detectives with shotguns and spread-eagled across the hood of the car by a big cop who got fairly frantic when he discovered that their man was carrying a gun.
The upshot was that Chip and Melody eventually got to identify themselves and explain the piece of Missy Moonbeam that Chip carried in his pocket. They made peace with most of the cranky detectives who had thought they had an L. A. version of the Yorkshire Ripper, but they didn’t make peace with the big detective.
When Chip got yanked out of the car by the big detective, he resented being spread over the hood of his car, and yelled, “Knock it off, asshole! Do you know who I am?” And he made the big, big mistake of trying to shove the detective at the same moment that the detective saw that his man was carrying a gun.
Chip found himself on the wrong end of the controversial police choke hold which the L. A. police chief had promised would be curtailed when he made his famous statement about the veins and carotid arteries of some blacks failing to open like those of normal people.
The choking of Chip Muirfield was good for lots of carotid artery jokes around The House of Misery for several weeks. They would say things like, “It proves that the veins and arteries of surfers open just like those of normal people.”
For several days Chip Muirfield had a little surfer imprinted on his neck from the charm he wore on his gold chain. Otherwise he looked like normal people. And it was a very unhappy Chip Muirfield who said goodnight to Melody Waters that night and sent her home to her accountant husband because Chip was too sore and shaken to put a move on her. It was a sad young cop who painfully swallowed, and gave Melody Waters a wistful little kiss as they stood for a moment heart to heart, shoulder holster to shoulder holster.
The pants presser reluctantly agreed to give Chip Muirfield a freebie on the dry cleaning after the outraged young detective threatened to sue for physical and mental anguish. It was an unhappy affair for all concerned. The pants presser didn’t get on the six o’clock news, and Chip Muirfield, still a very young cop, for the first time began to wonder if anything is ever as it seems.
***
One of the tiny vagaries of fortune, which veteran policemen like Mario Villalobos strongly suspect decide great events, was about to occur while The Bad Czech stuffed his face in the dining room of the Pusan Gardens, a Korean restaurant near Olympic Boulevard.
The Bad Czech was, to the chagrin of the chef, downing his second order of volcanic kimchi cabbage pickle, and dusting off a load of yukkive raw beef which had been meant to feed six people at an intimate party that night. The Korean chef was so mad that he dumped enough hot sauce on that minced beef to blister porcelain, but all it did was make The Bad Czech sweat like a whore in a hot tub and order more Japanese beer, which stimulated his appetite.
The chef conceded that it was hopeless. The restaurant owner insisted that the beat cops, who so sympathized with his “police problem,” were worth a few free snacks-which turned into these gastronomical orgies, causing the chef again to run out to the market in Korea Town before he could get the menu ready for the evening.
Between huge bites of red snapper and bean cakes and bottles of Japanese beer, The Bad Czech sang for his supper, as it were, commiserating with every waiter and busboy within earshot who couldn’t have cared less if. the cops threw their boss in jail for life.
“I think it’s a damn shame the vice cops waste their time hasslin the good people who run clean establishments like this one,” The Bad Czech announced theatrically.
“Uh huh,” Cecil Higgins mumbled, trying to quench the flames with water, since the Japanese beer didn’t seem to be doing it for him.
The Korean dilemma, the dilemma of many bar owners from the Orient, was that they could not convince the police department that their customs were not a
The upshot was that Chip and Melody eventually got to identify themselves and explain the piece of Missy Moonbeam that Chip carried in his pocket. They made peace with most of the cranky detectives who had thought they had an L. A. version of the Yorkshire Ripper, but they didn’t make peace with the big detective.
When Chip got yanked out of the car by the big detective, he resented being spread over the hood of his car, and yelled, “Knock it off, asshole! Do you know who I am?” And he made the big, big mistake of trying to shove the detective at the same moment that the detective saw that his man was carrying a gun.
Chip found himself on the wrong end of the controversial police choke hold which the L. A. police chief had promised would be curtailed when he made his famous statement about the veins and carotid arteries of some blacks failing to open like those of normal people.
The choking of Chip Muirfield was good for lots of carotid artery jokes around The House of Misery for several weeks. They would say things like, “It proves that the veins and arteries of surfers open just like those of normal people.”
For several days Chip Muirfield had a little surfer imprinted on his neck from the charm he wore on his gold chain. Otherwise he looked like normal people. And it was a very unhappy Chip Muirfield who said goodnight to Melody Waters that night and sent her home to her accountant husband because Chip was too sore and shaken to put a move on her. It was a sad young cop who painfully swallowed, and gave Melody Waters a wistful little kiss as they stood for a moment heart to heart, shoulder holster to shoulder holster.
The pants presser reluctantly agreed to give Chip Muirfield a freebie on the dry cleaning after the outraged young detective threatened to sue for physical and mental anguish. It was an unhappy affair for all concerned. The pants presser didn’t get on the six o’clock news, and Chip Muirfield, still a very young cop, for the first time began to wonder if anything is ever as it seems.
***
One of the tiny vagaries of fortune, which veteran policemen like Mario Villalobos strongly suspect decide great events, was about to occur while The Bad Czech stuffed his face in the dining room of the Pusan Gardens, a Korean restaurant near Olympic Boulevard.
The Bad Czech was, to the chagrin of the chef, downing his second order of volcanic kimchi cabbage pickle, and dusting off a load of yukkive raw beef which had been meant to feed six people at an intimate party that night. The Korean chef was so mad that he dumped enough hot sauce on that minced beef to blister porcelain, but all it did was make The Bad Czech sweat like a whore in a hot tub and order more Japanese beer, which stimulated his appetite.
The chef conceded that it was hopeless. The restaurant owner insisted that the beat cops, who so sympathized with his “police problem,” were worth a few free snacks-which turned into these gastronomical orgies, causing the chef again to run out to the market in Korea Town before he could get the menu ready for the evening.
Between huge bites of red snapper and bean cakes and bottles of Japanese beer, The Bad Czech sang for his supper, as it were, commiserating with every waiter and busboy within earshot who couldn’t have cared less if. the cops threw their boss in jail for life.
“I think it’s a damn shame the vice cops waste their time hasslin the good people who run clean establishments like this one,” The Bad Czech announced theatrically.
“Uh huh,” Cecil Higgins mumbled, trying to quench the flames with water, since the Japanese beer didn’t seem to be doing it for him.
The Korean dilemma, the dilemma of many bar owners from the Orient, was that they could not convince the police department that their customs were not a
Similar Books
