The Black Marble by Joseph Wambaugh Read Free Book Online Page B

girlfriend who passed some bad checks had been Clarence’s downfall and earned him a transfer (“There is no such thing as a disciplinary transfer in the Los Angeles Police Department. Of course, you understand that, Sergeant Cromwell? This is merely an administrative readjustment.”) back to where he started, Hollywood Station. But if one saw the glass half full, well, it wasn’t as bad as 77th Street Station, which policed Watts, and was the armpit of detective duty. Hollywood dicks wasn’t such bad duty, considering.
    But poor Clarence Cromwell was withering on the vine. He wore a big moustache and a medium Afro and Italian suits. He was rushing resentfully into middle age, drinking too much, but not nearly like Valnikov. He was still wearing two shoulder holsters which thrilled the hell out of cop groupies but weren’t much better than ballast these days. When Clarence had worked robbery-homicide downtown, those twin Colt magnums had blown away four bandits in six short happy years.
    On the night following the last shoot-out, a Chinatown groupie sidled up to the still shaking detective at a bar and grabbed him by the crotch and said, “I wanna see your other magnum, Clarence. Baby, you look like Sidney Poitier wishes he looked.”
    Those were the days.
    â€œYou okay?” Clarence Cromwell asked when he saw Valnikov’s trembling hands.
    â€œI’m all right, Clarence,” Valnikov smiled, losing the thread of what the burglary report was all about.
    â€œGot any bodies in jail today, Val?”
    Valnikov looked at Clarence Cromwell and just shrugged pathetically. Clarence Cromwell lit a cigarette and looked at Valnikov’s hands again.
    Clarence Cromwell had been there many many times. Valnikov was one of four or five detectives Clarence Cromwell would bother with. First, because he knew Valnikov from robbery-homicide in better days. And secondly, because Valnikov was a veteran with more than twenty years’ service, most of it in the detective bureau. If there was anything Clarence Cromwell despised more than the police brass it was RE-cruits.
    Clarence Cromwell looked around in disgust. Fuckin RE-cruits. Add up the total service of the whole burglary detail and there wouldn’t be three hashmarks total. Except for himself and Valnikov. Fuzz-nutted kids. Like that little brother, Nate Farmer, always hollerin. Thinks he’s some kind a black Kojak, or somethin. And those two kids Frick and Frack. All they ever thought about was their cocks. Homicide detectives, my ass.
    Not detectives—“investigators.” Now they were all “investigators.” At least that’s what the business cards said. That’s what the brass decided they should be called nowadays. And they did “team policing.” Whatever the hell that is. Nobody knew. Four “teams” of “investigators” working their little areas. Teams, my ass. This ain’t no football game, Chief. Police work is a whole bunch of decisions you got to make your own self out on those streets. Except that every few years the brass had to come up with some new catchword to justify the budget. “Team policing.” All it did was add a whole bunch of new chiefs to supervise fewer Indians. Some stations used to get by with one captain. Now they had to have three. And a whole fuckin sack full of lieutenants. They were about as useful as Woodenlips Mockett’s balls. And Clarence knew they hadn’t been used in years.
    Clarence leafed through Valnikov’s reports quickly and said, “You ain’t got no bodies in jail. Get your ass on home, I’ll cover for you. Shit, you’re so full a Russian potata juice you’re all swole up like a toad.”
    â€œThat’s real nice of you, Clarence.” Valnikov tried to smile, but it hurt. Hurt to smile. “I’m okay.”
    Clarence Cromwell knew better. And it wasn’t just the hangover. Valnikov