It was those waters that grabbed me and gave me, many years later, my salvation. If you trace every link in the Eddie Engels case backward and forward in time you will find no beginning and no end. When my rapacious ambition thrust me into a brutal labyrinth of death and shame and betrayal in 1951, it was only _my_ beginning. At the final unraveling in 1955 I knew that my willingness to move with and be part of a score of hellishly driven lives in clandestine transit was the wonder–as well as my ultimate redemption.
PART ONE
Last Season
1
Wacky and I had been partners for three months when Night Train entered our lives. The roll call sergeant told us about him as we were getting into our ’48 Ford black-and-white in the parking lot at Wilshire Station.
“Walker. Underhill. Come here a second,” he called at us. We walked over. His name was Gately; he needed a shave and he was smiling. “The loot’s got a good one for you guys. You golfers get all the breaks. You like dogs? I hate dogs. We got a dog who’s terrorizing little kiddies. Stealing their lunches over at the elementary school off Orange and Olympic. Mean old trash can dog, used to belong to a wino. The janitor at the school’s got him. Says he’s gomg to kill him, or cut his balls off. The Animal Regulation guys don’t want the squeal, ’cause they think the janitor’s crazy. You guys go take the mean old dog to the pound. Don’t shoot it, ’cause there’s all kinds of little kiddies might get upset. You golf guys get all the breaks.”
Wacky pulled the black-and-white out onto Pico, laughing and talking in verse, which he sometimes did when coffee reactivated the previous night’s booze still in his system.
“Whither thou, o noble beast, the most we do is ne’er our least, o noble hound, soon to be found, awaits the pound thence gas and ground.”
I laughed on while Wacky continued, driving his poetry into the pavement.
The janitor at Wilshire Crest School was a fat Japanese guy of about fifty. Wacky waggled his eyebrows at him, which broke the ice and got a laugh. He led us to the dog, who was locked up inside a portable construction toilet. As we approached I could hear a keening wail arise from the flimsy structure.
At the prearranged signal from Wacky, I kicked a hole in the side of the outhouse and shoved in our combined lunches–two ham-and-cheese sandwiches, a sardine sandwich, one roast beef on rye, and two apples. There was the sound of furious masticating. I threw open the door, glimpsed a dark furry shape with glittering sharp teeth, and slugged it full force, right in the chops. It collapsed, spitting out some ham sandwich in the process. Wacky dragged the dog out.
He was a nice-looking black Labrador–but very fat. He had a gigantic whanger that must have dragged the ground when he walked. Wacky was in love. “Aww, Freddy, look at my poor baby. Awww.” He picked the unconscious dog up and cradled him in his arms. “Awww. Uncle Wacky and Uncle Freddy will take you back to the station and find a nice home for you. Awww.”
The janitor was eyeing us suspiciously. “You killee dog?” he asked, drawing a finger across his throat and looking at Wacky, who was already carrying his newfound friend lovingly back to the patrol car.
I got in the driver’s side. “We can’t take this mutt back to the station,” I said.
“The hell you say. We’ll stash him in the locker room. When we get off duty I’m taking him home. This dog is gonna be my caddy. I’m gonna fix him up with a harness so he can pack my bag.”
“Beckworth will have your ass.”
“Beckworth can _kiss_ my ass. You take care of Beckworth.”
The dog came awake as we pulled into the parking lot of the station. He started barking furiously. I turned around in my seat to slug him again, but Wacky deflected my arm. “Awww,” he said to the beast, “awww, awww!” And the dog shut up.