The Choirboys Read online

  If the body count at the Basic Car Plan meetings was Chief Lynch’s greatest accomplishment as a police officer his most thrilling by far was fornicating with Theda Gunther on top of the desk of that goddamn religious fanatic, Assistant Chief Buster Llewellyn.

  They had gotten drunk in Chinatown the night Lynch suggested it, and there had almost been a slight scandal when they staggered into the police building at 2:00 A.M.

  It had been a mad coupling for both of them what with the possibility of being caught in such a hallowed spot. Theda Gunther ripped off Deputy Chief Lynch’s hairpiece in the throes of orgasm, and he, instinctively grabbing for the three hundred dollar toupee, had a premature withdrawal, leaving evidence all over the irreplaceable hand tooled blotter with Llewellyn’s religious slogans engraved on all four corners.

  Lynch feared that Llewellyn might immediately recognize the night deposit for what it was. He might send the blotter to the crime lab and seek the assistance of some smartass like his adjutant, a surly former detective. Chief Lynch didn’t know what a former detective might be able to uncover.

  When the case of the MacArthur Park killing came to his attention Deputy Chief Lynch listened to all the details, including the stories of lurid fantastic orgies involving officers and station house groupies. He became angrier than anyone had ever seen him. He wanted to jail the officers. Due to his accident on Llewellyn’s desk he had become a nervous wreck. For three weeks Theda Gunther as usual rubbed her hot curvy body all over him when they passed in the office but he was as flaccid as linguini. She eventually got huffy and stopped calling him old donkey dick.

  Of course Chief Lynch wasn’t the only one affected by the killing. Wilshire Station Captain Stanley Drobeck was fuming because he had to write a thirty page report to the chief of police about the MacArthur Park incident with all available information on the drinking, the degenerates and the dead body. This on top of the Captain Cunkle scandal which itself took ten pages to describe.

  Captain Drobeck felt that a station captain truly had the hot seat in the police department. All the big chief did was make speeches and hog headlines. It was the captains who were deluged by paper work, who made the decisions and who were there. It certainly wasn’t the big chief and it wasn’t Deputy Chief Adrian Lynch, who, Drobeck knew, spent the entire day trying to seduce his secretary Theda Gunther, whose lieutenant husband was not likely ever to get transferred any closer to downtown and had taken to riding a motorbike to save gas.

  Captain Drobeck despised libertines, like Deputy Chief Lynch and Captain Cunkle of Wilshire Detectives, who had been the cause of his latest and largest internal discipline matter before the MacArthur Park killing.

  Cunkle was a loathsome veteran detective who had somehow managed to pass his promotion exams without more than a high school education and had conned his way past the promotion boards. When former Inspector Moss convinced the chief he should change the designation of “inspector” to “commander” it was Cunkle who said that the public associated the title of “inspector” with a police officer and that “commander” was purely a military term and that he wanted to be a cop not a soldier.

  It had been Captain Drobeck’s recent pleasure to recommend ten days’ suspension for a single, male, twenty-five year old policeman who had been found to be living with a single, female, twenty-three year old bank teller. The charge was conduct unbecoming an officer, or CUBO, called “cue-bow” by the policemen. He had recommended twenty days for a policewoman in the same circumstances in that a female officer should be even more above reproach than a male.

  When Captain Cunkle was finally caught by a private detective in a motel with Hester Billings, the wife of a prominent attorney Captain Drobeck made the following recommendation to Deputy Chief Lynch:

  Despite the risk of being accused by the rank-and-file officers of applying a double standard if this confidential investigation leaks, I am recommending that you take no action against Captain Wesley Cunkle, who, as you know, was caught in a compromising position with a female person not his wife. The enclosed photos were taken by a well-known private investigator, himself a former police officer, thoroughly unscrupulous, but reportedly discreet. The negatives will be destroyed if the demand of his employer, the female person’s husband, is met.

  The demand is: a quick divorce without alimony and with custody of the children for Mr.-.

  There is some complication in that Captain Cunkle is, as you know, to be elevated to the rank of commander on the next transfer list. If he is not promoted, the field policemen may lose confidence in their leaders and get wind of this scandal despite our efforts to keep it stonewalled.

  Respectfully,

  Chief Lynch read the correspondence and looked at the photos of Captain Cunkle naked on his knees on the floor of a motel his eyes glazed by martinis and lust. Then the chief looked at Mrs. Billings spread-eagled on the bed unaware of Private Investigator Slim Scully snapping his Nikon for all he was worth.

  “What do you think, sir?” asked Captain Drobeck who personally delivered the confidential reports and series of photos to the chief.

  “Damn, she’s got a hairy box!” Chief Lynch whistled.

  At the same moment that Captain Drobeck was making his recommendation to Deputy Chief Lynch concerning the secret matter of Captain Cunkle, an early nightwatch rollcall was being conducted at 77th Street Station. An alcoholic twenty-five year policeman named Aaron Mobley said to the sergeant in charge of the rollcall, “Goddamnit, I don’t mind how much pussy Cunkle eats, but why does a working copper get a suspension for the same thing a captain does?”

  “Come on,” said the florid sergeant. “We been yakking about this for two days. I’d rather do it than talk about it. Let’s read off the crimes.”

  Finally, Ruben Wilkie, a twenty-six year cop who was the partner of Aaron Mobley, had the last word: “He gobbles one beaver and gets promoted. I’ve ate close to three hundred bearded clams in my time and never even got a commendation!”

  But perhaps the very last word on the subject was uttered by Police Commissioner Howie Morton. The police commissioners were political appointees, titular department heads, who knew little about police work but were generally harmless since the true power rested with the chief. Police Commissioner Morton was a white Anglo. The board always had at least one black, one Mexican-American, one Jew and, of late, one woman. It had never had a Persian, a Filipino or a Navajo and never would until those ethnic groups acquired a political base in Los Angeles.

  Police Commissioner Morton was able to learn about the supersecret Captain Cunkle scandal because he had a distant cousin, a garage mechanic at Southwest Station, who overheard the janitors saying they were sick of hearing about it. Commissioner Morton persuaded a sergeant who worked Internal Affairs Division to obtain the photos for him. The last word on the Commander Cunkle scandal was hence uttered by Police Commissioner Morton. He looked at the photos and whistled. “Damn, she’s got a hairy box!”

  THREE

  CUE-BOW

  Commander Hector Moss was popular at functions wherein people with causes wanted a member of the police department to beat up verbally.

  Commander Moss, the perennial toastmaster, always wore handcuffs on the front of his belt. When he stood before a DAR meeting and had the ladies agog with his wavy blond hair and stories of crime and violence, the coat would be pulled open and the handcuffs would appear. Sometimes the right side of his coat slipped open to show a chrome plated Smith amp; Wesson Combat Masterpiece tugging down at the alligator belt, custom made to support the weight of the heavy gun. Commander Moss had been in various administrative jobs since being promoted to sergeant sixteen years ago. The gun had never been fired. The ammunition was so old it is doubtful it could fire. Commander Moss got the stories of crime and violence from police reports which crossed his desk each day. Commander Moss was an excellent storyteller.

  The MacArthur Park killing had in truth been a godsend. Hector Moss thrived on crisis
and longed to prove his rapport with the media. Besides, he desperately needed something to relieve the boredom of sitting and poring through the house organ, called The Beat Magazine, making sure that as always there was nothing in it more cerebral than who had a baby and who died and that there was at least one picture of some vacationing motor cop in Mexico grinning at a dead fish.

  There had never been a controversial article in that magazine to stir up or reflect the opinion of the street cops. He often said that if someone ever organized those ignorant bastards, look out. Commander Moss was like a slaver who lived in fear of native footsteps on the decks in the night.

  At this hour, on a hot August afternoon with the officers involved in the killing being sweated in the interrogation rooms of Internal Affairs Division, Commander Moss decided on a technique he believed was essential for dealing with any reporters who might belatedly get onto the story of the dead body in MacArthur Park. He didn’t wait to be phoned by the enemies who worked for what he considered a loathsome left wing rag. He phoned his favorite reporter with the other paper, after he made sure the reporter had heard something about the case from a different source.

  “I wanted you to know about it as soon as I had the full story” said Commander Moss, smiling at the telephone. “It appears an off-duty officer had an accident with a gun in MacArthur Park at about two A.M. I hope you can soft-pedal it for the sake of the seven thousand fine boys and girls in this department. Yes, it was a tragedy all right. A young man is dead. Yes. One officer’s relieved from duty pending an investigation. Yes, yes, there is some evidence of drinking. I don’t know, could’ve dropped the gun and it went off. I just don’t know yet. Been a policeman almost five years. Vietnam vet. Right. Yes, there’s some evidence the officer was with friends. To level with you, Pete, there’s a strong possibility some policemen bought a sixpack of beer and stopped in the park on the way home to unwind and talk. Yes, that’s Conduct Unbecoming an Officer. We call it cue-bow Choir practice? No, don’t believe I know that term. Choir practice? No, never heard of it.”

  When the reporter hung up, Commander Moss sat back and put his feet up on his desk, which was actually two square inches larger than Chief Lynch’s specially ordered desk, and said to his secretary, “I know that wasn’t the first choir practice in that park. I’d love to know about some of the other ones.”

  FOUR

  SERGEANT NICK YANOV

  Actually there were dozens of choir practices in MacArthur Park attended faithfully by ten policemen who worked out of Wilshire Police Station but chose MacArthur Park as the choir practice site because it was in Rampart Station’s territory. They believed that one does not shit in one’s own nest.

  The first choir practice in MacArthur Park took place in the early spring when the nights became warm enough. Most of the choirboys were unencumbered. That was by design of Harold Bloomguard who was really the driving force behind the inception of the MacArthur Park choir practice. Harold always maintained that they shouldn’t have married men in the group because they would quite likely have to go home early and early dropouts were the death of any good choir practice.

  “The songs must go on!” was the way Harold always put it.

  Of course no one ever really sang at choir practice. Their “songs” were of a different genus but served much the same purpose as rousing choral work. It was called by various names at other police departments. It was merely an off-duty meeting, usually in a secluded hideaway for policemen who, having just finished their tour of duty, were too tense or stimulated or electrified to go to a silent sleeping house and lie down like ordinary people while nerve ends sparked. One hadn’t always enough money to go to a policemen’s bar. Still one felt the need to uncoil and have a drink and talk with others who had been on the streets that night. To reassure oneself.

  Sergeant Nick Yanov could have been a charter member during those five months when the MacArthur Park choir practices were being held. He was invited by Harold Bloomguard one evening after a 3:00 P.M. nightwatch rollcall at which the uniformed policemen had a surprise visit from Captain Stanley Drobeck. The station commander wore a silk suit with a belt in the back, and black and white patent leather shoes. When Captain Drobeck entered the assembly room he caused Lieutenant Alvin Finque, who was conducting the roll-call, to jump unconsciously to attention which embarrassed the blue uniformed patrol officers. Since police service is not nearly as GI as military service, the only time one stands at attention is during inspection or formal ceremonies.

  Lieutenant Finque blushed and sat back down. He blinked and said “Hi Skipper” to Captain Drobeck.

  “Whoever made the pinch on the burglar in Seven-A-One’s area deserves a good smoke!” the captain announced, as he threw four fifteen-cent cigars out into the audience of twenty-eight nightwatch officers and, smiling with self-satisfaction, strode out the door. His hair was freshly rinsed and was blue white that day.

  Only three nightwatch officers were old enough to smoke a cigar without looking silly One was Herbert “Spermwhale” Whalen and he had caught the burglar. He was a MacArthur Park choirboy.

  Like all old veterans, Spermwhale sat in the back row and insisted on wearing his hat. Cocked to the side, of course. Spermwhale picked up one of the cigars from the floor, examined the brand, sat on it and loosed an enormous fart which moved out every policeman nearby Then he tossed the cigar back on the floor. Another choirboy, Spencer Van Moot of 7-A-33, picked it up gingerly with two fingers, stripped off the cellophane and said, “It’ll be okay after it dries out.”

  • • •

  Lieutenant Finque had just replaced Lieutenant Grimsley whose transfer was mysteriously precipitated by Spermwhale Whalen. Lieutenant Finque was of medium height with straight hair which was parted and combed straight back much as his father had done when his father was still in style in 1939, the year of Lieutenant Finque’s birth. The lieutenant was unsure in his new rank but rarely if ever heeded the advice he always asked for from Sergeant Nick Yanov, the hipless chesty field sergeant, who had to shave twice a day to control his whiskers.

  Sergeant Yanov was an eleven year officer, and at age thirty-four actually had less supervisory experience than Lieutenant Finque. But he had the distinction of being the only person of supervisory rank ever to be invited to a MacArthur Park choir practice, which he wisely declined.

  Sergeant Yanov’s only immediate passion in life, like many officers at Wilshire Station, was some night to drag Officer Reba Hadley away from the nightwatch desk and into the basement and rip her tight blue uniform blouse and skirt from her tantalizing young body and literally screw the badge right off her. Which was perhaps symbolically linked with Yanov’s avowed belief that superior officers like Lieutenant Finque had been screwing him mercilessly for the past eleven years.

  Lieutenant Finque had a different passion. He wanted to be the first watch commander in Wilshire Division history to catch every single member of his watch out of his car with his hat off or drinking free coffee or failing to answer a telephone properly.

  When things quieted down from Spermwhale’s contribution to rollcall, Lieutenant Finque said, “Fellows, we have some rollcall material to give you on diplomatic immunity in misdemeanor cases. In case you should have the occasion to run into a consul or ambassador in the course of your duties, does everyone know the difference between a consul and an ambassador?”

  “An ambassador is a Nash,” said Harold Bloomguard of 7-A-29. “Don’t see too many these days.”

  “I heard those consulate cocksuckers just wipe their ass with their parking tickets in New York,” offered Roscoe Rules of 7-A-85.

  “If you work for the UN you can do no wrong in the first place,” said Spencer Van Moot of 7-A-33.

  “Well, I hope you all read the material,” Lieutenant Finque said jauntily as the drops of acid formed. He was never sure if they were being insubordinate.

  “Finque’s rollcalls are about as exciting as a parking ticket,” whispered Franci
s Tanaguchi of 7-A-77 to his partner, Calvin Potts.

  “And to think I left a sick bed to come to work today,” Calvin groaned.

  “Your girl wasn’t feeling well?” Francis asked.

  “On to more important things, men,” Lieutenant Finque said, as Sergeant Nick Yanov, who sat on his left on the platform in front of the assembly, looked at the ceiling and drummed nervously on the table with his fingers. “I hope you men have been trying to sell whistles. The nightwatch has been doing pretty badly compared to the daywatch.”

  This announcement caused Sergeant Yanov to lean back in his chair and start rubbing his eyes with the heels of both hands so that he would not have to see the eye rolling, lip curling, head shaking, feet shuffling, which was utterly lost on Lieutenant Finque who had given birth to the whistle selling campaign.

  It had been a master stroke which actually was suggested by an eighty year old spinster who attended every single Basic Car Plan meeting. Since Lieutenant Finque was pretty sure the old woman was senile and would not remember she had thought of it, he adopted the idea as his own and the uniformed patrol force of Wilshire Station found themselves being forced to sell black plastic whistles for fifty cents to women they contacted on their calls. The object was that if a woman were ever accosted on the street by thugs she should pull out her whistle and blow it.

  The proceeds from the whistle sales went to the station’s Youth Services Fund and quickly earned several thousand dollars. Lieutenant Finque was hoping the idea would earn him a written commendation from Deputy Chief Lynch, which wouldn’t look bad in his personnel package.

  Spermwhale Whalen had sold the most whistles on the nightwatch, six in fact. But actually he had bought them himself and given them to his favorite streetwalking whores with the instruction that if they ever had a slow evening and felt like giving away a free blowjob to an old pal just to pucker on the whistle when 7-A-1 came cruising by.