The Glitter Dome Read Online Free PDF Page B

necktie. He was careful to keep the double-knit plaids an inch too short and he wore green and yellow argyles to exaggerate the fact. He let his sideburns grow longer, preparatory to his tour of the stations. He had considered a moustache, but there were limits. Finally, he topped off his costume with a brass tie tack in the shape of numbers 187, the California Penal Code section for murder. It was perfect. He looked for all the world like a working homicide dick.
    Deputy Chief Julian Francis knew that some of the older men might remember the hated nickname Fuzznuts, given to him in 1965 during the Watts riot when he had become separated from his driver and bodyguard in the chaos of burning and looting on Central Avenue. It was rumored that he had waved a handkerchief and tried to surrender to a small army of looters near Ninety-second Street, saying he’d always been kind to Negroes. It was a scurrilous story, never substantiated, but he felt the “187” tie tack went a long way to dispel the rumor and suggest he was one of the guys.
    Two bearded narcs, dressed like boulevard bikers and known as the Weasel and the Ferret because of their slippery ways, began sliding notes down the line of tables. The notes were actually betting markers. They were offering three to one that Fuzznuts Francis would use the word “impacted” twelve more times during the remainder of his morale-building speech. It seemed excessive even for Deputy Chief Francis, so several markers were slipped back down the table to the young narcs. They were on a three-month loan to Captain Woofer from narcotics division downtown to help with the outrageous drug problem that the Hollywood business community was always complaining about.
    Deputy Chief Francis concluded by saying: “It will take a strong religious faith to sustain the Los Angeles Police Department and the United States of America from the enemy lurking within the human heart.”
    Captain Roger (Whipdick) Woofer was genuinely moved. He started applauding .
    The Weasel and the Ferret were outraged. The number of “impacteds” had only totaled eleven. One more!
    The Weasel raised his hand frantically. “Sir! Chief!” cried the Weasel. “What effect has the Vietnam generation of policemen had on the general decline of morality among today’s officers?”
    The other gamblers knew of course what the Weasel was up to. Poor old Cal Greenberg jumped to his feet. He was holding a marker for two dollars. (All that Wing hadn’t stolen last night.) “Just a goddamn minute, Weasel! He’s finished .” Then he turned toward the shocked deputy chief. “You are finished, aren’t you … sir?”
    â€œWell …” the deputy chief stammered. The greasy leather-covered biker frightened him. ( He’s what’s become of the Department these days!) But the menacing old detective with the raw bloody eyes was even more frightening.
    Captain Woofer blanched and bellowed, “Greenberg! What in the world’s wrong with you?”
    â€œNothing, Captain,” poor old Cal Greenberg cried. “It’s just that we shouldn’t keep the chief here all day. He’s got other duties and …”
    That reassured Deputy Chief Francis. He smiled and held up his hands. “Gentlemen,” he said, “I’ve got all day. My time is your time.”
    â€œRudy Vallee, for chrissake!” poor old Cal Greenberg moaned, his bloody eyes rolling back under his veiny lids. My time is your time!
    â€œGreenberg, what in the world is the matter with you?” Captain Woofer demanded.
    â€œHe’s sick,” Al Mackey volunteered. “He isn’t feeling well. Maybe we should take poor old Cal out for some air?” Al Mackey had three bucks down. “Maybe we should let the chief go?”
    But all was lost. Deputy Chief Francis smiled paternally and said, “You’ve been a damn attentive audience.