Copyright © 2006 by Joseph Wambaugh

Special thanks for the terrific anecdotes and wonderful cop talk goes to officers of the Los Angeles Police Department:

Chate Asvanonda, Matt Bennyworth, Michael Berchem, Wendi Berndt, Vicki Bynum, Elizabeth Estupinian, Laura Evens, Heather Gahry, Brett Goodkin, Chuck Henry, Craig Herron, Jack Herron (ret.), Brian Hospodar, Andy Hudlett, Jeff Injalls, Rick Jackson, Dennis Kilcoyne, Al Lopez, Tim Marcia, Kathy McAnany, Roger Murphy, Bill Pack, Mike Porter, Rosie Redshaw, Tom Redshaw, Dave Sigler, Bill Sollie, Olivia Spindola, Joe Witty

And to officers of the San Diego Police Department:

Mark Amancio, Pete Amancio, Andra Brown, Brett Burkett, Laurie Cairncross, Blaine Ferguson, Pete Griffin (ret.), Mike Gutierrez, Vanessa Holland, Gerry Kramer, Charles Lara, Vic Morel, Tony Puente (ret.), Andy Rios, Steve Robinson, Steve Sloan, Elliott Stiasny, Alex Sviridov, Don Watkins, Joe Winney

And to officers of the Palm Springs Police Department:

Dave Costello, Don Dougherty, Steve Douglas, Mitch Spike

And to special agents of the Federal Bureau of Investigation:

Matt Desarno, Jack Kelly (ret.)

And to author James Ellroy for urging this return to LAPD roots

WANNA PLAY PIT bull polo, dude?”

“What’s that?”

“It’s something I learned when I worked Metro Mounted Platoon.”

“It’s weird thinking of you as a cowboy cop.”

“All I know about horses is they’re assholes, man. But we got the overtime there. You know my little Beemer? I wouldn’t have that if I hadn’t worked Metro. My last year in Metro I made a hundred grand plus. I don’t miss those crazy horses but I miss that OT money. And I miss wearing a Stetson. When we worked the mini-riot at the Democrats convention, a hot little lobbyist with nipples big enough to pack up and leave home said I looked like a young Clint Eastwood in that Stetson. And I didn’t carry a Beretta nine then. I carried a six-inch Colt revolver. It looked more appropriate when I was sitting on a horse.”

“A wheel gun? In this day and age?”

“The Oracle still carries a wheel gun.”

“The Oracle’s been on the job nearly fifty years. He can wear a codpiece if he wants to. And you don’t look like Clint Eastwood, bro. You look like the guy in King Kong, except you got even more of a beak and your hair is bleached.”

“My hair is sun-streaked from surfing, dude. And I’m even two inches taller in the saddle than Clint was.”

“Whatever, bro. I’m a whole foot taller on the ground than Tom Cruise. He’s about four foot ten.”

“Anyways, those pacifist demonstrators at the convention center were throwing golf balls and ball bearings at our horses, when twenty of us charged. And dude, when you get stepped on by a fifteen-hundred-pound animal, it sucks bad. Only one horse went down. He was twenty-eight years old, name of Rufus. That fried him. Had to retire him after that. One of those Jamba Juicers threw a lit trash bag at the one I was riding, name of Big Sam. I beat that bitch with my koa.”

“Your what?”

“It’s like a samurai sword made of koa wood. The baton’s about as useless as a stalk of celery when you’re up there on a horse seventeen hands high. Supposed to strike them in the clavicle, but guess what, she juked and I got her upside the head. Accidentally, wink wink. She did a loop de loop and ended up under a parked car. I saw a horse get stuck with a knitting needle by one of those tree fuckers. The horse was fried after that. Too much stress. They retired him to Horse Rescue. They all get fried sooner or later. Just like us.”

“That sucks. Sticking a horse.”

“That one got a TV interview at least. When cops get hurt, nothing. Who gives a fuck? When a horse gets hurt, you get on TV, maybe with that Debbie D-cup news bunny on Channel Five.”

“Where’d you learn to ride?”

“Griffith Park. A five-week course at the Ahmanson Training Center. Only horse I ever rode before that was on a merry-go-round, and I don’t care if I ever ride another one. Got the job ’cause my sister-in-law went to high school with the platoon lieutenant. Horses’re assholes, man. An RTD bus can pass you three inches away at sixty miles an hour and the horse doesn’t blink. A little piece of paper blows in his face all of a sudden and he bucks you clear over a pile of tweakers and baseheads sleeping on a skid-row sidewalk at Sixth and San Pedro. And you end up in Momma Lucy’s shopping cart with her aluminum cans and refundable bottles. That’s how I got a hip replacement at the age of thirty. Only thing I wanna ride now is a surfboard and my Beemer.”

“I’m thirty-one. You look a lot older than me.”

“Well I ain’t. I just had a lot to worry about. They gave me a doctor that was so old he still believed in bleeding and leeches.”

“Whatever, bro. You might have progeria. Gives you those eyelid and neck wrinkles, like a Galapagos turtle.”

“So you wanna play pit bull polo or not?”

“What the fuck is pit bull polo?”

“Way I learned, they trailered ten of us down to Seventy-seventh Street on a night when they decided to sweep a three-block row of crack houses and gangsta cribs. Whole fucking area is a crime scene. Living next to that is what razor wire was made for. Anyways, all those Bloods and Crips have pit bulls and rotties and they let them run loose half the time, terrorizing the ’hood and eating any normal dogs they see. And the whole fucking pack of gangsta dogs flew into a blood lust the second they saw us coming in and they attacked like we were riding T-bones and ribeyes.”

“How many did you shoot?”

“Shoot? I need this job. You gotta be richer than Donald Trump and Manny the plumber to fire your piece in today’s LAPD, especially at a dog. You shoot a human person and you get maybe two detectives and a team from Force Investigation Division to second-guess you. You shoot a dog and you get three supervisors and four detectives plus FID, all ready to string yellow tape. Especially in the ’hood. We didn’t shoot them, we played pit bull polo with the long sticks.”

“Oh, I get it. Pit bull polo.”

“Man, I rode through them, whacking those killer bulls, yelling, ‘One chukker for my team! Two chukkers for my team!’ I only wish I coulda whacked their owners.”

“Bro, a chukker is a period of play. I know ’cause I watched a special on the Royal Family. Horny old Charles was playing a chukker or two for Camilla with big wood in his jodhpurs. That old babe? I don’t see it.”

“Whatever. You down with that or not?”

“Yeah, I’m down. But first I wanna know, did anyone beef you for playing polo with the gangsta bulls?”

“Oh yeah, there’s always an ABM who’ll call IA, his councilman, and maybe long distance to Al Sharpton, who never saw a camera he didn’t hug.”

“ABM?”

“You ain’t a ’hood rat, are ya? ABM. Angry black male.”

“Spent my nine years in Devonshire, West Valley, and West L.A. before I transferred here last month. ABMs ain’t never been filed on my desktop, bro.”

“Then don’t go to a police commission or council meeting. ABMs are in charge. But we don’t have hardly any living in Hollywood. In fact, nowadays most of south L.A. is Latino, even Watts.”

“I been reading that the entire inner city is mostly Latino. Where the fuck have the brothers gone to? I wonder. And why is everybody worrying about the black vote if they’re all moving to the suburbs? They better worry about the Latino vote, because they got the mayor’s office now and they’re about one generation away from reclaiming California and making us do the gardening.”