Spermwhale Whalen did go to the court trial of Clyde Percy, and did succeed in getting a sanity hearing for the old man. But Clyde Percy was deemed not to be a hazard to himself or others and sane enough to be released. He was released, after which he walked one mile downtown, shoplifted a short dog of wine, poured it over his head and lay down in the middle of the intersection at First and Los Angeles streets, having to wait only ninety seconds until a police car heading into the police building was forced to stop, pick up the Baldwin Hills lifeguard and book him into Central Jail on a plain drunk charge. He was given ninety days in the county jail, which was better than nothing but a far cry from Camarillo State Hospital where he invented the device to help retarded children blow up balloons.
When Whaddayamean Dean broke into one of his numerous drunken crying jags at choir practice after hearing of the ultimate fate of Clyde Percy, Roscoe Rules called him a nigger lover and said the old cocksucker probably wanted to go back to Camarillo in the first place just to molest the little dummies.
Spermwhale Whalen was in a foul mood after they booked Clyde Percy. The mail drop had arrived at Wilshire Station and contained an eight by ten glossy photo sent to Spermwhale by his classmate, Sergeant Harry Bragg of the police department photo lab. The picture was a mug shot of Spermwhale Whalen’s eldest son, Patrick, who had died thirteen months earlier of a drug overdose. It was the only picture the boy had taken in the last two years of his life, this one when he was arrested for car theft in Van Nuys.
Spermwhale, the veteran of three failed marriages, had not seen much of the boy after adolescence, and he studied the photo carefully appreciating the skill of Sergeant Harry Bragg who had removed the booking number and profile shot, and blown up the full face part of the double mug shot until probably only a policeman would suspect from whence it had come.
Technically it was a successful picture, artistically a dismal failure. He could detect none of the boy’s considerable intelligence in the arrogant eyes and narrow mouth. The shoulder length hair was totally unfamiliar, as was a small fresh scar over the right eye. It was not the son he wanted to remember, not if he wished to keep the guilt from overtaking him.
Spermwhale was scowling and chewing a cigar to shreds when he and Baxter went back to the radio car. The night had become exceptionally black.
“What’s wrong with you?” Baxter asked.
“Nothin.”
“Look a little mad.”
“I ain’t mad. Why should I be mad? I make seventeen grand a year, don’t I? Course after income tax and pension contribution and Police Relief and Police Protective League and the credit union and three wives and rent, I have about a dollar thirty cents to eat on between paydays. And I just come off a four day suspension so I gotta stop eatin for about two weeks. So what’ve I got to be pissed off about?”
“That it? Money?”
“Money, who needs money? Just because I been cuffed around a little bit by the heavy hand a justice? Just because I lost four days’ pay? Shit, that ain’t nothin. I only got three ex-wives to support, and three ex-kids … no, two ex-kids to feed. And an ex-dog and my turtle. Course the turtle’s sometimes in hibernation so he don’t eat too much. It’s only fair that I got four days’ suspension for keepin those avocados Francis gave me. But the thing bothers me. I wonder if Lieutenant Grimsley and all them IAD headhunters get a finder’s fee when they nail a cop? Maybe they get a percentage of what the city saves off our paycheck when we get suspended. Ever think a that?”
“I could loan you twenty bucks till payday.”
“Fuck it, I don’t need money. Old Clyde Percy gets along without it, don’t he?”
“It’s pretty decent what you’re going to do for him,” Baxter Slate said. “The way you’re going to bat to get the old man back in the laughing academy.”
“Listen, partner,” Spermwhale said, and now the cigar was almost eaten and he was spitting black leafy tobacco out the window of the radio car, “just because I seem to care about people once in a while, don’t make no mistakes about me. Nineteen plus years a workin these streets has taught me that people are shit. They’re scum. Only reason I don’t treat em like Roscoe Rules or some a those black glove hotdogs is what’s that do for you? Gets you fired for brutality or an ulcer or somethin. For what? The human race is no fuckin good but workin with these rotten bastards is all we got, right? It’s the only game in town so you gotta play like you’re still in the game. If you don’t, if you drop out, you take your fuckin six inch Colt and see can you pull the trigger twice while you’re eatin it. I just don’t wanna off myself like so many cops do. So once in a while I do somethin that might look to you like I give a fuck about some of these scumbags. But there’s nothin more rotten than people.”
And the very next call of the night did nothing to change Spermwhale’s mind.
“Think I’ll go see my ex-wife tomorrow,” Spermwhale said to Baxter who had just suggested taking code seven at the half price restaurant north of Wilshire on Western.
“Which one?” asked Baxter.
“The second ex-wife,” Spermwhale said. “I like her best in some ways. She had the most balls. Took every dime I had. I like to see her once in a while and visit my ex-dog and my ex-car.”
“She still give you a little?”
“Wouldn’t want it. Her ass is so big she has to sit down in shifts. And she’s as old as runnin water. I like them young animals like Carolina Moon. Her fat’s all smooth and bouncy. I like em with enough strength to fight!”
“Gonna have to call a choir practice one of these nights,” said Baxter Slate, as the Regretful Rapist was pulling a black woman out of her Ford sedan just two blocks ahead and trying to drag her off behind a large trash dumpster in the darkness.
She screamed at two men passing by who just kept walking, observing the golden rule of city dwellers: Do unto others if you want to risk getting your fucking head blown off.
“I’m getting awfully hungry” Baxter Slate said as the Regretful Rapist was discovering that the black woman was almost as strong as he and was not going to submit, knife or no knife. The rapist was furiously trying to find the dagger she had knocked from his hand to plunge it into her throat.
“You know, there’s somethin about Nick Yanov reminds me a my youngest kid,” Spermwhale said as he lit a fresh cigar and Baxter glided slowly around the traffic consisting of diners looking for parking off La Cienega’s Restaurant Row, to avoid tipping valet parking lot attendants.
“Your kid isn’t that old,” Baxter said.
“No,” said Spermwhale, “but he just looks somethin like Yanov. You know, I’m afraid he’s gonna get in trouble like the others. Last time he came to see me he wouldn’t even accept some clothes I bought him. Only wants to hang around Venice Beach with the hippies. Don’t even want some clean underwear. You see, he can’t stand ownin anything. He only wants the clothes on his back. Can’t even stand the responsibility of changin his skivvies. I’m afraid if he ever went to jail and had someone make all his decisions for him, he might like it.”
Baxter Slate tried to think of something to change the subject because he didn’t want Spermwhale to start thinking of the oldest boy.
And the Regretful Rapist, not a bit regretful at the moment, grabbed the black woman by the throat and almost choked the life out of her before she succeeded in burying her teeth in his bicep and squirming free just long enough to manage a chilling scream which was nearly her very last.
“Jesus Christ, what was that?” Spermwhale jerked upright in his seat and grabbed the flashlight as Baxter wheeled the car around and screeched into the darkened parking lot, catching the screaming woman and the raging rapist full in the headlight beams as they fought on the ground.