My city. My wonder.
Three hours later, we were driving south on Berendo when a white Ford pickup passed us going in the opposite direction. I craned my neck and saw that there were two Mexicans in the cab. They turned right at the corner, out of my vision, and I knew. "Stop the car, partner," I said.
Wacky noted the gravity of my voice and pulled to the curb.
"We got a hot one, Wacky," I said. "There's a little market around the corner in back of us. The two Mexican heisters in the Ford truck just turned the corner . . ." I didn't have to finish. Wacky nodded and very slowly pulled the black-and-white around in a U-turn to the opposite side of the street, stopping just short of the intersection.
We got out very slowly, in perfect synchronization. We looked at each other, nodded and unholstered our guns, then inched our way along the front of a dry-cleaning place until we were at the corner. The Ford pickup was double-parked further down the block in front of the market.
"Now, partner," I whispered, as we flattened ourselves up against the corner building and worked our way toward the market three doors down.
We were within a few yards of it when two gunmen came running out with guns drawn. They saw us almost immediately and wheeled and aimed their .45s haphazardly, just as Wacky and I opened fire. I squeezed off three shots, and the first gunman spun to the pavement, dropping what looked like a bag full of money as he fell. Wacky sent off two wild shots at the other man, who spun and fired at me.
We were at very close range, but some kind of calm grabbed me and I returned his fire, hitting him in the chest and knocking him into the gutter. Wacky fired twice more at the man on the pavement, advancing toward him slowly. He was lying on his stomach, arms outstretched, fingers still curled around his gun.
Wacky was almost on top of him when I saw the gunman in the gutter take aim. I shot him twice, and was moving toward him to get his gun when I heard another shot. I turned and saw Wacky staggering backward, stunned, grasping at his chest. He dropped his gun and screamed, "Freddy!" and then fell over backward.
I screamed. The man on the pavement raised his automatic and got off four shots, wild, sending them into the front of the building above my head, the last one narrowly missing me. I ducked into the market and reloaded. There was screaming coming from behind me—an old man and woman.
I looked outside. Wacky lay on the sidewalk, motionless. The gunman in the gutter looked dead. The one who had shot Wacky was crawling toward the curb and the truck. He had his back to me, so I rushed out and pulled Wacky to safety. Inside the market I ripped open his blood-covered uniform, then put my ear to his chest. Nothing.
"No, no, no, no, no," I muttered. Trembling, I grabbed his wrist and felt for a sign of life. Nothing. I looked at Wacky's face. His eyes were shut. I pulled the lids up. His eyes were frozen, rigid in their final vision of terror and disbelief.
I lifted Wacky up to embrace him. As I started to cradle his head his mouth dropped open, sending a torrent of blood onto my chest. I screamed and ran outside.
The surviving gunman was still crawling toward the street when I came up behind him and spun him around, kicking the .45 out of his hand. I aimed my gun at him, and he screamed. I fired six shots into his chest, and the sound of my gunfire dissolved into the sound of my own screams. I screamed until a dozen black-and-whites poured into the street and four cops threw me into the back of an ambulance with Wacky, and I think I was still screaming at the hospital when they tried to take him away from me.
I got a week off with full pay to recover from the shock, at the insistence of the doctor who examined me at the hospital. I got a commendation and a standing ovation at roll call when I returned to duty.
Wacky got a hero's funeral, and his academy graduation photograph was blown up and framed behind glass and hung in the entrance hall at Wilshire Station. Taken a scant four years before, Wacky looked whimsical and very young. There was a little metal plaque beneath the frame. It said: "Officer Herbert L. Walker. Appointed May, 1947. Shot and killed in the line of duty, February 18, 1951."
The shooting made the L.A. papers in a big way, with pictures of Wacky and myself: They made a big deal out of the Medal of Honor Wacky had won. They called him "a true American hero," and his death "a call for all Americans to seek the path of courage and duty." It was too ambiguous for me; I didn't know what they were talking about.
Wacky's mother and sister flew in from St. Louis for the funeral. I had telephoned them with the news of his death and met them at the airport. They were polite, but very detached. Their remoteness was stupefying. They thought that Wacky "should have gone into the insurance business, like his dad." After determining that they had absolutely no inkling as to who Wacky was, I left them and went home to grieve in private.
I grieved, and fought being guilty over the way I had treated Wacky during his last weeks. I thought of his fatalistic acceptance of all the things of life and of death. I thought of our last tour of duty together and wept, knowing that my absolution was immediate and tendered with love.
High dark clouds were gathering on the day of the funeral. I drove out to the mortuary in Glendale anxious for the whole thing to be over.
The service was held in a roped-off area on a high grassy knoll in the middle of the cemetery. Hundreds of cops in uniform were there, from patrolmen to high brass. Wacky was eulogized by a half-dozen officers who didn't know him. There was no minister or mention of God. Wacky had left specific instructions about that with an old police chaplain several years before.
I was one of the pallbearers. The other five were cops I had never seen before. As we lowered Wacky into the ground, the police rifle team fired a twenty-one-gun salute and a bugler played "Taps." Then I saw Wacky's mother and sister being hustled off in the direction of a long black limousine. I could see a group of newsmen and photographers waiting by the limousine to descend on them.
Beckworth caught me in the parking lot. "Freddy," he called to me.
"Hello, Lieutenant," I said.
"Let's go over to my car and talk, Fred. We need to."
We walked over to where his car was parked, next to a walkway with statues of Jesus kneeling among friendly little animals.
Beckworth put a fatherly hand on my shoulder, and straightened the knot in my tie with his other one. He gave me a fatherly look and sighed. "Freddy, it may sound cruel, but it's over. Walker is dead. You have a commendation and a clean double-bandit killing on your record. Years from now that will look even better. Brass hats who have never drawn their guns will be impressed with that as you move up the ladder."
"No doubt. When do I go to Vice?"
"This summer. As soon as Captain Larson retires."
"Good."
"It all worked out, Freddy. I know you wanted the best for Walker. In a sense, he got it. He was a true hero. A Medal of Honor in the war and a hero's death in the war against crime. I'm sure he died knowing that. And it's funny, Freddy. Although I've, spoken harsh words about Walker, I think that, somehow, I knew he was a true hero, and that he had to die."
Beckworth lowered his voice for dramatic effect and tightened his grip on my shoulder. I knew what I had to do. "You're full of shit, Lieutenant. Wacky Walker was a fucked-up crazy drunk, and that's all. And I didn't care, I loved him. So don't romanticize him to me. Don't insult my intelligence. I knew him better than anyone, and I didn't understand him, so don't tell me you did."
"Freddy, I—"
I shrugged my shoulder free of his grasp. "You're full of shit, Lieutenant."
Beckworth went beet red, and started to tremble. "Do you know who I am, Underhill?" he hissed.