“By all means stop for brunch,” Mario Villalobos said, taking two more aspirin, which weren’t helping the headache but were giving him a stomachache.
He started to feel a bit better just for getting rid of Chip and Melody. Suddenly The Bad Czech came charging in with the smallest Asian cop Mario Villalobos had ever seen. Both The Bad Czech and the little policeman had grins as wide as a nightstick.
“Hey, Mario, this here’s Sunney Kee,” The Bad Czech said. “He’s a new rookie outa the last class. Sunney, this is Sergeant Villalobos.”
After they shook hands, The Bad Czech grinned down at Sunney Kee like a proud dad and said, “Magilla?”
“Gorilla!” Sunney Kee answered, beaming.
“How ya like that, Mario?” The Bad Czech said. “He’s bright as a button!” Then to Sunney Kee he said, “Gorilla?”
“Magilla!” Sunney Kee answered, bright as a button.
“I’m sure there’s some significance here that I’m missing,” Mario Villalobos said.
“Lesterrr?” The Bad Czech said to Sunney Kee.
“Lesterrr!” Sunney Kee answered.
“See, Mario!” The Bad Czech said proudly. “Right as rain!”
“That’s truly made my day,” Mario Villalobos said, “but I’m a little bewildered.”
“I remembered about the credit card,” The Bad Czech said. “I mean, workin here with a goo … workin with Sunney here, I remembered the Korean restaurant yesterday. I got this stubborn chopstick in my shoe and when I couldn’t get it out I ended up with the wrong credit card.”
“Chopstick in your shoe,” Mario Villalobos said. He’d heard for some time that The Bad Czech was totally around the bend.
“Magilla?” The Bad Czech yelled suddenly, scaring the crap out of Mario Villalobos.
“Gorilla!” Sunney Kee answered, right as rain.
Then Sunney Kee and The Bad Czech beamed at each other, with smiles two nightsticks wide.
Δ Δ Δ
Dilford and Dolly, cold sober and hungover, had gone back to their old ways. Dilford had some memory of their semi-cordial night in The House of Misery. Dolly had none. She didn’t even remember driving home, but knew she had when she found her car in the garage and keys in her purse where they should have been.
She had to admit that she was feeling a little less persecuted as Dilford’s unwanted partner, and she guessed that it was less the drunken night at The House of Misery than it was the experience with the boat people. Dolly was learning that shared horror diminished hostility.
With Dilford suffering a hangover, she was driving today. He sat in the passenger seat with his head back, eyes closed, mouth open, dozing fitfully.
The radio calls had so far been routine, and most of them could be handled without disturbing Dilford. Dilford had enough police experience to be able to sleep through the noise of the radio calls, awakening only when he heard their unit number.
Dolly thought she’d missed a major hotshot call when she saw three black-and-whites parked alongside Echo Park. After she made a quick turn and cruised up to them, she saw that it was Jane Wayne and Rumpled Ronald talking with two K-9 cops, one of them being horny Hans. He was grinning and waving her over. Unable to get gracefully away, Dolly drove up to the other black-and-whites and parked. Jane Wayne said, “Wanna see something impressive, Dolly? Come watch them work these dogs.”
“What’s going on?” Dilford mumbled, opening one eye.
“Go back to sleep,” Dolly said, getting out of the car and following Jane Wayne across the grass to where Hans, dressed in the dark-blue jumpsuit uniform of the K-9 cop, worked Ludwig with a protective sleeve over his arm.
Dolly sat on the grass and watched the huge black Rottweiler snarl and roar while he clamped onto that sleeve and eventually pulled the skinny cop flat on his belly.
The other K-9 cop and his partner, a feisty German shepherd, were raring to go. The dog’s name was Goethe, and he was an old pal of Ludwig’s back in the kennel in Hamburg. They were trained together, shipped to Los Angeles together, were both bought and donated to the police department by a Palos Verdes plastic surgeon, and underwent further police training side by side.
In that the American cops couldn’t say “Goethe,” the German shepherd became known as Gertie, which The Bad Czech said was a pretty faggy name for a male German shepherd. Hans and the other K-9 cop often met in various parks around central Los Angeles and worked their dogs to keep them sharp, issuing commands in German, which was all the dogs understood. They let the two animals romp on the grass as a reward for a good training session.
Ludwig was twenty-five pounds heavier than Gertie, but Gertie was faster, and they loved to play-fight and growl and bite each other affectionately and roll around like old pals from puppyhood. Perhaps in their canine memory they recalled the bad old days back home where the weather wasn’t so good and they lived in kennels and didn’t have their own humans as they did now.
The Los Angeles Police Department had been slow to acquire dogs, fearing the bad image of southern cops unleashing police dogs on black people in the old days of civil rights marches. Blacks were generally terrified of the animals, no doubt as a result of the archetypal myth of master, hound and slave, as well as of later use in crowd control. Whites were just about as fearful of snarling police dogs as blacks, but Mexicans were generally unafraid. Or at least their machismo demanded that they show no fear when faced with dogs. There had been several incidents of Mexicans challenging a police dog to a fight.
There were other more interesting things to learn. For example, police dogs tended to acquire the traits of the partners with whom they worked and lived. Gertie was like her partner, an energetic young cop, very action oriented and, according to his personnel reports, a bit too impulsive.
Ludwig, on the other hand, was more deliberate, like Hans. He enjoyed action, but wanted to know and understand his commands. Ludwig did building-searches in a more methodical way and handled suspect-encounters with less flair and energy.
Gertie had once leaped from one rooftop to another in hot pursuit of a burglar, very nearly suffering the fate of another dog who had lost his life. Ludwig would probably have stopped, looked at the yawning chasm of concrete and tried to figure out in his canine brain how the hell to continue without a death-defying leap.
There were of course other traits that Ludwig had picked up from Hans, such as beer drinking, which Hans would not want his supervisors to know about. And of late they shared a characteristic that Hans wanted no one to know about. This particular trait showed up earlier that very morning.
Hans had made a run to Rampart Station to see if a certain foxy little records clerk was on duty. While he was lurking around the watch commander’s office, Too-Tired Loomis, who was wearily trying to get up the energy to lift his telephone from the cradle, spotted the huge Rottweiler staring at him with yellow menacing eyes.
“Officer!” Too-Tired Loomis said to the K-9 cop. “Is that animal safe to roam around this station?”
“Oh yes, sir,” Hans said. “He’s perfectly safe.”
Then to demonstrate, he walked Ludwig, using his on-duty choker, toward the watch commander. Ludwig wore an L.A.P.D. identification card, complete with his photo, attached to his choker chain.
When Too-Tired Loomis looked at the enormous black face and the drooling tongue, it made him shudder.
“I like dogs,” Too-Tired Loomis said, “but that dog has eyes like … let’s see … his pupils are elongated. Those’re the eyes of … a goat. That’s a decadent-looking dog,” the gray-haired lieutenant said.
“He’s a wonderful dog, Lieutenant,” Hans reassured him. “He’s very lovable.”
And then Ludwig crept forward a few steps and put his heavy head on Too-Tired Loomis’ knee, and he looked up at the lieutenant with eyes as demented as …
“Now I’ve got it!” Too-Tired Loomis said. “He’s got eyes like The Bad Czech. Officer, take this dog out of here.”
&nb
sp; But before Hans could take Ludwig away, a terrible thing happened. Ludwig stared up at the gray-haired lieutenant and wagged his tail. And got an erection.
“Oh shit!” Hans cried, but it was too late.
Ludwig growled excitedly and stared at Too-Tired Loomis, and began ejaculating. Right on the lieutenant’s shiny floor.
“It looks like he … uh … he likes you, Lieutenant!” Hans cried nervously.
“GET THIS FILTHY CREATURE OUT!” Too-Tired Loomis bellowed, scaring the crap out of The Bad Czech and Sunney Kee, who were giving each other one last Magilla Gorilla before the monster cop was released for foot patrol.
The Bad Czech came running into the watch commander’s office, took a look and cried, “Ludwig jizzed all over the lieutenant’s floor!”
“Don’t you ever bring that animal in this station again!” Too-Tired Loomis warned the skinny K-9 cop.
“I think you oughtta start carryin a jizz rag, Hans,” Cecil Higgins said.
But what the others didn’t know, and what only a certain Chinatown groupie knew, was that a very strange phenomenon had recently occurred. Ludwig was not only adopting Hans’ characteristics, as is usually the case with K-9 partners. The opposite had also occurred.
Being together so much was causing Hans to react like Ludwig! The last two times he had taken the groupie to a motel he had suffered the humiliation of premature ejaculation. He begged her to tell no one. It was only temporary, he promised her. There was some psychological explanation for the bizarre turn of events, he was sure. Ludwig and Hans were both premature ejaculators.
The last time that Hans fired too early in the motel room, the sneering groupie said, “You better start carrying two jizz rags.”
Δ Δ Δ
Mario Villalobos had by now received the information he wanted regarding the credit card of one Lester Beemer. The card had recently been canceled upon notification by the secretary of Lester Beemer that he had passed away. The former client had been self-employed as a private investigator, with his residence and business addresses in Pasadena. The secretary of Lester Beemer had made no mention that the credit card was ever out of his possession and there had been as yet no unauthorized purchases made with the card.
Mario Villalobos took down the addresses and phone numbers and that was it. The only link was the mention of Pasadena. Caltech was in Pasadena.
There wasn’t much of importance on his desk and there were no other leads in the apparent murder of Missy Moonbeam. It was more than likely nothing, but he had an uncharacteristic urge to take it just one step further. Pasadena was fifteen minutes from Rampart Station when traffic was light.
Δ Δ Δ
By the time The Bad Czech and Cecil Higgins finally got out on the foot beat with the sound of Magilla Gorilla ringing in their ears, they had already heard about Wooden Teeth Wilma being belted around like a tetherball.
They didn’t know as yet the identity of the suspect, but they had a description supplied by the Costa Rican news vendor, and Earl Rimms was one of eight or ten people they suspected. The Costa Rican news vendor said that when the suspect started highballing it through the park, he almost fell on his ass. He wore what looked like brand-new brown and white patent wingtips.
“Brown and white,” The Bad Czech said. “There ain’t too many dudes around with brown and white shoes.”
“We kin take a look around Leo’s Love Palace,” Cecil Higgins said. “Git us a Alka-Seltzer while we’re at it.”
“Wooden Teeth Wilma wasn’t a bad old broad,” The Bad Czech said. “It makes me mad to think a somebody usin her like a tetherball. I’m feelin mad enough to murder any spade I catch wearin brown and white shoes.”
“Let’s jist hope Mayor Bradley don’t go out on the streets today with brown and white shoes on,” Cecil Higgins said.
And while The Bad Czech and Cecil Higgins started a search for Alka-Seltzer and spades in brown and white wingtips, the K-9 cops were getting tired of showing off their dogs to Jane Wayne and Dolly.
Gertie and Ludwig were having such a glorious time that they both had to be dragged toward their radio cars, heartbroken that their romp was over. The K-9 cops drove black-and-white Ford Fairmonts with the back seat removed. The animal stayed in the back and a metal mesh protected any potential prisoner in the front seat from the threat in the back. Gertie and Ludwig were both whimpering for each other when Hans and the other K-9 cop ordered them into their respective radio cars.
The other K-9 cop was nameless. All the K-9 cops were nameless to the people on uniform patrol. They knew the names of all the dogs, but the dog’s partner, unquestionably the less important half of the team, was nameless. It was “Gertie and Gertie’s partner.”
The only reason they knew Hans by name was that he chose to do his drinking in The House of Misery among other haunts downtown. To the cops in Rampart Station who didn’t drink at The House of Misery, the K-9 team would be “Ludwig and Ludwig’s partner.”
Rumpled Ronald would have stayed in Echo Park all day screwing off and watching the dogs work. The pension was officially his at 12:01 tonight. He was absolutely convinced that if he did any police work whatsoever on this day he was a dead man.
As they were getting into their cars, the call came crackling over the radio: “All units in the vicinity and Two-A-thirteen. Two-F-B-one is in foot pursuit of possible two-eleven suspect! In the alley north of Eighth Street and Alvarado!”
“That’s The Bad Czech!” Jane Wayne said. “Let’s hit it, Ronald!”
“Oh God!” Rumpled Ronald cried, reluctantly getting in the passenger side. “Oh God! This is it! I shouldn’t be chasing robbery suspects today!” Then he yelled at the snoozing Dilford, who didn’t even hear the hotshot call. “Dilford, clean out my locker if anything happens to me. Throw away the nude pictures of my girl friend before you call my wife. She’d piss on my grave if she saw those pictures! Oh God, this is it! A good cop’s gonna die today!”
And as it turned out, Rumpled Ronald was right.
Cecil Higgins had spotted the suspect first. He didn’t know it was Earl Rimms. He just saw the tall black man with the mean-looking body shove a drunk out of his way when he came in the back door of Leo’s Love Palace. He could see that the man wore a stingy-brim straw hat and a sport coat, but that was all he could see until the door closed. Then the man was no longer backlit against the sunlight as he stood in the dark saloon trying to get his eyes in focus.
Cecil Higgins’ eyes were already in focus. He could clearly see that the man was wearing two-tone wingtips. Then he could see the man’s mean and threatening face. “Earl Rimms,” he said to The Bad Czech, who was putting away his second Alka-Seltzer along with a glass of tomato juice with egg. “Look at his shoes.”
The Bad Czech saw the shoes at about the same instant that Earl Rimms’ eyes dilated and he saw the beat cops at the end of the bar. The foot race was on.
Back out the door went Earl Rimms, followed by the monster cop, who was yelling and moving fast for his size. Cecil Higgins put out the “officers need assistance” call on the rover radio unit he carried on his belt. There wasn’t much point in his trying to keep up with The Bad Czech, who was thirteen years younger, so he tried to figure in which direction Earl Rimms would go once he realized that the alley off Eighth Street would lead him into a dead end.
Both K-9 units beat the others to the scene. Cecil Higgins had totally lost sight of Earl Rimms and The Bad Czech once they got to the alley. There was a ten-foot chain link fence at one end and though Cecil Higgins thought The Bad Czech was too hungover to scale that fence, he realized that’s what must have happened.
Unit K-9-1 arrived before any other car. It was to be expected, in that Gertie’s partner was super-hyped and burning for action. Gertie was fairly frothing by the time they arrived, even more hyper than his partner. The shepherd detected the radio urgency, the change in his partner’s breathing and voice level. The dog smelled the new sweat.
Gertie was
stoked. Gertie wanted to go. He was ready to attack. Gertie was as wild-eyed as his partner when Cecil Higgins, holding his hat in his hand, waved the careening K-9 car around the block, yelling, “Drive south two blocks! If you don’t see them, head west toward Alvarado!”
Hans, being a more placid and plodding cop, was of course giving off enough vibrations to make Ludwig excited, but both members of Unit K-9-2 were in control when Cecil Higgins, standing on the corner directing traffic, waved them in a westerly direction in search of The Bad Czech and Earl Rimms.
Dilford and Dolly squealed around the corner at Park View and Seventh Street, and Jane Wayne along with a pale and clammy Rumpled Ronald (who thought he was looking straight into his own grave) began weaving through the traffic to the south.
“Why ain’t I driving? Why am I in the death seat?” Rumpled Ronald wanted to know. “Why am I in this Burt Reynolds movie?”
“I hope the Czech’s okay,” Jane Wayne said, biting her lip nervously while her blue eyes, lined severely with black eyeliner, swept the streets.
“I probably shoulda been better to my wife,” Rumpled Ronald said. “I know I shoulda been better to my girl friend.”
It was Unit K-9-1 that first spotted The Bad Czech. He was lumbering north on Coronado toward Wilshire Boulevard. A black man in a stingy-brim hat and sport coat was fifty yards ahead of him.
Unit K-9-1 hit the siren, blasted past four panicked motorists, ran up over the curb to get past two cars at a red light, spun and swayed and straightened out, and skidded to a stop. The black and tan shepherd was given his command to attack.
“Fass!” the cop yelled. “Fass, Goethe! Fass!”
Earl Rimms turned in horror when he saw the roaring mass of black and tan disaster hurtling toward him. He instinctively ran straight up to the front porch of a triplex, kicked open the door, entered past a screaming hysterical child, slammed the door shut, kicked through the rear door and was in the yard and over the fence while Gertie frothed and growled and barked at the front door. Then Gertie heard Earl Rimms plowing through the rear yard and the dog leaped from the porch, vaulted one fence, scrambled gracefully over another, and spotted the terrified mugger sprinting across the residential street.
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