“Come on,” said the florid sergeant. “We been yakking about this for two days. I’d rather do it than talk about it. Let’s read off the crimes.”
Finally, Ruben Wilkie, a twenty-six year cop who was the partner of Aaron Mobley, had the last word: “He gobbles one beaver and gets promoted. I’ve ate close to three hundred bearded clams in my time and never even got a commendation!”
But perhaps the very last word on the subject was uttered by Police Commissioner Howie Morton. The police commissioners were political appointees, titular department heads, who knew little about police work but were generally harmless since the true power rested with the chief. Police Commissioner Morton was a white Anglo. The board always had at least one black, one Mexican-American, one Jew and, of late, one woman. It had never had a Persian, a Filipino or a Navajo and never would until those ethnic groups acquired a political base in Los Angeles.
Police Commissioner Morton was able to learn about the supersecret Captain Cunkle scandal because he had a distant cousin, a garage mechanic at Southwest Station, who overheard the janitors saying they were sick of hearing about it. Commissioner Morton persuaded a sergeant who worked Internal Affairs Division to obtain the photos for him. The last word on the Commander Cunkle scandal was hence uttered by Police Commissioner Morton. He looked at the photos and whistled. “Damn, she’s got a hairy box!”
THREE
CUE-BOW
Commander Hector Moss was popular at functions wherein people with causes wanted a member of the police department to beat up verbally.
Commander Moss, the perennial toastmaster, always wore handcuffs on the front of his belt. When he stood before a DAR meeting and had the ladies agog with his wavy blond hair and stories of crime and violence, the coat would be pulled open and the handcuffs would appear. Sometimes the right side of his coat slipped open to show a chrome plated Smith amp; Wesson Combat Masterpiece tugging down at the alligator belt, custom made to support the weight of the heavy gun. Commander Moss had been in various administrative jobs since being promoted to sergeant sixteen years ago. The gun had never been fired. The ammunition was so old it is doubtful it could fire. Commander Moss got the stories of crime and violence from police reports which crossed his desk each day. Commander Moss was an excellent storyteller.
The MacArthur Park killing had in truth been a godsend. Hector Moss thrived on crisis and longed to prove his rapport with the media. Besides, he desperately needed something to relieve the boredom of sitting and poring through the house organ, called The Beat Magazine, making sure that as always there was nothing in it more cerebral than who had a baby and who died and that there was at least one picture of some vacationing motor cop in Mexico grinning at a dead fish.
There had never been a controversial article in that magazine to stir up or reflect the opinion of the street cops. He often said that if someone ever organized those ignorant bastards, look out. Commander Moss was like a slaver who lived in fear of native footsteps on the decks in the night.
At this hour, on a hot August afternoon with the officers involved in the killing being sweated in the interrogation rooms of Internal Affairs Division, Commander Moss decided on a technique he believed was essential for dealing with any reporters who might belatedly get onto the story of the dead body in MacArthur Park. He didn’t wait to be phoned by the enemies who worked for what he considered a loathsome left wing rag. He phoned his favorite reporter with the other paper, after he made sure the reporter had heard something about the case from a different source.
“I wanted you to know about it as soon as I had the full story” said Commander Moss, smiling at the telephone. “It appears an off-duty officer had an accident with a gun in MacArthur Park at about two A.M. I hope you can soft-pedal it for the sake of the seven thousand fine boys and girls in this department. Yes, it was a tragedy all right. A young man is dead. Yes. One officer’s relieved from duty pending an investigation. Yes, yes, there is some evidence of drinking. I don’t know, could’ve dropped the gun and it went off. I just don’t know yet. Been a policeman almost five years. Vietnam vet. Right. Yes, there’s some evidence the officer was with friends. To level with you, Pete, there’s a strong possibility some policemen bought a sixpack of beer and stopped in the park on the way home to unwind and talk. Yes, that’s Conduct Unbecoming an Officer. We call it cue-bow Choir practice? No, don’t believe I know that term. Choir practice? No, never heard of it.”
When the reporter hung up, Commander Moss sat back and put his feet up on his desk, which was actually two square inches larger than Chief Lynch’s specially ordered desk, and said to his secretary, “I know that wasn’t the first choir practice in that park. I’d love to know about some of the other ones.”
FOUR
SERGEANT NICK YANOV
Actually there were dozens of choir practices in MacArthur Park attended faithfully by ten policemen who worked out of Wilshire Police Station but chose MacArthur Park as the choir practice site because it was in Rampart Station’s territory. They believed that one does not shit in one’s own nest.
The first choir practice in MacArthur Park took place in the early spring when the nights became warm enough. Most of the choirboys were unencumbered. That was by design of Harold Bloomguard who was really the driving force behind the inception of the MacArthur Park choir practice. Harold always maintained that they shouldn’t have married men in the group because they would quite likely have to go home early and early dropouts were the death of any good choir practice.
“The songs must go on!” was the way Harold always put it.
Of course no one ever really sang at choir practice. Their “songs” were of a different genus but served much the same purpose as rousing choral work. It was called by various names at other police departments. It was merely an off-duty meeting, usually in a secluded hideaway for policemen who, having just finished their tour of duty, were too tense or stimulated or electrified to go to a silent sleeping house and lie down like ordinary people while nerve ends sparked. One hadn’t always enough money to go to a policemen’s bar. Still one felt the need to uncoil and have a drink and talk with others who had been on the streets that night. To reassure oneself.
Sergeant Nick Yanov could have been a charter member during those five months when the MacArthur Park choir practices were being held. He was invited by Harold Bloomguard one evening after a 3:00 P.M. nightwatch rollcall at which the uniformed policemen had a surprise visit from Captain Stanley Drobeck. The station commander wore a silk suit with a belt in the back, and black and white patent leather shoes. When Captain Drobeck entered the assembly room he caused Lieutenant Alvin Finque, who was conducting the roll-call, to jump unconsciously to attention which embarrassed the blue uniformed patrol officers. Since police service is not nearly as GI as military service, the only time one stands at attention is during inspection or formal ceremonies.
Lieutenant Finque blushed and sat back down. He blinked and said “Hi Skipper” to Captain Drobeck.
“Whoever made the pinch on the burglar in Seven-A-One’s area deserves a good smoke!” the captain announced, as he threw four fifteen-cent cigars out into the audience of twenty-eight nightwatch officers and, smiling with self-satisfaction, strode out the door. His hair was freshly rinsed and was blue white that day.