Yeh, that’s right, me and Jensen, we worked the south end of town seventeen years together, mostly narcotics. Either the freaks know us by now and stay the hell away, or the punk gang kids know us too, and we do business wit’ them. Jensen gave out five sets of brass knuckles and seven switchblades last week in return for the Sureno’s he’s in with painting ('redesigning') the barrio walls on the side of one of the [racial epithet] markets down there. Jensen says they are all afraid of him, but I have my doubts... I heard one or two are actually gunnin’ for him - bad. I tell him sleep with his service heater under the pillow, but you think that dumbshit listens to me? All he’s good for is a cheese burrito and free cup of coffee at Spammin' Sammy’s. Me, I get in on the good side with the gang leaders, cause, one day, I figger, they’ll be in here, workin’ on the force.
"AW man that was AWESOME!"
I picked up this one hippie couple, right? The drake, he was this fairy looking dude with a bigass buck knife. I took that off him.
Then I says, “Hey punk, show me what’s in the backpack.”
I had him pull EVERYTHING out right there on the highway- all his stupid granola, his evaporated milk, his little camping stroganoff and shit.
He even had a can of sterno with him.
“You drink that shit, hippie?” I asked.
Then we got into the compartment with his clothes. I made him lay all his underwear out in a big long line against the rock facing, you know, them nets Caltrans puts up. I made him stick every pair of bluejeans he had on top of the little highway reflectors. His chick was gettin' antsy, so I swaggered over to her and gave her a little “first degree search,” you know, right up under the blouse? Got me a good feel. She had some firm ones. Then I told her to sit there and shut the fuck up and went back to work on the drake. Yeh, he looked like a fuckin’ duck.
I said “What’s the matter, duck, no white Levis?” hah, hah, hah. Then he starts lookin' at me real weird and like he’s swallowing something- maybe like a balloon of smack, or a sheet of LSD, or something. I made him cough it out of his esophagus, with a big old whack on the back with my baton, right. And damn! if a whole plastic bag full of that marijoowanna come flyin' out on the pavement all covered in puke and spit and snot and fell out all on the pavement.
I was thinking about writing him a ticket, damn, I couldn’t run him in for it no more, thanks to that fucker Jerry Moone, but I made him pick every little speck of it up off our Pure Pacific Coast California Highway while all the cars flew past and some was slowing down to see what was happening. Damn freaks.
Anyway I took his card, and phoned it in. Central said this kid was maybe harboring a runaway- that’s the girl, right?
And so I went over and I tried to get a card, but, she don’t have none, so now I know she really IS a runaway and I gotta separate them, right? I let the drake go, and sent him off up to about six miles out of town where he could catch a ride “just not in my town” and I get her to Central after a big fucking sob story about how she is a good girl and she never been in trouble and gee Mr. Policeman don't rape me or nothing, ok?
Well I knew better than to pull any of that shit, and I figger, her mommy and daddy don’t even know she’s out here in California hitchhiking around and shit so we booked her as a suspicious vagrant and sent her prints in and FBI sends us back a confirmation it's this same runaway we are s'pozed to be out looking for, they had her prints for shoplifting a Safeway a few years back, she had been in juvy, so I know the bitch is lyin', then, about never being in trouble.
Me and Jensen we took her into the quiet room, cause she seemed to be a little odd, like, maybe she was stoned on that LSD crap, and she sang. O man she sang beautiful. She says that her boyfriend was going up to Frisco to join a rock and roll band (I’ve heard THAT before!) and she’s really not a runaway, she’s actually nineteen (a lie- we knew that already) and a big girl and please just let her go.
Jensen though he wants some fun, right, so I just walked out.
I come back in a round a half hour, the girl is cryin' and Jensen is pullin' up his belt and buckling it, you know, I never saw NOTHIN’, and it’s just another day here on the force, right? And the Mommy and Daddy get called and have to fly out on a special plane from Iowa and won’t be there til 6 AM so we put that little chick in the quiet room all night long. Jensen and Walthers, they put up with that crying blubbering all night. I was lucky, I got off early that night and went out to KFC. Man, I love my work. Community Service!
[Some folks have asked me to clarify a bit more of this hitherto unknown (even to myself!) portion of my life known as "the lost years." The information which led to this story was provided by Intellius.com who maintain sole responsibility for any such ideas that I was ever employed by the Santa Clarita CA Police Department. I thought I'd "fill in some gaps" for them.]
"The names have been changed to protect the innocent"- Joe Friday, LAPD