That’s what I saw in her eyes, and her phony smile, but she said nothing for a few more minutes. Then a car from one of the network stations rolled up and two men got out with a camera and mike.
The interest of the marchers picked up now that they were soon to be on tape, and the chanting grew louder, the gestures more fierce, and the old teenybopper in the yellow dress finally said, “We called you over because you looked very forlorn. Where’re the riot troops, or are you all we get today?”
“If you get me, baby, you ain’t gonna want any more,” I smiled through a puff of cigar smoke, pinning her eyeballs, admiring the fact that she didn’t bat an eye even though I knew damn well she was expecting the businesslike professional clichés we’re trained to give in these situations. I’d bet she was even surprised to see me slouching against my car like this, showing such little respect for this menacing group.
“You’re not supposed to smoke in public, are you, Officer?” She smiled, a little less arrogant now. She didn’t know what the hell she had here, and was going to take her time about setting the bait.
“Maybe a real policeman ain’t supposed to, but this uniform’s just a shuck. I rented this ill-fitting clown suit to make an underground movie about this fat cop that steals apples and beats up flower children and old mini-skirted squatty-bodies with socks to match their varicose veins in front of the U.S. Army Induction Center.”
Then she lost her smile completely and stormed back to the guy in the headband who was also much older than he first appeared. They whispered and she looked at me as I puffed on the cigar and waved at some of the marchers who were putting me on, most of them just college-age kids having a good time. A couple of them sincerely seemed to like me even though they tossed a few insults to go along with the crowd.
Finally, the guy in the headband came my way shouting encouragement to the line of marchers who were going around and around in a long oval in front of the door, which was being guarded by two men in suits who were not policemen, but probably military personnel. The cameraman was shooting pictures now, and I hid my cigar and sucked in a few inches of gut when he photographed me. The babe in the yellow dress joined the group after passing out some Black Panther pins and she marched without once looking at me again.
“I hear you don’t make like the other cops we’ve run into in these demonstrations,” said the guy with the headband, suddenly standing in front of me and grinning. “The L.A.P.D. abandoning the oh so firm but courteous approach? Are you a new police riot technique? A caricature of a fat pig, a jolly jiveass old cop that we just can’t get mad at? Is that it? They figure we couldn’t use you for an Establishment symbol? Like you’re too fucking comical looking, is that it?”
“Believe it or not, Tonto,” I said, “I’m just the neighborhood cop. Not a secret weapon, nothing for lumpy legs to get tight-jawed about. I’m just your local policeman.”
He twitched a little bit when I mentioned the broad so I guessed she might be his old lady. I figured they probably taught sociology lA and lB in one of the local junior colleges.
“Are you the only swine they’re sending?” he asked, smiling not quite so much now which made me very happy. It’s hard even for professionals like him to stay with a smirk when he’s being rapped at where it hurts. He probably just loves everything about her, even the veiny old wheels. I decided, screw it, I was going to take the offensive with these assholes and see where it ended.
“Listen, Cochise,” I said, the cigar between my teeth, “I’m the only old pig you’re gonna see today. All the young piglets are staying in the pen. So why don’t you and old purple pins just take your Che handbooks and cut out. Let these kids have their march with no problems. And take those two dudes with the naturals along with you.” I pointed to the two black guys who were standing ten feet away watching us. “There ain’t gonna be any more cops here, and there ain’t gonna be any trouble.”
“You are a bit refreshing,” he said, trying to grin, but it was a crooked grin. “I was getting awfully sick of those unnatural pseudoprofessionals with their businesslike platitudes, pretending to look right through us when really they wanted to get us in the back room of some police station and beat our fucking heads in. I must say you’re refreshing. You’re truly a vicious fascist and don’t pretend to be anything else.”
Just then the mini-skirted broad walked up again. “Is he threatening you, John?” she said in a loud voice, looking over her shoulder, but the guys with the camera and mike were at the other end of the shouting line of marchers.
“Save it till they get to this end,” I said, as I now estimated her age to be closer to forty. She was a few years older than he was and the mod camouflage looked downright comical. “Want some bubble gum, little girl?” I said.
“Shut your filthy mouth,” he said, taking a step toward me. I was tight now, I wound myself up and was ready. “Stay frosty, Sitting Bull,” I smiled. “Here, have a cigar.” I offered one of my smokes, but he wheeled and walked away with old lumpy clicking along behind him.
The two black guys hadn’t moved. They too were professionals, I was positive now, but they were a different kind. If anything went down, I planned to attack those two right away. They were the ones to worry about. They both wore black plastic jackets and one wore a black cossack hat. He never took his eyes off me. He’d be the very first one I’d go after, I thought. I kept that flaky look, grinning and waving at any kid who gave me the peace sign, but I was getting less and less sure I could handle the situation. There were a couple other guys in the group that might get froggy if someone leaped, and I’ve seen what only two guys can do if they get you down and put the boots to you, let alone nine or ten.
I hated to admit it but I was beginning to wish Grant would show up with a squad of bluecoats. Still, it was a quiet demonstration, as quiet as these things go, and there was probably nothing to worry about, I thought.
The march continued as it had for a few more minutes, with the young ones yelling slogans, and then headband and mini-skirt came back with six or eight people in tow. These kids were definitely collegiate, wearing flares or bleach-streaked Levis. Some of the boys had muttonchops and moustaches, most had collar-length hair, and two of them were pretty, suntanned girls. They looked friendly enough and I gave them a nod of the head when they stopped in front of me.
One particularly scurvy-looking slimeball walked up, smiled real friendly, and whispered, “You’re a filthy, shit-eating pig.”
I smiled back and whispered, “Your mother eats bacon.”
“How can we start a riot with no riot squad,” another said.
“Careful, Scott, he’s not just a pig, he’s a wild boar, you dig?” said the mini-skirt who was standing behind the kids.
“Maybe you could use a little bore, sweetheart, maybe that’s your trouble,” I said, looking at the guy in the headband, and two of the kids chuckled.
“You seem to be the only Establishment representative we have at the moment, maybe you’d like to rap with us,” said Scott, a tall kid with a scrubbed-looking face and a mop of blond hair. He had a cute little baby hanging on his arm and she seemed amused.
“Sure, just fire away,” I said, still leaning back, acting relaxed as I puffed. I was actually beginning to want to rap with them. One time when I asked some young sergeant if I could take a shot at the “Policeman Bill” program and go talk to a class of high-school kids, he shined me on with a bunch of crap, and I realized then that they wanted these flat-stomached, clear-eyed, handsome young recruiting-poster cops for these jobs. I had my chance now and I liked the idea.
“What’s your first name, Officer Morgan?” asked Scott, looking at my nameplate, “and what do you think of street demonstrations?”
Scott was smiling and I could hardly hear him over the yelling as the ring of marchers moved twenty feet closer to us to block the entrance more effectively after the fat bitch in yellow directed them to do it. Several kids mugged at the cameraman and waved “V” s
igns at him and me. One asshole, older than the others, flipped me the bone and then scowled into the camera.
“That’s it, smile and say pig, you pukepot,” I mumbled, noticing the two black cossacks were at the other end of the line of marchers talking to purple legs. Then I turned to Scott. “To answer your question, my name’s Bumper Morgan and I don’t mind demonstrations except that they take us cops away from our beats, and believe me we can’t spare the time. Everybody loses when we’re not on patrol.”
“What do you patrol, the fucking barnyard?” said one little shitbird wearing shades and carrying a poster that showed a white army officer telephoning a black mother about her son being killed in Vietnam. She was shown in a corner of the poster and there was a big white cop clubbing her with an oversized baton.
“That poster doesn’t make sense,” I said. “It’s awful damn lame. You might as well label it, ‘Killed by the running dogs of imperialism!’ I could do a lot better than that.”
“Man, that’s exactly what I told him,” Scott laughed, and offered me a cigarette.
“No thanks,” I said, as he and his baby doll lit one. “Now that one’s sort of clever,” I said, pointing to a sign which said “Today’s pigs are tomorrow’s porkchops.”
None of the other kids had anything to say yet, except the shithead with the poster, who yelled, “Like, what’re we doing talking to this fucking fascist lackey?”
“Look,” I said, “I ain’t gonna lay down and play dead just because you can say ‘fuck’ pretty good. I mean nobody’s shocked by that cheap shit anymore, so why don’t we just talk quiet to each other. I wanna hear what you guys got to say.”
“Good idea,” said another kid, a black, with a wild natural, wire-rim glasses, and a tiger tooth necklace, who almost had to shout because of the noise. “Tell us why a man would want to be a cop. I mean really. I’m not putting you on, I want to know.”
He was woofing me, because he winked at the blond kid, but I thought I’d tell them what I liked about it. What the hell, I liked having all these kids crowded around listening to me. Somebody then moved the marchers’ line a little north again and I could almost talk in a normal voice.
“Well, I like to take lawbreakers off the street,” I began.
“Just a minute,” said the black kid, pushing his wire-rims up on his nose. “Please, Officer, no euphemisms. I’m from Watts.” Then he purposely lapsed into a Negro drawl and said, “I been knowin’ the PO-lice all mah life.” The others laughed and he continued in his own voice. “Talk like a real cop and tell us like it is, without any bullshit. You know, use that favorite expression of L.A.P.D.-‘asshole,’ I believe it is.” He smiled again after he said all this and so did I.
“What part of Watts you live in?” I asked.
“One-O-Three and Grape, baby,” he answered.
“Okay, I’ll talk plainer. I’m a cop because I love to throw assholes in jail, and if possible I like to send them to the joint.”
“That’s more like it,” said the black kid. “Now you’re lookin’ so good and soundin’ so fine.”
The others applauded and grinned at each other.
“Isn’t that kind of a depressing line of work?” asked Scott. “I mean, don’t you like to do something for someone once in a while instead of to them?”
“I figure I do something for someone every time I make a good bust. I mean, you figure every real asshole you catch in a dead bang burglary or robbery’s tore off probably a hundred people or so before you bring him down. I figure each time I make a pinch I save a hundred more, maybe even some lives. And I’ll tell you, most victims are people who can’t afford to be victims. People who can afford it have protection and insurance and aren’t so vulnerable to all these scummy hemorrhoids. Know what I mean?”
Scott’s little girlfriend was busting to throw in her two cents, but three guys popped off at once, and finally Scott’s voice drowned out the others. “I’m a law student,” he said, “and I intend to be your adversary someday in a courtroom. Tell me, do you really get satisfaction when you send a man away for ten years?”
“Listen, Scott,” I said, “in the first place even Eichmann would stand a fifty-fifty chance of not doing ten years nowadays. You got to be a boss crook to pull that kind of time. In fact, you got to work at it to even get to state prison. Man, some of the cats I put away, I wouldn’t give them ten years, I’d give them a goddamned lobotomy if I could.”
I dropped my cigar because these kids had me charged up now. I figured they were starting to respect me a little and I even tried for a minute to hold in my gut but that was uncomfortable, and I gave it up.
“I saw a big article in some magazine a few years ago honoring these cops,” I continued. “‘These are not pigs’ the article said, and it showed one cop who’d delivered some babies, and one cop who’d rescued some people in a flood, and one cop who was a goddamn boy scout troop leader or something like that. You know, I delivered two babies myself. But we ain’t being paid to be midwives or lifeguards or social workers. They got other people to do those jobs. Let’s see somebody honor some copper because the guy made thirty good felony pinches a month for ten years and sent a couple hundred guys to San Quentin. Nobody ever gives an award to him. Even his sergeant ain’t gonna appreciate that, but he’ll get on his ass for not writing a traffic ticket every day because the goddamn city needs the revenue and there’s no room in prisons anyway.”
I should’ve been noticing things at about this time. I should’ve noticed that the guy in the headband and his old lady were staying away from me and so were the two black guys in the plastic jackets. In fact, all the ones I spotted were staying at the other end of the line of marchers who were quieting down and starting to get tired. I should’ve noticed that the boy, Scott, the other blond kid, and the tall black kid, were closer to me than the others, and so was the cute little twist hanging on Scott’s arm and carrying a huge heavy-looking buckskin handbag.
I noticed nothing, because for one of the few times in my life I wasn’t being a cop. I was a big, funny-looking, blue-suited donkey and I thought I was home-run king belting them out over the fences. The reason was that I was somewhere I’d never been in my life. I was on a soapbox. Not a stage but a soapbox. A stage I could’ve handled. I can put on the act people want and expect, and I can still keep my eyes open and not get carried away with it, but this goddamned soapbox was something else. I was making speeches, one after another, about things that meant something to me, and all I could see was the loving gaze of my audience, and the sound of my own voice drowned out all the things that I should’ve been hearing and seeing.
“Maybe police departments should only recruit college graduates,” Scott shrugged, coming a step closer.
“Yeah, they want us to solve crimes by these ‘scientific methods,’ whatever that means. And what do us cops do? We kiss ass and nod our heads and take federal funds to build computers and send cops to college and it all boils down to a cop with sharp eyes and an ability to talk to people who’ll get the goddamn job done.”
“Don’t you think that in the age that’s coming, policemen will be obsolete?” Scott’s little girlfriend asked the question and she looked so wide-eyed I had to smile.
“I’m afraid not, honey,” I said. “As long as there’s people, there’s gonna be lots of bad ones and greedy ones and weak ones.”
“How can you feel that way about people and still care at all about helping them as you say you do when you arrest somebody?” she asked, shaking her head. She smiled sadly, like she felt sorry for me.
“Hell, baby, they ain’t much but they’re all we got. It’s the only game in town!” I figured that was obvious to anybody and I started to wonder if they weren’t still a little young. “By the way, are most of you social science and English majors?”
“Why do you say that?” asked the black kid, who was built like a ballplayer.
“The surveys say you are. I’m just asking. Just curious.”
“Were you at Century City?” asked the little blonde.
“Yeah, I was there, and it wasn’t anything like you read in the underground newspapers or on those edited TV tapes.”
“It wasn’t? I was there,” said Scott.
“Well, I’m not gonna deny some people got hurt,” I said, looking from one face to another for hostility. “There was the President of the United States to protect and there were thousands of war protestors out there and I guarantee you that was no bullshit about them having sharpened sticks and bags of shit and broken bottles and big rocks. I bet I could kill a guy with a rock.”
“You didn’t see any needless brutality?”
“What the hell’s brutality?” I said. “Most of those blue-coats out there are just lads your age. When someone spits in his face, all the goddamn discipline in the world ain’t gonna stop him or any normal kid from getting that other cat’s teeth prints on his baton. There’s times when you just gotta play a little catch-up. You know what five thousand screaming people look like? Sure, we got some stick time in. Some scumbags, all they respect is force. You just gotta kick ass and collect names. Anybody with any balls woulda whaled on some of those pricks out there.” Then I remembered the girl. “Sorry for the four-letter word, miss,” I said as a reflex action.
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