Boulevard (12 page)

“What would you do?”

“One guess.”

“Choir practice,” Erin said.

“Yeah. Every night.” Jimmy thought about what a waste it was—night in and night out, finishing up the shift and going to the bar with the guys from the precinct. But he needed it. Who else can you talk to about the shit you see? No one else but a cop knows what's out there. And even at choir practice, the amount of time they talked about real stuff was small. Most of the time it was other things—the union contract, the Giants, bitching about the brass, fishing at the shore. But knocking down the beers chased away the street for a couple of hours and made it easier going home. For a few years it worked, but then he got sick of it—too many nights drinking, too many hangovers. What good did it do? Rolling Rock against the street?—the street always wins.

“I saw that little girl for a long time,” Jimmy said. “I still see her.”

Erin looked over at him. He wanted to say more, but all he could feel were his ghosts. The faces, the dead bodies, the screaming—the things he saw would never leave him.

Jimmy hit the brakes. Ahead of them, on La Cienega was a flatbed truck ringed by orange cones which closed off the right-hand lane; the bottleneck reduced the other lane to a crawl. On the truck's bed, a crane lifted a huge yellow board that twirled slowly in the wind, high above the street. Three hardhats stood on an enormous steel frame and positioned the board next to four other pieces, already in place. It completed the billboard, which read,
Yes On 120—We Need It
.

“What exactly do we need?” Jimmy asked as they crept past the crane truck.

“I think it's the prop' for legalizing card tables and slots in West Hollywood.”

“That's gonna make a buddy of mine very happy.”

“Big gambler?” Erin asked.

“Trying to stop. Now he'll be able to lose in the comfort of his very own neighborhood.”

“But we need it?”

“Hey. What do I know? Maybe we do need it. It's not like we're in paradise now.”

A couple of blocks later, they were driving through the heart of Boys Town. Definitely not paradise. The hustlers were out in full. So were the johns. Near La Brea, a Land Rover in front of them pulled to the curb and dropped off Gina, the baby transvestite, who was wearing a fluorescent green miniskirt. She skipped over to a pack of other baby trannys hanging out in the Carl's Jr. lot.

Erin watched the Land Rover's driver, a young guy, pull back into traffic. “Where you think that guy told his family he was going?” she said.

In that moment, Jimmy realized something else was different about Erin—to ninety-nine percent of the cops he knew, a guy in a Rover dropping off a thirteen-year-old boy-playing-girl at one a.m. wouldn't be a guy—he'd be an asshole. Stone asshole at that. Most cops divided the world between assholes and everyone else. When you first come on the force, the people you think are okay are the public, other cops, your family, friends, and really, just about everyone; only the perps were the assholes. As time goes on, you start crossing people off the okay category and put them into the asshole category. It doesn't take long before the public slides onto the asshole side, and then your captain goes in there too, and soon the only people who aren't assholes are you, your partner, and other street cops. Then, even other cops become assholes, and the only ones who aren't, are you and your partner. And here was Erin, looking at this guy in the Rover, who was clearly as big an asshole as anyone in Hollywood, and to her, he was still just a guy. He had to admire that.

Jimmy glanced back at Gina through the rear-view mirror. She was lighting a smoke and getting back in position for her next date. When he looked forward again, he saw a scuffle in the 7-11 parking lot. A couple of kids and an older asshole were going at it—no guns or knives that he could see—but he knew the way these things went.

“You mind?”

“We should,” Erin said.

20
Casey

C
asey, Dragon, and the triplets were throwing a small blue, plastic Gap bag back and forth, around the parked cars in the 7-11 lot as a john was trying like crazy to grab it away. He was probably fifty, but he was strong and tough, and had a full head of thick black hair. He was pissed, and charged after them for his bag.

“Give it back,” the john yelled, “or you're gonna regret it!”

“Regret this, man!” Tracy said laughing and throwing it to Timmy.

“I'd give him what he wants, if I were you,” Casey half-yelled, half-razzed.

Timmy tossed the bag to Casey, and she passed it to Dragon, who threw it to Terry, who gave it back to her. But the next second, the john grabbed Timmy and pushed him hard against the wall. He pulled Timmy's arm behind him and twisted it up high behind his back. Timmy yelled in pain.

“Okay. Game's over. Lemme have it,” the john said, glaring at Casey, who was the last kid with the bag. Timmy screamed again. The john looked like he was ready to break his arm and enjoy it.

“Here!” Casey said.

She extended her arm with the bag—when a car's headlights blasted the john and Timmy, showing them bright against the cinderblock wall. The car doors jerked open. Casey didn't know what was going on.

“Shit,” the john said.

It took Casey a second to catch up.

Oh, God
, she thought.
Oh, fuck
.

The cop driving was out in a flash with a girl cop right behind him. Casey felt her heart pounding against her skin. This was it. Jumper was right—everybody fucks up. She couldn't run. Not now, anyway. Could she fake her way through?
No way
. She
had
to run—it was the only thing to do. But the cop moved past her, towards the john. Like she wasn't there.

“What's going on?” he said.

“You're a cop, right?” Timmy said.

“It's Jimmy. We know him,” Tracy said.

“You busted us?” Timmy said.

“I bust everybody sooner or later.”

Casey wondered if this was a cop trick, before they got to the real business. She watched the cop carefully. He was a good-looking guy. Not too old. He was calm and not doing the attitude stuff. The girl cop—Casey was sure she had seen her before, in a uniform, cruising the Boulevard. When she was in the uniform, with her hair tucked under her hat, she was like every other woman cop: tough, like they had to prove something. But now, she looked different. She had long blonde hair pulled back with a tortoiseshell clip. She was wearing jeans, cool-looking black boots, and a white button-down shirt. She was pretty, and without the uniform, she seemed friendly, like someone's older sister.

Jimmy turned to Casey. The pounding in her heart came back. Stronger than before.

“Who are you?” he asked.

“Casey.” She could barely get it out.

“And you?”

“Dragon.”

“Nice company girls.”

Casey stole a glance at Dragon. She looked as if she was shaking inside. If they called her stepfather back in Boston, it was game over.

The girl cop walked up to the john. He was looking away.

“Who's the date?” she asked Timmy.

“Jerkoff took a bunch of pictures, and then wanted to pay us like it was only head.”

“Too bad.”

She turned to Casey. Casey thought,
play it right—they go. Play it right—they go …

“I think I've talked with you before. Right? I'm Erin.”

“I don't remember,” Casey said. “Sorry.”

“What do you have that everyone wants so badly?”

Casey passed Erin the bag. She took out a small, yellow, disposable camera.

“This yours?” she asked the john.

He was silent. But Timmy jumped in. “Fucking right it's his.”

“They say it's yours. They lying?”

The john still wasn't talking. Erin shook her head and passed the camera to Jimmy.

“What's the big deal?” Jimmy said. “Just a camera. Anything on here you wouldn't wanna show at a family reunion?”

The john stayed silent.

“Hey, asshole,” Jimmy said, “you were real talky before we got here. You know how old these boys are? … Tell him Timmy, or are you Tracy?”

“You got it right the first time,” Timmy said.

“Tell him.”

“Fifteen.”

“Fifteen. Hey. Look at me, john.”

He looked away.

“I said look at me! … Shy? Weren't shy before we came. Which car's yours?”

“The Suburban,” Tracy said with a grin.

Jimmy went to the car. Out of the back seat he pulled out a magazine. A naked boy was on the cover.

“Nice,” Jimmy said. “You are one sick fuck.”

He scooped out more magazines. He turned to Casey and passed them to her.

“Here, make yourself useful, and put these in our car.”

As she walked over, she looked at the magazines. The cop was right, he was a sick fuck.

“Let me see your I.D.,” Jimmy said.

The john passed over his wallet. Jimmy shook his head.

“You still a teacher?”

“Yeah.”

“Ah. He speaks. What grade?”

“Sixth.”

“Jesus fucking Christ.”

Later, while two uniform cops took the report on the john, Timmy called after Jimmy and Erin as they were about to leave.

“What about our money? He still owes us.”

Jimmy threw him a
you're kidding
glance. He then looked at the john, now in cuffs, and turned to Casey and Dragon. “Try to get off the street, girls. Pieces of shit like this are all over it.”

When the cops drove off, Casey thought she'd feel like celebrating. Instead, she felt like collapsing.

21
Jimmy

I
t was hardly news that the crowd who picked up boys to screw on Santa Monica had the sort of jobs that you'd trust your kids with—he'd busted his share of boy scout leaders, Big Brothers, priests, plenty of teachers—but still, it ate at him. It always ate at him.

“A teacher,” Jimmy said. “How'd you like your kid to be in that asshole's class?”

Erin shook her head and said, “Sometimes …”

She stopped.

“Sometimes what?” Jimmy said.

“Sometimes it seems like no matter what we do, or how hard we try, we don't get anywhere. We could have twice as many of us, but there's always going to be a hundred times more of them. We can try to stop them, but in the end, it's like they're winning. Know what I mean?”

“Yeah.”

Jimmy thought,
I know it. God, do I know it.

22
Casey

C
asey and Robin each held the corners of a ratty blanket as Casey watched the entrance to the alley. It was way into the night, and the streets were empty, but still, she was worried. She looked up, as a cardboard box dropped down from a second story window. It was falling fast and they were way out of position. Casey jerked the blanket to the side, and they just managed to snag it. A Sony laptop.

“Good grab, dudes!”

Casey looked up to see Jumper leaning out the back window of Amos' Electronics. “Couple more,” he said, “and we're outta here.” A second later, Dog-Face appeared in the window and tossed down another one. But this time they grabbed it like they'd been doing it all their lives.

Dream took the box from the blanket and piled it against the alley wall. They already had six and couldn't really handle much more. Casey prayed they would toss a final one and get out. After dodging the bullet earlier with those detectives, the last thing she needed was to get popped for this.

She bit her nails. There was hardly anything left of them. “Come on. Come on. Come on,” she whispered. She was a complete mess, but Dragon, who had been on the street for no time at all, looked like it was hardly bugging her. You can never tell who's gonna be the one to lose it in a second, and who's gonna be the one to tough it out.

Come on. Come on.

The lights snapped on inside. Shit. What was going on?

“Hold it right there, kid!” Casey heard someone yell from in the store. Her stomach pulled tight.

They quickly bunched up in the blanket and huddled against the brick wall, listening … .

“Don't shoot me, man!” she heard Jumper yell. Security guard. Had to be.

“Okay, kid, come to me slow … real slow,” the guard said.

“Shit,” Dragon whispered.
“Shit.”

“Even slower, kid.”

Casey waited. Was the guard going to nail them too? Call the cops?

“Good boy,” the guard said. Then, Casey heard an enormous crash of what sounded like a ton of boxes and metal shelves. Jumper raced to the open window and lept down to the ground. Just behind him was Dog-Face.

“Let's go!” Jumper said as soon as he landed. He scooped up a box, and Dog-Face grabbed two. Casey and Robin grabbed a box each and they ran through the store's parking lot, heading for another alley. As she ran, Casey saw Dog-Face's T-shirt was splattered with blood.

“What happened?”

“Guy was a dick,” Dog-Face said.

“Talk later!” Jumper yelled.

They made it to the park off Lexington and collapsed onto the grass. Casey was heaving for breath when Dog-Face, lying on his back, took out his knife and started twirling it.

“That guy was lucky he only got a fucking fist. Next time he gets this.”

“You proved that, Doggie,” Dream said.

“Not again, man.”

“Why, you got regrets now?” Dream said.

“Fuck regrets,” Dog-Face said.

“Yeah? Most people would at least feel bad about it.”

“I ain't most people.”

“No shit.” Dream turned to Dragon. “Doggie buys some dope from this guy and—”

“Hey, tell it right, at least—I got a rich kid at Hollywood High who wants to buy a quarter-z of crack. Were not takin' grams—this is
ounces
. So I go to this shaved head dude, who looks like some kinda a pro wrestler, who thinks he's so fuckin' cool 'cause he works the door at the X Club, who says he can get me the dope. I kill myself to get the bucks and two days later, me and Dream take the shit over to the Hollywood High kid. We're talking monster profit. The kid's got the cash all ready, but first he tests the dope. And it's fucking soap or something! … Yo, Dream, I need to feel bad so far?—I got anything wrong yet?”