“She has great surgeons taking care of her. I’m sure she’ll look fine. Eventually.”
Fausto, who was sitting next to Budgie, said, “Is she coming back to work after she’s well?”
“It’s too soon to say,” the Oracle said. “That will depend on her. On how she feels after everything.”
“She’ll come back,” Fausto said. “She picked up a grenade, didn’t she?”
Budgie started to say something else but couldn’t. Fausto patted her hand for a second.
The Oracle said, “The detectives and our captains have promised that the pimp will go to the joint for this, if they can help it.”
B.M. Driscoll said, “Maybe they can’t help it. I’m sure he’s got half a dozen shysters emptying his bedpan right this minute. He’ll make more money from a lawsuit than he could make from every whore on Sunset.”
“Yeah, our activist mayor and his handpicked, cop-hating police commissioner will be all over this one,” Jetsam said. “And we’ll hear from the keepers of the consent decree. No doubt.”
Before the Oracle could answer, Flotsam said, “I suppose the race card will be played here. Dealt from the bottom of the deck, as usual.”
That’s what the lieutenant hadn’t wanted, the issue of race entering what he knew would be a heated exchange today. But race affected everything in Los Angeles from top to bottom, including the LAPD, and he knew that too.
Looking very uncomfortable, the lieutenant said, “It’s true that the media and the activists and others might have a field day with this. A white cop kicking the guts out of a black arrestee. They’ll want Officer Turner not just fired but prosecuted, and maybe he will be. And you’ll hear accusations that this proves we’re all racists.”
“I got somethin’ to say about it, Lieutenant.”
Conversation stopped then. Benny Brewster, the former partner of Mag Takara, the only black cop on the midwatch and in the room except for a night-watch sergeant sitting on the lieutenant’s right, had something to say about what? The race card? White on black? The lieutenant was very uncomfortable. He didn’t need this snarky shit.
Every eye was on Benny Brewster, who said, “If it was me that got there first instead of Turner and seen what he seen, I’d be in jail. ’Cause I’da pulled my nine and emptied the magazine into that pimp. So I’d be in jail now. That’s all I got to say.”
There was a murmur of approval, and a few cops even clapped. The lieutenant wanted to give them a time-out, wanted to restore order, and was trying to figure out how to do it, when the Oracle took over again.
The Oracle looked at all those faces, wondering how it was possible that they could be so young. And he said to them, “The shield you’re wearing is the most beautiful and most famous badge in the world. Many police departments have copied it and everyone envies it, but you wear the original. And all these critics and politicians and media assholes come and go, but your badge remains unchanged. You can get as mad and outraged as you want over what’s going to go down, but don’t get cynical. Being cynical will make you old. Doing good police work is the greatest fun there is. The greatest fun you’ll ever have in your lives. So go on out tonight and have some fun. And Fausto, try to get by with only two burritos. Speedo weather’s coming up.”
After they had handled two calls and written one traffic ticket, Budgie Polk turned to Fausto Gamboa and said, “I’m okay, Fausto. Honest.”
Fausto, who was riding shotgun, said, “Whaddaya mean?”
“I mean you gotta quit asking me if I want you to roll up the window or where do I wanna have code seven or do I need my jacket. Last night is over. I’m okay.”
“I don’t mean to be a -”
“Nanny. So you can stop now.”
Fausto got quiet then, a bit embarrassed, and she added, “The Li’l Rascals didn’t want Darla in their clubhouse either. But we’re in. So you can all just live with it, especially you, you cranky old sexist.”
Budgie glanced sideways at him and he quickly looked out at the boulevard, but she saw a little bit of a smile that he couldn’t hide.
Things got back to normal when Budgie went after a silver Saab that pulled out of Paramount Studios heading west a good three seconds late at the first traffic signal. The driver had a cell to his ear.
“Jesus,” she said, “what’s he doing, talking to his agent?”
When they had the Saab pulled over, the driver tried charming Budgie, whose turn it was to write one. He said with an attempt at a flirtatious grin, “I couldn’t have busted the light, Officer. It didn’t even turn yellow until I was in the intersection.”
“You were very late on the red signal, sir,” Budgie said, looking at his license, then at the guy, whose grin came off as smarmy and annoying.
“I would never argue with a police officer as attractive as you,” he said, “but couldn’t you be a little mistaken on the light? I’m a very careful driver.”
Budgie started walking back to her car, putting her citation book on the hood to write while Fausto kept his eyes on the driver, who quickly got out and came back to her. Budgie nodded at Fausto that she could handle this schmuck, and Fausto stayed put.
“Before you start writing,” he said, all the charm gone now, “I’d like to ask for a break here. One more ticket and I’ll lose my insurance. I’m in the film business, and I need a driver’s license.”
Without looking up, Budgie said, “Oh, you’ve had other citations, have you? I thought you said you were a careful driver.”
When she began writing he stormed back to his car, got behind the wheel, and made a call on his cell.
Budgie finished the citation and took it to him, but Fausto stayed glued to the right side of the guy’s car, watching his hands like the guy was a gangbanger. She knew that Fausto was still playing guardian angel, but what the hell-it was kind of comforting in a way.
After finishing, she presented the ticket and said, “This is not an admission of guilt, only a promise to appear.”
The driver snatched the ticket book from her hand, scrawled his signature, and gave it back to her, saying in a low voice that Fausto couldn’t hear, “I’ll just bet you get off on fucking over men, don’t you? I’ll bet you don’t even know what a cock looks like that doesn’t have batteries included. I’ll see you in court.”
Budgie removed his copy, handed it to him, and said, “I know what a cassette player looks like with batteries included. This.” And she patted the rover on her belt that was the size of a cassette player. “Let’s have a jury trial. I’d love for them to hear what you think of women police officers.”
Without a word he drove away, and Budgie said to the disappearing car, “Bye-bye, cockroach.”
When Fausto got in the car he said, “That is an unhappy citizen.”
“But he won’t take me to court.”
“How do you know?”
She patted the rover. “He said naughty things and I recorded them on my little tape machine.”
Fausto said, “Did he fall for that dumb gag?”
“Right on his ass,” she said.
“Sometimes you’re not quite as boring as other young coppers,” Fausto said to her, then added, “How you feeling?”
“Don’t start that again.”
“No, I mean the mommy stuff.”
“I may have to stop at the milking station later.”
“I’m gonna keep your gun in the car with me next time,” Fausto said.
Farley Ramsdale was in an awful mood that afternoon. The so-called ice he bought from some thieving lowlife greaser asshole at Pablo’s Tacos, where tweakers did business 24/7, had turned out to be shitty. The worst part was having to sit there for an hour waiting for the guy and listening to hip-hop blasting from the car of a pair of basehead smokes who were also waiting for the greaseball. What were they doing in Hollywood?
It turned out to be the worst crystal he’d ever scored. Even Olive complained that they’d been screwed. But it got them tweaked, the proof being that they were both awake all night, pulse rates zooming, trying to fix a VCR that had stopped rewinding. They had parts all over the floor, and they both fell asleep for an hour or so just before noon.