Golden Orange by Joseph Wambaugh Page A

arm and starts gougin and hissin and spittin! I come straight up, and like, stumble back inside this closet. And I toss the little bastard up in the air where he hits the ceiling. But it ain’t the ceiling. It’s a trapdoor!”
    â€œUh oh,” said Winnie.
    â€œYeah! He knocks the little door cockeyed and there’s the second guy we thought jumped out the window. And I’m starin at an Uzi on full auto, and I scream louder than the goddamn cat, and Novak over there, he runs in and starts crankin off rounds up into the crawl space, and that unemployed musician’s gonna have a closed coffin after the undertaker gets a gander at the mess those hollow-points made of his face.”
    â€œThe guy get any off?”
    â€œA burst,” Buster said. “Before or after Novak capped him? I can’t say for sure. Neither can Novak. What difference does it make?”
    â€œAn Uzi’s a gun for chrissake!” said Guppy Stover whose attention span was exhausted. “Why didn’t you say so? Probably one of those assault guns George Bush isn’t sure if he’s for or against, right?”
    Buster stopped talking when Novak the narc walked to the end of the bar, reached over and grabbed Spoon’s private phone without asking permission. He looked grim.
    He dialed a number and after a moment said, “It’s me, Ma. Yeah, I knew it’d be on television.” There was a pause and he said, “Ma, I don’t know if he had a family! Look, he was a doper! He woulda over-amped anyways. Overdosed, I mean.” Another pause and then in utter frustration, “Of course I didn’t enjoy it, Ma! I even got sick to my stomach that time Lorrie got her ears pierced! Remember?”
    Turning to Buster, Winnie said, “The cat? Why’d he attack you?”
    â€œOh yeah,” Buster said, and Winnie could clearly see the wonder in Buster’s violet eyes. That’s how they looked in Nam sometimes. Eyes full of wonder. “Know why the cat jumped me? I was into his stash. The cat had a dead mouse stashed inside the chair and he was protectin it! A fuckin mouse ! I almost got killed for stealin a dead mouse!”
    â€œHave another drink,” Winnie said.
    Bilge O’Toole entered the saloon, drunk, and spotted Buster. “Saw you on TV!” he said. “What happened down there?”
    Buster rolled his eyes at Winnie and said to Bilge, “There I was, thinkin I was forty clicks outta Da Nang. Charlie was in the wire. My piece jammed. I can’t talk about it. Doctor’s orders.”
    â€œVietnam flashback, huh?” Bilge clucked, lurching to the other side of the bar where eavesdropping showed some promise.
    When they were alone again, Buster said to Winnie, “I’m real sick a my job, Win. Slam dunkin these little two-oh and five-oh dopers. Endin up with kibbles ’n bits and a sack full a subpoenas to ruin my days off. I’m gettin real sick and real tired. Wish I could hurt my back like you did. I’d trade my strong back for your weak pension any day.”
    Winnie’s nose twitched. He sniffed the air like a pointer. Jasmine! He whirled around. She was sitting three stools to his left. She smiled.
    â€œHello,” Winnie said.
    She was wearing a red and white sailor-striped tee, with a red chambray wrap skirt and white deck shoes.
    Buster stared at his drink and didn’t look up.
    â€œThought I’d have a nightcap,” she said. “Went to the movies.”
    â€œAny good?”
    â€œTedious. Brat-pack stuff.”
    â€œThis is my friend, Buster Wiles. Buster, meet Tess Binder.”
    â€œI heard your name on the car radio,” she said to Buster. “You were in a shoot-out today. How are you?”
    â€œYou’ll have to try me and find out,” Buster said, his eyes slits of purple.
    She didn’t like that and neither did Winnie. She turned away and lit a cigarette with the gold