"Wonder if he's married."
"God, why do we inbreed with other cops?" Budgie said. "Why not cross-pollinate with firemen or something?"
"Yeah, there must be other ways to fuck up our lives," Mag said. "But he sure is cute."
"Probably lousy in bed," Budgie said. "The cute ones often are."
Mag said, "Couldn't be as bad as a twisted detective from Seventy-seventh Street I used to date. The kind that buys you two drinks and expects to mate in his rape room within the hour. He actually stole one of my thongs, the creep."
Budgie said, "I hooked a drunk tonight who could hardly drive the car. When the cover team called a shop to take him to jail, he asked me if I was seeing someone. Then he asked me if I could get him out of jail. He asked me a dozen questions. When they took him away I had to tell him, `Yes, I'm seeing someone. No, I can't get you out of jail. No, I can't help it that you have strong feelings for me. And no, this encounter was not caused by fate, it was caused by Compstat.' Christ, I just turn on my dumb-blonde switch and they can't let go. The guy tried to hug me when they were writing the citation! He said he forgave me."
Mag said, "One trick wanted to really hurt me when they badged him, I could tell. He was eye-fucking me the whole time they were writing him up, and he said, `Maybe I'll see you out on the street sometime, Officer.'"
"What'd you say?"
"I said, `Yeah, I know you're bigger than me. I know you can kick my ass. But if I ever run into you and you ever try it, I will shoot you until you are dead. I will shoot you in the face, and you'll have a closed-casket funeral.'"
Budgie said, "When I was a boot I used to say to creepy vermin like that, `You don't get any status points for hitting a girl. But if you try it, my partners will pepper-spray you and kick your ass big time.'"
"Whadda you tell them these days?"
"I don't. If nobody's looking, I just take out the OC spray and give them a shot of Liquid Jesus. For a while my partners were calling me `OC Polk.'"
Mag said, "The only really scary moment I had tonight was when one trick pulled a little too far off Sunset, and I had to walk past the parking lot. And a big rat ran right across my foot!"
"Oh, my god!" Budgie said. "What'd you do, girl?"
"I screamed. And then I had to quick tell the cover team that everything was okay. I didn't want to admit it was only a rat."
Budgie said, "I'm terrified of rats. Spiders too. I would've cried."
"I almost did," Mag said. "I just had to hang on."
"How's your sashimi?"
"Not as fresh as I like it. How's your sushi?"
"Healthy," Budgie said. "With Fausto I eat burritos and get more fat grams than the whole female population of Laurel Canyon consumes in a week."
"But they burn calories shopping for plastic surgeons and prepping their meals," Mag said. "Imagine laying out a weekly diet of celery stalks and carrot strips according to feng shui."
Budgie thought about how pleasant and restful it was just to sit there and drink tea and talk to another girl.
During the last hour, Budgie hooked one more trick, and Mag wanted to soar past her with two, but business was slowing. They had only thirty minutes to go when Mag saw a cherry-red Mercedes SUV with chrome wheels drive slowly past. The driver was a young black man in a three-hundred-dollar warm-up suit and pricey Adidas. He made one pass, then another.
Mag didn't return his smile the way she had been doing to other tricks that night, including two who were black. This guy made her think one word: "pimp." Then she realized that if she was right, this could be the topper of the evening. A felony bust for pimping. So on his next pass, she returned the smile and he pointed just around the corner and parked the SUV. A hip-hop album was blasting out, and he turned it down to talk.
When she approached cautiously, he said, "What's a matter, Momma, ain't you into chocolate delight?"
Yeah, he's a pimp, she thought, saying, "I like all kind of delights."
"I bet you do," he said. "Jump on in here and le's talk bidness."
"I'm okay out here."
"What's wrong?" he said. "You a cop or somethin'?"
He smiled big when he said it, and she knew he didn't believe it. She said, "I can talk out here."
"Come on in, baby," he said, and his pupils looked dilated. "I might got somethin' for you."
"What?" she said.
"Somethin'."
"What something?"
"Get in," he said, and she didn't like the way he said it this time. He was amped, all right. Maybe crack, maybe crystal.
"I don't think so," she said and started to walk away. This wasn't going right.
He opened the door of the SUV and jumped out, striding around the back and standing between her and Sunset Boulevard.
She was about to use the code word "slick" but thought about what it would mean if she brought down a pimp. She said, "You better talk fast because I don't have time for bullshit."
And he said, "You think you gonna come and work this corner? You ain't, not without somebody lookin' out for you. And that ain't no bullshit. That is righteous."
"Whadda you mean?" Mag said.
"I'm gonna be your protector," he said.
"Like my old man?" she said. "I don't need one."
"Yes, you do, bitch," he said. "And the protection has started. So how much you made tonight so far? Workin' on my corner. On my boulevard."
"I think you better get outta the way, Slick," Mag said. And now she was definitely scared and could see one of the vice cops running across Sunset Boulevard in her direction.
She was still looking for her mobile cover team when he said, "I'm gonna show you what is slick."
And she was shocked when his fist struck. She hadn't seen it coming at all. Her face had been turned toward the boulevard while she waited for her security, thinking, Hurry up. Her head hit the pavement when she fell. Mag felt dizzy and sick to her stomach and tried to get up, but he was sitting on top of her, big hands all over her, looking for her money stash.
"In yo pussy?" he said, and she felt his hands down there. Felt his fingers exploring inside her.
Then she heard car doors slam and voices shouting and the pimp screaming, and she got so sick she vomited all over her bondage bitch costume. And the curtain descended on the last performance of the evening.
Fausto Gamboa was driving when he heard the gut-churning "Officer down" and that an ambulance was racing code 3 to the Sunset Boulevard whore track. He almost gave Benny Brewster whiplash cranking the steering wheel hard left and blowing a stop sign like it wasn't there. Speeding toward Sunset Boulevard.
"Oh, god!" he said. "It's one of the girls. I knew it. I knew it."
Benny Brewster, who had worked with Mag Takara for most of the deployment period, said, "I hope it's not Mag."
Fausto glanced sharply at him and felt a rush of anger but then thought, I can't blame Benny for hoping it's Budgie. I'm hoping it's Mag. That was an awful feeling, but there was no time to sort it out. When he made the next left he felt two wheels almost lifting.
The Oracle had been taking code 7 at his favorite taco joint on Hollywood Boulevard when the call came out. He was standing beside his car, working on his second carne asada taco and sucking down an enormous cup of horchata, Mexican rice water and cinnamon, when he heard "Officer down."
He was the first one at the scene other than all the security teams and the paramedics loading Mag into the ambulance. Budgie was sitting in the backseat of a vice car, weeping, and the pimp was handcuffed and lying on the sidewalk near the alley, crying out in pain.
Simmons, the oldest of the vice cops, said to the Oracle, "We got another ambulance coming."
"How's Mag?"
"Pretty bad, Sarge," Simmons said. "Her left eye was lying out on her cheek. The bones around the eye socket were just about crushed, from what I could see."
"Oh no," the Oracle said.
"He hit her once and she fell back and her head bounced off the sidew
alk. I think she was awake sort of when we first rolled up, but not now."
The Oracle pointed to the pimp and said, "How about him?" And then he saw it in the vice cop's face when Simmons hesitated and said, "He resisted."
"Do you know if FID has been notified?"
"Yeah, we called our boss," Simmons said. "They'll all be here soon."
The vice cop's eyes didn't meet the Oracle's when he finally said, "There's a guy in the liquor store might want to make a complaint about . . . how we handled the arrest. He was yammering about it. I told him to wait until Force Investigation Division arrives. I'm hoping he'll change his mind before then."
"I'll talk to him," the Oracle said. "Maybe I can calm him down."
When the Oracle was walking toward the liquor store, he saw a young vice cop pacing nervously and being spoken to very earnestly by one of the other vice cops. The second ambulance arrived, and the Oracle heard the pimp moan when they put him on the litter.
In the liquor store, the elderly Pakistani proprietor completed a transaction for a customer, then turned to the Oracle and said, "Are you here for my report?"
"What did you see?" the Oracle asked.
"I hear car doors slam. I hear a man scream. Loud. I hear shouts. Curses. A man screams more. I run out. I see a young white man kicking a black man on the ground. Kick kick kick. Curses and kicks. I see other white men grab the young man and pull him away. The black man continues the screams. Plenty of screams. I see handcuffs. I know these are policemen. I know they come to this block to arrest the women of the street. That is my report."
"There will be some investigators coming to talk to you," the Oracle said, leaving the liquor store.
Budgie and one vice car were gone. Four vice cops and two cars were still there. The young cop who had been pacing when the Oracle arrived walked up to him and said, "I know I'm in trouble here, Sarge. I know there's a civilian witness."
"Maybe you want to call the Protective League's hotline and get lawyered up before making any statements," the Oracle said.
"I will," the vice cop said.
"What's your name, son?" the Oracle asked. "I can't remember anybody's name anymore."
"Turner," he said. "Rob Turner. I never worked your watch when I was in patrol."
"Rob," the Oracle said, "I don't want you making any statements to me. Call the League. You have rights, so don't be afraid to exercise them."
It was obvious that Turner trusted the Oracle by reputation, and he said, "I only want you to know . . . everybody to know . . . that when I arrived, that fucking pimp was sitting on her with his hands down inside her pants. That beautiful girl, her face was a horrible sight. I want all the coppers to know what I saw when I arrived. And that I'm not sorry for anything except losing my badge. I'm real sorry about that."
"That's enough talking, son," the Oracle said. "Go sit in your car and get your thoughts together. Get lawyered up. You've got a long night ahead of you."
When the Oracle returned to his car to make his notifications, he saw Fausto and Benny Brewster parked across the street, talking to a vice cop. They looked grim. Fausto crossed the street, coming toward him, and the Oracle hoped this wasn't going to be an I-told-you-so, because he wasn't in the mood, not a bit.
But all Fausto said to him before he and Benny Brewster left the scene was "This is a crummy job, Merv."
The Oracle opened a packet of antacid tablets, and said, "Old dogs like you and me, Fausto? It's all we got. Semper cop."
Chapter ELEVEN
EARLY THAT MORNING Mag Takara underwent surgery at Cedars-Sinai to reconstruct facial bones, with more surgeries to follow, the immediate concern being to save the vision in her left eye. After being booked into the prison ward at USCMC, the pimp, Reginald Clinton Walker, also went under the knife, to have his ruptured spleen removed. Walker would be charged with felony assault because of the great bodily injury suffered by Officer Takara, but of course the serious charge of felony assault on a police officer could not be alleged in this case.
There wasn't a cop on the midwatch who didn't think that the felony assault and the pimping allegation wouldn't be the subject of plea bargain negotiations, but both the area captain and the patrol captain vowed that they'd do all they could to keep the DA onboard for a vigorous felony prosecution. However, a caveat was added, because as soon as Walker filed a multimillion-dollar lawsuit against the LAPD and the city for having his spleen destroyed, who could say what the outcome would be?
That afternoon, an hour before midwatch roll call, the floor nurse at Cedars saw a tall man in T-shirt and jeans with a dark suntan and bleached streaky hair enter the ward, carrying an enormous bouquet of red and yellow roses. Sitting outside the room of Officer Mag Takara were her mother, father, and two younger sisters, who were crying.
The nurse said, "Are those for Officer Takara, by chance?"
"Yeah."
"I thought so," she said. "You're the fourth. But she can't see anybody today except immediate family. They're waiting outside her room for her to have her dressing changed. You can talk to them if you like."
"I don't wanna bother them," he said.
"The flowers are beautiful. Do you want me to take them?"
"Sure," he said. "Just put them in her room when you get a chance."
"Is there a card?"
"I forgot," he said. "No, no card."
"Shall I tell her who brought them?"
"Just tell her . . . tell her that when she's feeling better, she should have her family take her to the beach."
"The beach?"
"Yeah. The ocean is a great healer. You can tell her that if you want."
At midwatch roll call the lieutenant was present, along with three sergeants, including the Oracle. He got the job of explaining what had happened and having it make sense, as though that were possible. The cops were demoralized by the events on Sunset Boulevard the night before, and they were angry, and all the supervisors knew it.
When he was asked to be the one to talk about it, the Oracle said to the lieutenant, "In his memoir, T. E. Lawrence of Arabia said old and wise means tired and disappointed. He didn't live long enough to know how right he was."
At 5:30 P. M. the Oracle, sitting next to the lieutenant, popped a couple of antacid tablets and said to the assembly of cops in the roll-call room, "The latest report is that Mag is resting and alert. There doesn't appear to be any brain damage, and the surgeon in charge says that they're optimistic about restoring vision in her eye. At least most of the vision."
The room was as quiet as the Oracle had ever heard it, until Budgie Polk, her voice quavering, said, "Will she look . . . the same, do they think?"
"She has great surgeons taking care of her. I'm sure she'll look fine. Eventually."
Fausto, who was sitting next to Budgie, said, "Is she coming back to work after she's well?"
"It's too soon to say," the Oracle said. "That will depend on her. On how she feels after everything."
"She'll come back," Fausto said. "She picked up a grenade, didn't she?"
Budgie started to say something else but couldn't. Fausto patted her hand for a second.
The Oracle said, "The detectives and our captains have promised that the pimp will go to the joint for this, if they can help it."
B. M. Driscoll said, "Maybe they can't help it. I'm sure he's got half a dozen shysters emptying his bedpan right this minute. He'll make more money from a lawsuit than he could make from every whore on Sunset."
"Yeah, our activist mayor and his handpicked, cop-hating police commissioner will be all over this one," Jetsam said. "And we'll hear from the keepers of the consent decree. No doubt."
Before the Oracle could answer, Flotsam said, "I suppose the race card will be played here. Dealt from the bottom of the deck, as usual."
That's what the lieutenant hadn't wanted, the issue of race entering what he knew would be a heated exchange today. But race affected everything in Los Angeles from top to bottom, includ
ing the LAPD, and he knew that too.
Looking very uncomfortable, the lieutenant said, "It's true that the media and the activists and others might have a field day with this. A white cop kicking the guts out of a black arrestee. They'll want Officer Turner not just fired but prosecuted, and maybe he will be. And you'll hear accusations that this proves we're all racists."
"I got somethin' to say about it, Lieutenant."
Conversation stopped then. Benny Brewster, the former partner of Mag Takara, the only black cop on the midwatch and in the room except for a night-watch sergeant sitting on the lieutenant's right, had something to say about what? The race card? White on black? The lieutenant was very uncomfortable. He didn't need this snarky shit.
Every eye was on Benny Brewster, who said, "If it was me that got there first instead of Turner and seen what he seen, I'd be in jail. 'Cause I'da pulled my nine and emptied the magazine into that pimp. So I'd be in jail now. That's all I got to say."
There was a murmur of approval, and a few cops even clapped. The lieutenant wanted to give them a time-out, wanted to restore order, and was trying to figure out how to do it, when the Oracle took over again.
The Oracle looked at all those faces, wondering how it was possible that they could be so young. And he said to them, "The shield you're wearing is the most beautiful and most famous badge in the world. Many police departments have copied it and everyone envies it, but you wear the original. And all these critics and politicians and media assholes come and go, but your badge remains unchanged. You can get as mad and outraged as you want over what's going to go down, but don't get cynical. Being cynical will make you old. Doing good police work is the greatest fun there is. The greatest fun you'll ever have in your lives. So go on out tonight and have some fun. And Fausto, try to get by with only two burritos. Speedo weather's coming up."
After they had handled two calls and written one traffic ticket, Budgie Polk turned to Fausto Gamboa and said, "I'm okay, Fausto. Honest."
Fausto, who was riding shotgun, said, "Whaddaya mean?"
"I mean you gotta quit asking me if I want you to roll up the window or where do I wanna have code seven or do I need my jacket. Last night is over. I'm okay."
Hollywood Station (2006) Page 17