by Neal Arbic
The hippie turned and now stood his ground.
Jack shouted at him, “Don’t worry. Officer Hicks is one of you - a hippie dippy peace lover!”
The man glanced at Delware, then walked on. Delware followed, uninvited.
Jack leaned back on his car and surveyed the commune. He already felt the sand in his shoes and dust in his jacket. He side-glanced the two tall hippies with disgust. “How can you live like this?”
***
The blond hippie looked back at Delware. “I’ve never seen a black detective.”
“I’m not one yet.”
“We have lots of brothers living here, why you here?”
“We just want to talk to Mr. Benton, that’s all.”
“You from Narcotics?”
“No, man, it’s homicide.”
The hippie turned, stunned.
***
Jack still leaned back on the Packard, eyeing the hippies like unwanted foreigners invading his beloved America.
Delware reappeared, waving. “Jack, this way!”
They came along the side of the ranch house to an ill-fitted screen door. Delware entered, Jack paused. Delware popped his head out. “You coming?”
Jack pointed to a field of marijuana in the back of the ranch house. “Look at that.”
The tall, leafy plants swayed in the breeze. Delware stepped out, surveying the field. Dark soil had been brought in. It looked well-tended and watered. Delware admired the hard work, but shrugged his shoulders. “I’ve seen bigger.”
They entered a dim room with a Christian Cross on one wall and a goat's head in a pentagram on the opposite. A round altar was in the centre, candles arranged to point to the four cardinal directions. Meditation cushions circled the altar. Frankincense burned somewhere in the room. Against another wall leaned three acoustic guitars and a sitar, but Jack’s eyes fell on a balding man with long gray hair sitting crossed-legged.
Jack gave the man a snide smile that barely lifted the corners of his mouth. “You Mr. Benton?”
The old man smiled peaceful with shining eyes. “Yes.”
“I have a message for you. It’s from God: stop fucking around and set a better example for these young people.”
Jack turned and walked out. Delware looked after him, mystified.
He caught up to Jack outside. “What the fuck?”
Jack turned. “He’s not our guy. This isn’t the group we’re looking for.” He eyed the field of marijuana.
“How do you know?”
“I just do. Years of experience, kid…they save you from wasting your time with horseshit that goes nowhere. I’ll know our guy the moment I see him.”
“How?”
“Like I said, he’ll call me ‘pig.’”
Delware rolled his eyes.
They popped back into the Packard.
Jack looked back at the ranch house. “That’s a lot of hop back there.”
“It’s called pot now.”
They sat for a silent moment. Jack looked around. “This desert is a snake pit. Nothing good could ever come out of it.” He turned to Delware. “Well, are you going to bust these guys for that crop of marijuana or not?”
Delware looked around the commune: mothers chasing toddlers, guys playing guitars. He looked back at Jack. “No, man.”
“I thought you were a narcotics officer?”
“They’re not hurting anyone.”
“They’re growing hop!”
“They’re not trafficking, Jack. There’s barely enough for themselves, I’m sure.”
“They’re breaking the law!”
Delware rolled his eyes, then watched Jack pull out his flask.
Jack took a swig. “We just going to let ‘em roll?”
“Yeah, Jack. We are.”
The old man gave him a sour sneer. “I thought you were real police.”
“What the fuck? Jack, I thought you wanted to stay focused.”
“I don’t like these people.”
“Well, I don’t want to bust them. I told you, that’s why I got out of Narcotics. You want to collar them ‘cause they’ve got long hair! Fuck that!”
Jack stared angrily at Delware.
“Jack! You let Owsley Stanley walk with a table full of LSD in front of him, but you want me to bust these people for growing their own?”
Jack’s face turned red. “That was different! His friend was your informant, so we gave him a helluva pass. But we need nothing from these fuckers. And I don’t like their fuckin’ attitude. Looking down at me! I’M THE FUCKIN’ LAW!”
Delware glared at him. “Jack! You’re going to bust these guys for getting high while you drink out of that.” He pointed to the flask. “That’s some hypocrite bullshit! You can get drop dead drunk, but they can’t mellow out on a little pot?” Delware looked out the window and threw up his hands. “That’s bullshit!”
Jack’s face was scarlet and his eyes murderous and black. “Let me remind you that I’m your senior officer. So I’m not asking you, I’m telling you! They’re hopheads! And this is America! NOT SOME ASIAN PORT, F’CHRISTSAKES!!! Now…are you a cop? Are you even a man? You got a set of balls in those pants or a pussy?!”
Delware kicked his door open, walked up to a shirtless long hair in ripped jeans. “Empty your pockets!”
“Ah, man.”
Delware took a threatening step towards the man. “Do it, or I’ll bust your head open!” He threw the man up against the trunk of the car. “Hands where I can see them!”
Jack craned his neck. Delware jammed his hands deep into the hippie’s pockets and pulled out three joints.
Jack got out of the car and came back. “Now that’s more like it.”
Delware looked at Jack with hateful eyes. “OK! He’s holding – that’s enough to arrest and put this guy behind bars!”
A woman came up with a baby in her arms, screaming, “Leave him alone!”
Other hippies gathered around the car muttering angrily.
Jack pulled his gun. “Stand back!”
The crowd started shouting. Jack fired a shot into the air. They jumped and cowered.
Delware walked up to another hippie and pulled him out of the crowd, pointing to his pocket. “What’s that?”
The hippie shrugged.
Delware yanked the guy’s arm. “In your pocket!”
“It’s just a lighter, man!”
“Give it to me!”
The shaking hippie handed Delware a silver lighter.
Delware walked back to Jack and stared at him with burning eyes. He popped one of the joints in his mouth and lit it. Delware puffed on the joint and blew the marijuana smoke into Jack’s face.
Jack squinted and pulled back. “What the fuck are you doing?”
“This is what you’re doing, Jack! On duty! Every time you take a sip from that thing.” Delware pointed to Jack’s flask on the driver’s seat. “It’s no fuckin’ different, Jack. Pot isn’t damn heroin or fuckin’ cocaine. It’s the same thing you’re doing!”
The hippies’ jaws dropped.
A genuine smile crept across Jack’s face. He grabbed the joint from Delware’s lips and threw it down on the ground. Stomping it out, he laughed. “OK. Fuck this place. You know, Delware, you’re one angry sumbitch - once you get to know you. Now partner, get back into the car, will ya.”
Delware threw the lighter into the dirt and pulled the hippie off the back of the car. “Get lost!”
Delware popped back in the car. “Am I stoned, or did you just call me ‘partner?’”
Jack did a troubled double take. “Did I?”
***
Jack drove away with amused eyes. He had enjoyed Delware’s rant.
Delware couldn’t take it anymore. “Why you so happy?”
“You.”
“What?”
“You did it, kid, with this communist thing.”
“You mean commune.”
“Yeah, whatever, but that’s exactly what I was
talking about. I can see it now.” Jack’s eyes glowed as he contemplated the scenario. “A fuckin’ hippie commune, all cut off from everything. Off the grid, no one knows what they’re up too. No one’s watching for miles. This is where some real horseshit could happen.”
“Jack, they’re here to get away from society.”
“Yeah, but that’s just it. To you hippies it’s a commune. But to a criminal psychopath…it’s a hide out.” Jack nodded to himself. “It’s a perfect disguise too. They all looked up to that old guy. This is exactly what we’re looking for. That’s who did it. Some psycho grows his hair, makes like a holy man, plays jailhouse mind games on some drugged up kids…and all sort of unlawful shit happens. You see that back there? That’s not our guy, but he’s close: a cult leader. Add a few dimwit followers, some unstable personalities, junkies, and what do you got?” He flashed a grin at Delware. “A nest full of vipers.”
Monday, September 15th, 1969, 10:27 AM Thursday,
Barreling down Temple, the Packard weaved between cars. It was another day of commune hunting; they hoped to squeeze in three, maybe four. Without warning, Jack slammed the brakes. The commune files flew off Delware’s lap. The Packard skidded to a stop. A two-tone Plymouth Dart behind them jammed its brakes, but couldn’t stop. Its tires squealed and smoked. Jack whipped his head around. Delware braced the dashboard.
The Plymouth hit the Packard hard, bumping it more than a few feet. They could hear the front end of the Plymouth crunch and saw the hood pop up. Steam rose from the now exposed engine. The re-enforced Packard and the new bumper looked fine.
Delware turned to Jack. “You just got that bumper replaced an hour ago! You got to stop doing that! Maybe in your day when you drove a horse and buggy -”
Jack protested, “What?! We’re fine!”
Curses could be heard from the Plymouth.
Delware glanced back.
Jack kept his eyes on Delware. “What’s the date?”
Delware stared at Jack dumbfounded.
Jack asked, “It’s the 15th, right?”
“Yeah, so what?!”
“We got to do something first, before any communes.”
The driver of the Plymouth appeared in Jack’s window, red faced and perspiring. “What the hell are you doing, stopping in the middle of the street like that?!”
Jack looked up at him. “Police business. Step back from the car.”
“Police! I want your badge number!”
“Step back from the car!”
“I want to see your badge!”
Jack pulled his gun and pointed. “This is my badge.”
The man stepped back. The look in Jack’s eyes made him brake into a run, leaving his car parked half way up the Packard’s brand new bumper.
Purposely pulling forward slowly, tearing the bumper off of the Plymouth, Jack laughed to himself.
***
Jack took the Harbor Freeway to Century Boulevard. After the ramp, they passed a row of cheap motels infested with hookers and dope fiends. Deeper into the heart of the ghetto the storefronts became rattier: faded homemade signs, dust covered windows, layers of peeling paint. They passed Delware’s old all-black school where weeds grew up from the cracks in the pavement. Boarded up windows dotted the homes. Abandoned stripped cars appeared roadside and graffiti covered walls lined with dented garbage cans. Delware looked over at Jack. “Why the hell are we in Watts?”
“I have to do something.” He pulled the car over and nosed into an alleyway at 103rd and Compton. “I’ll be a minute.”
Delware watched Jack walk down the alley. He stood over one spot looking at the pavement, solemn as if in a church.
Minutes passed. Just when a bewildered Delware was about to get out of the car, around the corner came an elderly black woman in her Sunday best: a flowered dress, an old style Jacoll hat with fresh lilies and pin, holding a small bouquet of daisies. She stopped when she saw Jack. Jack’s eyes were still on the ground. Approaching, she lightly touched his shoulder. He turned to her. Their hands instinctually touched and they stood holding hands looking at the pavement.
Delware’s jaw dropped.
Saying nothing, doing nothing, they looked down. Then the black woman knelt and placed the daisies on the pavement – a tear in her eye. When she rose the two faced each other. The woman gave a weak smile and they shared a few words. She turned to go, but then turned back and gave Jack a light kiss on the cheek. Jack watched her walk away down the alley and around the corner. He looked at the flowers and then walked back to the car.
As Jack entered, Delware demanded, “What was that?”
Jack didn’t reply. He started the car and backed out of the alley, absorbed in thought.
“Jack, are you going to explain?”
“One day.”
The streets of Watts passed through Jack’s eyes. Delware sat thinking about the closed door in Jack’s house. How many secrets did Jack have?
Thursday, September 25th, 1969, 3:41 PM
It had been a long haul: two weeks of dusty communes and dirty hippies that turned up nothing. What felt like a break in the case had stalled into another dead end. A hundred and fifty files meant a hundred and fifty communes and a thousand suspects. Jack started an on-the-job bender and turned nasty. For two days, Delware drove the Packard, taking the angry drunk home and picking him up in the morning. Jack’s living room was full of files: some organized, some scattered. Pages were food stained and scotch scented. Jack smuggled burglary files out of the station so he could read them as Delware drove. The back seat was full of them.
Delware watched and waited, playing nursemaid like he had to his own father. He had watched his father spiral down to nothing but bad habits. It wasn’t lost on him, this instant replay. Strangely, it made him feel closer to Jack and reinforced a sentiment he had with his dad: old men should be careful about what they choose to remember.
They were coming back from another dead end when Delware hit Sixth and Figueroa. Jack demanded Delware pulled over.
Jack stumbled out. “Wait here.”
He weaved up the sidewalk towards Mickey's Irish Pub, a few files under his arm. Delware waited ten minutes, then peeped into the big front window. Jack was slumped over the bar ordering straight scotches and downing them in single gulps. Between shots, he poured over files. Delware hit a grocery store across the street and grabbed a coke. When he got out he saw Jack at the car pulling more files out of the back seat and weaving his way back to the bar. He could hear Jack cursing from across the street.
Delware shook his head. “Drunken fool.”
He seriously considered calling Pat to get Jack off the street – the old man was edging beyond belligerent - but decided he’d wait for Jack to pass out and just drive him home.
An hour later, Jack emerged from the bar more beast than man, angry and barely standing. Down the street he saw Delware leaning against the Packard, smiling at a white woman. The blond hippie chick stood way too close. The body language said it all. They were flirting. Through his drunken haze Jack watched her give Delware playful slaps as they chatted. Jack started to shake. He could feel the heat coming up the back of his neck, his hands balling into fists. The girl took Delware’s hand and interlaced her fingers with his. Black fingers entwined in white. Jack’s eyes saw red.
Delware gave his female admirer a brief kiss.
Jack stormed towards them. “Get the hell away from her!”
Delware, caught off guard, failed to react. The girl stepped back. Jack pushed Delware hard, upended him over the hood. “What do you think this is! Who do you think you are?!”
The girl screamed. Jack fumbled for his gun. People down the street stopped and stared. Delware jumped to his feet.
Jack pulled out his .38, walked out into the middle of the street and shoved the nozzle into Delware’s forehead. “Don’t you dare touch her!”
The girl ran screaming. Cars slowed, drivers rubber necked. In a single swift motion, Delware pulle
d his service revolver and aimed it square at Jack’s forehead. “Don’t tell me what I can and cannot do, old man!”
“Fuck you!”
“Fuck you!”