They cruised, Calvin smoking quietly, until darkness settled. Then Calvin patted the breast pocket of his uniform and said, “Let’s stop by Easy’s and get some smokes.”
Francis, who had been drinking heavily the night before, was dozing in his seat, his head bobbing on his chest every few seconds, his long black hair hanging over his thin face as small as a boy’s.
“We get a call?” Francis asked, fumbling for the pencil in his shirt pocket.
“Go back to sleep, Francis. We didn’t get no call.”
Calvin made a lazy turn onto Venice Boulevard to the liquor store run by Easy Willis, a jolly black man who supplied two packs of cigarettes a day to each of the three cars patrolling the district around the clock. Easy felt that this would promote the reputation that cops came into Easy’s at any time, thus discouraging the robbers and potential robbers who lived in the area.
The packs of cigarettes ensured that not only would the officers walk in once on each watch, but they would make it a point to shine the spotlight in the window every time they passed. In truth, a pack of cigarettes did make them drive by a bit more than they would have normally and a policeman’s spotlight is most reassuring to liquor store and gas station proprietors in the ghettos. Many of whom have faced a gun and been slugged and attacked more than a squad of policemen and in fact have a far more physically dangerous occupation.
“Say Calvin, what’s shakin?” Easy grinned, as Calvin walked hatless into the store which was stocked wall to wall with beer, hard liquor and cheap wine. The ghetto dwellers were not dilettante drinkers.
“Aw right, aw right, Easy, my man,” Calvin said, leaning on the counter while Easy slid three fifths of Scotch into a paper bag for a boozy black woman who had a child in her arms and another hanging from her dress.
Calvin looked around the store at the sagging liquor counters and the display shelves. Like most ghetto establishments the shelves held no candy bars or cigarettes because of juvenile shoplifting. Calvin glanced at the rows of skin magazines and then at the elaborate sprinkler system which the white owner of the store had installed in case there was ever another black riot in Los Angeles.
The proprietor, Lolly Herman, had owned a store in Watts which had been looted and fire-bombed in 1965. He feared another black rebellion more than any antebellum plantation owner. The proprietor had all windows barred and a silent robbery alarm button situated in five stategic locations in the store: behind the counter, in the restroom in case a thief would force him in there, in the cold storage locker if that should be where he was forced to go, near the back door of the store which led out into the yard, that was enclosed by a ten foot chain link fence with five strands of barbed wire around the top, and finally in the money room which was just to the side of the counter and enclosed by ceiling high sheets of bullet-proof glass. The door to the money room was electrically controlled as was the swinging wrought iron gate which protected the front door when the premises were secured at 2:00 A.M.
Perhaps more formidable than the lonely vicious Doberman which prowled the service yard at the rear and lay flea bitten in the blazing sunshine was the carbine that Mr. Herman had displayed on the wall inside the bulletproof money room to dissuade any thief who thought his protection was merely preventative.
Three weeks after he had finished every elaborate antirobbery and antiburglary device, he was sapped by a ninety pound teenager on roller skates when he was getting into his car after closing. Three thousand dollars were stolen from his socks and underwear.
After that, Lolly Herman, with eighteen sutures in his skull, stopped working at the liquor store, retired to his Beverly Hills home and let Easy Willis take over management of the store.
Of course, business was not as good. Easy and the other six employees could not be made to hustle without Lolly Herman watching them. They stole about a thousand a month among them to supplement their incomes, but the liquor store was still a gold mine and Mrs. Herman secretly thanked God that the ninety pound teenager, called Chipmunk Grimes, had coldcocked the old man and driven him into retirement.
“Momma made some souse and head cheese, Calvin,” Easy said when the customer left. Then Easy flipped two packs of Camels on the counter without asking.
“Thanks but I don’t eat much soul these days.” Calvin put both packs in his pockets, glad that Francis didn’t smoke.
Of course Easy knew that Francis didn’t smoke but went along with the charade since they first came in the store together and Calvin said, “This is my new partner, Easy. His name’s Francis and he smokes Camels just like me.”
Two packs to a car is what Lolly Herman said to give, and Easy didn’t give a damn whether it was to one cop or two. In fact, now that Lolly Herman had retired, Easy often popped for two extra packs, and knowing Calvin’s drinking problem was reaching an acute stage, bounced for a fifth of Johnnie Walker Black Label once a week.
“Officer!” yelled a young black man in yellow knits as he burst into the store. “Some dude jist stole a radio out of a car there on La Brea!”
“How long ago?”
“Bout twenny minutes.”
“How bout jist skatin on out to the car and wakin up my little partner. He’ll take a report.”
“Ain’t you gonna try and catch him?”
“Man, twenty minutes? Sucker’s halfway to Compton by now.”
“He ain’t from Compton. Wasn’t no brother. He was a paddy long hair blondey like dude. I think he was one a them cats what works at that place down the street where they talks to you about a job but the oniest ones that’s makin any money is the one talkin about the jobs, and they get it from the gov’ment.”
“Yeah, well we’ll take a report,” Calvin said blandly “and since that job place is closed tonight the detectives’ll check it out tomorrow.”
“Oughtta keep the jiveass honkies outta our neighborhoods,” said Easy. “Most a these young jitterbug social workers don’t look like they got all their shit in one bag anyhow. And they be tryin to tell us how to do it. I think most a them is Comminists or some other off brand types.”
“Nother thing,” the young man said to Calvin. “The brother what owned the radio is bleedin around the eye. This paddy started talkin some crazy shit when the dude owned the car caught him stealin the radio. Then this honky jist fired on the brother and took the box.”
“What he look like when he swung?” Easy asked.
“Baaaaad motherfucker. Fast hands. Punched like Ali.”
“Wasn’t none a them do-gooders then,” said Easy. “They all sissies. Musta been a righteous paddy crook jist passin through.”
After penciling out the brief theft report, Francis was fully awake and the moment they drove away from Easy’s liquor store he said, “How about code seven?”
“Too early to eat.”
“How about just stopping for a taco at Bennie’s?”
“Aw right.” Calvin lit another cigarette, grimacing at the thought of one of Bennie’s salty guacamole filled drippy tacos which sent Francis Tanaguchi into fits of joy.
“Driver of the pimpmobile looks hinky” Francis said as they crossed Pico Boulevard on La Brea, slowly passing a red and white Cadillac convertible driven by a lanky black man in an orange wide brimmed hat with matching ascot.
“Let’s bring him down. Might have a warrant,” Calvin said. “Anything to keep from smellin those greasy tacos.”
The driver pretended not to see the red light nor hear the honking black and white which followed him for a block until Calvin angrily blasted him to the curb with the siren.
“Watch him say ‘who me?’” said Calvin as he got out of the car and approached from the driver’s side while Francis advanced on the passenger side, shining his light, distracting the driver to protect his vulnerable partner on the street.