seven and six-eighths?"
"You're pretty good, Arnie."
"Yeah, I rock. Pin that on your shirt. Put the hat piece in your pocket till the new brims come in and get your ass outta here. Your training officer is gonna swing by in twenty minutes to pick you up. You can wait for him by the handball courts out front. Have a good one."
I threaded the badge through the metal eyelets on my uniform shirt and clipped it closed. Number 689. Pinned, tinned and ready to sap Mexicans.
When I went into the Los Angeles Police Academy in Elysian Park, it had taken me eight grueling months to earn my uniform and badge. This was a joke.
I exited the gymnasium and found the handball courts. There was an old wooden bench under a leafless elm, so I sat in the meager shade from the dying tree and waited. I wasn't sure exactly what to expect, so I decided to follow the advice on my left shoulder and be forever vigilant.
Chapter 11
"I gotta straighten a guy out in Fleetwood, so let s run over there and I'll show you around," Alonzo Bell said as I got into the passenger side of his black-and-white. He pulled out of the elementary school and continued. "Our shop is Car Nine. In Haven Park we use a regular ten-code like LAPD. I've got us out of service, ten-seven, for the beginning of the tour so I can show you the turf."
"Good deal."
We drove down a commercial street called District, then skirted the edges of Haven Park, went through the neighboring city of Vista and entered Fleetwood.
"I heard shots and some sirens last night," I said as we rode past the mostly residential blocks of single-story, brightly painted stucco houses with dead lawns.
"We had a little street-cleaning action. I didn't hear about it till this morning. The night watch caught some South Side Crip s d oing corners over on Lincoln Boulevard. It got frisky." Doing corners was street slang for drug dealing.
Bell smiled. "We don't want those guys over here. Two C-homies got splashed, two got hooked and booked. Lotta red sauce got spilled. Big night."
"But you leave the Eighteenth Street Locos alone."
"Eighteenth Streeters are kicking back to us, so they get the hospitality mat. I thought I ran this all down for you at A Fuego," he said, frowning.
I nodded and looked at the passing houses. More dead grass, rusting Chevys. Urban blight.
We drove through Fleetwood to the city administration complex, which was located next to a rundown industrial complex.
Alonzo nosed our unit into a slot. We got out and I followed him inside the two-story city hall building. He approached a pretty, dark-eyed girl with shiny jet-black hair, who was wearing a tight sweater that showed off her jutting breasts.
"Mariana Concheta Brown," he announced. "Maravilloso Mamacita."
"Hey, Al. Where you been? How come none of you hot Haven Park guys come calling anymore?" She smiled at him and he winked at me. Obviously she was more than a friend.
"Meet my new partner, fresh from L . A . Shane Scully, this is Mariana Brown. Her husband s in Iraq."
He winked again, all of this, I guess, to tell me he was laying this war bride.
"Nice to meet you," I said.
"Mariana runs the sorry sack of incompetent dogs who work here. Armando around?" he asked.
Mariana picked up a phone and buzzed. "Sergeant Bell to see you, sir."
A few seconds later, a fat brown middle-aged toad of a guy exited the door behind Mariana. His greasy black hair was slicked back and he had one of those deeply pockmarked complexions that looked like he'd had trouble learning to eat with a fork as a kid.
"It didn't come," Armando said without preamble, growling the words at Alonzo.
"You need to talk to Cal or Gordon 'cause they were bringin g i t."
"Don't hide behind those mallates. You know how this shits supposed to work. It's your responsibility to make sure my end gets to me."
"Say hi to Shane," Alonzo said. "He's my new partner." Trying to use me to avoid the short ugly man's anger.
Armando glanced at me, then addressed Alonzo
"You're pretty good, Arnie."
"Yeah, I rock. Pin that on your shirt. Put the hat piece in your pocket till the new brims come in and get your ass outta here. Your training officer is gonna swing by in twenty minutes to pick you up. You can wait for him by the handball courts out front. Have a good one."
I threaded the badge through the metal eyelets on my uniform shirt and clipped it closed. Number 689. Pinned, tinned and ready to sap Mexicans.
When I went into the Los Angeles Police Academy in Elysian Park, it had taken me eight grueling months to earn my uniform and badge. This was a joke.
I exited the gymnasium and found the handball courts. There was an old wooden bench under a leafless elm, so I sat in the meager shade from the dying tree and waited. I wasn't sure exactly what to expect, so I decided to follow the advice on my left shoulder and be forever vigilant.
Chapter 11
"I gotta straighten a guy out in Fleetwood, so let s run over there and I'll show you around," Alonzo Bell said as I got into the passenger side of his black-and-white. He pulled out of the elementary school and continued. "Our shop is Car Nine. In Haven Park we use a regular ten-code like LAPD. I've got us out of service, ten-seven, for the beginning of the tour so I can show you the turf."
"Good deal."
We drove down a commercial street called District, then skirted the edges of Haven Park, went through the neighboring city of Vista and entered Fleetwood.
"I heard shots and some sirens last night," I said as we rode past the mostly residential blocks of single-story, brightly painted stucco houses with dead lawns.
"We had a little street-cleaning action. I didn't hear about it till this morning. The night watch caught some South Side Crip s d oing corners over on Lincoln Boulevard. It got frisky." Doing corners was street slang for drug dealing.
Bell smiled. "We don't want those guys over here. Two C-homies got splashed, two got hooked and booked. Lotta red sauce got spilled. Big night."
"But you leave the Eighteenth Street Locos alone."
"Eighteenth Streeters are kicking back to us, so they get the hospitality mat. I thought I ran this all down for you at A Fuego," he said, frowning.
I nodded and looked at the passing houses. More dead grass, rusting Chevys. Urban blight.
We drove through Fleetwood to the city administration complex, which was located next to a rundown industrial complex.
Alonzo nosed our unit into a slot. We got out and I followed him inside the two-story city hall building. He approached a pretty, dark-eyed girl with shiny jet-black hair, who was wearing a tight sweater that showed off her jutting breasts.
"Mariana Concheta Brown," he announced. "Maravilloso Mamacita."
"Hey, Al. Where you been? How come none of you hot Haven Park guys come calling anymore?" She smiled at him and he winked at me. Obviously she was more than a friend.
"Meet my new partner, fresh from L . A . Shane Scully, this is Mariana Brown. Her husband s in Iraq."
He winked again, all of this, I guess, to tell me he was laying this war bride.
"Nice to meet you," I said.
"Mariana runs the sorry sack of incompetent dogs who work here. Armando around?" he asked.
Mariana picked up a phone and buzzed. "Sergeant Bell to see you, sir."
A few seconds later, a fat brown middle-aged toad of a guy exited the door behind Mariana. His greasy black hair was slicked back and he had one of those deeply pockmarked complexions that looked like he'd had trouble learning to eat with a fork as a kid.
"It didn't come," Armando said without preamble, growling the words at Alonzo.
"You need to talk to Cal or Gordon 'cause they were bringin g i t."
"Don't hide behind those mallates. You know how this shits supposed to work. It's your responsibility to make sure my end gets to me."
"Say hi to Shane," Alonzo said. "He's my new partner." Trying to use me to avoid the short ugly man's anger.
Armando glanced at me, then addressed Alonzo
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