"What the hell is this? What are you driving at?" He couldn't see her eyes in the darkness and he didn't like any of this. She had never talked like this before and it was unnerving him. He wanted to turn on the light to be sure it was her.
"I cannot pretend I can get over you easy, Sergio. I cannot pretend I do not love you enough to live like this. But it would not be forever. Sooner or later, you would marry your other one and please do not tell me there is not another one."
"I won't, but..."
"Please, Sergio, let me finish. If you can be a whole man by marrying your other one, then do it. Do something, Sergio. Find out what you must do. And I say this: if you find it is my kind of life you want to share, then come to this house. Come on a Sunday in the afternoon like you did the first time when we went to the lake in the mountain. Tell senor Rosales what you wish to say to me, because he is my father here. Then if he approves, come to me and say it. And then it will be announced in the church and we will not touch each other as we have done, until the night of the marriage. And I will marry you in a white dress, Sergio. But I will not wait for you forever."
Serge groped for the light switch, but she grabbed his hand and when he reached for her desperately she pulled away.
"Why do you talk like this with such a strange voice? My God, Mariana, what've I done?"
"Nothing, Sergio. You have done absolutely nothing. But it has been a year. I was a Catholic before. But since we had our love, I have not been to confession or Communion."
"So, that's it," he nodded. "The goddamn religion's got you all confused. Do you feel sinful when we make love? Is that it?"
"It is not only that, Sergio, but it is partly that. I went to confession last Saturday. I am again a child of God. But it is not only that. I want you, Sergio, but only if you are a complete man. I want Sergio Duran, a _complete__ man. Do you understand?"
"Mariana," he said in bleak frustration, but when he reached for her she opened the door and was gliding barefoot across the shadowy street. "Mariana!"
"You must never return, Sergio," she whispered, her voice breaking for an instant, "unless you come as I have said." He squinted through the darkness and saw her standing for a moment straight and still, the long blue robe fluttering against her calves. Her chin was uplifted as always, and he felt the pain in his chest grow sharper and thought for one horrible moment that he was being ripped in two and only part of him sat there mute before this ghostly apparition whom he had thought he knew and understood.
"And if you come, I will wear white. Do you hear me? I will wear white, Sergio!"
On Friday, the thirteenth of August, Serge was awakened at noon by Sergeant Latham who shouted something in the phone as Serge sat up in bed and tried to make his brain function.
"Are you awake, Serge?" asked Latham.
"Yeah, yeah," he said, finally. "Now I am. What the hell did you say?"
"I said that you've got to come in right away. All the juvenile officers are being sent to Seventy-seventh Street Station. Do you have a uniform?"
"Yeah, Christ, I think so. I got it here somewhere."
"Are you sure you're awake?"
"Yeah, I'm awake."
"Okay, dig your blue suit out of mothballs and put it on. Take your baton, flashlight and helmet. Don't wear a necktie and don't bother taking your soft hat. You're going into combat, man."
"What's happening now?" asked Serge, his heart already beginning to advance its rhythm.
"Bad. It's bad. Just get the hell down to Seventy-seventh. I'll be there myself as soon as I get all our people there."
Serge cursed as he cut his face twice while shaving. His light-brown eyes were watery, the irises trapped in a web of scarlet. The toothpaste and mouthwash did not cleanse his mouth of the vile taste which the pint of scotch had left there. He had drunk and read until an hour past daybreak after Mariana had left him there babbling to himself in the darkness and he hadn't yet thought it all out. How could he have been so wrong about his little dove who was in fact a hunting hawk, strong and independent. Was he the predator or the prey? She didn't need him the way he had gleefully imagined. When the hell would he be right about someone or something? And now, with a brain-cracking headache and a stomach twisted with anxiety and seething alcohol, and perhaps two hours sleep, he was going into he knew not what, where he might need every bit of physical strength and mental alertness to save his very life.
When this insanity in the streets was over and things returned to normal he would marry Paula, he thought. He would accept as much of her father's dowry as was offered and play house and live as comfortably as he possibly could. He would stay away from Mariana because it was only her youth and virginity that had attracted him in the first place as it would have attracted any reasonably degenerate hedonist. Now he could see that stewing over that had been stupidly romantic because it appeared that she had taken more than he had. He doubted whether she were feeling as miserable as he was at this very moment and he suddenly thought, let them shoot me, let some black son of a bitch shoot me. I'm not capable of finding peace. Maybe there's no such thing. Maybe it exists only in books.
Serge found that he could not buckle the Sam Browne and had to let it out a notch. He had been drinking more lately and was not playing handball as much since he was trying to handle two women. The waistband of the blue woolen trousers was hard to button and he had to suck in his stomach to fasten both buttons. He still looked slim enough in the tight-fitting heavy woolen uniform, he thought, and decided to concentrate on such trivialities as his growing stomach because he could not afford at this moment to be caught in a swamp of depression. He was going into something that no policeman in this city had ever before been asked to face and his death wish might be happily granted by some fanatic. He knew himself well enough to know that he was definitely afraid to die and therefore probably did not really want to.
Serge saw the smoke before he was five miles from Watts and realized then what policemen had been saying for two days, that this conflagration would not remain on One Hundred and Sixteenth Street or even on One Hundred and Third, but that it would spread through the entire southern metropolitan area. The uniform was unbearable in the heat and even the sunglasses didn't stop the sun from cutting his eyes and boiling his brain. He looked at the helmet beside him on the seat and dreaded putting it on. He stayed on the Harbor Freeway to Florence Avenue then south on Broadway to Seventy-seventh Station which was as chaotic as he expected, with scores of police cars going and coming and newsmen roaming aimlessly about looking for escorts into the perimeter, and the scream of sirens from ambulances, fire trucks and radio cars. He parked on the street as close as he could get to the station and was waved wildly to the watch commander's office by the desk officer who was talking into two telephones, looking like he was feeling about as miserable as Serge. The watch commander's office was jammed with policemen and reporters who were being asked to remain outside by a perspiring sergeant with a face like a dried apple. The only one who seemed to have some idea of what was happening was a balding lieutenant with four service stripes on his sleeve. He sat calmly at a desk and puffed on a brown hooked pipe, "I'm Duran from Hollenbeck Juvenile," said Serge.
"Okay, boy, what're your initials?" asked the lieutenant.
"S," said Serge.
"Serial number?"
"One o five eight three."
"Hollenbeck Juvenile, you say?"
"Yes."
"Okay, you'll be known as Twelve-Adam-Forty-five. You'll team up with Jenkins from Harbor and Peters from Central. They should be out in the parking lot."
"Three-man cars?"
"You'll wish it was six," said the lieutenant, making an entry in a logbook. "Pick up two boxes of thirty-eight ammo from the sergeant out by the jail. Make sure there's one shotgun in your car and an extra box of shotgun rounds. What division are you from, boy?" said the lieutenant to the small policeman in an oversized helmet who came in behind him. Serge then recognized him as Gus Ple
besly from his academy class. He hadn't seen Plebesly in perhaps a year, but he didn't stop. Plebesly's eyes were round and blue as ever. Serge wondered if he looked as frightened as Plebesly.
"You drive," said Serge. "I don't know the division."
"Neither do I," said Jenkins. He had a bobbing Adam's apple and blinked his eyes often. Serge could see that he was not the only one who wished he were somewhere else.
"Do you know Peters?" asked Serge.
"Just met him," said Jenkins. "He ran inside to take a crap."
"Let's let him drive," said Serge.
"Suits me. You want the shotgun?"
"You can have it."
"I'd rather have my blanket and teddy bear right now," said Jenkins.
"This him?" asked Serge, pointing at the tall, loose-jointed man striding toward them. He seemed too long for his uniform pants which stopped three inches above the shoes, and the shirt cuffs were too short. He was pretty well built and Serge was glad. Jenkins didn't seem too impressive and they'd probably need lots of muscle before this tour of duty ended.
Serge and Peters shook hands and Serge said, "We've elected you driver, okay?"
"Okay," said Peters, who had two service stripes on his sleeve, making him senior officer in the car. "Either of you guys know the division?"
"Neither of us," said Jenkins.
"That makes it unanimous," said Peters. "Let's go before I talk myself into another bowel movement. I got eleven years on this job but I never saw what I saw here last night. Either of you here last night?"
"Not me," said Serge.
"I was on station defense at Harbor Station," said Jenkins, shaking his head.
"Well pucker up your asshole and get a good grip on the seat because I'm telling you you aren't going to believe this is America. I saw this in Korea, sure, but this is America."
"Cut it out, or you'll be loosening up _my__ bowels," said Jenkins, laughing nervously.
"You'll be able to shit through a screen door without hitting the wire, before too long," said Peters.
Before driving three blocks south on Broadway, which was lined on both sides by roving crowds, a two-pound chunk of concrete crashed through the rear window of the car and thudded against the back of the front seat cushion. A cheer went up from forty or more people who were spilling from the corner of Eighty-first and Broadway as the Communications operator screamed; "Officer needs help, Manchester and Broadway! Officer needs assistance, One O Three and Grape! Officer needs assistance Avalon and Imperial!" And then it became difficult to become greatly concerned by the urgent calls that burst over the radio every few seconds, because when you sped toward one call another came out in the opposite direction. It seemed to Serge they were chasing in a mad S-shape configuration through Watts and back toward Manchester never accomplishing anything but making their car a target for rioters who pelted it three times with rocks and once with a bottle. It was incredible, and when Serge looked at the unbelieving stare of Jenkins he realized what he must look like. Nothing was said during the first forty-five minutes of chaotic driving through the littered streets which were filled with surging chanting crowds and careening fire engines. Thousands of felonies were being committed with impunity and the three of them stared and only once or twice did Peters slow the car down as a group of looters were busy at work smashing windows. Jenkins aimed the shotgun out the window, and as soon as the groups of Negroes broke from the path of the riot gun, Peters would accelerate and drive to another location.
"What the hell are we doing?" asked Serge finally, at the end of the first hour in which few words were spoken. Each man seemed to be mastering his fear and incredulity at the bedlam in the streets and at the few, very few police cars they actually saw in the area.
"We're staying out of trouble until the National Guard gets here, that's what," said Peters. "This is nothing yet. Wait till tonight. You ain't seen nothing yet."
"Maybe we should do something," said Jenkins. "We're just driving around."
"Well, let's stop at a Hundred and Third," said Peters angrily. "I'll let you two out and you can try and stop five hundred niggers from carrying away the stores. You want to go down there? How about up on Central Avenue? Want to get out of the car up there? You saw it. How about on Broadway? We can clear the intersection at Manchester. There's not much looting there. They're only chucking rocks at every black and white that drives by. I'll let you boys clear the intersection there with your shotgun. But just watch out they don't stick that gun up your ass and fire all five rounds."
"Want to take a rest and let me drive?" asked Serge quietly.
"Sure, you can drive if you want to. Just wait till it gets dark. You'll get action soon enough."
When Serge took the wheel he checked his watch and saw it was ten minutes until 6:00 P.M. The sun was still high enough to intensify the heat that hung over the city from the fires which seemed to be surrounding them on the south and east but which Peters had avoided. Roving bands of Negroes, men, women, and children, screamed and jeered and looted as they drove past. It was utterly useless, Serge thought, to attempt to answer calls on the radio which were being repeated by babbling female Communications operators, some of whom were choked with sobs and impossible to understand.
It was apparent that most of the activity was in Watts proper, and Serge headed for One Hundred and Third Street feeling an overwhelming desire to create some order. He had never felt he was a leader but if he could only gather a few pliable men like Jenkins who seemed willing to obey, and Peters who would submit to more apparent courage, Serge felt he _could__ do something. Someone had to do something. They passed another careening police car every five minutes or so, manned by three helmeted officers who all seemed as disorganized and bewildered as themselves. If they were not pulled together soon, it could not be stopped at all, Serge thought. He sped south on Central Avenue and east to Watts substation where he found what he craved more than he had ever craved for a woman--a semblance of order.
"Let's join that group," said Serge, pointing to a squad of ten men who were milling around the entrance of the hotel two doors from the station. Serge saw there was a sergeant talking to them and his stomach uncoiled a little. Now he could abandon the wild scheme he was formulating which called for a grouping of men which he was somehow going to accomplish through sheer bravado because goddammit, someone had to do something. But they had a sergeant, and he could follow. He was glad.
"Need some help?" asked Jenkins as they joined the group.
The sergeant turned and Serge saw a two-inch gash on his left cheekbone caked with dust and coagulation but there was no fear in his eyes. His sleeves were rolled up to the elbow, showing massive forearms and on closer examination Serge saw fury in the green eyes of the sergeant. He looked like he could do something.
"See what's left of those stores on the south side?" said the sergeant, whose voice was raspy, Serge thought, from screaming orders in the face of this black hurricane which must be repelled.
"See those fucking stores that aren't burning?" the sergeant repeated. "Well they're full of looters. I just drove past and lost every window in my fucking car before I reached Compton Avenue. I think there's about sixty looters or more in those three fucking stores on the south and I think there's at least a hundred in the back because they drove a truck right through the fucking rear walls and they're carrying the places away."
"What the hell can we do about it?" asked Peters, as Serge watched the building on the north side three blocks east burning to the ground while the firemen waited near the station apparently unable to go in because of sniper fire.
"I'm not ordering nobody to do nothing," said the sergeant, and Serge saw he was much older than he first appeared, but he was not afraid and he was a sergeant. "If you want to come with me, let's go in those stores and clean them out. Nobody's challenged these motherfuckers here today. I tell you nobody's stood up to them. They been having it their own way."
"It might be ten to one in the
re," said Peters, and Serge felt his stomach writhing again, and deliberately starting to coil.
"Well I'm going in," said the sergeant. "You guys can suit yourselves."
They all followed dumbly, even Peters, and the sergeant started out at a walk, but soon they found themselves trotting and they would have run blindly if the sergeant had, but he was smart enough to keep the pace at a reasonably ordered trot to conserve energy. They advanced on the stores and a dozen looters struggled with the removal of heavy appliances through the shattered front windows and didn't even notice them coming.
The sergeant shattered his baton on the first swing at a looter, and the others watched for an instant as he dove through the store window, kicking a sweat-soaked shirtless teenager who was straining at the foot of a king-sized bed which he and another boy were attempting to carry away headboard and all. Then the ten policemen were among them swinging batons and shouting. As Serge was pushed to the glass-littered floor of the store by a huge mulatto in a bloody undershirt he saw perhaps ten men run in the rear door of the store hurling bottles as they ran, and Serge, as he lay in the litter of broken glass which was lacerating his hands, wondered about the volume of alcoholic beverage bottles which seemed to supply the mighty arsenal of missiles that seemed to be at the fingertips of every Negro in Watts. In that insane moment he thought that Mexicans do not drink so much and there wouldn't be this many bottles lying around Hollenbeck. Then a shot rang out and the mulatto who was by now on his feet began running and Jenkins shouldered the riot gun and fired four rounds toward the rear of the store. When Serge looked up, deafened from the explosions twelve inches from his ear, he saw the black reinforcements, all ten lying on the floor, but then one stood up and then another and another, and within a few seconds nine of them were streaking across the devastated parking lot. The looters in the street were shouting and dropping their booty and running.
the New Centurions (1971) Page 33