A week after the dead cat episode, Beckworth was still pissed.
We were at the driving range at Rancho Park, where I was trying, unsuccessfully, to correct his chronic slice. It was hopeless. The price of working day watch was high.
“Fuck. Shit, fuck. Oh, God,” Beckworth was muttering. “Show me again, Freddy.”
I grabbed his 3 iron and sailed off a smooth one. Two-twenty. Straight. “Shoulders back, Loot. Feet closer together. Don’t reach for the ball, meet it.”
He had it perfect until he swung his club. Then he did everything I had told him not to and shank-dribbled the ball about ten yards.
“Easy, Loot. Try it again.”
“Goddamnit, Freddy, I can’t think today. Golf is ninety percent concentration. I’ve got the coordination of a superb athlete, but I can’t keep my mind on the game.”
I played into it. “What’s on your mind, Loot?”
“Little things. Minor things. That shithead partner of yours– I’ve got a feeling about him. Medal of Honor winner, okay. High scores at the academy, okay. But he doesn’t look, or act, like a cop. He spouts poetry at roll call. I think he’s a homo.”
“Not Wacky, Loot. He loves dames.”
“I don’t believe it.”
I played into the lieutenant’s sub rosa but well-known love of Negro tail. All the Seventy-seventh Street harness bulls knew him to be a frequent visitor at Minnie Roberts’s Casbah–the swankiest colored whorehouse on the South Side.
“Well, Loot,” I said, keeping my voice at a whisper, “he loves dames, but he’s gotta have a certain kind of dame, if you follow my drift.”
Beckworth was getting titillated. He smiled, something he rarely did, and exposed the two snaggleteeth at the corners of his mouth. “Drift it my way, Freddy boy.”
I looked in all directions, broadly searching out eavesdroppers. “Korean women, Loot. He can’t get enough of them. Only he doesn’t like to talk about it, because we’re at war over there. Wacky goes goo-goo for gooks. There’s a cathouse on Slauson and Hoover that specializes in them. It’s right next to that dump with all the colored girls–what’s the name of the place?–Minnie’s Casbah. Wacky goes to this chink place. Sometimes he sits in his car and has a few belts before he goes in. He told me he’s seen a shitload of department brass go into the Casbah looking for poontang, but he won’t tell me who. Wacky’s a stand-up guy. He doesn’t hate the brass hats the way a lot of street cops do.”
Beckworth had gone pale, but came out of it fast. “Well, he may not be a queer, but he’s still a shithead. The bastard. I had to get my office fumigated. I’m a sensitive man, Freddy, and I had _nightmares_ about that dead cat. And don’t tell me Walker didn’t do it– because I know.”
“I don’t deny it, Lieutenant. He did it. But you got to look at his motives.”
“What motives? He hates me. That’s his motive.”
“You’re wrong, Loot. Wacky respects you. He even envies you.”
“Respect! Envy! What the hell are you talking about?”
“It’s a fact. Wacky envies your golfing potential. He told me so.”
“Are you crazy? I’m a hacker. He’s a low handicapper.”
“You wanna know what he said, Loot? He said, ‘Beckworth has all the moves. It’s just his concentration that’s fucking up his game and keeping him from putting it all together. He’s got a lot on his mind. He’s a good cop. I’m glad I’m just a dumb harness bull on the street. At least I can break eighty. The lieutenant is too conscientious and it fucks up his game. If he weren’t such a good cop, he’d be a scratch player.’ That’s what he said.”
I gave it a minute to sink in. Beckworth was aglow. He put down the 4 iron he was mauling and smiled at me beatifically. “You tell Walker to come and see me, Freddy. Tell him I’ve got some good Scotch for him. Korean pussy, Jesus! You don’t think he’s a red, do you, Freddy?”
“Wacky Walker? Staff sergeant, U.S. Marines? Bite your tongue, Lieutenant!”
“You’re right, Freddy. That was unworthy of me. Let’s go. I’ve had enough for today.”