WHITE

by Neal Arbic

  Leaning against the doorframe, Jack cleared his throat. “You seen Officer Hicks?”

  Waylon raised a single suspicious eyebrow. “Why you wanna know?”

  “Has he been down here or not?”

  Waylon went back to his newspaper, grinning. “Haven’t seen him in a coon’s age.”

  “Heard he put a gun to your head. You called him Officer Nappy to his face, until he broke, huh?”

  “That’s what you think. Hell, you gotta get a better informant.”

  “Yeah?”

  Waylon looked over his paper. “The full story is the kid was tailing my boys in Watts, when he should have been patrolling the streets.”

  Jack came off the doorframe. “Your boys have been having a pretty good time shooting unarmed black men. How many this year?”

  Waylon tossed the paper aside. “Those officers were acting in self-defense!”

  Jack switched up. “Who’s Delware’s buddy down here?”

  Waylon laughed. “Shit, he ain’t got no friends! And for the record Jack, he called for back up and none came. That’s why he put the gun to my head, ‘cause he blamed me. But no one came ‘cause no one cares. That coon don’t know his place. And he’d better stay wherever he is, ‘cause if he comes back down here - he’s dead. One way or another.”

  Waylon grabbed his newspaper, shook it straight. “That boy is just obsolete farm machinery to me.”

  Jack walked away, glanced around the muster room, squad room, change rooms and left.

  He found a small bench in the main hall, lit a cigar, but didn’t enjoy it. Jack kept looking at the main doors. He needed a partner, someone who could understand hippie culture, and now he understood why he had gotten Delware so easily - no one wanted him. He wanted a drink, and then, got angry at himself for it. Jack snubbed out his cigar.

  Taking off his hat, he slowly shuffled his fingers along its brim. Like a clock, the hat made its way around again and again.

  Behind the massive watch desk young officers logged in prisoners and checked arrest reports. To Jack, they looked like schoolboys in school uniforms. Back in the day, everyone knew him, but to these kids he was just a leftover cop from another decade. If he had played it straight, who knows, maybe he could have been Chief of Police. But instead he gave the LAPD the finest crime stats in America - by rigging crime scenes, destroying files, beating confessions and arranging accidents for criminals who got lucky with judge and jury.

  Jack glanced at the door. No Delware. His hat stopped. He placed it back on his head and left. The kid was gone and he wouldn’t get another, especially once Pat found out why.

  Stepping out into bright sunshine, he stood by the main door and lit another cigar. “Fuck this, fuck Delware.”

  Heading back to his car, he saw an afro in the Packard. Jack tossed the cigar with a mixture of relief and pity. Poor kid had nowhere to go and it was either up or out.

  Jack walked slowly, keeping his eyes on Delware.

  In the car Jack found Delware looking away from him, then in a single motion he flicked open a switchblade and placed it squarely between Jack’s legs.

  Jack looked down at the gleaming blade. “Nice, kid. You got the drop on me, in my own car, right outside City Hall. You got some balls.”

  Delware spoke softly, so people on the sunny sidewalk would just see a normal conversation. Only Jack saw Delware’s eyes. They were looking at a dead man. “And you won’t have any left soon.”

  Jack smiled at the knife. It was normal life that made Jack uneasy, danger had a calming effect, gave him a focus: get out of the situation. This calm had saved his life countless times. Others panicked, impulsively acted - leaving the potential killer no choice, but to strike. Jack knew if someone wanted you dead, they just killed you. If they didn’t, they wanted something. All you needed to do was understand. The only rule: stand your ground. Never let them take you to where no one can find you.

  Taking his eyes off the blade, Jack looked into Delware’s eyes. “Did I ever tell you about the Middleton Curse? My father was shot in the line of duty, responding to a liquor store break-in. My grandfather was shot in the back, just outside the police station. Both my dad and grandfather were buried in their uniforms.”

  Delware shoved the blade into Jack’s trousers and Jack felt a breeze from the tear. “I seen the way you drive, old man, and how you treat me, so I know you sure as hell don’t care if you live or die. But I know you don’t want to walk around with balls in your pants. Listen mothafucka, I was planning on knifing you right here and taking a bus down to Mexico.”

  Staring into Delware’s eyes, Jack could see he wasn’t lying. “OK, kid, but you’ve got a helluva lot more brains than that. So let’s hear Plan B.”

  Delware shoved the blade deeper, piercing Jack’s boxers and pricking his scrotum. Jack’s hips jumped back.

  Delware sneered. “You listen: no one disrespects me, especially not you, you drunken hillbilly. You cannot imagine the amount of white man bullshit I’ve had to go through to get here! And I’m here to stay, so let’s get this straight: I ain’t no quitter!” His panther-like eyes locked on Jack’s. “You may be incapable of relating to people outside of your interrogation skills…” He whispered fiercely, “Fine! But you EVER lay your honky hands on me again I’ll castrate you!”

  Jack nodded. “OK, kid.”

  “A black man don’t come this far by being stupid. I want to see those files! I want to know everything you do.” Delware pushed the blade and its prick made Jack sit up STRAIGHT. “Get me in that office.”

  “OK, kid! You’ve made your point. Just gimme time to come up with a plan. You’ll get a crack at this case.”

  Delware searched for deceit in Jack’s eyes, but found none. Folding the blade back into its handle, he turned his head, unable to look at Jack a moment longer.

  Jack resisted the urge to pull his gun and beat the shit out of the kid. He was sober. Too sober. Besides, the whole point of Delware getting the draw on him was to humiliate and even the score. Jack owed the kid that much; he couldn’t deny it. He reached for his flask and remembered he had purposely left it at home.

  After inspecting the new hole in his pants, Jack thought about saying sorry, but knew that word would never cross his lips. He turned away, staring off into the distance. “Kid.”

  Delware would not look at him.

  Jack spoke soft. “My dad…sometimes, he’d take me to the airfield. When I got old enough he taught me to fly.

  “When he died, I kept flying. The Japs attacked Pearl Harbor and the Air Force needed pilots. I got in right away. I flew missions - dropped the 101st over Normandy, later over Holland. The war was almost over when I went on my last mission...there were all these wounded men on board. We flew into flack. It was popping all around us. Smashed the windshield on one side...I looked over at my co-pilot…” Jack smiled. “We used to call him Bullets, ‘cause he wore bullet belts across his chest like a cowboy. He was a real joker. Well, I got some Kraut shrapnel in my leg, but Bullets got all torn up. I mean shredded, his guts fell out…like that girl.

  “The engine was hit so bad it took us four hours to get back to base. That whole time, he was screaming, moaning, crying. Strapped in, he wasn’t sitting any farther from me than you are now. He died as I landed.”

  Jack was silent for a long time.

  “He begged me to shoot him, you know? Begged for hours, but I couldn’t. The gun was out of reach and I couldn’t let go of the controls. There was no auto-pilot back then. I had to fly that plane every second or, in the condition it was in, it would have gone down. Those wounded men would have died, we all would have…if I let go.

  “So I sat there. Beside my best friend, and I listened to him die – for hours.”

  Delware turned and studied Jack’s face in the morning sun.

  Jack looked away. “I never flew again. I was carried to the hospital. He was carried to the morgue. The war ended a few weeks later, before I even got out of the
hospital.

  “Sometimes when I hear a plane, I think of Bullets. I’ve never been back to an airfield.”

  Jack turned to Delware. “Kid, this is your job. Your duty. You got to understand…if you let go of the controls, if you look away, even for a second, more people could die.”

  Friday, August 22nd, 1969, 5:45 PM

  The glowing jukebox cranked Johnny Cash’s Ring of Fire. The LAPD dayshift was out of blues and filing into O’Malley’s Pub, a dive crammed with tiny tables and overflowing ashtrays. Off-duty officers yakked it up by the pool tables and ordered draft over the long polished counter. Pat Boyle sat at the mahogany bar on his favorite stool - just one of the boys.

  He looked up from his beer through the smoky air and saw in the bar mirror Jack wading through the crowd, avoiding fiery cigarettes and teeming beer mugs.

  Pat swiveled on his stool. “What the hell are you doing in this stinking joint?” Pat waved at the bartender. “Danny, two beers and two double scotch!”

  Jack sat beside him and hollered, “And I’ll have the same!”

  Pat laughed. “Jesus, Mary and Joseph! The world must be coming to an end.” He guzzled the rest of his beer. “When Martha was alive you’d stay out all night. But now, you go home right from the office, and never drink with anyone.”

  Jack pulled a cigar from his jacket. “Guess, I’m trying to make it up to her. Not leave her alone so much.”

  Pat raised an eyebrow. “Jack, she’s not at home anymore.”

  Jack lit the cigar and frowned through the smoke. “She is to me.”

  Pat pondered his friend, then sighed, staring down at his empty mug. “I know what you mean. When Lilly died…I made her a spice rack. She was always nagging me to make one for her. I told her I would, so she waited and waited. You know, I don’t know if I really meant to build it or not. But when she passed-” He crossed himself. “God bless her. I built the damn thing - hung it right over the stove too. Still sitting there, empty.” Pat pushed away his empty mug. “I don’t cook, never been any good at women’s work.”

  Jack half-smiled, lost in his own thoughts. Pat examined his friend’s expression. “So, how’s the colored kid working out?”

  “Delware? It’s been a week of hell. And goddamn, he’s a touchy sumbitch – this ‘black’ horseshit. I try to be polite: call him a Negro and he starts yelling.” Jack did an angry Delware impression, “I’m a man! I ain’t your nigga’ and I ain’t nobody’s Negro. I’m black and proud, mothafucka!”

  Pat forced a laugh and shook his head. The LAPD was struggling to put on a new face amidst controversial racial shootings. Now, here was a senior detective doing public Negro impressions for laughs. Pat was caught between official policy and reality.

  Trying to steer the conversation, Pat leaned in. “Hey, remember when we were the only two Irish guys on the force? They treated us like dogs.”

  Jack nodded.

  Pat pretended not to remember, “What was that joke Captain Wylie used to make?”

  “Why did God create alcohol?” Jack grinned, “To keep the Irish from ruling the world.”

  Pat laughed. “Remember that night we were pinned down by those strikers throwing bricks? What did he call the bricks again?”

  Jack laughed, “Irish confetti.”

  The drinks arrived: four beers and four double-scotches. Pat slipped the bartender a few bills and handed Jack a shot glass. “It’s on me.”

  Jack hadn’t had a drink all day. He smiled at his glass.

  Pat raised his. “Bombs away!”

  Both men upended their shot glasses. Jack banged his glass on the bar and frowned.

  Pat caught the expression. “What?”

  Jack took a moment to brace himself for what he was about to say. “I need help.”

  Pat fell silent.

  “I’m in trouble, Patty. I got evidence, a good hunch…”

  Pat snapped out of it. “What’s the problem?”

  “It’s like there’s a big white wall in front of me. There’s nothing on it. It’s just blank. But all I need to know is just on the other side.” Jack pulled a paper from his jacket and unfolded it on the bar. “Delware typed up the lyrics to this song: Piggies. Look at that, will ya.” He slipped the page along the bar.

  Pat slipped on a pair of reading glasses and read it through. He put it down on the bar. “It’s about us, right? Cops. We’re the pigs. Says we need a whacking, mob slang for killing, but how does this fit in with the murder of a pregnant starlet? None of the victims were cops. It doesn’t make sense. Shouldn’t they have killed a cop?”

  Jack nodded. “I know. I’ve been pouring over these and other lyrics from the album. I see bits and pieces, but they don’t fit, don’t form a picture that could be our psycho’s plan.” He slumped over his drink. “I got a big fat zero.”

  “What does Delware think?”

  “Thinks I’m maniac, leading him on a wild goose chase.” Jack drew closer. “I feel this sumbitch, Patty. He’s a hippie. I know it. He’s not far, but these kids - they live in another world, speak another language. All I need is a glimpse of how they see, then I’ll bring him in, I know it. I know it!” Jack clenched his fist. “He’s following some kind of map. Psychos always do. It’s right in front of us, Patty!”

  Pat knew Jack’s hunch was nonsense from the start, but wanted to be gentle now.AYou still think it’s a psycho?”

  Jack nodded. “I was wrong about Delware. He’s got connections with hippies all over town, but with every question to him, or his informants, all I get is stupid looks.” Jack eyed himself in the mirror behind the bar. “He took me to a record store - showed me a poster right up on the wall. The Beatles - four guys with long, long hair. Looked like a bunch of women. The most faggy goddamned thing you could ever imagine.@

  Pat gave a bitter laugh. “It’s a different world, Jack. I remember the draft for World War II. I knew a guy who got a 4F and committed suicide because he couldn’t join the fight. Today…kids dodge their duty, burn their draft cards and the American flag.”

  “I can’t believe what’s happened to our country. It’s all gone to hell.” Jack lit a cigar. “Marijuana used to be for homos and jazz musicians, now, teenage girls smoke it in public parks.”

  Pat smiled wistfully. “Remember you’d have to wine and dine a dame to get a crummy kiss goodnight?”

  Jack started to boil. “Girls today run around - no bra, no panties. We used to take pride in a nice new suit, not these kids. They wear rags and they’re proud of ‘em. Sodomy and porn use to be illegal! Goddamn Supreme Court! And their Miranda Rights! It’s like no one’s on the side of law and order no more!”

  Pat contemplated his beer. “It’s the world today - civil rights.”

  Jack downed his last scotch. “God! I hate that snotty Dirk.”

  Pat poured beer down his throat until his mug was empty. Catching his breath, he felt drunk enough to say it. “Jack, this damn Dirk thing. Why are you taking it so personal? I mean, kid thinks he knows everything ‘cause he’s been on a long lucky streak. But he’s hitting dead ends too since all the prints came up empty. But Jack, you’re trying to beat him. Didn’t we use to laugh at the old timers trying to make their last big case? Well, you’re making this your ‘last big case.’ That’s your mistake: skipping the small steps. You want to go out with a bang. Jack, your whole theory just feels like…a stab in the dark.”

  Jack gave a small frown, thought about it and yelled at the bartender, “Another scotch over here!”

  Jack turned to his friend. “So what odds are you giving me?”

  Pat seesawed his hand. “These victims were rich and famous.” He shook his head. “Psycho killers are rare. They choose loners for victims, people no one will miss. And lure them off the street. I give you - twenty to one - that you found the first serial killer in all of history that picks celebrity victims the whole world will miss…and makes house calls.”

  Jack’s scotch arrived.

  Pat turn
ed back to the bar. “Dirk’s even money. I don’t have to tell you, Jack. Killers usually know their victims.”

  Jack stared at the amber liquid in his glass and sneered. “That kid, Dirk - thinks he’s a real detective. It’s beginner’s luck, Patty. He’s not a real dick.”

  Jack picked up his glass, swirled the scotch and tossed it down his throat.

  Pat thought of Dirk’s rise in the Department. Jack was right, he didn’t fit in. He wasn’t a Bureau boy yet. He’d been too lucky. Pat fingered his empty mug and let the words slip out. “I know what you mean, he needs a Gwynette Sanders.”

  The juke box played; the younger detectives laughed it up over a dirty joke. But for a moment, Jack and Pat were somewhere else. First, to an alleyway they had walked twenty-three years ago. Once again the two detectives were young and at their feet was the body of an eight-year-old black girl laid out on the pavement, a drizzle of soft rain beading on her forehead. Her eyes closed, as if she were merely asleep.