On the Grind (2009) (6 page)

"Yeah, I was in good standing until I had my little problem."

"Uh-huh," he said, still glaring down at the pages. "I understand you talked to the Avilas last night. They give you the story from their end?"

"Yes, sir. I got a pretty good idea how it all works."

He finally looked up at me. "Okay, Scully. Then here's the riff from my end. This ain't police work like you're used to in L
. A
. We got our own way of doing the job down here. Most of the residents in Haven Park and Fleetwood are undocumented. But that doesn't mean we're the fucking immigration police. We're not busting these people for being here without papers. The reason they live in Haven Park in the first place is because this is a sanctuary city. We straight on that?"

"I understand."

"This department is vertically integrated with city hall. Know what that means?"

"Everything flows up through one chain of command, right to the mayor's office."

"Exactly. You step out of that chain, you create any kind of backwater or eddy of discontent, you're gone. We don't need Wyatt Earp down here. We also don't need William Kunstler. All you gotta do is play by the rules that the city council puts forth and it all glides and slides."

"Are those rules written down somewhere so I can see them?" I asked.

"You bet." He pushed a small booklet over at me. "You a smart guy, Scully?"

"I try to be."

"Stay in line and don't change the way things are done in my city. It says in that booklet that you will adhere to our police guidelines and deal with street crises according to the mandates set down in writing there. You don't freelance, you don't go into business for yourself. Except for towing kickbacks, when something is put on your tray, the prescribed amount, which is half, gets passed up to the guy above you."

"Cafeteria policing."

He didn't say anything, just sat there staring at me. Finally, he cleared his throat. "You know where the Haven Park Elementary School is?"

"No, sir, but I'll find it."

"Two blocks over on Pine Street. It's an old decommissioned school that our department's using as a training and locker facility. Report to Arnold Bale, he's our equipment manager. He'll give you a gun and uniform and get you set up. Since you're LAPD
-
trained and field-sawy,Tm going to waive our Haven Park Police Academy program for the time being and just put you right on the street. We're a little short-handed with this new Fleetwood contract and can use the manpower. There might be some tests and stuff you'll have to take later."

"I appreciate that."

"Your training and probation officer is Sergeant Alonzo Bell. He swore for you, so he can train you."

"That suits me fine, sir."

"A few other things. One: We're not here to protect and serve like in L
. A
. This is an ash can. You try to protect and serve the lettuce-pickers who live in this toilet, you're gonna get played. Don't make friends with any of them. They're assholes. Two: This department is not an equal opportunity employer. We got no Dickless Tracys on the job down here. You want to work with a woman, go somewhere else. We got very few Hispanics, one or two. Mostly we're made up of black and white officers, and a few Asians. I understand you speak some Spanish, which will come in very handy. We are not looking for any civil libertarians. We don't want or need a fucking police union. We're happy with things the way they're currently run. If any of that doesn't sit well with you, there's the door." He pointed behind me.

"All sounds good to me, Captain," I said.

"Raise your right hand." I did.

"Using the power vested in me for and by the City of Haven Park, California, I do solemnly swear that I, Shane Scully, will abide by all the terms, covenants and conditions set forth in the policing guide and will faithfully fulfill the duties of a Haven Park peace officer to the best of my abilities, so help me God."

I started to repeat that long, confusing oath, but Captain Jones stopped me.

"Don't say it back. This isn't the fucking Boy Scouts. Just say I do."

"I do."

"Welcome to the Haven Park PD. Get out of here and go check in with Arnie Bale at the school."

I left Talbot Jones's office. I was tired of walking and wanted to get my Acura back. I tried to do this by borrowing a phone at the front desk to call Blue Light Towing. I got a recording saying that they were closed for the holiday.

"What holiday is today?" I asked, frowning at the civil employee on the other side of the desk.

"Cinco de Mayo," she said, acting as if I'd just asked when Christmas was.

I walked out of city hall a newly minted member of the Haven Park Police Department. I was back on the job. I'd been vouched for by crooks and sworn in by a scoundrel.

Chapter
10

Haven Park Elementary was a long-abandoned sprawl of one
-
story stucco buildings badly in need of paint and repair. The exterior walls of the fifties-style structure served as canvas for endless amounts of gang graffiti. The rest of the property, including a half
-
sized athletic field with a baseball diamond and an old-style bow
-
truss gymnasium, was enclosed by a rusting chain-link fence.

I walked up to an ancient civil service employee who was sitting by the gated entrance to the school reading a Mexican comic book. "I'm a new police officer. Looking for Arnie Bale," I told him.

"Got some ID?" he asked.

I showed him my driver's license. He wrote my name on a sheet.

"To the right, up the stairs. The equipment building is that one over there that says Tuck the Police' on it."

"Interesting sentiment."

"Taggers. We clean it off. They spray it back on. Entertainment for everybody. Arnie should be inside."

Arnie Bale, when
I
found him, reminded me of my first junior high school baseball coach. A stringy brown-skinned guy who was all cords and muscles. He had an Adams apple the size of a prune. I couldn't take my eyes off the damn thing when he talked. Up and down, up and down --like a ball on a rubber band.

"You look like about a size forty regular," he said, giving me the once-over.

"Close enough."

"Here's the equipment list." He shoved a printed sheet of blue paper into my hand and said, "We got most of it. Some is out of stock, so check what I can't supply, and I'll reorder. Follow me."

He led me down a narrow hallway, opening one cupboard after another. He gave me a dark blue Haven Park patrol officer's uniform with the Haven Park Police Department seal emblazoned in white and gold on the right shoulder and a half moon patch that said FOREVER VIGILANT on the other. I received a gunbelt, a steel
-
blue Smith & Wesson .38 with a four-inch barrel and two speed loaders, along with a Maglite, baton and shoulder radio rover. All standard issue. Then Arnie reached into a box and handed me a three-inch-long leather object with a wrist strap.

"What's this?" I asked, looking at the thing, which weighed about two pounds.

"Sap," Arnie said.

"You mean like to hit guys over the head with?"

"Yep."

"I don't think I've seen or heard about a police officer using a sap since the NAACP and the ACLU were formed."

"Yeah, well ... I won't tell 'em if you won't."

"I really get to use this?"

"Part of our standard equipment package. Swing it in good health," he joked.

By the time I got to the end of the corridor, I was loaded up with gear. Arnie took me into the old elementary school locker room outfitted with benches that ran in front of rows of battered gray metal lockers. He showed me to an empty one and handed me a combination padlock.

"Set your own combination number. Our roll calls are in the gym. Then we walk the two blocks over to city hall to get our black-and-whites out of the police lot there."

"Okay."

"Put on your uniform. We don't supply shoes, but those you got on look fine. Meet me in my office when you're in harness."

He left me in the locker room. I dressed quickly. It felt a little funny because I hadn't been in street blue, except for police funerals, since I last rode Patrol in L
. A
. over ten years ago. It felt strange to be harnessing up for a street tour, as if my life hadn't progressed much since those early days on the LAPD. Arnie had a good eye for sizes and everything fit pretty well.

When I finished dressing I found him in an old coach's office located inside a wire cage. He was seated behind a scarred metal desk, and looked up at me as I entered.

"Shit fits you good," he said, proud of his guesses. Then he pulled out a black box from his desk drawer, opened it and handed me two gold metal uniform ornaments.

"Badge and hat piece," he said. "We're outta hats right now 'cause of the Fleetwood expansion. I got more lids coming in. You about a seven and six-eighths?"

"You're pretty good, Arnie."

"Yeah, I rock. Pin that on your shirt. Put the hat piece in your pocket till the new brims come in and get your ass outta here. Your training officer is gonna swing by in twenty minutes to pick you up. You can wait for him by the handball courts out front. Have a good one."

I threaded the badge through the metal eyelets on my uniform shirt and clipped it closed. Number 689. Pinned, tinned and ready to sap Mexicans.

When I went into the Los Angeles Police Academy in Elysian Park, it had taken me eight grueling months to earn my uniform and badge. This was a joke.

I exited the gymnasium and found the handball courts. There was an old wooden bench under a leafless elm, so I sat in the meager shade from the dying tree and waited. I wasn't sure exactly what to expect, so I decided to follow the advice on my left shoulder and be forever vigilant.

Chapter
11

"I gotta straighten a guy out in Fleetwood, so let s run over there and I'll show you around," Alonzo Bell said as I got into the passenger side of his black-and-white. He pulled out of the elementary school and continued. "Our shop is Car Nine. In Haven Park we use a regular ten-code like LAPD. I've got us out of service, ten-seven, for the beginning of the tour so I can show you the turf."

"Good deal."

We drove down a commercial street called District, then skirted the edges of Haven Park, went through the neighboring city of Vista and entered Fleetwood.

"I heard shots and some sirens last night," I said as we rode past the mostly residential blocks of single-story, brightly painted stucco houses with dead lawns.

"We had a little street-cleaning action. I didn't hear about it till this morning. The night watch caught some South Side Crip
s d
oing corners over on Lincoln Boulevard. It got frisky." Doing corners was street slang for drug dealing.

Bell smiled. "We don't want those guys over here. Two C-homies got splashed, two got hooked and booked. Lotta red sauce got spilled. Big night."

"But you leave the Eighteenth Street Locos alone."

"Eighteenth Streeters are kicking back to us, so they get the hospitality mat. I thought I ran this all down for you at A Fuego," he said, frowning.

I nodded and looked at the passing houses. More dead grass, rusting Chevys. Urban blight.

We drove through Fleetwood to the city administration complex, which was located next to a rundown industrial complex.

Alonzo nosed our unit into a slot. We got out and I followed him inside the two-story city hall building. He approached a pretty, dark-eyed girl with shiny jet-black hair, who was wearing a tight sweater that showed off her jutting breasts.

"Mariana Concheta Brown," he announced. "Maravilloso Mamacita."

"Hey, Al. Where you been? How come none of you hot Haven Park guys come calling anymore?" She smiled at him and he winked at me. Obviously she was more than a friend.

"Meet my new partner, fresh from L
. A
. Shane Scully, this is Mariana Brown. Her husband s in Iraq."

He winked again, all of this, I guess, to tell me he was laying this war bride.

"Nice to meet you," I said.

"Mariana runs the sorry sack of incompetent dogs who work here. Armando around?" he asked.

Mariana picked up a phone and buzzed. "Sergeant Bell to see you, sir."

A few seconds later, a fat brown middle-aged toad of a guy exited the door behind Mariana. His greasy black hair was slicked back and he had one of those deeply pockmarked complexions that looked like he'd had trouble learning to eat with a fork as a kid.

"It didn't come," Armando said without preamble, growling the words at Alonzo.

"You need to talk to Cal or Gordon 'cause they were bringin
g i
t."

"Don't hide behind those mallates. You know how this shits supposed to work. It's your responsibility to make sure my end gets to me."

"Say hi to Shane," Alonzo said. "He's my new partner." Trying to use me to avoid the short ugly man's anger.