even though he knew he was stronger and twice as agile as Walmsley. But that was all part of being a coward, that inability to control your body. Is the hate the thing I fear? Is that it? A face full of hate? knew that he was a coward. But what would it ever have mattered that he was a coward if he had stayed in the bank where he belonged? Why could he do well in wrestling and physical training, but turn sick and impotent when the other man was not playing a game? Once in P.T. when he was wrestling with Walmsley he had applied the wristlock too firmly as Officer Randolph had shown them. Walmsley became angry and when Gus saw his eyes, the fear came, his strength deserted him and Walmsley easily took him down. He did it viciously and Gus did not resist even though he knew he was stronger and twice as agile as Walmsley. But that was all part of being a coward, that inability to control your body. Is the hate the thing I fear? Is that it? A face full of hate?

"Come on granny, let the clutch out," Kilvinsky said as a female driver in front of them crept toward the signal causing them to stop instead of making the yellow light.

"One-seven-three west Fifty-fourth Street," said Kilvinsky, tapping on the writing pad between them.

"What?" asked Gus.

"We got a call. One-seven-three west Fifty-fourth Street. Write it down."

"Oh. Sorry, I can't make any sense out of the radio yet."

"Roger the call," said Kilvinsky.

"Three-A-Ninety-nine, roger," said Gus into the hand mike.

"You'll start picking our calls out of all that chatter pretty soon," said Kilvinsky. "Takes a while. You'll get it."

"What kind of call was it?"

"Unknown trouble call. That means the person who called isn't sure what the problem is, or it means he wasn't coherent or the operator couldn't understand him, or it could mean anything. I don't like those calls. You don't know what the h.e.l.l you have until you get there."

Gus nervously looked at the storefronts. He saw two Negroes with high shiny pompadours and colorful one-piece jump suits park a red Cadillac convertible in front of a window which said, "Big Red's Process Parlor," and below it in yellow letters Gus read, "Process, do-it-yourself process, Quo Vadis, and other styles."

"What do you call the hairdos on those two men?" asked Gus.

"Those two pimps? That style is just called a process, some call it a marcel. Old-time policemen might refer to it as ga.s.sed hair, but for police reports most of us just use the word 'process.' Costs them a lot of money to keep a nice process like that, but then, pimps have lots of money. And a process is as important to them as a Cadillac. No self-respecting pimp would be caught without both of them."

Gus wished the sun would drop, then it might cool off. He loved summer nights when the days were hot and paper-dry like this one. He noticed the crescent and star over the white two-story stucco building on the corner. Two men in close-cropped hair and black suits with maroon neckties stood in front of the wide doors with their hands behind their backs and glared at the police car as they continued south.

"That a church?" asked Gus to Kilvinsky, who never looked toward the building or the men.

"That's the Muslim temple. Do you know about Muslims?"

"I've read a little in the papers, that's all."

"They're a fanatical sect that's sprung up recently all over the country. A lot of them are ex-cons. They're all cop haters."

"They look so clean-cut," said Gus, glancing over his shoulder at the two men whose faces were turned in the direction of the police car.

"They're just part of what's happening in the country," said Kilvinsky. "n.o.body knows what's happening yet, except a few people like the chief. It may take ten years to figure it all out."

"What is is happening?" asked Gus. happening?" asked Gus.

"It's a long story," Kilvinsky said. "And I'm not sure myself. And besides, here's the pad."

Gus turned and saw the one-seven-three over the mailbox of the green stucco house with a trash-littered front yard.

Gus almost didn't see the trembling old Negro in khaki work clothes huddled on an ancient wicker chair on the dilapidated porch of the house.

"Glad yo'all could come officahs," he said, standing, quivering, with sporadic looks toward the door standing ajar.

"What's the problem?" asked Kilvinsky, climbing the three stairs to the porch, his cap placed precisely straight on the silver mane.

"Ah jist came home and ah saw a man in the house. Ah don' know him. He jist was sittin' there starin' at me and ah got scairt and run out heah and ovah nex' do' and ah use mah neighbah's phone and while I was waitin' ah look back inside an' theah he sits jist rockin', an' Lord, ah think he's a crazy man. He don' say nothin' jist sits an' rocks."

Gus reached involuntarily for the baton and fingered the grooved handle, waiting for Kilvinsky to decide their first move and he was embarra.s.sed by his relief when he understood, when Kilvinsky winked and said, "Wait here, partner, in case he tries to go out the back door. There's a fence back there so he'd have to come back through the front."

Gus waited with the old man and in a few minutes he heard Kilvinsky shout, "Alright you son of a b.i.t.c.h, get out of here and don't come back!" And he heard the back door slam. Then Kilvinsky opened the screen and said, "Okay, Mister, come on in. He's gone."

Gus followed the gnarled old man, who removed the crumpled hat when he crossed the threshold.

"He sho' is gone, officahs," said the old man, but the trembling had not stopped.

"I told him not to come back," said Kilvinsky. "I don't think you'll be seeing him again around this neighborhood."

"G.o.d bless yo'all," said the old man, shuffling toward the back door and locking it.

"How long's it been since you had a drink?" asked Kilvinsky.

"Oh, couple days now," said the old man, smiling a black-toothed smile. "Check's due in the mail any day now."

"Well, just fix yourself a cup of tea and try to get some sleep. You'll feel lots better tomorrow."

"Ah thanks yo'all," said the old man as they walked down the cracked concrete sidewalk to the car. Kilvinsky didn't say anything as he drove off and Gus said finally, "Those d.t.'s must be h.e.l.l, huh?"

"Must be h.e.l.l," Kilvinsky nodded.

"We got a coffee spot down the street," said Kilvinsky. "It's so bad you could pour it in your battery when she dies, but it's free and so are the doughnuts."

"Sounds good to me," said Gus.

Kilvinsky parked in the littered coffee shop parking lot and Gus went inside to get the coffee. He left his cap in the car and felt like a veteran, hatless, striding into the coffee shop where he watched a wizened, alcoholic-looking man who was listlessly pouring coffee for three Negro counter customers.

"Coffee?" he said to Gus, coming toward him with two paper cups in his hand.

"Please."

"Cream?"

"Only in one," said Gus, as the counterman drew the coffee from the urns and placed the cups on the counter as Gus self-consciously tried to decide the most diplomatic way to order doughnuts which were free. You didn't wish to be presumptuous even though you wanted a doughnut. It would be so much simpler if they just paid for the coffee and doughnuts, he thought, but then that would counter the tradition and if you did something like that the word might be pa.s.sed that you were a troublemaker. The man solved his dilemma by saying, "Doughnuts?"

"Please," said Gus, relieved.

"Chocolate or plain? I'm out of glazed."

"Two plain," said Gus, realizing that Kilvinsky had not stated his preference.

"Tops for the cups?"

"No, I can manage," said Gus and a moment later discovered that this chain of coffee shops made the hottest coffee in Los Angeles.

"It's sure hot," he smiled weakly, in case Kilvinsky had seen him spill coffee on himself. His forehead perspired from the sudden flash of pain.

"Wait till you're on the morning watch," said Kilvinsky. "Some chilly winter night about 1:00 A.M. A.M. this coffee will light a fire in you and see you through the night." this coffee will light a fire in you and see you through the night."

The sun was dropping on the horizon but it was still hot and Gus thought a c.o.ke would have been better than a cup of coffee but he had already noticed that policemen were coffee drinkers and he guessed he may as well get used to it because he was going to be one of them, come what may.

Gus sipped the steaming coffee a full three minutes after it sat on the roof of the police car and found that he still could not stand the temperature; he waited and watched Kilvinsky out of the corner of his eye and saw him taking great gulps as he smoked a cigarette and adjusted the radio until it was barely audible, still much too low for Gus, but then, Gus knew he could not pick their calls out of that chaotic garble of voices anyway, so if Kilvinsky could hear it, it was enough.

Gus saw a stooped ragpicker in filthy denim trousers and a torn, grimy, checkered shirt several sizes too large, and a GI helmet liner with a hole on the side through which a snarled handful of the ragpicker's gray hair protruded. He pushed a shopping cart stolidly down the sidewalk, ignoring six or seven Negro children who taunted him, and until he was very close Gus could not guess what his race was but guessed he was white because of the long gray hair. Then he saw that he was indeed a white man, but covered with crusty layers of filth. The ragpicker stopped near crevices and crannies between and behind the rows of one-story business buildings. He probed in trash cans and behind clumps of weeds in vacant lots until he discovered his prizes and the shopping cart was already filled with empty bottles which the children grabbed at. They shrieked in delight when the ragpicker made ineffectual swipes at their darting hands with his hairy paws too broad and ma.s.sive for the emaciated body.

"Maybe he was wearing that helmet on some Pacific island when it got that hole blown in it," said Gus.

"It'd be nice to think so," said Kilvinsky. "Adds a little glamour to the old ragpicker. You should keep an eye on those guys, though. They steal plenty. We watched one pushing his little cart along Vermont on Christmas Eve clouting presents out of cars that were parked at the curb. Had a pile of bottles and other trash on top and a cartload of stolen Christmas presents beneath."

Kilvinsky started the car and resumed his slow patrol and Gus felt much more at ease after the coffee and doughnut which domesticized the strange feeling he had here in the city. He was so provincial, he thought, even though he grew up in Azusa, and made frequent trips to Los Angeles.

Kilvinsky drove slowly enough for Gus to read the signs in the windows of the drugstores and neighborhood markets, which advertised hair straighteners, skin brighteners, scalp conditioner, pressing oil, waxes and pomades. Kilvinsky pointed to a large crudely lettered whitewashed warning on a board fence which said, "Bab bog," and Gus noticed the professional lettering on the pool hall window which said, "Billard Parler." Kilvinsky parked in front of the pool hall, telling Gus he had something to show him.

The pool hall, which Gus supposed would be empty at the dinner hour, was teeming with men and a few women, all Negro except for two of the three women who slouched at a table near the small room at the rear of the building. Gus noticed one of the women, a middle-aged woman with hair like flames, scurried into the back room as soon as she spotted them. The pool players ignored them and continued the nine ball contests.

"Probably a little dice game going in the back," said Kilvinsky as Gus eagerly studied everything about the place, the floor caked with grime, six threadbare pool tables, two dozen men sitting or standing against the walls, the blaring record player being overseen by a pudgy cigar chewer in a blue silk undershirt, the smell of stale sweat and beer, for which there was no license, cigarette smoke, and through it all a good barbecue smell. Gus knew by the smell that whatever else they were doing in the back room, somebody was cooking, and that seemed very strange somehow. The three women were all fiftyish and very alcoholic-looking, the Negro being the slimmest and cleanest-looking of the three although she too was foul enough, Gus thought.

"A shine parlor or pool hall down here is the last stop for a white wh.o.r.e," said Kilvinsky following Gus's eyes. "There's what I brought you in here to see." Kilvinsky pointed at a sign high on the wall over the door which led to the back room. The sign read, "No liquor or narcotics allowed."

Gus was relieved to get back in the air, and he inhaled deeply. Kilvinsky resumed patrol and Gus was already starting to know the voices of the female Communications operators, particularly the one with the deep young voice on frequency thirteen, who would occasionally whisper "Hi" into the mike or "roger" in coy response to the policemen's voices he could not hear. It had been a surprise to him that the radios were two-way radios and not three-way, but it was just as well, he thought, because the jumble of women's voices was hard enough to understand without more voices from all the radio cars being thrown in.

"I'll wait till dark to show you Western Avenue," said Kilvinsky and now Gus could definitely feel the refreshing coolness of approaching night although it was far from dark.

"What's on Western Avenue?"

"Wh.o.r.es. Of course there're wh.o.r.es all over this part of town, but Western is the wh.o.r.e center of the city. They're all over the street."

"Don't we arrest them?"

"We don't. What would we arrest them for? Walking the street? Just don't. What would we arrest them for? Walking the street? Just being being wh.o.r.es? No crime in that. Vice officers arrest them when they tail them to their trick pad, or when they operate the girl undercover and get an offer of prost.i.tution." wh.o.r.es? No crime in that. Vice officers arrest them when they tail them to their trick pad, or when they operate the girl undercover and get an offer of prost.i.tution."

"I wonder what working vice would be like?" Gus mused aloud.

"You might get a chance to find out someday," Kilvinsky said. "You're kind of small and . . . oh, a little more docile than the average pushy cop. I think you'd be a good undercover operator. You don't look like a policeman."

Gus thought of being here in the streets in plainclothes, perhaps without a partner, and he was glad such a.s.signments were voluntary. He watched a very dark-skinned h.o.m.os.e.xual mincing across Vernon Avenue when the light turned green.

"Hope we don't lose our masquerading laws," said Kilvinsky.

"What's that?"

"City ordinance against a man dressing up like a woman or vice versa. Keeps the fruits from going around full drag and causing all sorts of police problems. I got a feeling though that that's another law on the way out. Better write that address down."

"What address?"

"We just got a call."

"We did? Where?" asked Gus, turning the radio louder and readying his pencil.

"Three-A-Ninety-nine, repeat," said Kilvinsky.

"Three-A-Ninety-nine, Three-A-Ninety-nine, a forgery suspect there now, at Forty-one-thirty-two south Broadway, see the man at that location, code two."

"Three-A-Ninety-nine, roger," said Gus, rubbing his palms on his thighs impatiently, and wondering why Kilvinsky didn't drive a bit faster. After all, it was a code two call.

They were only three blocks from the call but when they arrived another car was already parked in the front of the market and Kilvinsky double-parked until Leoni walked out of the store and over to their car.

"Suspect's a female wino," said Leoni, leaning in the window on Gus's side. "Guy offered her ten bucks to try and pa.s.s a hundred and thirty dollar payroll check. Probably a phony, but it looks pretty good. Check writer was used. The b.i.t.c.h said the guy was middle-aged, red shirt, average size. She just met him in a gin mill."

"Negro?" asked Kilvinsky.

"What else?"

"We'll take a look around," Kilvinsky said.

Kilvinsky circled the block once, studying people and cars. Gus wondered what they were supposed to be looking for because there were less than ten men in the immediate area who were middle-sized and none of them had on a red shirt, but on his second pa.s.s around the block, Kilvinsky turned sharply into a drugstore parking lot and zoomed across the alley toward a man who was walking toward the sidewalk. Kilvinsky jammed on the brakes and was on his feet before Gus was certain he was stopping.

"Just a minute," said Kilvinsky to the man who continued walking. "Hold it, there."

The man turned and looked quizzically at the two policemen. He wore a brown checkered shirt and a black felt stingy brim with a fat yellow feather. He was neither middle-aged nor of average size, but rather he was in his early thirties, Gus guessed, and was tall and portly.

"What you want?" asked the man and Gus noticed the deep scar which followed the cheek line and was at first not apparent.

"Your identification, please," said Kilvinsky.

"What for?"

"I'll explain in a minute, but let me see your I.D. first. Something just happened."

"Oh," sneered the man, "and I'm suspicious, huh? I'm black so that makes me suspicious, huh? Black man is just ol' Joe Lunchmeat to you, huh?"

"Look around you," Kilvinsky said, taking a giant stride forward, "you see anybody that ain't black except my partner and me? Now I picked you cause I got a motherf.u.c.kin' good reason. Break out that I.D. cause we ain't got time for shuckin'."

"Okay, Officer," said the man, "I ain't got nothin' to hide, it just that the PO-lice is always f.u.c.kin' over me ever' time I goes outside and I'm a workin' man. I works ever' day."

Kilvinsky examined the social security card and Gus thought how Kilvinsky had talked to the man. His rage was profound and with his size it had cowed the Negro, and Kilvinsky had talked like a Negro, exactly like a Negro, Gus thought.

"This I.D. ain't s.h.i.t, man," said Kilvinsky. "Got something with your thumb print or a picture on it? Got a driver's license maybe?"

"What I need a drivin' license fo'? I ain't drivin'."