The Delta Star Read Online Free PDF

Opportunities Act, the federal and state legislation tightened the screws all right. But it was the blacks, Orientals, and women of any race who finally were the beneficiaries of the pressure.
    “He’s a federal captain,” the white cops might sneer when referring to a recently promoted black who otherwise (they thought) wouldn’t have made it. Or, “He’s another one of those feds we gotta accept,” referring to a five-foot-three-inch mini-cop like Sunney Kee, who they said was not only a foreigner but a midget as well.
    The push really began after the boat people came to Los Angeles: the Vietnamese, Cambodians, Laotians. And the Cubans. The cops just loved Jimmy Carter for letting in the boatloads of Cubans.
    Along with the boat people came the Koreans, Thais and Chinese, and Latinos from all over Central and South America. To the center of the city, close to downtown, where they worked for minimum wage and less in restaurants, factories and sweatshops.
    But Mexicans had been around too long for the Affirmative Action people to think about. Mario Villalobos had years ago taken the trouble to study Spanish for three years during his off-duty hours in order to be a more promotable Mexican when the time was ripe. It never was. Of course the Mexican-American cops knew he spoke gringo Spanish, but then so did lots of Mexican-American cops whose families were middle-class and assimilated. Mario Villalobos never claimed he was one. But he never said he wasn’t. It had all taught Mario Villalobos one thing for sure: beaners usually get screwed anyway. Being a counterfeit Mexican had never helped him at all. As it turned out he should have had a Vietnamese surname.
    When he got settled in his chair at the homicide table, Mario Villalobos hefted the pile of reports from the weekend and wondered if anybody was left intact in the division.
    “Hey, Mario,” Chip Muirfield said, “Melody and I were thinking about stopping for some brunch on the way to the coroner’s. Want to join us?”
    “Brunch?” Mario Villalobos said. Homicide detectives going for brunch? Eggs Benedict, no doubt. Maybe a glass of Chardonnay?
    “No thanks,” Mario Villalobos said. Then, “The coroner’s? We got one being posted today?”
    “Yeah, a white streetwalker from Santa Monica and Normandie. Report’s on the bottom there. Looks like somebody pushed her off the roof of the Wonderland Hotel. Five floors. Probably her pimp.”
    Mario Villalobos said, “What’re things coming to when pimps push their meal tickets off roofs?”
    “I’m just guessing it was her pimp,” Chip Muirfield said. “Night clerk said on the report that he saw a tall white guy he thinks is from East Hollywood. Runs girls from Santa Monica and Western.”
    “The night clerk’s a liar or stupid,” Mario Villalobos said, burning his lip with the coffee and failing to get his cigarette lit until the second try. Maybe he’d switch from vodka to Scotch? Some guys said your hands were steadier the next day.
    “Why?”
    “When the spades start letting a honky run girls on Santa Monica and Western, that’s when Margaret Thatcher’s going barhopping in Buenos Aires,” Mario Villalobos said.
    “Well, some white guy was seen going up the elevator on Saturday night about ten o’clock, just before she screamed. The postmortem begins at ten-thirty this morning.”
    “Anything left to post? She must look like strawberry shortcake.”
    “The report says she hit the roof of a panel truck. Maybe she’s not busted up so bad. Is it okay if I meet you at the coroner’s after I brunch with Melody?”
    Mario Villalobos nodded and closed his eyes, and ran his hands through his half-combed graying hair. Brunch with Melody. He’d probably be at least a deputy chief like his uncle. Or a state senator like the last chief.
    Already finished with their paper work because they came to work forty-five minutes early, the two young detectives gathered up their case envelopes and reports