LaPointe stops and looks at the young officer appraisingly, his glance shifting from eye to eye. “Yes. It’s harassment.”
They walk on.
Guttmann sits alone in a small Greek café on Rue Cerat, cramped in a space that would be adequate for a man of average size. The place has only two oilcloth-covered tables crowded against the window, across from a glass-fronted display case containing cheese, oil, and olives for sale. A fly-specked sign on the wall says:
While LaPointe is telephoning from a booth attached to the outside of the café, Guttmann is trying to work out a problem in his mind. He knows what he has to do, but he doesn’t know how to do it. He has been withdrawn since the incident with Scheer half an hour before. Everything he believes in, everything he has learned, combine to make LaPointe’s treatment of that pimp intolerable. Guttmann cannot accept the concept of the policeman as judge—much less as executioner—and he knows what he would have to do should Scheer bring a complaint against the Lieutenant. Further, his sense of fair play demands that he warn LaPointe of his decision, and that will not be easy.
When the Lieutenant returns from the telephone booth a girl of eighteen or nineteen comes from the back room to serve them little cups of strong coffee, her eyes always averted with a shyness that advertises her awareness of men and of her own sexual attractiveness. She has long black lashes and the comfortable beauty of a Madonna.
“How’s your mother?” LaPointe asks.
“Fine. She’s in back. Want me to call her?”
“No. I’ll see her next time I drop by.”
The girl lets her damp brown eyes settle briefly on Guttmann, who smiles and nods. She glances away sidewards, lowers her eyes, and returns to the back room.
“Pretty girl,” Guttmann says. “Pity she’s so shy.”
LaPointe grunts noncommittally. Years ago, the mother was a streetwalker on the Main. She was a lusty, laughing woman always in good spirits, always with a coarse joke to tell, pushing her elbow into your ribs with the punch line. When, every month or two, LaPointe felt the need for a woman, she was usually the one he went with.
Then suddenly she was off the street. She had got pregnant; by a lover, of course, not a customer. With the birth of the child, she changed completely. She began to dress less flashily; she looked for work; she started attending church. She didn’t often laugh, but she smiled a lot. And she devoted herself to her baby girl, like a child playing dolls. She borrowed a little money from LaPointe, who also countersigned her note, and she put a down payment on this back-street café. At five dollars a week, she paid LaPointe back, never missing a payment except around Christmas, when she was buying presents for her girl.
They never made love again, but he made it a habit to drop in occasionally during quiet times. They used to sit together by the window and talk while they drank cups of thick Greek coffee. He would listen as she went on about her daughter. It was amazing what that child could do. Talk. Run. And draw? An artist! The mother had plans. The girl would go to university and become a fashion designer. Have you ever seen her drawings? How can I tell you? Taste? You wouldn’t believe it. Never pink and red together.
While in high school, this girl became pregnant. At first the mother couldn’t understand… couldn’t believe it. Then she was crazy with fury. She would kill that boy! She had an acrimonious shout-down with the boy and his parents. No, the boy would not marry her. And here’s why…
The next time LaPointe dropped in, the woman had changed. She was lifeless, dull, vacant. They took coffee together in the empty café, the woman looking out the window as she talked, her voice flat and tired. The girl had a reputation in high school for being a hot box. She made love with anybody, any time, anywhere—down in the boiler room, once in the boys’ lavatory. Everybody knew about it. She was a slut. She wasn’t even a whore! She gave it away!
LaPointe tried to comfort her. She’ll get married one of these days. Everything will be all right.
No. It was a punishment from God. He’s punishing me for being a whore.
“Good-looking girl,” Guttmann says. “Pity she’s so shy.”
“Yes,” LaPointe says. “A pity.” He swirls his cup to suspend the thick coffee dust and finishes it off, sucking it through a cube of sugar pressed against the roof of his mouth. “Look, I just called in to the QG to have them pick up the Vet.”
“Lieutenant…?”
“We can’t wait forever for Dirtyshirt Red. When they find him, they’ll call you. When they do, get down there immediately. If he’s not too drunk to talk, call me and I’ll come down.”
“You told them to call me?”
“Sure. You’re here to get experience, aren’t you?”
“Well, yes, but…”
“But what?”
“I have a date tonight. I told you.”
“That’s too bad.”
Guttmann takes a deep breath. “Lieutenant?”
“Yes?”
“About that pimp back there?”
“Scheer? What about him?”
“Well, if I’m going to be working with you…”
“I wouldn’t say you’re working with me. It’s more like you’re following me around.”
“Okay. Whatever. But I’m here, and I feel I have to be straight with you.” Guttmann feels awkward looking into LaPointe’s hooded, paternal eyes. He’s sure he’s going to end up making an ass of himself.
“If you have something to say, say it,” LaPointe orders.
“All right. About the pimp. It’s not right to harass a civilian like that. It’s not legal. He has rights, whoever he is, whatever he’s done. Harassment is the kind of stuff that gives the force a bad name.”
“I’m sure the Commissioner would agree with you.”
“That doesn’t make me wrong.”
“It goes a ways.”
Guttmann nods and looks down. “You’re not going to give me a chance to say what I want to say, are you? You’re making it as hard as possible.”
“I’ll say it for you if you want. You’re going to tell me that if this asshole brings charges against me, you feel that you would have to corroborate. Right?”
Guttmann forces himself not to look away from LaPointe’s eyes with their expression of tired amusement. He knows what the Lieutenant is thinking: he’s young. When he gets some experience under his belt, he’ll come around. But Guttmann is sure he will never come around. He would quit the force before that happened. “That’s right,” he says, no quaver at all in his voice. “I’d have to corroborate.”
LaPointe nods. “I told you he was a pimp, didn’t I?”
“Yes, sir. But that’s not the point.”
That was what Resnais kept saying: that’s not the point.
“Besides,” Guttmann continues, “there are lots of women working the streets. You don’t seem to hassle them.”
“That’s different. They’re pros. And they’re adults.”
Guttmann’s eyes flicker at this last. “You mean Scheer uses…”
“That’s right. Kids. Junk-hungry kids. And if I deny him the use of the street, he can’t run his kids.”
“Why don’t you take him in?”
“I have taken him in. I told you. It doesn’t do any good. He walks back out again the same day. Pimping is hard to prove, unless the girls give evidence. And they’re afraid to. He’s promised that if they talk, they’ll get their faces messed up.”
Guttmann tips up his cup and looks into the dark sludge at the bottom. Still… even with a pimp who runs kids… a cop can’t be a judge and executioner. Principles don’t change, even when the case in hand makes it tough to maintain them.
LaPointe examines the young man’s earnest, troubled face. “What do you think of the Main?” he asks, lifting the pressure by changing the subject.
Guttmann looks up. “Sir?”
“My patch. What do you think of it? You must realize that I’ve been dragging you around, giving you the grand tour.”