The pepper spray got him coughing but he still got to his feet somehow. That gave Jetsam the chance to drive the end of his baton into the big man’s groin, the only place where he seemed vulnerable, and Rolf Thunder dropped to his knees, clutching at his throat and at his groin. And when he was in that position, Snuffy Salcedo, his face a blood mask, played catch-up and smashed Rolf Thunder across the face with his aluminum baton, doing more damage to the giant’s nose than his own had suffered.
At last, Rolf Thunder tumbled to the floor on his back, concussed but still not completely unconscious. He writhed and struggled to breathe and pulled his legs up to protect his groin. Both surfer cops jumped on him and with the help of Snuffy Salcedo got his hands twisted behind him. They feared for a moment that the handcuffs would not fit around those enormous wrists, but after a struggle they managed to get the first few ratchets to grip and hold.
Breathing hard, Flotsam said to him, “They’ll stretch with wear, dude.”
Della Ravelle made another call on her rover to request two rescue ambulances, one for their prisoner and one for Snuffy Salcedo, who was sitting on an overturned coffin, trying to stanch the blood from his nose. The creepy mannequin kept popping up and looking at Snuffy until he hauled off and smacked it with his baton, knocking its head clear off.
Everyone else was sitting or standing, wheezing and chuffing and panting, and Rolf Thunder lay still for a moment and then croaked out some words. He said, “Wasn’t that fun?”
Snuffy wiped his bloody face on his uniform sleeve and said breathlessly, “Yeah, you masochist freak, that was tons of fun. I only wish I could put a few forty-caliber rounds in your belly to show you a real good time.”
“Yo, homie,” Rolf Thunder said, his own face a mask of blood from shattered bone and dislodged teeth, “can’t you handle a little sound and fury?”
“Go outside and wait for the RA, Snuffy,” Hollywood Nate said. “We’ll deal with Sasquatch. When he gets to County USC, he’s gonna need a needle and lotsa thread.”
His partner nodded, got up painfully, and shuffled to the open door, where he could hear the sirens on their way. Black-and-whites responding to Della’s help call were screeching to a stop on the street in front, and a wall of bluesuits came running toward Goth House.
Inside the living room, Hollywood Nate pointed to the penis pump, held in place by a constriction band, and said, “We should get that thing off him.”
“Not me, dude,” Flotsam said. “That’s way beyond my pay grade.”
“Ditto,” said Jetsam.
Flotsam said to Della Ravelle, “Would you mind taking that thing off him, Della?”
“Do it yourself,” she said.
“I never touched another guy’s junk before,” Flotsam said.
“You’ve touched your own often enough,” she said.
“That’s different,” Flotsam said. “Mine belongs to me. I even got a pet name for it.”
“Don’t look at me,” Jetsam said. “I ain’t touching it. Come on, Della, you probably touched lots of them in your time.”
“Go screw yourself, surf rat!” Della said.
“No, wait,” Jetsam said. “I’m just saying, like, a woman of your… maturity, like, probably in her lifetime…”
“Aw, shit,” Della said, and went over to Rolf Thunder, who was lying handcuffed in a fetal pose and going in and out of consciousness now. She knelt and loosened the constricting band and removed the penis pump and tossed it at Jetsam, saying, “Here, would you like to book this as evidence?”
The surfer cop leaped aside like the thing was radioactive as the penis pump flew past him.
Snuffy Salcedo was taken by ambulance to Cedars-Sinai Medical Center, where an ER doctor said that his nose would probably be “almost like new after surgery.” He was told he’d be kept overnight for observation and surgery in the morning.
When 6-X-46 was alone in the women’s locker room at Hollywood Station, Della Ravelle helped Britney Small apply an ice pack to her right eye where she’d been slammed by Rolf Thunder’s elbow as he’d bolted into the coffin room to make his stand.
“Keep the ice on it till the second-guessers get here,” Della said. “You’ve got a mouse growing already and it’s turning purple.”
“I’m in better shape than any of the guys,” Britney said, touching the swelling gingerly.
“This has been a learning experience for you, girlfriend,” Della said. “You see how male coppers are? They pride themselves on never putting out an officers-need-help call. Their machismo prevents even an assistance call. There’s just a whole lot of cowboy in them. If I’d been running that show, I would’ve backed off in the beginning and at least put out the code-two call the second Mr. Frankenstein made it clear he was gonna go the hard way. But with six of us there, no guy gunslinger would ever humble himself to do that. Well, girl, now you’ve seen some real whup-ass. And now you see that all the grappling holds and everything else you learned at the academy are worth shit out here in the real world when you come up against a walking reign of terror. I know you’re brave, but what good would bantamweight Britney Small have done in the midst of half a ton of raging beef crashing around that room? If you ever face something like that by yourself, just remember that you carry a forty-caliber Glock, and if your back’s to the wall, do not hesitate to pull and kill the bastard before he kills you. Don’t think about whether you’re justified by policy or by law. Remember the old copper saying: It’s a whole lot better to be judged by twelve than carried by six.”
Because of the kind of violence inflicted, which could have included choke holds, baton strikes, and kicks, Force Investigation Division had been immediately called out to determine if all action was in policy. The five ambulatory cops spent the rest of the night being interviewed at Hollywood Station, where they tediously had to deconstruct the battle and justify each move they made.
What they all wanted to say to FID was “When it comes to subduing a monster with no pain receptors, the Marquis of Queensberry’s just some tranny on Santa Monica Boulevard. So stop fucking with me!”
Rolf Thunder, whose true name was Filmore McClain, was transported to the jail ward on the thirteenth floor at USCMC, the old county hospital, and later told investigators that it had all been worth it and he had no complaints. The institutionalized man said that he’d enjoyed his vacation in the free world for a while but that it had gotten too stressful. He said he had been trying to find a fun way to violate his parole and go back to prison, which was the only place he’d ever been really happy. It was where he could be taken care of and kick back and never have to make decisions and experience life the way he’d always known it since he was fifteen years old. Prison was security. Prison was home.
The only positive note that the male cops took from the event at Goth House was that after the battle they all got a good look at the penis of the giant when he was strapped onto the gurney by paramedics.
Della Ravelle noticed their satisfaction and later said to Britney Small, “Did you see the smug little smiles on the surfer cops and Hollywood Nate when Jumbo was on the gurney? What they’ll remember most about the war at Goth House is that their little willies are just as big as Goliath’s. They might even stop using male-enhancement products.”
SEVENTEEN
Raleigh’s sleep was fitful and fraught with strange dreams that he could not interpret. He awakened every hour or so until he gave up and rose at 5:30 A.M. He watched TV with his breakfast but couldn’t eat much. Then he took Marty Brueger’s breakfast on a tray to the cottage, but he found the old man still sleeping. He left the tray and walked back to the main house and tried to read the L.A. Times, but he could not concentrate.