Roscoe's voice quiver with uncertainty.
Then Whaddayamean Dean looked at Melissa Monroe and said later it was as though God in Heaven was displeased with dessert and had hauled off and threw it at the Ambassador Hotel but missed and splattered the sidewalk on Wilshire Boulevard. Skull and body had exploded. Organs and brain spattered the pavement. She was white and yellow and pink, covered with lumpy red sauce and syrup. Melissa Monroe had been turned into a raspberry sundae.
Dean Pratt was very quiet for the rest of this bloodiest of all nights of his life. He thought they were finished when at the station Roscoe Rules finished writing his 15.7 report: that indispensable police document which handily covers all those police situations which do not conveniently fit into a category such as robbery, burglary or vehicle theft.
"Remember, partner," Roscoe warned as they sat alone in the station coffee room, "as soon as the janitor left, she just jumped. Nothing was said by nobody. She just jumped!"
Dean Pratt nodded and sipped at a soft drink, longing for a water tumbler of straight bourbon as he had never longed for anything in his life. He hoped there might be some downers left in the bottom of his closet at home where his girlfriend left a small cache. He was terrified by barbiturates since drug use was an irrevocable firing offense. But he wanted to get loaded and sleep.
At 11:00 P. M. Roscoe Rules dragged his partner out of the coffee room and said, "Come on, partner, let's go do some police work."
"Huh?"
"Come on, goddamnit, let's hit the bricks." Roscoe grinned. "We ain't through yet. We still got forty-five minutes."
"Jesus Christ," said Dean.
"Come on!" Roscoe commanded, his grin vanishing. He took Whaddayamean Dean very firmly by the arm and walked him out to the radio car.
"Don't go cuntish on me!" Roscoe snarled when he drove away from the station. "As far as I'm concerned we handled that call just right. If that whacko bitch wanted to take gas, fuck it, it ain't our fault."
When Dean didn't answer Roscoe became angrier. His hairless brows puckered and whitened. "Fuck it! Who cares if all these rotten motherfuckers take gas. They're all shit sucking, miserable scrotes anyways. What the fuck's a life anyway, less it's yours?"
Still Dean did not answer and Roscoe unconsciously pulled at his crotch and raged on. "You bust a good felony and you tell him to throw up his hands. He don't do it and there's no witnesses, I say put him down. Understand? Shoot em down like birds that shit on your roof. Remember that nigger and spick The Night My Balls Blew Up? I'm gonna get them someday. And I'll worship the ground they're laid under. You'd like to blow em down, wouldn't you?"
"I guess so," Dean nodded.
"One nigger plus one spick equals a Mexi-ooon!" Roscoe shouted. "That's my hard charging partner! One a these nights we'll get us a couple a scrotes who wanna go the hard way. We'll show some a these so called cops with their withered nuts how a couple a honest to God hard chargers do it! We'll perform a little retroactive birth control and blow the motherfuckers right outta their shoes with my magnum and your little peashooter!"
"I guess so, Roscoe," Dean mumbled. Roscoe was unconsciously pushing the radio car eighty miles an hour on the Santa Monica Freeway, heading nowhere, feeling the rush of cool wind, stroking himself while Whaddayamean Dean watched the speedometer. And then they received the last radio call of the night.
"Seven-A-Eighty-five, Seven-Adam-Eighty-five, assist the traffic unit, Venice and Hauser. Code two."
"Seven-A-Eighty-five, roger," Dean responded, banging the mike back in the holder, disgustedly jotting the location on the notebook pad.
"Shit fuck!" said Roscoe Rules, an expression he seldom used anymore since a former partner convinced him that it made him sound like a Central Avenue nigger.
"I've had enough for one night," Dean grumbled. "I was ready for code seven."
"Coulda used some
Then Whaddayamean Dean looked at Melissa Monroe and said later it was as though God in Heaven was displeased with dessert and had hauled off and threw it at the Ambassador Hotel but missed and splattered the sidewalk on Wilshire Boulevard. Skull and body had exploded. Organs and brain spattered the pavement. She was white and yellow and pink, covered with lumpy red sauce and syrup. Melissa Monroe had been turned into a raspberry sundae.
Dean Pratt was very quiet for the rest of this bloodiest of all nights of his life. He thought they were finished when at the station Roscoe Rules finished writing his 15.7 report: that indispensable police document which handily covers all those police situations which do not conveniently fit into a category such as robbery, burglary or vehicle theft.
"Remember, partner," Roscoe warned as they sat alone in the station coffee room, "as soon as the janitor left, she just jumped. Nothing was said by nobody. She just jumped!"
Dean Pratt nodded and sipped at a soft drink, longing for a water tumbler of straight bourbon as he had never longed for anything in his life. He hoped there might be some downers left in the bottom of his closet at home where his girlfriend left a small cache. He was terrified by barbiturates since drug use was an irrevocable firing offense. But he wanted to get loaded and sleep.
At 11:00 P. M. Roscoe Rules dragged his partner out of the coffee room and said, "Come on, partner, let's go do some police work."
"Huh?"
"Come on, goddamnit, let's hit the bricks." Roscoe grinned. "We ain't through yet. We still got forty-five minutes."
"Jesus Christ," said Dean.
"Come on!" Roscoe commanded, his grin vanishing. He took Whaddayamean Dean very firmly by the arm and walked him out to the radio car.
"Don't go cuntish on me!" Roscoe snarled when he drove away from the station. "As far as I'm concerned we handled that call just right. If that whacko bitch wanted to take gas, fuck it, it ain't our fault."
When Dean didn't answer Roscoe became angrier. His hairless brows puckered and whitened. "Fuck it! Who cares if all these rotten motherfuckers take gas. They're all shit sucking, miserable scrotes anyways. What the fuck's a life anyway, less it's yours?"
Still Dean did not answer and Roscoe unconsciously pulled at his crotch and raged on. "You bust a good felony and you tell him to throw up his hands. He don't do it and there's no witnesses, I say put him down. Understand? Shoot em down like birds that shit on your roof. Remember that nigger and spick The Night My Balls Blew Up? I'm gonna get them someday. And I'll worship the ground they're laid under. You'd like to blow em down, wouldn't you?"
"I guess so," Dean nodded.
"One nigger plus one spick equals a Mexi-ooon!" Roscoe shouted. "That's my hard charging partner! One a these nights we'll get us a couple a scrotes who wanna go the hard way. We'll show some a these so called cops with their withered nuts how a couple a honest to God hard chargers do it! We'll perform a little retroactive birth control and blow the motherfuckers right outta their shoes with my magnum and your little peashooter!"
"I guess so, Roscoe," Dean mumbled. Roscoe was unconsciously pushing the radio car eighty miles an hour on the Santa Monica Freeway, heading nowhere, feeling the rush of cool wind, stroking himself while Whaddayamean Dean watched the speedometer. And then they received the last radio call of the night.
"Seven-A-Eighty-five, Seven-Adam-Eighty-five, assist the traffic unit, Venice and Hauser. Code two."
"Seven-A-Eighty-five, roger," Dean responded, banging the mike back in the holder, disgustedly jotting the location on the notebook pad.
"Shit fuck!" said Roscoe Rules, an expression he seldom used anymore since a former partner convinced him that it made him sound like a Central Avenue nigger.
"I've had enough for one night," Dean grumbled. "I was ready for code seven."
"Coulda used some
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