Street Rules lf-2

by Baxter Clare

  Claudia had chipped during Placa's earliest years. When she wasn't in the spoon she took good care of her kids, and with their overwhelming backlog, Child Protective Services never got around to taking them. There were occasional men around, the longest lasting being Gloria's father. He was a ratty punk and Claudia had his name tattooed over her left breast. Frank had broken up more than one bottle-flying, fist-smashing catfight over him and it wasn't unusual to get a Saturday night domestic violence call from Claudia's house. What money he didn't make hustling and fencing cars, Claudia made by selling junk, and doing minor B and E's. She'd been busted dozens of times, from misdemeanors to grand theft auto, and Frank had taken her in at least seven or eight of those times. But there were so many more "serious" offenders on the LA County court dockets. When she shyly appealed to the judge that she had three babies at home that needed taking care of she got off on probation or her cases got tossed or pleaded. At worst, she'd end up at Sybil Brand for a couple months and Julio's wife would take the kids in.

  Frank had a softness for Claudia. They ran into each other frequently, and while Claudia was uncommunicative, she was never as openly hostile to Frank as she was to the other jura. The last time Frank had taken her in had been years ago, when she was a Sergeant, and Claudia'd been on the nod. Her hair was dirty and there was no make-up to cover her yellowing skin. Where she'd fallen onto the sidewalk her cheek was gouged and her upper lip was split. Frank had propped her in the back of the squad car and flies tried to cluster around a bloody scrape on her knee. Frank had waved them away, closing the door carefully. Behind the wheel she'd flipped the rearview mirror so Claudia could see herself.

  "What happened to that pretty girl I met my first day on patrol?" Frank wondered aloud. Claudia had stared cloudily at her reflection, as if trying to find the answer. Maybe the question had done some good. When she went into Brand that time, she'd been forced into quitting the smack. She was also carrying her second son, and when she came out she'd stayed clean.

  It was a couple years later that Frank presented Placa with the metal badge. She'd pinned it on the chubby girl's thin T-shirt and she'd beamed. She couldn't stop staring at her chest. Every time Frank saw Placa after that she had that damn badge drooping off her chest. Until one day Frank saw her playing on the sidewalk, in a bare shirt. When Frank asked her where the badge was, Placa's face darkened and she said some boys had ripped it off and jumped on it till it was flat and crumpled. So Frank had paid the cop with the machine shop to make her half a dozen and the cycle continued until one day Placa didn't want the badges anymore.

  "How come?" Frank had asked.

  "My tio and brother says they're stupid, only the police wear badges and I'm not a police."

  "You could be a police," Frank said, "when you're a little bigger."

  Placa considered that carefully.

  "Then I could wear a badge all the time?"

  "Everyday. And no one could ever take it away from you."

  "No one ever takes your badge?"

  "Nunca."

  "But how big do I have to be?"

  "You have to be as old as your brother Chuey."

  Then very seriously, Carmen said, "Entonces, I'll wait to be a police. Then I can have my own badge and no one can take it from it me."

  She and Frank had exchanged a low-five. Thing was, Carmen never got to be as old as her brother Chuey.

  The receptionist told Frank she could go in. Clay rose to meet her and they shook hands. After she settled uneasily into one of his chairs he asked how her week had been.

  "Okay," she answered noncommittally, knowing she was buying time. Clay stared over the glasses at the tip of his nose. Frank knew what was expected and Clay always gave her the option to waste the hour or be productive.

  "Had a girl get shot up this week. Knew her for a long time. She was a banger, but she was a good kid, good grades. She was a mean OG so nobody gave her trouble. She could get away with being smart. Could have gotten a scholarship to art schools."

  Holding her thumb and forefinger together, Frank continued, "She always got this close to convictions. Managed to wiggle out of them like her mother. Would have been fun to see her come up."

  When Frank didn't continue, Clay said, "How does her death make you feel?"

  Frank tossed a shoulder, shying from the answers. They swirled on the edge of her consciousness, waltzing like women in gauzy ball gowns. It took her a moment to pick out individual feelings and give them names. She walked over to the window. The pane was cool and solid against her fingers, a comforting contrast to the turbulence within. Knowing what Clay wanted to hear, she quickly catalogued and labeled her feelings.

  "Mad. Sad. Frustrated."

  Then Mag's parting words rang in her ears.

  "When are you going to grow up?"

  Did Frank really want to drag her ass in here once a week to try and pull one over on Clay or did she want to get on with her life? She conceded the former was more appealing but the latter more necessary. She didn't ever again want to come close to the abyss she'd stepped into after the Delamore case.

  She'd conveniently blamed her crash on the burden of that case, knowing full well that if Delamore hadn't tipped her over the edge, something or someone else inevitably would have. Kennedy had her flaws but Frank would always be grateful she'd been around that night. Next time, if there was a next time, there might not be someone there. She turned and faced Clay.

  "She was only seventeen. She was actually going to graduate from high school in a few months. I don't think anyone else in her family had ever done that. She was born the year I joined the force. Fact, I met her mother first day on the job. She was hanging with some cholos, drunk off her ass. She was pregnant, just huge, about to deliver any day and she was swigging out of a bottle of Boone's Farm. It's funny. I smell that stuff and it's pow — total flashback to that day."

  Frank paused. The memory was as clear as the window she looked through.

  "My FTO and I were driving around, and he saw her in this alley. He pulls up. He's already pissed that he's being forced to work with a woman — and that would have been the nicest thing he ever called me — so by the time we get to these homes, he's on a royal tear. He swaggers down the alley, slapping his stick in his hand, and I'm still trying to get out of the car. I'm jamming my hat on, trying to get my stick in my belt, juggling my field book. I've got no idea what's going on, got no clue what's being said on the radio. I thought, maybe he heard something, but then I was wondering, why didn't he respond? So whatever, I'm following him like a lost dog, and he says something stupid to these kids, which doesn't surprise me after having driven with him for an hour.

  "They're all just staring at the ground, kicking at it. You can tell they're not happy. And no one answers him, so he swings his stick at the kid closest to him and says 'Hey! I asked you a question.' I heard his stick connect and thought, man, that must have hurt. Well this kid says they're not doing anything and that Roper, that was his name, he didn't have to do that. Of course this just pisses Roper off even more. Then the girl says something really stupid in Spanish, about a fat pig or something. She is totally pasted, and I'm thinking, 'Oh Christ, the shit is going to fly' But Roper's cool. He just goes and stands over her. He puts his shoe on her shoulder and she tips over. I want to help her but I'm thinking I better just stay out of this. But the guy who's already mouthed off, he tries helping her and Roper swats at him with his stick, like he's playing with him. He says, 'You want to fight me over this, Juan? Huh? You want to fight me over this cunt? just totally baiting the guy. And this kid knows he's fucked.

  "Roper tells them all to leave, but this guy, he wants a piece of Roper so bad he can taste it. He stands there, staring at Roper and I'm thinking, 'Just go home, buddy. For Christ's sake.' But he reaches down to help Claudia up, she's out of it, all sticky with wine, and Roper goes whap! with his stick. Right on the guy's wrist, just shattered it. If he'd been playing baseball he'd have had a homerun. The
kids got to be in pain but he just makes this little yelp and jerks his hand away. It starts swelling up like a fucking basketball, but the kid doesn't say a thing, just holds his arm and gives Roper the evil eye. Roper gets into his face, saying all sorts of shit, and he's backing this guy out of the alley. The other homeboys are gone. They saw the shit going down and they flew. So Roper finally gets the poor sonofabitch out of there, and he comes back into the alley, all happy now. He's got this wicked grin on his face, and I don't know what's happening next but I know it's not going to be pretty.

  "And he's a big guy. LAPD beautiful. Tall, dark, built — the kind of cop straight women just pray will show up to their calls. So he strolls over to Claudia, unzipping his fly. He grins at me, an evil fucking grin, and he says, 'You can watch this or go back to the car like a good little girl.' "

  Frank stopped. She watched a man lean into a bronze sedan, talking to the driver. He wore a gray suit and carried a briefcase. His hair was sandy and thinning though he looked trim and fairly young.

  "I knew that was a defining moment. Either I was in with Roper or I wasn't. I could just see my whole future. It was like a long highway with a fork in the middle. On the one side, I was down. I'd go along with him. I'd be part of the team. What was happening was ugly, but that's the way it was. I'd seen it in my own neighborhood growing up. That was just the way the world was. Nothing I could do about it.

  "On the other road, I was alone. There was just me in the middle of this goddamn highway, no team, nobody. And I wanted to be part of the team. I remember thinking I'd always been alone and that it would be so nice to be part of something, just once. I'd busted my ass to get where I was and I didn't want to lose it. That other road was calling me and God, I wanted to be on it."

  The man stuck his hand into the car, seeming to shake the driver's hand.

  "I remember I just kind of looked at my feet. That alley was filthy. Busted bottles and beer caps, cigarette packs, tossed garbage. And it smelled like rotten vegetables and piss and wine. I thought I was going to throw up. Roper was saying something to Claudia and I saw her spit on him. Goddamn. He had her by the hair and he yanked her head back so hard I thought he was going to break her neck. And then I just snapped. It was so fucking weird — I literally saw red. I slammed him with my stick, I mean with everything I had and that fucker went down. And son-of a-bitch, I was excited by that. He looked up at me, surprised at first and with just this trace of fear, and I loved it. Then he got pissed and I got scared — well, not really scared, but just incredibly amped and wired and wanting to take him on. I was ready to kill the sonofabitch. I understand how that happens. I understand why people do what they do out there.

  "He reached for his baton, but I'd fucked his arm up and he couldn't use it, so I let him grab it with his left. I figured Roper was crazy and I'd rather have him swinging his stick at me than pulling his gun. In fact, he told me I was going to die. Told him I'd take him out with me. I was ready for him. God, I was ready. It was almost like sex. But better, more intense. I was flying. It was like something got released in me, a trip-wire. We circled around that fucking alley for hours it seemed like. He connected once on me, hurt like a motherfucker, but I must've jumped quick enough that it didn't do any damage. I was trying to work him back to the street and I was getting tired. The edge was wearing off and I realized what a stupid thing I'd done. Taking on the field training officer, not even before our dinner break. Thought I'd make the record for shortest time served on job by a female. But I was committed. I'd chosen my road."

  She took a resonant breath, studied Clay for a minute.

  "Saw a guy today, used to be a banger. Now he's into God and saving kids. Asked him if he'd heard anything on the street about who offed Placa. He said no, that he knew her.

  That it was a shame she'd taken the devil's road. I told him she was a good kid, that she just hadn't had enough time to get out of the road."

  Puzzlement shadowed Frank's face.

  "Thing is, that road's always there. Even if you get off it, it doesn't mean somewhere down the line you don't find yourself right back on it. And damned if you know how you got there."

  She looked out the window. The sedan was gone. A woman in a grey skirt suit and black boots walked briskly along the sidewalk. Power haircut, full leather briefcase. A lawyer? Frank wondered, on her way home? Husband, two kids, and a nanny, Frank bet, watching her until she stepped out of view. Clay had a clock that ticked quietly. Frank listened to it over the moan of a city bus. Behind her, he asked, "Do you ever feel like you're on that road?"

  "Sometimes."

  "Are you on it now?"

  Below, the bus farted thick black smoke. The city was switching to electric soon. That would be good.

  "I feel like I'm on the curb."

  Tic, tic, tic.

  "What does the road look like from there?"

  A delivery truck idled at the light. Frank thought of her father, how dark his hair had been. It was thick and curly on his arms and had tickled her face when he held her. Sometimes she'd give anything to feel that arm around her again. She closed her eyes against the window, grateful for its coolness against her forehead.

  "Looks like where I've been."

  Clay let her sit with that before asking what was the best thing that happened to her that week.

  She tweaked her mouth into a deprecating line.

  "Had dinner with a nice lady."

  Clay's smile was warm and he urged, "Tell me about that."

  Feeling silly, she briefly described dinner with Gail, adding, "It was nice. She's easy to talk to. Smart. And funny. Pretty, too."

  Remembering her conversation in the car with Gail, she added, "She keeps it real. I don't see much of that."

  "Are you going to see her again?"

  Frank almost said sure, but she'd learned there were no guarantees in life.

  "Probably. We run into each other in a professional capacity."

  "I meant in a personal capacity, like having dinner again."

  "Hadn't thought about it," Frank admitted.

  "Well, consider it," Clay advised, ending their session.

  As always, he left Frank with something to chew on. And as always, she was glad to be out of his office and back on the street where she knew the rules.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Frank cheerfully presented Claudia with another box of donuts. Sleepy and rumple-haired, she pulled a cheap robe around herself and let Frank in. The baby began crying and Gloria screamed from her bedroom. Something about jodida cops and harassment. Claudia started to make coffee, but Frank took the pot from her hand.

  "No, no," she said, exaggeratedly solicitous. "Let me. You sit down. Have a donut."

  Half asleep, Alicia stepped into the kitchen, coming to when she saw the pink box on the table. She was the only one who liked Frank's early morning visits. She sat at the table, mooning over the unopened box. Alicia's eyes gleamed when Frank lifted the lid. The little girl examined the donuts, and maybe because she was getting more comfortable with Frank, she asked, "Why you don't bring syrup ones like the other policia!"

  Claudia hissed at her grandchild to be quiet and jerked her from the chair. Swatting her bottom, she gave the girl a push into the living room. A moment later the television blared. Her grandmother yelled at her to turn it down.

  "What other policia, Claudia?"

  "El negro," she said quickly. "He brung donuts the other day."

  Frank poured them both coffee, putting milk on the table for Claudia. Waiting until Claudia was adding the milk to her cup, she said, "Tell me about the heroin."

  Claudia dripped milk on the table, glancing up into Frank's attentive blue eyes. She grabbed a sponge out of the sink and swiped angrily at the spill, then picked up her cup and stood with her back to the counter. Frank watched her like a snake tracking a mouse.

  "Tell me about the heroin," she repeated.

  "What heroin?"

  Frank laughed, "Damn, Claudia, you t
hink the police are so stupid they don't know you're serving out of here? What I want to know is if you're chippin' again."

  Claudia looked disgusted. "I give that up a long time ago."

  "What about the kids?"

  "They don't mess with that stuff. That's the devil's candy. I kill 'em myself before I let them shoot up."

  "But you let them sell it."

  Claudia held Frank's gaze. "Sometimes," she admitted.

  Frank considered a curious paradox of ghetto morality. You could do shit to strangers, other gangs, even your friends, but never to your gang or your family. They were blood. But it was perfectly okay to fuck up everybody else. Frank had seen the rationale time and time again, that if someone was stupid enough to use it, why shouldn't someone else be smart enough to hustle it? Claudia admitted none of them used smack and she didn't want it near her, yet she felt no compunction about dealing it and addicting other people. This blind eye to suffering was a common survival technique in communities with few resources and intense competition.

  "Who do you sell to?"

  "Gente. Whoever's looking," she said, flipping her tangled hair behind her shoulders.

  "You sell to Fifty-first Street Playboy's?"

  Claudia shook her head, "I don't know who that is."

  "You have a steady clientele?"

  Frank realized she didn't understand, and amended, "You have regular customers."