Bud flipped off the box, headed east to City Terrace. Up to forty, hard on the horn, Evergreen in five minutes flat. The 12, 1300 blocks whizzed by; 1400–vet’s prefabs–leaped out.
He parked, followed curb plates to 1486–a stucco job with a neon Santa sled on the roof. Lights inside; a prewar Ford in the driveway. Through a plate-glass window: Ralphie Kinnard browbeating a woman in a bathrobe.
The woman was puff-faced, thirty-fivish. She backed away from Kinnard; her robe fell open. Her breasts were bruised, her ribs lacerated.
Bud walked back for his cuffs, saw the two-way light blinking and rogered. “4A31 responding.”
“Roger, 4A31, on an APO. Two patrolmen assaulted outside a tavern at 1990 Riverside, six suspects at large. They’ve been ID’d from their license plates and other units have been alerted.”
Bud got tingles. “Bad for ours?”
“That’s a roger. Go to 5314 Avenue 53, Lincoln Heights. Apprehend Dinardo, D-I-N-A-R-D-O, Sanchez, age twentyone, male Mexican.”
“Roger, and you send a prowler to 1486 Evergreen. White male suspect in custody. I won’t be there, but they’ll see him. Tell them I’ll write it up.”
“Book at Hollenbeck Station?”
Bud rogered, grabbed his cuffs. Back to the house and an outside circuit box–switches tapped until the lights popped off. Santa’s sled stayed lit; Bud grabbed an outlet cord and yanked. The display hit the ground: exploding reindeer.
Kinnard ran out, tripped over Rudolph. Bud cuffed his wrists, bounced his face oh the pavement. Ralphie yelped and chewed gravel; Bud launched his wife beater spiel. “You’ll be out in a year and a half, and I’ll know when. I’ll find out who your parole officer is and get cozy with him, I’ll visit you and say hi. You touch her again I’m gonna know, and I’m gonna get you violated on a kiddie raper beef. You know what they do to kiddie rapers up at Quentin? Huh? The Pope a fuckin’ guinea?”
Lights went on–Kinnard’s wife was futzing with the fuse box. She said, “Can I go to my mother’s?”
Bud emptied Ralphie’s pockets–keys, a cash roll. “Take the car and get yourself fixed up.”
Kinnard spat teeth. Mrs. Ralphie grabbed the keys and peeled a ten-spot. Bud said, “Merry Christmas, huh?”
Mrs. Ralphie blew a kiss and backed the car out, wheels over blinking reindeer.
o o o
Avenue 53–Code 2 no siren. A black-and-white just beat him; two blues and Dick Stensland got out and huddled.
Bud tapped his horn; Stensland came over. “Who’s there, partner?”
Stensland pointed to a shack. “The one guy on the air, maybe more. It was maybe four spics, two white guys did our guys in. Brownell and Helenowski. Brownell’s maybe got brain damage, Helenowski maybe lost an eye.”
“Big maybes.”
Stens reeked: Listerine, gin. “You want to quibble?”
Bud got out of the car. “No quibble. How many in custody?”
“Goose. We get the first collar.”
“Then tell the blues to stay put.”
Stens shook his head. “They’re pals with Brownell. They want a piece.”
“Nix, this is ours. We get them booked, we write it up and make the party by watch change. I got three cases: Walker Black, Jim Beam and Cutty.”
“Exley’s assistant watch commander. He’s a nosebleed, and you can bet he don’t approve of on-duty imbibing.”
“Yeah, and Frieling’s _the_ watch boss, and he’s a fucking drunk like you. So don’t worry about Exley. And I got a report to write up first–so let’s just do it.”
Stens laughed. “Aggravated assault on a woman? What’s that–six twenty-three point one in the California Penal Code? So I’m a fucking drunk and you’re a fucking do-gooder.”
“Yeah, and you’re ranking. So now?”
Stens winked; Bud walked flank–up to the porch, gun out. The shack was curtained dark; Bud caught a radio ad: Felix the Cat Chevrolet. Dick kicked the door in.
Yells, a Mex man and woman hauling. Stens aimed head high; Bud blocked his shot. Down a hallway, Bud close in, Stens wheezing, knocking over furniture. The kitchen–the spics deadended at a window.
They turned, raised their hands: a pachuco punk, a pretty girl maybe six months pregnant.
The boy kissed the wall–a pro friskee. Bud searched him: Dinardo Sanchez ID, chump change. The girl boo-hooed; sirens scree’d outside. Bud turned Sanchez around, kicked him in the balls. “For ours, Pancho. And you got off easy.”