exception, to everyone.
Including oneself.
For Park, that was as easy as breathing.
But hard as hell for anyone working with him.
Which was one of the arguments Captain Bartolome had used on him.
"No one likes you."
Standing in his office, in front of the autographed picture of himself as a boy with a smiling Vin Scully, Bartolome had shrugged.
"Not saying it to make you feel bad, it's just true."
Park had looked at the LAPD ball cap in his own hands.
"It doesn't make me feel bad."
"I didn't think it did. Another reason I think you'd be good for this. Helps not to care if people don't like you."
Park ran a hand up the back of his neck, felt the sharp horizontal hairline that his barber had carved at the bottom of his buzz cut.
"It's not that I don't care in general, Captain. Depends on why they don't like me."
Bartolome stuck the tip of his tongue behind his lower lip, then pulled it back, sucking his teeth.
"So it's just you don't care that they don't like you because you're a pain in the ass to work with? Other reasons people don't like you might bother you, that it?"
Park stopped playing with his hair.
"I don't care if they don't want to work with me, because I know I'm right."
The captain from narcotics raised both eyebrows.
"Jesus, Haas. No wonder they don't like you."
Park brushed something from the leg of his blues.
"May I go now?"
Bartolome pointed at the door.
"Can you leave my office now? Yes."
Park started to rise.
Bartolome pointed at the window.
"Can you go back out on the streets? No."
Park, half out of the hard plastic chair, stalled and looked at his superior.
"Sir?"
Bartolome looked at his desk, frowned at the headline on the L.A. Times sports section spread there:
MLB ENDS SEASONPlay Not to Resume Until SLP Pandemic Has Been Contained
He looked at the officer across the desk.
"There will be no more solo acts, Haas. Everyone rides with a partner. Department can't afford the gas to put enough vehicles on the street. Until we see some more stimulus cash miraculously filling the motor pool with electrics and hybrids, all patrol cars roll with two, three, four officers."
He rubbed his eyes.
"And no one, absolutely no one, wants to ride with you anymore."
Park straightened.
"They never have."
"Uh-huh, but things weren't this bad before. Things weren't as dangerous as they're getting out there. The department wants maximum morale in the face of this shit. Maximum morale means we don't have to worry about the kind of desertions they got when Katrina hit. Cops losing faith in the system and just disappearing."
He stopped rubbing his eyes and looked Park up and down.
"Maximum morale also means that officers have each other's backs. We don't want guys cutting slack out there because they figure they'd be better off if the pain in the ass riding shotgun maybe took one in a gang incident."
Park thought about the time about a year before, riding with Del Rico. How they'd rolled on a two-eleven. Del had said the stockroom at the back of the liquor store was clear. But it wasn't. Turned out the perp wasn't strapped; what the Korean owner of the store had taken for a gun was a length of pipe. But it had been a gun call, and Del had let Park walk into a supposedly cleared room where a perp was hiding behind some boxes with a pipe that could easily have been a piece. Park walked with a couple bruises on his ribs. The perp took a series of baton spears to his genitals.
Del was always cool to Park's face, but he'd heard him making cracks with the guys. Talking about how he couldn't wait till his tour with the monk was over.
Park didn't think Del Rico knew the perp was back there. But he was a good cop. And he'd said the room was clear. Would he have been more thorough if he hadn't been thinking about when he'd be done riding with Park?
"You follow me, Haas?"
Park looked up at the captain.
"I could do bike patrols."
Bartolome rubbed the smooth brown top of his head.
"Bike cops are
Including oneself.
For Park, that was as easy as breathing.
But hard as hell for anyone working with him.
Which was one of the arguments Captain Bartolome had used on him.
"No one likes you."
Standing in his office, in front of the autographed picture of himself as a boy with a smiling Vin Scully, Bartolome had shrugged.
"Not saying it to make you feel bad, it's just true."
Park had looked at the LAPD ball cap in his own hands.
"It doesn't make me feel bad."
"I didn't think it did. Another reason I think you'd be good for this. Helps not to care if people don't like you."
Park ran a hand up the back of his neck, felt the sharp horizontal hairline that his barber had carved at the bottom of his buzz cut.
"It's not that I don't care in general, Captain. Depends on why they don't like me."
Bartolome stuck the tip of his tongue behind his lower lip, then pulled it back, sucking his teeth.
"So it's just you don't care that they don't like you because you're a pain in the ass to work with? Other reasons people don't like you might bother you, that it?"
Park stopped playing with his hair.
"I don't care if they don't want to work with me, because I know I'm right."
The captain from narcotics raised both eyebrows.
"Jesus, Haas. No wonder they don't like you."
Park brushed something from the leg of his blues.
"May I go now?"
Bartolome pointed at the door.
"Can you leave my office now? Yes."
Park started to rise.
Bartolome pointed at the window.
"Can you go back out on the streets? No."
Park, half out of the hard plastic chair, stalled and looked at his superior.
"Sir?"
Bartolome looked at his desk, frowned at the headline on the L.A. Times sports section spread there:
MLB ENDS SEASONPlay Not to Resume Until SLP Pandemic Has Been Contained
He looked at the officer across the desk.
"There will be no more solo acts, Haas. Everyone rides with a partner. Department can't afford the gas to put enough vehicles on the street. Until we see some more stimulus cash miraculously filling the motor pool with electrics and hybrids, all patrol cars roll with two, three, four officers."
He rubbed his eyes.
"And no one, absolutely no one, wants to ride with you anymore."
Park straightened.
"They never have."
"Uh-huh, but things weren't this bad before. Things weren't as dangerous as they're getting out there. The department wants maximum morale in the face of this shit. Maximum morale means we don't have to worry about the kind of desertions they got when Katrina hit. Cops losing faith in the system and just disappearing."
He stopped rubbing his eyes and looked Park up and down.
"Maximum morale also means that officers have each other's backs. We don't want guys cutting slack out there because they figure they'd be better off if the pain in the ass riding shotgun maybe took one in a gang incident."
Park thought about the time about a year before, riding with Del Rico. How they'd rolled on a two-eleven. Del had said the stockroom at the back of the liquor store was clear. But it wasn't. Turned out the perp wasn't strapped; what the Korean owner of the store had taken for a gun was a length of pipe. But it had been a gun call, and Del had let Park walk into a supposedly cleared room where a perp was hiding behind some boxes with a pipe that could easily have been a piece. Park walked with a couple bruises on his ribs. The perp took a series of baton spears to his genitals.
Del was always cool to Park's face, but he'd heard him making cracks with the guys. Talking about how he couldn't wait till his tour with the monk was over.
Park didn't think Del Rico knew the perp was back there. But he was a good cop. And he'd said the room was clear. Would he have been more thorough if he hadn't been thinking about when he'd be done riding with Park?
"You follow me, Haas?"
Park looked up at the captain.
"I could do bike patrols."
Bartolome rubbed the smooth brown top of his head.
"Bike cops are
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