The New Centurions Part 11

"You saw the muzzle flash," said Serge.

"Sure, I did. But we got to prove it was a gun."

"How about that kid Ignacio? He saw it."

"He saw nothing. At least he says he saw nothing. He claims he was running for the house when he heard the loud crack. Sounded like a backfire, he says."

"How about his mother. She was on the porch."

"Says she saw nothing. She don't want to get involved with these gang wars. You can understand her position."

"I can only understand that little killer has to be taken off the street."

"I know how you feel, kid," said Milton, putting his hand on Serge's shoulder and pulling a chair close. "And listen, that kid didn't mention anything that happened later, you know what I mean. At least not yet, he didn't. I noticed some marks on his neck, but he's pretty dark-complected. They don't show up."

Serge looked into the blackness of the cup and swallowed a gulp of the bitter burning coffee.

"Once a guy swung a blade at me," said Milton quietly. "It wasn't too many years ago. Almost opened up this big pile of guts." Milton patted the bulging belly. "He had a honed, eight-inch blade and he really tried to hit me. Something made me move. I never saw it coming. I was just making a pinch on this guy for holding a little weed, that's all. Something made me move. Maybe I heard it, I don't know. When he missed me, I jumped back, fell on my a.s.s and pulled my gun just as he was getting ready to try again. He dropped the knife and kind of smiled, you know, like, 'This time you win, copper.' I put the gun away, took out the baton and broke two of his ribs and they had to put thirteen st.i.tches in his head. I know I'd have killed him if my partner didn't stop me. I never done that before or since. I mean I never let go before. But I was having personal problems at the time, a divorce and all, and this b.a.s.t.a.r.d had tried to render me, and I just let go, that's all. I never had no regrets at what I did to him, understand? I was sick at what I did to myself. I mean, he dragged me down to the jungle floor and made me an animal too, that's what I hated. But I thought about it for a few days and I decided that I had just acted like a regular man and not like a cop. A policeman isn't supposed to be afraid or shocked or mad when some b.a.s.t.a.r.d tries to make a canoe out of him with a switchblade. So I just did what any guy might've. But that don't mean I couldn't handle it a little better if it ever happened again. And I'll tell you one thing, he only got a hundred and twenty days for almost murdering me, and that didn't bother him, but I'll bet he learned something from what I did to him and he might think twice before trying to knife another cop. This is a brutal business you're in, kid. So don't stew over things. And if you learn something about yourself that you'd be better off not knowing, well, just slide along, it'll work out."

Serge nodded at Milton to acknowledge what his partner was trying to do. He drained the coffee cup and lit another cigarette as one of the detectives came in the squad room carrying a flashlight and a yellow legal tablet. The detective took off his coat and crossed the room to Milton and Serge.

"We're going to sack up these four dudes now," said the detective, a youthful curly-haired sergeant, whose name Serge couldn't remember. "Three of them are seventeen and they're going to Georgia Street, but I'll tell you for sure they'll be out Monday. We got no case."

"How old is the one that shot at my partner?" asked Milton.

"Primitivo Chavez? He's an adult. Eighteen years old. He'll go to Central jail, but we'll have to kick him out in forty-eight hours unless we can turn up that gun."

"How about the bullet?" asked Serge.

"From where you were standing and from where those guys were sitting in that low rider Chevy, I'm guessing that the trajectory of the bullet would be at least forty-five degrees out the window of the car. It would've hit you in the face if it'd been aimed right, but since it didn't I'm thinking it went approximately between the houses you guys were in and the next one west. That's separated by the other one by about a half acre of vacant lot. In other words, I think the G.o.dd.a.m.n bullet didn't hit a thing and probably right now is sitting on the freeway out near General Hospital. Sorry, guys, you don't want to nail these four a.s.sholes any more than I do. We figure the one cat, Jesus Martinez, is involved in an unsolved gang killing in Highland Park where a kid got blown up. We can't prove that one either."

"How about the paraffin test, Sam," said Milton. "Can't that show if a guy's fired a gun?"

"Not worth a s.h.i.t, Milton," said the detective. "Only in the movie whodunits. A guy can have nitrates on his hands from a thousand other ways. The paraffin test is no good."

"Maybe a witness or maybe the gun will turn up tomorrow," said Milton.

"Maybe it will," said the detective doubtfully. "I'm glad I'm not a juvenile officer. They only call us in when these a.s.sholes start shooting each other. I'd hate to handle them every day for all their ordinary burglaries and robberies and stuff. I'll stick to adult investigation. At least they get a little little time when I convict them." time when I convict them."

"What kind of records they got?" asked Milton.

"About what you'd expect: lots of burglaries, A.D.W.'s, joy riding galore, robberies, narco and a scattered rape here and there. The Chavez kid's been sent to Youth Authority camp once. The others never have been sent to camp. This is Chavez' first bust as an adult. He only turned eighteen last month. At least he'll get a taste of the men's jail for a few days."

"That'll just give him something to talk about when he goes back to the neighborhood," said Milton.

"I guess so," sighed the detective. "He'll already have all the status in the world for getting away with shooting at Duran. I've been trying to learn something from all these little gang hoods you guys bring in. Want to hear something? Follow me." The detective led the way to a locked door which when opened revealed a small closet filled with sound and recording equipment. The detective turned on the switch to the recorder and Serge recognized the insolent thin voice of Primitivo Chavez.

"I never shot n.o.body, man. Why should I?"

"Why not?" said the detective's voice.

"That's a better question," said the boy.

"It would be smart to tell the truth, Primo. The truth always makes you feel better and clears the way for a new start."

"New start? I like my old start. How about a smoke?"

The tape spun silently for a moment and Serge heard the flicker and spurt of a match and then the detective's steady voice again.

"Well find the gun, Primo, it's only a matter of time."

The boy laughed a thin snuffling laugh and Serge felt his heart thump as he remembered how he felt when he had the skinny throat.

"You ain't never going to find no gun," said the boy. "I ain't worried about that."

"You hid it pretty good, I bet," said the detective. "You got some brains, I imagine."

"I didn't say I had a gun. I just said you ain't never going to find no gun."

"Read that," the detective suddenly commanded.

"What's that?" asked the boy, suspiciously.

"Just a news magazine. Just something I found laying around. Read it for me, ese ese."

"What for, man? What kind of games you playing?"

"Just my own little experiment. Something I do with all gang members."

"You trying to prove something?"

"Maybe."

"Well prove it with somebody else."

"How far you go in school, Primo?"

"Twelfth grade. I quit in twelfth grade."

"Yeah? Well you can read pretty good, then. Just open the magazine and read anything."

Serge heard the rustle of pages and then a moment of silence followed by, "Look man, I don't got time for kid games. Vete a la chingada." Vete a la chingada."

"You can't read can you, Primo? And they pa.s.sed you clear through to the twelfth grade hoping that being in the twelfth grade would make you a twelfth grader and then they made it tough when they realized they couldn't give an illiterate a diploma. These do-gooders really f.u.c.ked you up, didn't they Primo."

"What're you talking about, man? I'd rather talk about this shooting you say I did than all this other s.h.i.t."

"How far you been in your life, Primo?"

"How far?"

"Yeah, how far. You live in the housing projects down by the animal shelter, right?"

"Dogtown, man. You can call it Dogtown, we ain't ashamed of that."

"Okay, Dogtown. What's the farthest you ever been from Dogtown? Ever been to Lincoln Heights?"

"Lincoln Heights? Sure, I been there."

"How many times? Three?"

"Three, four, I don't know. Hey, I had enough of this kind of talk. I don't know what the h.e.l.l you want, Ya estuvo." Ya estuvo."

"Have another cigarette," said the detective. "And take a few for later."

"Okay, for cigarettes I can put up with this bulls.h.i.t."

"Lincoln Heights is maybe two miles from Dogtown. You ever been farther?"

The tape was silent once again and then the boy said, "I been to El Serreno. How far is that?"

"About a mile farther."

"So I seen enough."

"Ever see the ocean?"

"No."

"How about a lake or river?"

"I seen a river, the G.o.dd.a.m.n L.A. River runs right by Dogtown, don't it?"

"Yeah, sometimes there's eight inches of water in the channel."

"Who cares about that s.h.i.t anyway. I got everything I want in Dogtown. I don't want to go nowhere."

The tape was silent once more and the boy said, "Wait a minute. I been somewhere far. A hundred miles, maybe."

"Where was that?"

"In camp. The last time I got busted for burglary they sent me away to camp for four months. I was f.u.c.king glad to get back to Dogtown."

The detective smiled and turned off the recorder. "Primitivo Chavez is a typical teenage gang member, I'd say."

"What're you trying to prove, Sam?" asked Milton. "You going to rehabilitate him?"

"Not me," the detective smiled. "n.o.body could do it now. You could give Primo two million bucks and he'd never leave Dogtown and the gang and the fun of cutting down one of the Easystreeters-or a cop, maybe. Primo is too old. He's molded. He's lost."

"He deserves to be," said Milton bitterly. "That little son of a b.i.t.c.h'll die by the sword."

8.

CLa.s.sROOMS.

"I'VE ALREADY EXPLAINED to you twice that your signature on this traffic citation is merely a promise to appear. You are not admitting guilt. Understand?" said Rantlee, with a glance at the group of onlookers that suddenly formed. to you twice that your signature on this traffic citation is merely a promise to appear. You are not admitting guilt. Understand?" said Rantlee, with a glance at the group of onlookers that suddenly formed.

"Well, I still ain't signin' nothing," said the tow truck driver, slouched back against his white truck, brown muscular arms folded across his chest. He raised his face to the setting sun at the conclusion of a sentence and cast triumphant looks at the bystanders who now numbered about twenty, and Gus wondered if now was the time to saunter to the radio car and put in a call for a.s.sistance.

Why wait until it started? They could be killed quickly by a mob. But should he wait a few more minutes? Would it seem cowardly to put in a call for backup units at this moment, because the truck driver was merely arguing, putting up a bluff for the onlookers? He would probably sign the ticket in a moment or so.

"If you refuse to sign, we have no choice but to arrest you," said Rantlee. "If you sign, it's like putting up a bond. Your word is the bond and we can let you go. You have the right to a trial, a jury trial if you want one."

"That's what I'm going to ask for, too. A jury trial."

"Fine. Now, please sign the ticket."

"I'm goin' to make you spend all day in court on your day off."

"Fine!"

"You jist like to drive around givin' tickets to Negroes, don't you?"

"Look around, Mister," said Rantlee, his face crimson now. "There ain't n.o.body on the streets around here, but but Negroes. Now why do you suppose I picked on you and not somebody else?" Negroes. Now why do you suppose I picked on you and not somebody else?"

"Any n.i.g.g.e.r would do, wouldn't it? I jist happened to be the one you picked."

"You just happened to be the one that ran the red light. Now, are you going to sign this ticket?"

"You specially likes to pick on wildcat tow truckers, don't you? Always chasin' us away from accident scenes so the truckers that contract with the PO-lice Department can git the tow."

"Lock up your truck if you're not going to sign. Let's get going to the station."

"You don't even got my real name on that ticket. My name ain't Wilfred Sentley."

"That's what your license says."

"My real name is Wilfred 3X, whitey. Gave to me by the prophet himself."

"That's fine. But for our purposes, you can sign your slave name to this ticket. Just sign Wilfred Sentley."

"You jist love workin' down here, don't you? You jist soil your shorts I bet, when you think about comin' here every day and f.u.c.kin' all the black people you can."