During those hours we hardly spoke a word. Lee gripped the wheel with white-knuckled fingers, slow lane crawling. The only time his expression changed was when we pulled over to check out kids at play. Then his eyes clouded and his hands shook, and I thought he would either weep or explode.
But he just kept staring, and the simple act of moving back into traffic seemed to calm him. It was as if he knew exactly how far to let himself go as a man before getting back to strict cop business.
Shortly after 3:00 we headed south on Van Ness, a run by Van Ness Avenue Elementary. We were a block away, going by the Polar Palace, when green De Soto BV 1432 passed us in the opposite direction and pulled into the parking lot in front of the rink.
I said, “We’ve got him. Polar Palace.”
Lee hung a U-turn and drew to the curb directly across the street from the lot. Maynard was locking the De Soto, eyeing a group of kids skipping toward the entrance with skates slung over their shoulders. “Come on,” I said.
Lee said, “You take him, I might lose my temper. Make sure the kids are out of the way, and if he pulls any hinky moves, kill him.”
Solo plainclothes rousts were strictly against the book. “You’re crazy. This is a –”
Lee shoved me out the door. “Go get him, goddamnit! This is Warrants, not a fucking classroom! Go get him!”
I dodged traffic across Van Ness to the parking lot, catching sight of Maynard entering the Polar Palace in the middle of a big throng of children. I sprinted to the front door and opened it, telling myself to go smooth and slow.
Cold air stunned me; harsh light reflecting off the ice rink stung my eyes. Shielding them, I looked around and saw papier mâché fjords and a snack stand shaped like an igloo. There were a few kids twirling on the ice, and a group of them oohing and aahing at a giant taxidermied polar bear standing on its hind legs by a side exit. There was not an adult in the joint. Then it hit me: check the men’s room.
A sign pointed me to the basement. I was halfway down the stairs when Maynard started up them, a little stuffed rabbit in his hands. The stench of room 803 came back; just as he was about to pass me, I said, “Police officer, you’re under arrest,” and drew my .38.
The rape-o threw up his hands; the rabbit went flying. I shoved him into the wall, frisked him and cuffed his hands behind his back. Blood pounded in my head as I pushed him up the stairs; I felt something pummeling my legs. “You leave my daddy alone! Leave my daddy alone!”
The assailant was a little boy in short pants and a sailor’s jumper. It took me half a second to make him as the rape-o’s kid–their resemblance was bone deep. The boy attached himself to my belt and kept bawling, “Leave my daddy alone”; the father kept bawling for time to say good-bye and get a babysitter; I kept moving, up the stairs and through the Polar Palace, my gun at the rape-o’s head, my other hand pushing him forward, the kid dragging behind me, yowling and punching with all his might. A crowd had formed; I shouted, “Police officer!” until they separated and gave me a shot at the door. An old geezer opened it for me, blurting, “Hey! ain’t you Bucky Bleichert?”
I gasped, “Grab the kid and call for a matron”; the junior tornado was yanked off my back. I saw Lee’s Ford in the parking lot, shoved Maynard all the way to it and into the backseat. Lee hit the horn and peeled; the rape-o mumbled Jesus mumbo jumbo. I kept wondering why the horn blare couldn’t drown out the little boy’s shrieks for his daddy.
o o o
We dropped Maynard off at the Hall of Justice jail, and Lee phoned Fritz Vogel at Central squadroom, telling him the rape-o was in custody and ready to be interrogated on the Bunker Hill burglaries. Then it was back to City Hall, a call to notify Highland Park dicks of Maynard’s arrest and a call to Hollywood Juvie to ease my conscience on the kid. The matron I talked to told me that Billy Maynard was there, waiting for his mother, Coleman Maynard’s ex-wife, a car hop with six hooking convictions. He was still bawling for his daddy, and I hung up wishing I hadn’t called.