Read Online The Delta Star by Joseph Wambaugh - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Joseph Wambaugh
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work with nothing but a split-tailed munchkin to back me up if I get in trouble.”
“I see,” Dolly nodded sweetly. “And what time does this car get hungry?”
That was another thing the other chauvinist pricks had taught her. The car ate at a given time. Regardless of when she might be hungry, the car ate when the man got hungry.
“I’ll let you know when the car gets hungry,” Dilford said, and the war had begun.
There was no question who drove and who did the paper work. He drove. Unless he was too hungover to drive and then she drove and did the paper work.
On the third day of their partnership he had made her so furious while she was loading the shotgun that she jammed the third round into the magazine and broke the nail on the ring finger of her right hand. Dolly lost her composure and yelled, “Son of a bitch!” scaring the crap out of Dilford, who was checking behind the seat of the black-and-white Plymouth for dope, knives, guns or time bombs which might have been left by prisoners from the last watch.
And then she made the further mistake of crying out, “Fifty bucks for this acrylic job, and look at it!”
The fingernail was snapped off cleanly, and along with it went the hand-painted stripes and racing-car decal that had adorned that particular nail.
“Well, no shit,” Dilford grinned, calling all his pals to commiserate. “Looky here. The mini-cop lost her fingernail. The one with the Porsche racing stripe. It’s really true. A policeman’s lot just isn’t a happy one!”
And if that wasn’t bad enough, she got in a foot pursuit with a car thief that very afternoon while Dilford the wheel man circled the block in the car and tried to cut off the thief in an alley north of Temple. But another radio unit had intercepted the suspect and the foot race was over. Almost. In that the police department dressed the female officers in the same uniform as men, there just wasn’t a place to keep certain essentials. When Dolly came hot-footing it down Temple that day, the suspect was already hooked up with Dilford’s handcuffs. And Dolly dropped one of the essentials from her sock.
She thought Dilford’s eyes, which slid back three inches past his pale eyebrows, might never come out of his skull when he saw a little Puerto Rican kid running up to Dolly to present her with the dropped essential.
“This is your new police force!” Dilford yelled, loud enough to scare the pigeons in Echo Park. “Double pierced earrings. Striped fingernails. And Tampax in their socks. Oh mercy!”
It had all come to a head three weeks earlier when the Cuban drag queen did a rough impression of Pele and tried to kick Dilford’s bolas through an imaginary soccer goal.
That was a very bad day for Dilford, who was still tender from his vasectomy. Dilford had decided to become the only bachelor cop in Rampart Division to get one. Two of his academy classmates had been slapped with paternity lawsuits by a couple of grossed-out groupies from the Chinatown bars. Dilford said that if he ever got married he’d have the plumbing reattached, or adopt some little rug rats, or maybe marry a rich broad who had her own rug rats.
Dilford and Dolly had both been extremely cross and grouchy that day. He from the vasectomy, she from starting her period and having two humungus pimples blooming on her chin. She always felt that what happened was poetic justice in that Dilford deliberately antagonized the drag queen, knowing as he did that male homosexuals generally did not like being questioned, detained, searched or in any way handled by female officers.
Female police officers could hand-search either sex, according to department regulations. Male officers could not hand-search females unless it was a dire emergency. The bull-dykes on the other hand loved to be searched by the female officers. In fact, a great but unheralded contribution by female officers was their ability to pacify fighting bull-dykes simply by sweet-talking
“I see,” Dolly nodded sweetly. “And what time does this car get hungry?”
That was another thing the other chauvinist pricks had taught her. The car ate at a given time. Regardless of when she might be hungry, the car ate when the man got hungry.
“I’ll let you know when the car gets hungry,” Dilford said, and the war had begun.
There was no question who drove and who did the paper work. He drove. Unless he was too hungover to drive and then she drove and did the paper work.
On the third day of their partnership he had made her so furious while she was loading the shotgun that she jammed the third round into the magazine and broke the nail on the ring finger of her right hand. Dolly lost her composure and yelled, “Son of a bitch!” scaring the crap out of Dilford, who was checking behind the seat of the black-and-white Plymouth for dope, knives, guns or time bombs which might have been left by prisoners from the last watch.
And then she made the further mistake of crying out, “Fifty bucks for this acrylic job, and look at it!”
The fingernail was snapped off cleanly, and along with it went the hand-painted stripes and racing-car decal that had adorned that particular nail.
“Well, no shit,” Dilford grinned, calling all his pals to commiserate. “Looky here. The mini-cop lost her fingernail. The one with the Porsche racing stripe. It’s really true. A policeman’s lot just isn’t a happy one!”
And if that wasn’t bad enough, she got in a foot pursuit with a car thief that very afternoon while Dilford the wheel man circled the block in the car and tried to cut off the thief in an alley north of Temple. But another radio unit had intercepted the suspect and the foot race was over. Almost. In that the police department dressed the female officers in the same uniform as men, there just wasn’t a place to keep certain essentials. When Dolly came hot-footing it down Temple that day, the suspect was already hooked up with Dilford’s handcuffs. And Dolly dropped one of the essentials from her sock.
She thought Dilford’s eyes, which slid back three inches past his pale eyebrows, might never come out of his skull when he saw a little Puerto Rican kid running up to Dolly to present her with the dropped essential.
“This is your new police force!” Dilford yelled, loud enough to scare the pigeons in Echo Park. “Double pierced earrings. Striped fingernails. And Tampax in their socks. Oh mercy!”
It had all come to a head three weeks earlier when the Cuban drag queen did a rough impression of Pele and tried to kick Dilford’s bolas through an imaginary soccer goal.
That was a very bad day for Dilford, who was still tender from his vasectomy. Dilford had decided to become the only bachelor cop in Rampart Division to get one. Two of his academy classmates had been slapped with paternity lawsuits by a couple of grossed-out groupies from the Chinatown bars. Dilford said that if he ever got married he’d have the plumbing reattached, or adopt some little rug rats, or maybe marry a rich broad who had her own rug rats.
Dilford and Dolly had both been extremely cross and grouchy that day. He from the vasectomy, she from starting her period and having two humungus pimples blooming on her chin. She always felt that what happened was poetic justice in that Dilford deliberately antagonized the drag queen, knowing as he did that male homosexuals generally did not like being questioned, detained, searched or in any way handled by female officers.
Female police officers could hand-search either sex, according to department regulations. Male officers could not hand-search females unless it was a dire emergency. The bull-dykes on the other hand loved to be searched by the female officers. In fact, a great but unheralded contribution by female officers was their ability to pacify fighting bull-dykes simply by sweet-talking
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