Ticket (eBook)

CHAPTER 2
PROVIDENCE

Their next shift was Friday night, and Friedman was walking into the underground parking structure after roll call to get their car loaded.

“What shop did you get?”

“87230,” Friedman replied, “Why?”

“I thought so…I’m pretty sure that’s the one that smells like piss,” said Redbone. “Better change it before we load it up. I can’t handle driving around in that thing for 12 hours again.”

“Good call,” Friedman said as he flipped around and headed back to the kit room to exchange the keys for a less ripe vehicle.

Fiscal times being what they were in the City of Los Angeles, the LAPD was cutting corners everywhere they could. Officers qualified with their side arms only a few times a year, and most of their cars were beat down and had nearly 100,000 miles on them. That doesn’t seem like much until you consider how they got driven, and with 24-hour coverage they got used and abused practically nonstop. There were countless other “cost-saving” measures in place…all while the Department continued to hire new officers to keep the workforce at 10,000. The mayor had hitched his political wagon to the LAPD star, and one of his big posturing points was that magic number, even though only about a third of LAPD cops were actually working as field police officers or table detectives. The rest performed “administrative functions” or worked secret squirrel jobs, which was a constant source of torment to Friedman.

The LAPD was famously understaffed when compared to other major metropolitan police departments. But the reality, as Friedman saw it, was they had more than enough people to do the job. What they really needed was about 8,500 working police officers and detectives, with a sizeable staff of civilians working support. His view was that every time a cop retired they should replace him with a civilian until they got to that number. That would eliminate cops doing office pogue jobs and get them in the field where they belong. The unfortunate rule at LAPD was, “Give us two years on patrol, and we’ll give you a lifetime of stories.” The cops working inside jobs thought anyone working the field was either a fool or lacked ambition. Friedman always thought the pogues were disingenuous at best and outright cowards at worst. No one ever told their oral board when they were applying, “I’d like to work patrol until probation is over, then I never want to wear a uniform again. I think I’d like to work some kind of audit detail or maybe be a secretary for some captain until I can be promoted through favoritism.”

Friedman became an officer to make a difference, and while he had done a two-year vice tour at 77th Street, he thought working patrol was where the game was played. Like many south-end cops, he also thought if you hadn’t worked the ghetto then you shouldn’t claim to be an LAPD officer. As the saying went, “If you haven’t had a 12 (77th Street Division) or an 18 (Southeast Division) on the trunk of your shop, you haven’t been the Po-lice”.

“I take it we didn’t win on Tuesday,” said Friedman as he drove up to the gas pumps to fill up before starting the shift.

“Negative. But tonight is the big one…nobody won…it’s up to like 330 Million. I’m pretty sure I could live with that.” Redbone replied.

They played the lottery religiously and had a theory that the only people who ever won were illegal immigrants, old people and slacker-assed ghetto crack heads. Their practice was to buy their five-dollar ticket at the nastiest liquor store they could, thereby tricking the lottery gods. It was their fondest dream to rob South Central of millions of dollars in Lotto money as payback for years of being taken for granted.

“We better hurry over and get our fiver ticket before the shit hits the fan and we miss the 7:45cut-off.” advised Redbone.

“Done and done,” replied Friedman as he adjusted the seat, still warm from the last driver. “Christ in a sidecar! Who the fuck was driving this thing last!? We gotta quit hiring dwarves…I’m telling you Redbone, the days of the six-foot-tall cop are over. But you never know…they could be poised for a comeback…I think we’ve hired all the 4’11” humans in the country…we’re running out of options.”

They drove south on Broadway from 77th to westbound Manchester to hit their favorite liquor store over on 92nd and Western Avenue. That store had a constant stream of losers, baseheads and drunks loitering in the parking lot, drinking cheap booze and smoking crack. Friedman had assured Redbone that if they were ever going to trick the gods, that would be the place to make it happen.

“Officer Fryed-man!” shouted an improbably named basehead called Smokey. “Where the fuck you been? I ain’t seen you since you ate shit chasin’ that mothafucker in the G-Ride down the alley ahind the bungalows!”

This amused the other dregs standing around, and they all high-fived and backslapped each other.

“I told you before, it’s ‘Freed-man,’ Smokey,” admonished Friedman with a smile, as he hopped out of the driver’s seat, “and I would’ve had that bitch-made ‘90s motherfucker if I didn’t fall…and you know we caught him in the perimeter anyway…that’s how we roll in 77th Street…”

This also amused the crowd, who all knew Friedman from multiple contacts over the years.

Friedman and Redbone had chased a stolen car about a month prior, and the Rollin’ 90’s Crip who was driving had crashed into one of the big green alley gates that South Central has at the end of most alleys. The gates were designed to keep crackheads out, but they basically created cages that kept the crackheads in and the cops out. The gate had fallen on the car, pinning the driver’s side door shut, and they thought they had the guy dead to rights, but he had other plans. While they were holding the car at gunpoint, waiting for back-up to arrive, he elbow-smashed the driver’s window, jumped out and ran southbound through the alley from 92nd Street. Friedman approached the car, cleared it for additional suspects and then attempted to jump over the downed gate to go in foot pursuit. Unfortunately, he caught the toe of his Danner boot and fell hard. His Glock 45 went flying, and he gouged the shit out of his right knee and both hands. Redbone forgot everything, pointed at him and started laughing.

“You ate shit!” he screamed, barely able to stand as he convulsed.

The liquor store parking lot vermin witnessed the whole thing and joined in with Redbone, amazed at their good luck to have had a front row seat to watch an LAPD cop crash and burn. Friedman reeled in Redbone and told him to chase the motherfucker while he’d set up a perimeter. One of the responding units captured him almost immediately, and Friedman drove over to where they had him, anxious for some payback.

When he got there, the suspect took one look at his bloody hands and torn pants and began to apologize.

“I’m so sorry Officer! Man! You a-ight? I’m on parole for a G-ride, so I had to run…you know…you gotta job…I gotta job. I’m real sorry you got hurt…you gonna be a-ight? You need a amberlamps…you bleedin’ bad. Damn!”

Friedman was extremely pissed about his $150 pants being torn and none too happy about his Glock getting scratched up. He would have liked nothing more than for the guy to struggle (even a bit) so he could waffle-stomp his ass, but he was so cooperative, and so genuinely sorry he’d been hurt, that there was nothing for it but to be professional.

“You got those warrants taken care of, Smokey?” asked Redbone, “Cause if you want to, we can get that handled for you right now…just a quick trip to 77th, and you’ll be good to go. It’ll be a burrito and a little apple for dinner…”

“Officer Freed-man say I was cool wit those,” replied a suddenly nervous Smokey, who sidled up to them and spoke with a hushed tone so the other crackheads couldn’t hear. “He say I was cool for helpin’ him out wit that thang”

Friedman and Redbone had jammed up Smokey a while back for drinking in the liquor store parking lot, and when they found out he had about $65,000 in misdemeanor warrants, they asked for his “help.” They were having a Burglary From Motor Vehicle problem west of Western and south of 92nd Street. The neighborhood was clean and relatively crime free and was filled with older, retired black folks that couldn’t afford to be replacing their car windows and stereos twice a month. Smokey gladly told them who to look for, what time the individual was conducting his malfeasance and where he was disposing of his ill-gotten gains. The information resulted in the suspect’s capture and fixed the BFMV problem for the time being. Friedman gave him a six-month pass on his warrants and told him to take care of them on his own during that time. He wouldn’t, of course, but when his time was up there would probably be another problem he could “help” with.

“He’s cool for a while yet, Redbone,” said Friedman, “But I think you might be mistakin’ my kindness for weakness, Smokey...”

“You right. You right. My bad…I’m straight.”

They walked in the liquor store and gave a head’s up to the Korean owner. He was kind of standoffish with the police for fear of getting a reputation of being on the wrong team. He knew where his bread...