chow myself," said Roscoe. "Don't the scrotes at communications have another car they can pick on? Shit fuck! Give her the handcuffs, partner."
Dean Pratt, as Roscoe Rules had taught him, opened the bracelet! of his handcuffs, holding it next to the hand mike, and squeezed the bracelet through five or six times, making a ratchet sound very like a large zipper being ripped open and closed. Roscoe was convinced that the sound would be magnified in the operator's radio headset.
"Sounds like the jolly green giant opening his fly, don't it, partner?"
Whaddayamean Dean nodded, suddenly a bit carsick. He hadn't had a thing to eat for almost twenty-four hours. He had been in court all day and had come straight to work after testifying. And Roscoe Rules sitting there pulling on his dork wasn't doing anything to settle his queasiness.
"I ever tell you about that slopehead we used to gang bang in Nam, partner?" Roscoe asked, in a downright jovial mood since this would be their last call.
Even if it was a quickie he intended to make it an "end-of-watcher," by "milking" the time out and failing to clear when they were finished.
"Don't think you told me that one," Dean sighed, by now deciding that he would rather have four fingers of bourbon than a hamburger.
"This little gook was about fourteen, but retarded. Had the brain of a chicken and nearsighted to boot. We got a translator to tell her that fucking was good for her eyes. She was ugly as a busted blister. Just a little better than jacking off. Best part wasn't the pussy, it was cleaning her up ahead a time. We used to get these fifty cent rice paddy whores like her and throw them in this big wooden tub and eight or ten of us would get hot water and GI brushes and scrub the stink off them. Goddamn, that was fun! We'd lather them up and scrub every inch. Shit, we'd take our clothes off and fall in the water and drink beer and wash those bitches. Seems kinda weird but it was more fun washing them than gang fucking them."
Dean nodded and leaned back while Roscoe drove west on Venice Boulevard and dreamed of thin young yellow bodies in soapy water. He had had many a lay but never had a more exciting sexual experience than scrubbing and lathering the rice paddy whores. Even now he got a blue veiner every time he held a bar of soap.
"Shit fuck!" Dean observed. "There it is!"
And there it was! Traffic was snarled-six blocks in every direction. Fifty people were milling around like ghouls, and two frantic traffic officers in white hats were trying to lay down a flare pattern to divert east and westbound traffic. Every eastbound lane was blocked by the wreckage of a spectacular four car collision.
Roscoe pulled on his red lights, crossed the center divider and parked the wrong way on Venice Boulevard.
"Glad you got here," said a heavy middle aged traffic policeman who came running up with a handful of flares and spots of ash on his uniform. "Worst goddamn crash I seen in a long time. Drag race. Two cars laid down sixty feet of skids before they plowed into a northbound station wagon and knocked it clear back into the eastbound lanes."
"What station wagon?" Dean asked, adjusting his hat, getting his flashlight ready as he and Roscoe jogged back toward the wreckage where several souvenir hunters were already starting to prowl.
"Get the hell out of here or you're going to jail!" the traffic officer shouted to the unkempt teenagers.
"Everybody gone to the hospital?" Roscoe asked, waving his flashlight violently at a car which was trying to get past the wreckage to go south on Ridgely Drive.
"Two ambulances been here," the traffic officer said. "You're the only radio car to show up. The fucking fire department hasn't even been here yet and there's two dead bodies jammed inside that station wagon!"
"Will someone tell me where the hell the station wagon is?" Dean asked, holding a handful of flares, preparing to lay a pattern fifty feet south of the corner and divert the horn blowing
Dean Pratt, as Roscoe Rules had taught him, opened the bracelet! of his handcuffs, holding it next to the hand mike, and squeezed the bracelet through five or six times, making a ratchet sound very like a large zipper being ripped open and closed. Roscoe was convinced that the sound would be magnified in the operator's radio headset.
"Sounds like the jolly green giant opening his fly, don't it, partner?"
Whaddayamean Dean nodded, suddenly a bit carsick. He hadn't had a thing to eat for almost twenty-four hours. He had been in court all day and had come straight to work after testifying. And Roscoe Rules sitting there pulling on his dork wasn't doing anything to settle his queasiness.
"I ever tell you about that slopehead we used to gang bang in Nam, partner?" Roscoe asked, in a downright jovial mood since this would be their last call.
Even if it was a quickie he intended to make it an "end-of-watcher," by "milking" the time out and failing to clear when they were finished.
"Don't think you told me that one," Dean sighed, by now deciding that he would rather have four fingers of bourbon than a hamburger.
"This little gook was about fourteen, but retarded. Had the brain of a chicken and nearsighted to boot. We got a translator to tell her that fucking was good for her eyes. She was ugly as a busted blister. Just a little better than jacking off. Best part wasn't the pussy, it was cleaning her up ahead a time. We used to get these fifty cent rice paddy whores like her and throw them in this big wooden tub and eight or ten of us would get hot water and GI brushes and scrub the stink off them. Goddamn, that was fun! We'd lather them up and scrub every inch. Shit, we'd take our clothes off and fall in the water and drink beer and wash those bitches. Seems kinda weird but it was more fun washing them than gang fucking them."
Dean nodded and leaned back while Roscoe drove west on Venice Boulevard and dreamed of thin young yellow bodies in soapy water. He had had many a lay but never had a more exciting sexual experience than scrubbing and lathering the rice paddy whores. Even now he got a blue veiner every time he held a bar of soap.
"Shit fuck!" Dean observed. "There it is!"
And there it was! Traffic was snarled-six blocks in every direction. Fifty people were milling around like ghouls, and two frantic traffic officers in white hats were trying to lay down a flare pattern to divert east and westbound traffic. Every eastbound lane was blocked by the wreckage of a spectacular four car collision.
Roscoe pulled on his red lights, crossed the center divider and parked the wrong way on Venice Boulevard.
"Glad you got here," said a heavy middle aged traffic policeman who came running up with a handful of flares and spots of ash on his uniform. "Worst goddamn crash I seen in a long time. Drag race. Two cars laid down sixty feet of skids before they plowed into a northbound station wagon and knocked it clear back into the eastbound lanes."
"What station wagon?" Dean asked, adjusting his hat, getting his flashlight ready as he and Roscoe jogged back toward the wreckage where several souvenir hunters were already starting to prowl.
"Get the hell out of here or you're going to jail!" the traffic officer shouted to the unkempt teenagers.
"Everybody gone to the hospital?" Roscoe asked, waving his flashlight violently at a car which was trying to get past the wreckage to go south on Ridgely Drive.
"Two ambulances been here," the traffic officer said. "You're the only radio car to show up. The fucking fire department hasn't even been here yet and there's two dead bodies jammed inside that station wagon!"
"Will someone tell me where the hell the station wagon is?" Dean asked, holding a handful of flares, preparing to lay a pattern fifty feet south of the corner and divert the horn blowing
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