Hollywood Station by Joseph Wambaugh Read Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Joseph Wambaugh
days would have rated only a code 2 status were upgraded to code 3. That meant that in Los Angeles today the citizens were always hearing sirens. The street cops figured it reminded the chief of his days as New York's police commissioner, all those sirens howling. The cops didn't mind a bit. It was a blast getting to drive code 3 all the time.
Because the call wasn't assigned to them, Fausto couldn't drive code 3, but neither the transplanted easterner who headed the Department nor the risen Christ could keep LAPD street cops from racing to an OIS call. Fausto would slow at an intersection and then roar through, green light or not, making cars brake and yield for the black-and-white. But by the time they got to Western and Romaine, five units were there ahead of them and all officers were out of their cars, aiming shotguns or nines at the lone car in the parking lot, where they could see someone ducking down on the front seat.
Fausto grabbed the shotgun and advanced to the car closest to the action, seeing it belonged to the surfers, Flotsam and Jetsam. When he looked over at Budgie trailing beside him, he wondered why she wasn't aiming hers.
"Where's your gun?" he said, then added, "Please don't tell me it's with the milk!"
"No, I have the milk," Budgie said.
"Just point your finger," he said and was stunned to see that, with a sick look on her face, she did it!
After a pause, he said, "I have a two-inch Smith in my war bag. Wanna borrow it?"
Still pointing her long, slender index finger, Budgie said, "Two-inch wheel guns can't hit shit. I'm better off this way."
Fausto came as close to a guffaw as he had in a long time. She had balls. And she was quick, he had to give her that. Then he saw the car door open, and two teenage Latino boys got out with their hands up and were quickly proned-out and cuffed.
The code 4 was broadcast by the PSR, meaning there was sufficient help at the scene. And to keep other eager cops from coming anyway, she added, "No officer involved."
Fausto saw one of those surfers, Flotsam, heading their way. Fausto thought about how back when he was a young copper, there was no way in hell bleached hair would be allowed. And what about his partner, Jetsam, swaggering along beside him with his dark blond hair all gelled in little spikes two inches long? What kind of shit was that? It was time to retire, Fausto thought again. Time to pull the pin.
Flotsam approached Fausto and said, "Security guard at the big building there got hassled by some homies when he caught them jacking up a car to steal the rims. Dumb ass capped one off in the air to scare them away. They jumped in the car and hid, afraid to come out."
"Sky shooting," Fausto snorted. "Guy's seen too many cowboy movies. Shouldn't allow those door shakers to carry anything more than a bag of stones and a slingshot."
"You should see the ride they were working on," Jetsam said, joining his partner. "Nineteen thirty-nine Chevy. Completely restored. Cherry. Bro, it is sweet!"
"Yeah?" Fausto was interested now. "I used to own an old 'thirty-nine when I was in high school." Turning to Budgie, he said, "Let's take a look for a minute." Then he remembered her empty holster and thought they'd better get away before somebody spotted it.
He said to Flotsam and Jetsam, "Just remembered something. Gotta go."
Budgie was thrown back in her seat as they sped away. When she shot him a guilty look, he said, "Please tell me that you didn't forget your key too."
"Oh shit," she said. "Don't you have your nine-nine-nine key?"
"Where's your freaking keys?"
"On the table in the john."
"And where is your freaking gun, may I ask?"
"On the floor in the john. By the keys."
"And what if my nine-nine-nine key's in my locker with the rest of my keys?" he said. "Figuring I didn't have to bother, since I have an eager young partner."
"You wouldn't leave your keys in your locker," Budgie said without looking at him. "Not you. You wouldn't trust a young partner,
Because the call wasn't assigned to them, Fausto couldn't drive code 3, but neither the transplanted easterner who headed the Department nor the risen Christ could keep LAPD street cops from racing to an OIS call. Fausto would slow at an intersection and then roar through, green light or not, making cars brake and yield for the black-and-white. But by the time they got to Western and Romaine, five units were there ahead of them and all officers were out of their cars, aiming shotguns or nines at the lone car in the parking lot, where they could see someone ducking down on the front seat.
Fausto grabbed the shotgun and advanced to the car closest to the action, seeing it belonged to the surfers, Flotsam and Jetsam. When he looked over at Budgie trailing beside him, he wondered why she wasn't aiming hers.
"Where's your gun?" he said, then added, "Please don't tell me it's with the milk!"
"No, I have the milk," Budgie said.
"Just point your finger," he said and was stunned to see that, with a sick look on her face, she did it!
After a pause, he said, "I have a two-inch Smith in my war bag. Wanna borrow it?"
Still pointing her long, slender index finger, Budgie said, "Two-inch wheel guns can't hit shit. I'm better off this way."
Fausto came as close to a guffaw as he had in a long time. She had balls. And she was quick, he had to give her that. Then he saw the car door open, and two teenage Latino boys got out with their hands up and were quickly proned-out and cuffed.
The code 4 was broadcast by the PSR, meaning there was sufficient help at the scene. And to keep other eager cops from coming anyway, she added, "No officer involved."
Fausto saw one of those surfers, Flotsam, heading their way. Fausto thought about how back when he was a young copper, there was no way in hell bleached hair would be allowed. And what about his partner, Jetsam, swaggering along beside him with his dark blond hair all gelled in little spikes two inches long? What kind of shit was that? It was time to retire, Fausto thought again. Time to pull the pin.
Flotsam approached Fausto and said, "Security guard at the big building there got hassled by some homies when he caught them jacking up a car to steal the rims. Dumb ass capped one off in the air to scare them away. They jumped in the car and hid, afraid to come out."
"Sky shooting," Fausto snorted. "Guy's seen too many cowboy movies. Shouldn't allow those door shakers to carry anything more than a bag of stones and a slingshot."
"You should see the ride they were working on," Jetsam said, joining his partner. "Nineteen thirty-nine Chevy. Completely restored. Cherry. Bro, it is sweet!"
"Yeah?" Fausto was interested now. "I used to own an old 'thirty-nine when I was in high school." Turning to Budgie, he said, "Let's take a look for a minute." Then he remembered her empty holster and thought they'd better get away before somebody spotted it.
He said to Flotsam and Jetsam, "Just remembered something. Gotta go."
Budgie was thrown back in her seat as they sped away. When she shot him a guilty look, he said, "Please tell me that you didn't forget your key too."
"Oh shit," she said. "Don't you have your nine-nine-nine key?"
"Where's your freaking keys?"
"On the table in the john."
"And where is your freaking gun, may I ask?"
"On the floor in the john. By the keys."
"And what if my nine-nine-nine key's in my locker with the rest of my keys?" he said. "Figuring I didn't have to bother, since I have an eager young partner."
"You wouldn't leave your keys in your locker," Budgie said without looking at him. "Not you. You wouldn't trust a young partner,
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