"What can I do, sir? Can you help me? I begged them to pay me."

"Sure wish we could," said Whitey, "but you see this is a civil matter and we only deal in criminal matters. You'd have to get the county marshal to serve them with a notice to quit and then you'd have to sue them for unlawful detainer. That's what they call it and that would take time and you'd have to pay a lawyer."

"I don't have no money for a lawyer, Mr. PO-lice," said the old woman, her thin hand touching Whitey beseechingly on the arm.

"I appreciate that, ma'am," said Whitey, "I sure do. By the way, is that corn bread I smell?"

"It sho' is, sir. Would you like some?"

"Would I?" said Whitey, removing his hat and leading the old woman to the kitchen. "I'm a country-raised boy. I grew up in Arkansas on corn bread."

"Would you like some?" she smiled to Roy.

"No, thank you," he said.

"Some coffee? It's fresh."

"No ma'am, thank you."

"I don't know when I had such good corn bread," said Whitey. "Soon's I finish, I'm going back and talk to your tenants for you. They in the little cottage in the rear?"

"Yes, sir. That's where they is. I sure would appreciate that and I'm going to tell our councilman what a fine PO-lice force we have. You always so good to me no matter what I calls for. You from Newton Street Station, ain't you?"

"Yes, ma'am, you just tell the councilman that you liked the service of old Whitey from Newton Street. You can even call the station and tell my sergeant if you want to."

"Why I'll do that, I surely will, Mr. Whitey. Can I get you some more corn bread?"

"No, no thank you," said Whitey, wiping his entire face with the linen napkin the old woman got for him. "We'll have a little talk with them and I bet they get your rent to you real quick."

"Thank you very much," the old woman called, as Roy followed Whitey and his flashlight beam down the narrow walkway to the rear of the property. Roy's frustration had subsided in his pity for the plight of the old woman and his admiration of her neat little house. There weren't enough like her in the ghetto, he thought.

"It's too d.a.m.ned bad that people would take advantage of a nice old woman like that," said Roy as they approached the rear cottage.

"How do you know they did?" asked Whitey.

"What do you mean? You heard her."

"I heard one side of a landlord-tenant dispute," said Whitey. "Now I got to hear the other side. You're the judge in all these dispute calls we get. Never make a decision till both sides present their cases."

This time Roy bit his lip to enforce his silence. The absurdity of this man was beyond belief. A child could see the old woman had a just grievance and he knew before the door opened that the cottage would be a filthy hovel where miserable children lived in squalor with deadbeat parents.

A coffee-colored woman in her late twenties opened the door when Whitey tapped.

"Mrs. Carson said she was going to call the PO-lice," said the woman with a tired smile. "Come in, Officers."

Roy followed Whitey into the little house which had a bed-room in the back, a small kitchen, and a living room filled by the six children who were gathered around an ancient television with a dying picture tube.

"Honey," she called, and a man padded into the room from the back, wearing frayed khaki trousers and a faded blue short-sleeved shirt which revealed oversized arms and battered hardworking hands.

"I just didn't think she'd really call the law," he said with an embarra.s.sed smile at the officers, as Roy wondered how the cottage could be kept this clean with so many small children.

"We're two weeks behind in our rent," he drawled. "We never been behind befo' 'cept oncet and that was fo' three days. That ol' lady is mighty hard."

"She says you're over two months behind," said Roy.

"Looky here," said the man, going to the kitchen cupboard and returning with several slips of paper. "Here's last month's receipt and the month befo' and the one befo' that, clear back to January when we fust came here from Arkansas."

"You from Arkansas?" said Whitey. "Whereabouts? I'm from Arkansas too."

"Wait a minute, Whitey," said Roy, then turned back to the man. "Why would Mrs. Carson say you were behind in your rent? She said you never pay her on time and she's told you how she needs the money and that your kids have destroyed her property. Why would she say that?"

"Officer," said the man, "Mrs. Carson is a very hard lady. She owns most of this side of Avalon from Fo'ty-ninth Street on down to the co'ner."

"Have your children ever destroyed her property?" asked Roy weakly.

"Look at my house, Officer," said the woman. "Do it look like we the kind of folks that would let a chil' tear up a house? Once James there broke her bas.e.m.e.nt window chucking a rock at a tin can. But she added that on our rent payment and we paid fo' it."

"How do you like California?" asked Whitey.

"Oh, we likes it fine," smiled the man. "Soon's we can save a little we wants to maybe buy a small house and get away from Mrs. Carson."

"Well, we got to be going now," said Whitey. "Sure sorry you're having troubles with your landlady. I want to wish you good luck here in California, and listen, if you ever happen to make any down-home Arkansas meals and have some left over you just call Newton Street Station and let me know, will you?"

"Why, we'll do that, sir," said the woman. "Who'll we ask fo'?"

"Just say old Whitey. And you might tell the sergeant old Whitey gave you good service. We need a pat on the back once in a while."

"Thank you, Officer," said the man. "It's surely a comfort to meet such fine po po-licemen here."

"So long, kids," shouted Whitey to the six beaming brown faces which by now were gazing reverently at the policemen. They all waved good-byes as Roy followed the fat blue swaggering figure back down the narrow walkway to the car.

While Whitey was lighting a cigar Roy asked, "How did you know the old lady was lying? You probably answered calls there before, right?"

"Never did," said Whitey. "G.o.dd.a.m.n cigars. Wonder if good cigars draw better than cheap ones?"

"Well how did you know then? You must've suspected she was lying."

"I never said she was lying. I don't say it now. There's two sides to every beef. Experience'll teach you that. You got to listen to the first guy like he's giving you the gospel and then go to the second guy and do the same thing. You just got to be patient, use horse sense and this job is easy."

Handling a rent dispute doesn't make you a policeman, Roy thought. There's more to police work than that.

"You ready to teach me how to catch a burglar now?" asked Roy, knowing the satirical edge on his voice was apparent.

"Okay, but first I got to make sure you can handle a simple landlord-tenant beef. First thing you already learned, don't take no sides. Next thing, a landlord-tenant beef or anything else could involve a psycho, or a crook with something in the pad he don't want you to see, or somebody that's so p.i.s.sed off at his landlord or tenant that he's ready to climb the a.s.s of anybody that comes through the door."

"So?"

"So be careful. Walk into any pad like a policeman not an insurance man. Stick your flashlight in your back pocket if there's light on in the pad, and keep your lid on your head. Then you got two hands ready to use. You start strolling in these pads with a light in one hand and a hat in the other you might find you need a third hand quick some night and you'll be a real courteous corpse with your hat in your hand."

"I didn't think the old lady was very dangerous."

"I had a senile old lady stick a pair of scissors right through the web of my hand one time," said Whitey. "You do what you want, I just give the tips for what they're worth. Hey, kid, how about letting me call in. Head for my call box, will you?"

Roy watched Whitey at the call box and fumed. Patronizing stupid b.a.s.t.a.r.d, he thought. Roy realized he had a lot to learn, but he wanted to learn it from a real policeman, not from an overweight old windbag who was a caricature of a police officer. The incessant chatter of the police radio subsided for a moment and Roy heard a dull clink of gla.s.s.

Then the realization struck him and he smiled. How foolish not to have guessed it before! He couldn't help grinning when Whitey returned to the car.

"Let's go to work, kid," said Whitey, as he got back in.

"Sure thing, partner," said Roy. "But first, I think I'll call in. I want to leave a message with the desk."

"Wait a minute!" said Whitey. "Let's drive to the station. You can tell him personally."

"No, it'll just take a minute, I can use this call box," said Roy.

"No! Wait a minute! The box is screwed up. Just before I hung up, it started buzzing. Almost busted my eardrum. It ain't working right!"

"Well, I'll just try it," said Roy, and moved as though to get out of the car.

"Wait, please!" said Whitey, grabbing Roy's elbow. "Let's go in right now. I got to take a s.h.i.t terrible bad. Take me to the station right now and you can give your message to Sam."

"Why, Whitey," Roy grinned triumphantly, and with Whitey's perspiring face this close, the fresh whiskey odor was overpowering, "you always c.r.a.p fifteen minutes after we eat dinner. You told me your guts start rumbling right after your evening meal. What's the matter?"

"It's my age," said Whitey, staring sadly at the floorboard as Roy gunned the engine and drove into the traffic lane, "when you get my age you can't depend on nothing, not even your guts, especially not your guts."

AUGUST 1961.

7.

GUERRA!.

THEY WERE TOLD BY the Gang Squad detective that the war had actually started six weeks ago when the Junior Falcons jumped a seventeen-year-old member of the Gang Squad detective that the war had actually started six weeks ago when the Junior Falcons jumped a seventeen-year-old member of Los Gavilanes Los Gavilanes named Felix Orozco who had made the consummate and final mistake of running out of gas in Falcon territory in a striped nineteen forty-eight Chevrolet that the Falcons knew belonged to a named Felix Orozco who had made the consummate and final mistake of running out of gas in Falcon territory in a striped nineteen forty-eight Chevrolet that the Falcons knew belonged to a Gavilan. Gavilan. Felix was beaten to death with his own tire iron which he had used to break the wrist of the first Falcon who had come at him with a sharpened screwdriver. The girlfriend of Felix Orozco, thirteen-year-old Connie Madrid, was not killed by the Junior Falcons but her face was badly ripped by a whistling slash of the car antenna that was broken off the car by El Pablo of the Junior Falcons who, it was believed by the detectives, was the one responsible for flogging Felix Orozco with the limber piece of steel as he lay, already dead probably, from countless kicks to the head and face. Felix was beaten to death with his own tire iron which he had used to break the wrist of the first Falcon who had come at him with a sharpened screwdriver. The girlfriend of Felix Orozco, thirteen-year-old Connie Madrid, was not killed by the Junior Falcons but her face was badly ripped by a whistling slash of the car antenna that was broken off the car by El Pablo of the Junior Falcons who, it was believed by the detectives, was the one responsible for flogging Felix Orozco with the limber piece of steel as he lay, already dead probably, from countless kicks to the head and face.

Connie had been a less than cooperative witness and now after two hearing postponements in juvenile court, it was believed by the homicide team that she would probably deny in court that she saw anything.

Since the death of Felix, there had been seven cases of gang reprisals involving Los Gavilanes Los Gavilanes and the Junior Falcons, but on one occasion a member of the Easystreeters, named Ramon Garcia, was mistaken for a Junior Falcon and the Easystreeters announced against and the Junior Falcons, but on one occasion a member of the Easystreeters, named Ramon Garcia, was mistaken for a Junior Falcon and the Easystreeters announced against Los Gavilanes. Los Gavilanes. Then, Then, Los Rojos Los Rojos, who had no love for the Junior Falcons but who hated the Easystreeters, saw the opportunity once and for all to join a powerful ally and destroy the hated Easystreeters. Hollenbeck Division was plunged into a war that produced at least one gang incident every night, and made Serge more than ever want to transfer to Hollywood Division.

He had been getting used to Hollenbeck. It was a small division, and after a year, he was getting to know people. It helped being familiar with the regulars and when you saw someone like Marcial Tapia-who had been a burglar for over twenty years-when you saw him driving a pickup truck in the Flats (when he lived his entire life in Lincoln Heights) and the Flats was an area of commercial buildings, factories, and businesses, which were closed on weekends and it was five o'clock Sunday afternoon and all the businesses were closed-well then, you had better stop Marcial Tapia and check the contents of the truck bed which was covered with three barrels of trash and refuse. Serge had done this just three weeks before and found seven new portable television sets, an adding machine, and two typewriters beneath the pile of rubble. He had received a commendation for the arrest of Tapia, his second commendation since becoming a policeman. He had made an excellent arrest report detailing the probable cause for the arrest and search, telling how Tapia had committed a traffic violation which had caused him to stop the truck, and how he had observed the rabbit ear antenna protruding from the pile of trash. He also told how Tapia had appeared exceptionally nervous and evasive when questioned about the telltale antenna, and how when it was all added up he, being a reasonable and prudent man, with a year's experience as a police officer, believed there was something being concealed in the truck and this was how he told it in court, and it was, of course, all bulls.h.i.t. He had stopped Tapia only because he recognized him and knew his background and suspected what he was doing in the commercial area of the Flats on a Sunday afternoon.

It infuriated him that he had to lie, at least it used to infuriate him, but it soon came easy enough to him when he saw that if he stuck strictly to the truth he would probably lose more than half of his arrests which involved probable cause to stop and search, because the courts were not reasonable and prudent in their a.s.sessment of what was reasonable and prudent. So Serge had decided irrevocably several months ago that he would never lose another case that hinged on a word, innuendo, or interpretation of an action by a black-robed idealist who had never done police work. It wasn't that he was trying to protect the victims, he believed that if you did not enjoy taking an a.s.shole off the street, even if it's only for a little while, then you are in the wrong business.

"Why so quiet?" asked Milton, as he propped his elbow on the seat cushion and puffed his foul cigar, looking utterly content because they had just finished an enormous plate of chile verde, rice, and frijoles at a Mexican restaurant where Milton had been eating for eighteen years. He could eat his chile as hot as any Mexican after working Hollenbeck so long, and Raul Munoz, the owner, challenged Milton by serving them his special chile "not for gringo tastes." Milton had consumed the chile with a bland expression saying it was tasty but not hot enough. Serge however had drunk three strawberry sodas with his meal and had his water refilled twice. That had not quenched the fire and he had ordered a large gla.s.s of milk finally. His stomach was just now becoming normal.

"What the h.e.l.l. You never ate real Mexican food before?" asked Milton as Serge drove slowly through the dark summer night, enjoying the cool breeze which made the long-sleeved blue woolen uniform shirt bearable.

"I never ate that kind of green chile," said Serge, "you think it's safe to light a cigarette?"

"I think if I ever get married again, I'll marry a Mexicana Mexicana who can make that kind of chile verde that bites back," Milton sighed, blowing cigar smoke out the window. who can make that kind of chile verde that bites back," Milton sighed, blowing cigar smoke out the window.

Serge was Milton's regular partner this month and so far he could tolerate the overweight bl.u.s.tering old policeman. He thought that Milton liked him, even though he always called him a "d.a.m.n rookie" and sometimes treated him as though he had been on the Department fifteen days rather than fifteen months. But then, he once heard Milton call Simon a d.a.m.n rookie and Simon had eight years on the Department.

"Four-A-Eleven," said the Communications operator, "at eighteen-thirteen Brooklyn, see the woman, A.D.W. report."

Serge waited for Milton to roger the call, which of course was his job as pa.s.senger officer, but the old glutton was too comfortable, with one fat leg crossed over the other, a hand on his belly and a pleading look at Serge.

"Four-A-Eleven, roger," said Serge and Milton nodded his grat.i.tude at not having to move just yet.

"I think I'll trade you in for a police dog," said Serge, seeing by his watch that it was 9:45. Only three hours to go. It had been a quick evening, though uneventful for a Sat.u.r.day night.

"At least you can catch a number for me," said Serge to Milton, who had closed his eyes and leaned his head against the door post.

"Okay, Sergio, my boy, if you're going to nag me," said Milton, p.r.o.nouncing it Ser-jee-oh instead of with a soft throaty g in two syllables as it was meant to be p.r.o.nounced.

Milton shined the spotlight at the housefronts trying to read a number. Serge did not like to be called Sergio no matter how it was said. It was a name from his childhood and childhood was so far in the past that he could hardly remember. He had not seen his brother Angel nor his sister Aurora since Aurora's birthday dinner at Angel's house when he had brought presents to Aurora and all his nephews and nieces. He had been scolded by Aurora and Angel's wife Yolanda for coming by so seldom. But since his mother was gone he had little reason to return to Chino and he realized that when the memory of his mother would begin to fade, his visits would probably be no more than twice a year. But so far, his memories of her were still very vivid and it was difficult to understand because he had never thought of her so frequently when she lived. In fact, when he left her at eighteen to join the Marine Corps, he had intended never to live at home again, but to leave the bleak little neighborhood and go perhaps to Los Angeles. He had not at that time considered being a policeman. Then he thought of how she, like all Mexican mothers, called her sons mi hijo mi hijo and said it like one word which made it more intimate than "my son" in English. and said it like one word which made it more intimate than "my son" in English.

"Must be the gray house," said Milton. "That one. The one with the balcony. Jesus Christ, those timbers are rotten. I wouldn't walk on that balcony."

"With your weight I wouldn't walk on the First Street bridge," said Serge.

"G.o.dd.a.m.n rookies, no respect for senior partners anymore," said Milton as Serge parked the radio car.

The house sat on the edge of an alley and north of the alley was a commercial building, windowless on the south wall. The builder of the edifice had made the error of plastering the building with a coat of soft irresistible yellow paint. Serge guessed that the wall had not remained inviolate for two days after it was completed. This was a gang neighborhood, a Mexican gang neighborhood, and Mexican gang members were obsessed with a compulsion to make their mark on the world. Serge stopped for a moment, taking the last puff on his cigarette while Milton got his notebook and flashlight. Serge read the writing on the wall in black and red paint from spray cans which all gang members carried in their cars in case they would spot a windfall like this creamy yellow irresistible blank wall. There was a heart in red, three feet in diameter, which bore the names of "Ruben and Isabel" followed by "mi vida" "mi vida" and there was the huge declaration of an Easystreeter which said and there was the huge declaration of an Easystreeter which said "El Wimpy de los Easystreeters," "El Wimpy de los Easystreeters," and another one which said "Ruben and another one which said "Ruben de los Easystreeters," de los Easystreeters," but Ruben would not be outdone by Wimpy and the legend below his name said but Ruben would not be outdone by Wimpy and the legend below his name said "de los Easystreeters y del mundo," "de los Easystreeters y del mundo," and Serge smiled wryly as he thought of Ruben who claimed the world as his domain because Serge had yet to meet a gang member who had ever been outside Los Angeles County. There were other names of Junior Easystreeters and Peewee Easystreeters, dozens of them, and declarations of love and ferocity and the claims that this was the land of the Easystreeters. Of course at the bottom of the wall was the inevitable and Serge smiled wryly as he thought of Ruben who claimed the world as his domain because Serge had yet to meet a gang member who had ever been outside Los Angeles County. There were other names of Junior Easystreeters and Peewee Easystreeters, dozens of them, and declarations of love and ferocity and the claims that this was the land of the Easystreeters. Of course at the bottom of the wall was the inevitable "CON SAFOS," "CON SAFOS," the crucial gang incantation not to be found in any Spanish dictionary, which declared that none of the writing on this wall can ever be altered or despoiled by anything later written by the enemy. the crucial gang incantation not to be found in any Spanish dictionary, which declared that none of the writing on this wall can ever be altered or despoiled by anything later written by the enemy.

As Serge read, the disgust welled in him but it was interrupted by a blast of horns and a caravan of cars moving down State Street decorated with strings of pink and white paper carnations announcing a Mexican wedding. The men in the cars wore white dinner jackets and the girls chiffon dresses of blue. The bride of course wore white and a white veil which she wore pulled back as she kissed her new husband who Serge guessed could not be more than eighteen. The car directly behind the bride and groom's blasted the horn louder than the rest to sound approval at the prolonged kiss.

"In a few months we'll be called in to handle their family disputes," said Serge, grinding the cigarette out on the sidewalk.

"Think it'll take that long before he starts kicking the h.e.l.l out of her?" asked Milton.

"No, probably not," said Serge as they walked to the house.

"That's why I told the lieutenant if he had to stick me with a rookie, to give me that half-breed Mexican Sergio Duran," said Milton slapping Serge on the shoulder. "You may be short on experience, Sergio my boy, but you're as cynical as any twenty-year cop on the Department."

Serge did not correct Milton who had referred to him on another occasion as his half-caste partner. He had never claimed to be only half-Mexican, but the idea had spread somehow and Serge merely acquiesced by his silence when some overly inquisitive partner asked him if it were true his mother had been an Anglo which would certainly explain why he didn't speak Spanish and why he was such a big man and so fair. At first it had bothered him for someone to think his mother was other than what she had been, but d.a.m.n it, it was better this way he told himself. Otherwise, he would have been constantly plagued like Ruben Gonsalvez and the other Chicano cops with hundreds of duties involving translation. And it was true, it was utterly true that he no longer spoke the language. Certainly he understood things that were said, but he had to concentrate fully to understand a conversation and it was not worth the effort to him. And he forgot the words. He could not answer even if he did understand a little. So it was better this way. Even with a name like Sergio Duran you could not be expected to speak Spanish if your mother was not Mexican.

"Hope this G.o.dd.a.m.n balcony doesn't cave in while we're in the pad," said Milton, flipping the remains of his wet cigar in the alley as they knocked on the screen door.

Two little boys came to the door and held it open silently.

"Is Mama home?" asked Milton, tapping the shorter one under the chin.