the New Centurions (1971)

by Wambaugh, Joseph

  She waved them in and pointed carelessly to the ransacked apartment. Roy saw that the molding had been pried from the door with a quarter-inch screwdriver which was then used to easily shim the door.

  "These wafer locks aren't worth anything," said Roy, touching the lock with his flashlight.

  "Now you tell me," she smiled and shook her head sadly. "They cleaned me out. They really did."

  She was surprisingly tall, he noticed, as she stood next to him, not having to tilt her face very much to look in his eyes. He guessed she was five feet nine. And she was shapely.

  "Did you touch anything?" asked Dugan.

  "No."

  "Let's see if we can find some nice smooth items that prints can be lifted from," said Dugan, putting his notebook down and prowling around the apartment.

  "This happen while you were at work?" asked Roy, sitting on a high stool at the kitchen bar.

  "Yes."

  "Where do you work?"

  "I'm a dental technician. I work downtown."

  "Live alone?"

  "Yes."

  "What all is missing?"

  "Color TV set. A wristwatch, Polaroid camera. Clothes. Just about everything I own that's worth a damn."

  "That's a shame," said Roy, thinking that she was _very__ shapely and thinking that he had never tried a black woman and had not tried any woman since recovering from the wound, except for Velma, the overweight beautician whom he had met through his mother's neighbor Mrs. Smedley. Velma hadn't been interesting enough to attract him more than once every two or three weeks and he wondered if the buckshot hadn't done something to diminish his sex drive, and if it did, what the hell, it would be natural for him to lose the full appreciation of one of the few pleasures life seemed to hold for every poor son of a bitch it finally murdered.

  "Is there much of a chance of getting the TV back?" she asked.

  "Do you know the serial number?"

  "Afraid not," she said.

  "Not too much chance then."

  "Do most burglaries go unsolved?"

  "In a way they do. I mean they're not officially cleared. The stolen property is never recovered because burglars sell it real fast to fences or in pawnshops or just to no-questions-asked-people they meet on the street. The burglars usually get caught sooner or later and sometimes the detectives know they're good for lots and lots of jobs, maybe dozens or hundreds, but they usually don't get the property back."

  "So the guilty get caught sooner or later, but it doesn't help their victims, is that it?"

  "That's about it."

  "Bastards," she whispered.

  Why doesn't she move, Roy thought. Why doesn't she move farther west to the periphery of the black district. Even if she can't get completely away from it she could move to the salt and pepper periphery where there's less crime. But what the hell, he thought. Some white burglar with a kink would probably strangle her in her bed some night. You can't get away from evil. It leaps all barriers, racial or otherwise.

  "It'll take a long time to replace all your losses," said Roy.

  "You bet," she said, turning away because there were tears glistening, dampening the heavy fringe of real eyelash. "Want some coffee?"

  "Sure," said Roy, glad that Dugan was still rummaging in the bedroom. As he watched her going from the stove to a cupboard he thought: maybe I could go for a little of that. Maybe all of the simple animal pleasures aren't gone for me.

  "I'm going to fortify my coffee," she said, handing him a gold-rimmed cup and saucer, cream pitcher, and sugar bowl. She returned to the cupboard, brought out a fifth of unopened Canadian bourbon, cracked the seal, and poured a liberal shot into the coffee.

  "I never drink alone," she said, "but tonight I think I'll get loaded. I feel rotten!"

  Roy's eyes roved from the girl to the bottle and back and then to the bottle and he told himself that he was not in any danger yet. He only drank because he enjoyed it, because he needed to relax and if the drinking was not good for his stomach, the therapeutic value of a whiskey tranquilizer more than made up for its ill effects. At least he was not interested in drugs. It could have happened in the hospital. It happened to lots of people with long-term painful injuries who were kept on medication. He could get through his shift without a drink, he knew. But he wasn't harming anyone. A few ounces of whiskey always sharpened his wits and not a partner had ever suspected, least of all not little Dugan.

  "If I weren't on duty, I'd join you," said Roy.

  "Too bad," she said, not looking at him as she took a sip, grimaced, and took a larger one.

  "If I were off duty I wouldn't let you drink alone," he said, and watched the glance she gave him and then she turned away and sipped the coffee again and did not answer.

  "Might as well get the report started," said Dugan, coming back into the living room. "There's a jewelry box and a few other things in there that might have latent fingerprints on them. I've stacked them in the corner. The print man will be out tonight or tomorrow to dust the dresser and those items."

  "I won't be here tomorrow. I work during the day."

  "Maybe he can come tonight if he's not too busy," said Dugan.

  "He'll come tonight. I'll make sure. I'll tell him you're a special friend of mine," said Roy, and she looked at him again and he saw no sign.

  "Well, might as well get started on this report, ma'am," said Dugan. "Can I have your name?"

  "Laura Hunt," she said, and this time Roy thought he saw in her eyes a sign.

  As they were driving back to the station, Roy began to get jittery. It was not happening as often lately, he told himself. It was not nearly as bad now that he was back in the radio car. Those months of working the desk had been bad, though. He had periodic pain and his nerves were bothering him. He kept a bottle in the trunk of his car and made frequent trips to the parking lot. He worried that Lieutenant Crow, the watch commander, suspected something, but he had never been questioned. He never overdid it. He only drank enough to relax or to assuage the pain or to fight the depression. Only two times did he overdo it, unable to complete his tour of duty. He feigned sickness on those occasions, an attack of nausea he had said, and had gone to the lonely apartment, being careful to keep the speedometer needle pegged at thirty-five miles an hour and concentrating on the elusive white line in the highway. It was much better now that he was in the radio car again. Everything was better. And being back in the old apartment was good for him.

  The months of living with his parents had been as damaging to his emotions as anything else. And Carl--with his fat little children and his impeccable wife Marjorie and his new car and his goddamn belly hanging over his belt even though he wasn't thirty years old--Carl was unbearable: "We can still find a spot for you, Roy. Of course, you couldn't expect to start as an _equal__ partner, but eventually... after all, it _is__ the family business and you _are__ my brother... I always thought you could be a businessman if you just made up your mind to grow up and now I hope your brush with death has made you come to your senses and realize where you belong and abandon your whims you remember Roy when I was a child I wanted to be a policeman too and a fireman but I outgrew them and you've admitted that you don't really like your job and if you don't you can never expect to be a really successful policeman if there is such a thing and Roy you must realize by now that you're never going to get your degree in criminology. Roy, you haven't the desire to hit the books again and I don't blame you because why in the hell would you want to be a criminologist anyway and oh you don't want to be one anymore well Roy that's the best news I've heard from you in some time well we can make a place for you in the business and someday soon it can be changed to Fehler and Sons and someday Roy it will be Fehler Brothers and God knows Dad and Mom would be so pleased and I'll do everything I can to bring you along and make you the kind of businessman worthy of the family name and you know it will be different than working for a boss who is an impersonal taskmaster because I know your faults and weaknesses Roy. God knows we
all have them and I'll make allowances because after all you _are__ my brother."

  When Roy had at last decided to come back to duty and move to the apartment again it had been Carl who was the most bewildered by it all. Christ, I need to relax, Roy thought, looking at Dugan who was driving slowly checking license numbers against the hot sheet. Dugan checked thousands of license numbers against the hot sheet.

  "Drive to Eighty-second and Hoover," said Roy.

  "Okay, Roy. What for?"

  "I want to use the call box."

  "To call the station? I thought we were going in with the burglary report anyway."

  "I want to call R & I. And I don't want to go in just yet. Let's patrol for a while."

  "Okay. There's a call box just down the street."

  "Doesn't work."

  "Sure it does. I just used it the other night."

  "Look, Dugan. Take me to Eighty-second and Hoover. You know that's the call box I always use. It works all the time and I like to use it."

  "Okay, Roy," Dugan laughed. "I guess I'll start developing habits too when I get a little more experience."

  Roy's heart thumped as he stood behind the opened metal door of the call box and drank hopefully. He might only have to make one call to R & I tonight, he thought grimly. He'd have to be extremely careful with a rookie like Dugan. His throat and stomach were still burning but he drank again and again. He was very nervous tonight. Sometimes it happened like this. His hands would become clammy and he would feel light-headed and he had to relax. He screwed the lid back on the bourbon and replaced the bottle in the call box. Then he stood for a moment sucking and chewing on three breath mints and an enormous wad of chewing gum. He returned to the car where Dugan was impatiently tapping on the steering wheel.

  "Let's go to the station now, Dugan my lad," said Roy, already more relaxed, knowing the depression would dissolve.

  "Now? Okay, Roy. But I thought you said later."

  "Got to go to the can," Roy grinned, lighting a cigarette and whistling a themeless tune as Dugan accelerated.

  While Dugan was in the report room getting a DR number for his burglary report, Roy started, wavered, and started again for the parking lot. He debated with himself as he stood by the door of his yellow Chevrolet, but then he realized that another drink could not possibly do more than relax him a bit more and completely defeat the towering specter of depression that was the hardest thing to combat unassisted. He looked around, and seeing no one in the dark parking lot, unlocked the Chevrolet, removed the pint from the glove compartment and took a large fiery mouthful. He capped the bottle, hesitated, uncapped it and took another, then one more, and put the bottle away.

  Dugan was ready when he walked back in the station.

  "Ready to go, Roy?" Dugan smiled.

  "Let's go, my boy," Roy chuckled, but before they had patrolled for half an hour, Roy had to call R & I from the call box at Eighty-second and Hoover.

  At 11:00 P.M, Roy was feeling marvelous and he began thinking about the girl. He thought of her bottle too and wondered if she were feeling as fine as he was. He also thought of her smooth lithe body.

  "That was a pretty nice-looking girl, that Laura Hunt," said Roy.

  "Who?" asked Dugan.

  "That broad. The burglary report. You know."

  "Oh, yeah, pretty nice," said Dugan. "Wish I could write a ticket. I haven't got a mover yet this month. Trouble is, I haven't learned to spot them yet. Unless a guy blasts right through a red light three seconds late or something obvious like that."

  "She was put together," said Roy. "I liked that, didn't you?"

  "Yeah. Do you know a good spot to sit? Some good spot where we could get a sure ticket?"

  "An apple orchard, huh? Yeah, drive down Broadway, I'll show you an apple orchard, a stop sign that people hate to stop for. We'll get you six tickets if you want them."

  "Just one will do. I think I should try to write one mover a day. What do you think?"

  "One every other day is enough to keep the boss happy. We got more to do than write tickets in this goddamn division. Hadn't you noticed?"

  "Yes," laughed Dugan, "I guess we're busy with more serious things down here."

  "How old are you, Dugan?"

  "Twenty-one, why?"

  "Just wondering."

  "I look young, don't I?"

  "About eighteen. I knew you had to be twenty-one to get on the job, but you look about eighteen."

  "I know. How old are you, Roy?"

  "Twenty-six."

  "Is that all? I thought you were older. I guess because I'm a rookie, everyone seems much older."

  "Before we get that ticket, drive down Vermont."

  "Any place in particular?"

  "To the apartment. Where we took the burglary report."

  "Any special reason?" asked Dugan, looking at Roy warily, exposing large portions of the whites of his large, slightly protruding eyes, and the eyes shining in the darkness made Roy laugh.

  "I'm going to do a little pubic relations, Dugan my boy. I mean public relations."

  Dugan drove silently and when they reached the apartment building he turned off on the first side street and shut his lights off.

  "I'm still on probation, Roy. I don't want to get in trouble."

  "Don't worry," Roy chuckled, dropping his flashlight on the street as he got out of the car.

  "What should I do?"

  "Wait right here, what else? I'm just going to try to set something up for later. I'll be back in two minutes for heaven's sake."

  "Oh, that's good. It's just that I'm on probation," said Dugan as Roy strode unsteadily to the front of the building and almost laughed aloud as he stumbled on the first step.

  "Hello," he grinned, before she had a chance to speak, while the door chime still echoed through the breezeway. "I'm almost off duty and I wondered if you were really going to get drunk. I plan to, and one sad drunk always seeks out another, doesn't he?"

  "I'm not really surprised to see you," she said, holding a white robe at the bosom, not looking particularly friendly or unfriendly.

  "I really _am__ sad," he said, still standing in the doorway. "The only sadder face I've seen lately is yours. The way you were tonight. I thought we could have a few drinks and sympathize with each other."

  "I have a head start on you," she said, unsmiling, pointing to the fifth on the breakfast bar that was no longer full.

  "I can catch up," said Roy.

  "I have to get up early and go to work tomorrow."

  "I won't stay long. Just a drink or two and a friendly pair of eyes is all I need."

  "Can't you find the drink and eyes at home?"

  "Only the drink. My place is as lonely as this one."

  "What time do you get off?"

  "Before one. I'll be here before one."

  "That's late as hell."

  "Please."

  "Alright," she said, and smiled a little for the first time and closed the door softly, as he crept down the stairway, holding the handrail in a tight grip.

  "We got a call," said Dugan. "I was about to come and get you."

  "What is it?"

  "Go to the station, code two. Wonder what's up?"

  "Who knows?" said Roy, lighting a cigarette, and opening a fresh stick of gum in case he would be talking to a sergeant at the station.

  Sergeant Schumann was waiting in the parking lot when they arrived, along with two other radio car teams. Roy walked care-fully when they parked their car and joined the others.

  "Okay, everyone's here, I guess," said Schumann, a young sergeant with an imperious manner who annoyed Roy.

  "What's up?" asked Roy, knowing that Schumann would make an adventure out of an assignment to write parking tickets.

  "We're going to tour Watts," said Schumann. "We've gotten several letters in the last week from Councilman Gibbs' office and a couple from citizens groups complaining about the drunken loafers on the streets in Watts. We're going to clean them up tonight."<
br />
  "You better rent a couple semi's then," said Betterton, a cigar-smoking veteran, "one little B wagon ain't going to hold the drunks that hang out on one corner."

  Schumann cleared his throat and smiled self-consciously as the policemen laughed, all except Benson, a Negro who did not laugh, Roy noticed.

  "Well, we're going to make some arrests, anyway," said Schumann. "You men know all the spots around a Hundred and Third and down around Imperial and maybe Ninety-second and Beach. Fehler, you and your partner take the wagon. You other men, take your cars. That'll make six policemen so you shouldn't have any trouble. Stick together. Fill the wagon first, then scoop up a few in your radio cars and bring them in. Not here, take them to Central Jail. I'll make sure it's okay at Central. That's all. Good hunting."

  "Oh, sweet Jesus," Betterton groaned, as they walked to their cars. "Good hunting. Did you hear that? Oh, sweet Jesus. I'm glad I retire in a couple years. This is the new breed? Good hunting, men. Oh, Jesus."

  "Want me to drive the wagon, Roy," asked Dugan eagerly.

  "Of course. You're driving the car tonight, aren't you? You drive the wagon."

  "You don't need a chauffeur's license, do you?"

  "It's just a beat-up panel truck, Dugan," said Roy as they walked to the rear parking lot. Then Roy stopped, saying, "I just thought of something. I want to get a fresh pack of cigarettes from my car. Get the wagon and meet me in front of the station."