The fifteen four-man cells held at least twice their capacity every day, and weekends were the worst. The drunks were kicked out on the street, usually to return several hours later, and the other misdemeanor offenders were released on their own recognizance– which left the tiny, sweltering jail filled with a minimum of a hundred howling felons, with more coming in every hour.
Standing at my first evening roll call I felt like a pygmy at a reunion of the Paul Bunyan family. At six feet two and a hundred ninety pounds, I was a shrimp, a dwarf, a Lilliputian compared to the gland cases I served with. They were all cut from the same mold: World War II combat vets from the South or Midwest with low academy test scores and extensive body-building experience who all hated Negroes and who all seemed to possess a hundred esoteric synonyms for “nigger.”
Physically, they were splendidly equipped for fighting crime, what with their great size and illegal dumdum bullets, but there their efficacy ended. They were sent to the Seventy-seventh to hold clown the lid of a boiling cauldron, by scaring or beating the slit out of suspects real and imagined, and that was it. They had no capacity for wonder, only a mania for order. Knowing that, and knowing I would pass the sergeant’s exam with very high marks in less than a year, I decided to make the most of Watts and to throw myself into police work as I never had before. Actually, that would be easy. Night foot patrol would put the kibosh on chasing women and let me observe the wonder close up.
After roll call the station commander, a harsh-looking old captain named Jurgensen, called me into his office. I saluted and he pointed me to a chair. He had my personnel file open on his desk, and I could tell he was baffled: in a sense that was good; it meant that he wasn’t a buddy of Beckworth’s and that they hadn’t conspired together on my transfer.
Jurgensen gave me a handshake that matched his face in sternness, then got right to the point: “You have an excellent record, Underhill. College man. Top-flight marks at the academy. Killed two holdup men who killed your partner. Excellent fitness reports. What the hell are you doing here?”
“May I be candid, sir?” I asked.
“By all means, Officer.”
“Sir, Captain Beckworth, the new commander of Wilshire Station, hates my guts. It’s personal, which is why no dissatisfaction with my performance is reflected on my fitness reports.”
Jurgensen considered this. I could tell he believed me. “Well, Underhill,” he said, “that’s too bad. What are your plans regarding the department?”
“Sir, to go as far as I can as fast as I can.”
“Then you have the opportunity to do some real police work. Right here in this tragic sinkhole.”
“Sir, I’m looking forward to it.”
“I believe you are, Officer. Every man who comes to this division starts out the same way, walking a beat at night in the heart of the jungle. Sergeant McDonald will fix you up with a partner.”
Jurgensen motioned his head toward the door, indicating dismissal. “Good luck, Underhill,” he said.
When I met my new partner in the crowded, sweltering muster room, I knew I was going to need luck–and more. His name was Bob Norsworthy. He was from Texas and he chewed tobacco. He fingered his Sam Browne belt and rotated his billy club out from his right hip in a perfect circle as the desk sergeant introduced us. Norsworthy was six and a half feet tall and weighed in at about two-thirty-five. He had black hair cut extra close to his flat head and blue eyes so light that they looked like he sent them out to be bleached.
“Yo there, Underhill,” he said to me as Sergeant McDonald walked away from us. “Welcome to the Congo.”
“Thanks,” I said and stuck out my hand, instantly regretting it as Norsworthy crushed it in his huge fist.
He laughed. “You like that old handshake of mine? I been workin’ on it with one o’ them hand-squeezer babies. I’m the champeen arm wrestler of this station.”