“Look, sir, you’ve obviously found a way to handle the administrative part of this job. I just haven’t.”
His eyes flared hot with rage. Not helping, Ten.
“Goddamn it,” he bellowed, banging his fist on a teetering pile of files. “You think I like this crap? Hell, no, I don’t like it. But that’s what it takes to keep the show running, so I just by God deal with it.”
I held up my hands in a vain attempt to slow his rant, but he’d already built up a major head of steam. Soon, he was unloading a familiar litany of protest: his victim-hood in the face of the demands of the mayor’s office; the idiotic requests from the Police Commission; the fact that he can’t even effing drop an effing eff-bomb anymore without somebody putting it on effing YouTube; the impossible budget constraints; the growing demands for personal and financial disclosure. All of us in the squad had heard variations on this particular theme dozens of times, another reason I wanted out. I sure as hell didn’t aspire to be this guy in 20 years, sitting at my desk, braying a daily aria to self-pity and resentment.
I relaxed, took a nice deep inhale and exhale, and tried to listen for any cracks in the wall of bombast, any clues to help my cause.
His complaint veered onto a slightly different track.
“And with this boneheaded governor’s new austerity budget and his chickenshit solution to kick all the inmates back down to us, which means overcrowding, which means earlier releases, I’m looking at higher crime rates, escalating costs, and no effing fat to trim.”
He paused to take a breath, and in that pause, I met his eyes briefly. Bored in. He squinted back: What? Then I saw him rewind a few lines. Actually hear himself. Start to do the math. I decided it was safe to help a little with the calculating. I moved my gaze to the window, to keep it casual.
“IA reviews. They’re not cheap, are they?” I ventured.
He grunted. I took that as a sign to keep going.
“And I’d be on paid leave until they were done investigating me? What’s the average? I’m betting six months, at least?”
Another grunt.
“At the end of which, you and I both know you’d be reinstating a detective who is starting to hate his job, and is getting sloppy because of it. Taking unnecessary personal risks …”
I stopped there. Waited. Gave him all the space he needed. The Captain may be volatile, but he’s also wily like a fox.
He took off his glasses and polished the lenses with his tie. Straightened a few stacks of papers. Leafed through my reports one more time. Then he picked up my letter of resignation and tore it into precise halves, then quarters. He dropped the pieces into the circular file under his desk. He stood up.
“Congratulations, Norbu. You are hereby officially laid off, due to the fact that we’re probably looking at adding a minimum ten percent to our costs this year, and due to the other fact that your salary alone will keep at least two eager, fully committed patrol officers on the street where they’re needed. It’s a tough decision, but that’s why I’m here.”
I met his gaze. His eyes were steely. But his mouth allowed the ghost of a smile.
“I guess that means the state will have to pay me unemployment for a year, sir,” I said.
His smile broadened.
“Bet your sweet monastic ass it does.”
I cleared my cubicle, turned in my badge, gun, and security key card, and picked up my final paycheck. I took the elevator to the first floor, crossed the spacious lobby, and walked down the narrow hallway to exit my workplace one last time. I wanted to get out of there fast, to avoid all the explanations, all the prolonged good-byes. I checked my gut for any regrets.
I couldn’t drum up much nostalgia for the police headquarters itself, impressive though it was. It had only been open for business 16 months. The windows gleamed, the helipad worked, and the tenth-floor rooftop patio, dubbed the stogie stage, was a boon to all the smokers. I found it ironic that smoking occurred right next to the memorial to our fallen brothers. I also found the whole place a bit sterile.
Unlike its predecessor, the Parker Center, the new headquarters had so far eluded an official moniker. Apparently in this era of political correctness, no one past or present passed muster as a namesake anymore. Despite that, the building quickly acquired the nickname “Death Star”-a nod to its monolithic mass, its angled, glassy face, and the sense that at any moment it might open its maw and zap you with a super-laser.
I stepped into the afternoon sunshine, letting my eyes adjust. I noticed the public “lawn” finally had some grass poking through. The entire site was originally earmarked to be a neighborhood park, but the powers-that-be decided it was a much more civic idea to spend over $400 million on a fancy new home for the brass. They did thoughtfully reserve one lone acre of sod for the public, but promptly tented it over for their annual fundraiser two months in, killing off any and all vegetation.
Late last month, I showed up at Second and Main to help local volunteers clear weeds, trim overgrown feather grass, and bag up heaps of the usual municipal flotsam and jetsam, from Starbucks cups to discarded needles. Personally, I thought it was pretty ballsy of my superiors to take over land that was designated as a downtown community park, build their new headquarters, then ask that same community to landscape the remaining meager patch of neglected soil-you know, now that the LAPD couldn’t afford the upkeep.
No, I wouldn’t miss the Death Star.
I would miss the people, though. I’m an isolator by nature, so the structure of a job, with its enforced social interaction, helped keep me a part of the human race. I’d miss my fellow detectives. Most of all, I’d miss working with Bill.
On cue, my hip pocket buzzed. I didn’t even have to check the screen of my cell phone. This kind of thing happens to me all the time.
“Hey, Bill.”
“Hey, Ten. The Edison. Seventeen hundred hours. We’re holding a happy hour wake.”
“Who’s it for?”
“You.”
I was flattered. The Edison was our high-end after-hours haunt, saved for special occasions. Then again, it was Wednesday, meaning payday, so everyone was feeling flush. I decided to leave my Mustang in the lot and walk. I’d come back for it later. Save on parking, now that I was unemployed.
Tucked in an alley halfway between the Death Star and Disney Hall, the Edison was an easy stroll. I enjoyed stretching my legs. We’d had a lot of rain and the air felt prewashed, and crisper than usual. I ducked into the little corridor off Second Street, between Main and Spring, and was waved right inside. In a few hours, the line would stretch around the block.
I headed down the steep flight of stairs, enjoying the sensation of stepping back in time. A century ago, the Edison was a glorified boiler room, a municipal power plant buried in the bowels of downtown. Now, reincarnated as a blend of art deco, speakeasy elegance, and exposed industrial pipes and girders, it generated a different kind of power, the power of “it,” of the place to be. Detectives love coming here. It’s close, and it’s classy. The dress code-no flip-flops, torn jeans, or muscle tees-means no riffraff. And the 35? charge for the first happy hour cocktail, a prohibition drink at prohibition prices, makes it seem like a bargain.
The trick, of course, is to stop at one.
I headed for the Generator Lounge. Cops tend to congregate there because it has its own exit and is wedged into a back corner, flanked by two walls facing outward. We love to face out. We’re like the Mafia, that way.
As my eyes adjusted, I found Bill and six or seven fellow detectives from Robbery/Homicide, most of them lifers, already digging into a platter of hot-and-sour shoestring fries. Bill handed me a stein of ale.
“This one’s on me,” he said. “Now you owe me big time.”