"Okay, I dived. What the fuck else can I do?" Spermwhale Whalen challenged. "Want some aerobatics? Might as well spread all this vomit around."
"Buzz that golf course one more time," the exultant navigator commanded, while both Whaddayamean Dean and Calvin moaned and rolled their heads and craved sweet cool air.
"Where is it?" asked Spermwhale.
"Jesus Christ, Spermwhale, it's green, ain't it? Just go straight ahead only down lower. We can't miss something that big!"
But they could. They just missed the mountains, barely. Spermwhale obeyed the navigator and dived down toward the golf course again, though he was starting to come to his senses from the concentrated effort of flying. He was beginning to realize that someone might not like Francis' little prank of landing on a golf course, claiming it for the Cahuilla Tribe. He was flying so low he made Calvin Potts scream in terror when he got over the golf course and Francis flapped the windows open and threw the empty gin bottle which shattered on the patio of the clubhouse, ending the attack on Palm Springs Indian land.
Ten minutes later, Spermwhale Whalen was heading in the general direction of Los Angeles, starting to think of mundane things like whether or not they would be arrested upon landing at Burbank. But within an hour he had stopped worrying about being arrested at Burbank. Night had fallen and brought with it dense fog, and he was glancing at his fuel gauge and wondering why he could not see the Burbank Airport. For the first time that day he made the concession of turning on his radio and he said to the other choirboys, "You guys see anything through all this soup? I mean in the last five minutes or so?"
"I saw somethin about fifteen minutes ago," Calvin Potts said, the only one of the passengers sober enough and frightened enough to be completely awake. "I saw a string a lights."
"Whaddaya mean lights? Whaddaya mean?" asked Spermwhale. "Jesus, I'm startin to sound like Dean."
"Well, it looked like a ribbon a lights. Coulda been street lights or headlights."
"Headlights?" murmured Spermwhale, straining his eyes but seeing nothing below them. Nothing but fog and darkness. "Hold on, I'm goin down."
"Down, you're goin down?" yelled Calvin Potts.
"Who's going down?" Francis asked, waking with a smile.
"Ora Lee?"
"You sober now?" Calvin asked. "You're gettin sober, ain't you, Spermwhale?"
"Yeah, I'm gettin. Oh, mother! Oh, mother! I think I know where we are!"
"I see somethin. I see somethin," said Calvin Potts when they were at a hundred feet.
"What is it? What the fuck is it?" Francis demanded, awake and sober enough to share Calvin's sweaty terror.
"The ocean!" yelled the horrified choirboy. "That's the fuckin ocean down there! Oh, Lord!"
"The ocean!" screamed Francis.
"The ocean! The ocean! Which ocean?" yelled Whaddayameah Dean, waking from his deep alcoholic sleep.
"Keep the fuck off my back, Calvin," shouted Spermwhale, shoving Calvin back and making the black policeman jump on Francis' back instead.
"We gonna go down, Spermwhale? We gonna go down?" Francis croaked, unaware that Calvin was choking him.
"We ain't goin nowhere but back to Burbank. Now shut the fuck up!" Spermwhale yelled.
But he looked at his fuel gauge and believed deep in his heart that this was his last flight. He hoped that somehow he could get in close to the coast when he was forced to put her down in the water, probably killing them all on impact. But he still flew as calmly as he had flown into Ontario Airport that morning.
"I see it! I see it!" shouted Calvin suddenly. "The ribbon a light!"
"Okay, that's the coast highway," Spermwhale said, sighing imperceptibly. "Santa Monica Airport's probably really socked in." He turned on his Burbank VOR, watched the dial and said, "Come on needle, come on needle."
Then he took the plane up over the Santa Monica mountains, and ten minutes later with less than two gallons of gasoline in each tank the choirboys landed at Burbank Airport, dragged Whaddayamean Dean out of the plane and drove home together.
"That old bastard ain't got a nerve in his body. He ain't afraid a nothin," Calvin said to Francis Tanaguchi the next night on patrol.
"Nobody got our airplane numbers?"
"Guess not. Nothin's happened," said Calvin.
"Outta sight!" cried Francis Tanaguchi, shaking his black hair off his thin little face, as he started making airplane noises behind the wheel of the radio car, pretending he was Spermwhale Whalen flying a fearless mission into downtown Palm Springs. "Too much!" Francis exclaimed, now that he had a real hero. "I just gotta see Spermwhale and Carolina Moon in a lewd movie if I have to produce it myself!"
And at the next choir practice, Francis tried to convince her that she should star with Spermwhale Whalen in the dirty movie he was going to produce. Spermwhale said okay, but next year after he had his twenty years' service, and a pension locked up. Carolina Moon said she wasn't that kind of a girl. Spermwhale was joking when he mentioned another mission like the Palm Springs raid to Baxter Slate on the night Baxter killed the ordinary guy, but Baxter Slate, not knowing the full extent of their terror that night over the dark lonely water, wondered if he meant it. Baxter was about to ask him if he was serious when they received a radio call to meet the officers at Ninth Street and Hudson.
Baxter drove easily to the location since there was no code on the call and met Sergeant Nick Yanov and 7-A-33. Spencer Van Moot was laughing while Father Willie stood glumly, hands in the pockets of his uniform pants, pushing out his gun on one side and baton on the other, making him look shorter and chubbier than he was.
When they got out of the car Spencer said to Baxter, "Ever hear of somebody lipping off to you?" And he held up a clean mayonnaise jar which contained a ragged pink object something like a sliver of veal."
"It's a piece of a woman's lip." Father Willie grimaced while Spencer Van Moot laughed uproariously.
"There was a fight here half an hour ago," Sergeant Yanov explained, "Two neighborhood women got in a hassle over the husband of one of them. There was kicking and gouging and biting and one broad ran home with her eyeball half torn out. When she recovered from the shock fifteen minutes later she found her neighbor's lip in her mouth. She must've bit off half of it. At least it looks like a lip."
Baxter Slate examined the raw meat in the jar and said, "It's a lip."
"The lipless lady, Mrs. Dooley, was taken to the hospital by a friend," Nick Yanov said. "So we're gonna take the biter on down to the hospital for an MT too. After that, we'll bring them both to the dick's bureau. Meantime, how about taking the lip in and seeing if they have to book it in any special way to preserve it. I really don't know. I never had a lip to take care of before."
So Baxter and Spermwhale drove part of Mrs. Dooley to the detective bureau in Wilshire Station while Spencer and Father, Willie located the rest of her at Daniel Freeman Hospital. The detective just smiled when Baxter showed him the lip and said it would require no special handling because undoubtedly both ladies would make up before the case ever went to trial and it would be dismissed in the interest of justice after four court continuances.
When Spencer Van Moot and Father Willie found the rest of Mrs. Dooley at the emergency ward and arrested her for mayhem, she objected and they had a row with her. She had to be handcuffed and Spencer received a handcuff cut on the finger, a common injury for policemen who wrestle with slippery arms and sharp steel ratchets. The cut was not deep enough to require sutures and Spencer sat on a stool in the same emergency ward, no longer weak from laughing at the lip in the jar but from seeing his blood running down his hand.
He was white and dizzy when the crusty old nurse applied disinfectant and a butterfly bandage to the one inch wound. Father Willie helped support him on the right side while Spencer stood shakily. He was too nauseated to get mad when the nurse said, "Why don't you bite a bullet?"
When Baxter Slate and Spermwhale left Wilshire Station without Mrs. Dooley's lip,
Baxter turned south on La Brea, causing Spermwhale to ask, "Where we goin, kid? Our area's east."
"Just felt like driving around the ghetto for a while," Baxter smiled. The slim policeman had an extraordinarily wide mouth which made his smile infectious and convincing even when he didn't mean it. And he didn't mean it now.
"Suit yourself," Spermwhale shrugged. "I just wanna take it easy tonight."
Suddenly Baxter said: "You know what I think is the best a cop can hope for?"
"Tell me, professor."
"The very best, most optimistic hope we can cling to is that we're the birds who ride the rhino's back and eat the parasites out of the flesh and keep the beast from disease and hope we're not parasites too. In the end we suspect it's all vanity and delusion. Parasites, all of us."
"Yeah," Spermwhale said, trying to think of where they could get a free or half price meal tonight now that greedy Roscoe Rules had burned up their eating spot at Sam's by not only demanding free food for himself and Dean, but wanting four hamburgers to go after they finished. Roscoe Rules could fuck up a wet dream, Spermwhale said.
"Do you know how sad it would be to live in a place where a woman couldn't walk on the street after certain hours because she would either be robbed, raped or taken for a prostitute?"
"I don't think about it," Spermwhale answered.
"See that pedestrian underpass? When I worked Juvenile I met with some black mothers who said that six children were hit by cars at this intersection in one school year and yet the underpass had to be fenced off and locked up because juvenile muggers made it dangerous to use. The city couldn't keep lights in the tunnel. They were broken twice a day. So it's locked up and the children get hit by cars."
"What can we do about that kind a bullshit? It's not our problem."
"It's somebody's problem. I caught two of the muggers down there one day waiting to rip off the smaller kids for their lunch money. They were loaded from sniffing paint and had felony records from when they were ten years old. At the hearing the judge went along with the defense contention that I should've had the paint analyzed in the lab to determine if the kids really were under the influence of paint. I told them we were talking about the health of these boys. They were staggering when I busted them. But the case got kicked and."
"Look, the whole juvenile justice system is a fuckin joke. Everybody knows that, so what's new?"
"It's just that it used to be an equity proceeding. It was supposedly for the good of the child. Now every kid has the public defender representing him and it's just as adversary as adult court. Kids are taught early on to get a mouthpiece and keep their mouths shut."
"That's the way it should be, you want my opinion. Give every five year old a shyster. Then send em to the joint if you convict em."
"But at sentencing it reverts to an equity court or a burlesque on one, and a kid who should be taken away from his miserable home is left on the streets after the fifth serious felony. It's crazy. Juvenile court is a revolving door, and then suddenly the kid turns eighteen, goes out and commits a strong arm robbery just like always but ends up in adult jail for six months. Then he's crying for his mother and saying, 'But you always sent me home before. You always gave me another chance.' And he can't understand it and why should he?"
"Baxter, I'm startin to worry about where your head is. I mean if you're gonna start frettin about injustice in the system."
"I just hated being a kiddy cop. I'm glad I'm out. Today's street warriors were yesterday's hoodlums but now they're government funded. Do you have any idea how many ineffectual parents with whiskey voices and unconcerned delinquent kids I've counseled? Hundreds. Thousands, maybe."
As Baxter talked, a black child about five years old stood at the corner and waited for the police car to drive off from the stop sign.
"Go ahead, kid," Spermwhale said, waving at the boy to cross.
But the child walked up to the car on the driver's side and grinned and said, "Who you lookin for?"
"I'm looking for a little guy in a blue shirt with two teeth missing in front," Baxter said. "Seen him around?"
The boy giggled toothlessly and said, "You really be lookin for Ladybug, ain't you?"
"Maybe, what's she doing wrong?" Baxter asked.
"She round behind the house right now wif her head in a glue bag," said the child.
"Well, we'd sure like to bust her, sonny, ' Spermwhale said. "But we got this big murder case to work on. Now you tell Ladybug to get her dumb head outta that glue bag, okay?"
"Okay, Mr. police."
The boy waved as Baxter drove away saying, "Bet Ladybug's mother runs off and leaves her in a county foster home. And I'll bet the county just places her right back with her when she comes off her little spree because the taxpayers can't afford to keep Ladybug in a foster home. And what the hell, if we supported every little black kid that's neglected."
"I am really startin to worry about you, Baxter," Spermwhale said. "You are really startin to worry me with all this crybaby social worker bullshit. Man, you never shoulda left patrol and went to Juvenile. I don't know what happened to you workin with those kiddy cops but whatever it was you better get your mind together. Shine it on, baby."
"Okay," Baxter grinned, pushing his umber hair back from his forehead. "I'm just going to shine it on."
But Baxter Slate wasn't sure what in his life he should shine on, unless it was Foxy Farrell. And anyone with an ounce of sense should know that. But the more despondent he had become lately, the more he wanted Foxy Farrell, The five foot two inch, ninety-eight pound, copper haired nude dancer somehow scratched deep and bewildering itches in Baxter's soul.
And no other girl would do though there were many possibilities. Baxter Slate's imposing figure, penetrating green eyes, heavy lashes and wide boyish grin made him quite popular with the clerk typists around the station as well as with the single girls in his apartment building. He tried to enjoy ether women and made it a point to stay away from Foxy for days at a time. But he would always go back and despise her as she laughed and talked obscenely about what she didn't do to other men in his absence, while she did it to him. And afterward she would chatter about a flashy boyfriend of one of the dancer's and talk of how cute and sexy he was and why didn't Baxter dress in a white jump suit with a fur collar instead of a stupid woolly herringbone sport coat and a dumb striped necktie like a fucking schoolteacher.
Spermwhale had persuaded Baxter to take him to the Sunset Strip once after work to meet Foxy and the two policemen were taken backstage by a burly assistant manager. Foxy was standing nude in her dressing room combing her pubic hair and pushing the vaginal lips back inside before the second show.
"Flops out once in a while," she smiled, upon seeing the two men standing there. "Hi, you must be Spermwhale. I'm Foxy."
"Yes. you are! You are!" cried Spermwhale Whalen. Spermwhale found that Foxy Farrell made him itch all over-to throw her down and bury his face in the burnished thatch of pubic hair which had been shaved to the shape of a heart, and dyed by squatting in a dish of hair color twice a month and brushing it carefully.
"Jesus, Foxy," Baxter said, "can't you occasionally act like a. oh what's the use?"
"He's a prude," Foxy laughed, throwing her coppery hair over her shoulder and slipping into a sheer peignoir. "Baxter's such a prude. That's why we love each other."
And she stepped over to the disgusted young policeman and rubbed her naked body against him and pulled his face down to hers, holding him by the ears.
Spermwhale watched and swallowed twice and developed a diamond cutter which delighted Foxy Farrell. Baxter Slate despised Foxy Farrell. Which was why he wanted to be with her every moment he was off duty and even dared to drive the black and white up to the Sunset Strip in full uniform and leave Spermwhale in the car while he sneaked in the back door of the nightclub and listened at the door, catching Foxy Farrell blowing some fat cat in the dressing room.
Baxter had actually done this twice and each
time he had the presence of mind to leave without being seen and wait to deal with Foxy Farrell when he was off duty. The way he dealt with her the last time was to accuse and rage and finally slap her, which she didn't mind as long as he didn't raise lumps or make her so black and blue that it would show on the stage.
When his anger was spent and he fell in her arms she smiled. Peppermint breath. Perfumed. Overripe. "Baxter, sweetie, it's okay, it's okay. Mama understands her baby. Honest, honey, I didn't do nothing to that guy. Only fooled around with him a little. I wasn't Frenching him. It sounded like that because you were all upset and playing vice cop and your imagination ran away with you."
Baxter smiled grimly and said, "You disgusting bitch. You're worthless, you know that? Irredeemably worthless. Without honor. Without humanity. And someday somebody'll kill you. But really, what good would that do?"
Foxy smiled slant eyed and licked Baxter on the cheek. "Honest, honey," she purred, "I wouldn't go down there and kiss that rich man's cock and suck his balls like I'm gonna do to you right now. You know I wouldn't do that to no other man, don't you, honey?"
And while she did it, Baxter Slate clenched his teeth and whispered, "You worthless slut. You worthless slut. I hate you." He whispered it again and again. She gave him the most sensual and agonizing moments of his entire life and this time even she enjoyed it and laughed excitedly all the way, her cheek throbbing where he had struck her.
Baxter seldom talked to Foxy Farrell cruelly. Usually he treated her like a perfect lady which she hated. And took her to intimate French restaurants which bored her. And brought her bottles of Bordeaux wines he really couldn't afford, which she served to other friends over icecubes. In fact she rather disliked everything about Baxter except that he was unquestionably good looking, and being a cop could get her out of minor scrapes with the law or at least might help if she were ever picked up by vice cops for going too far during her nude dancing routine. She sometimes did go too far and once was taken from the stage by a vice officer for pulling a customer's face into her bumping groin. A phone call to Baxter Slate saved Foxy from going to jail because the vice cop was an academy classmate of Baxter's and liked him very much, as did all other policemen with the exception of Roscoe Rules.
the Choirboys (1996) Page 18