The New Centurions

by Joseph Wambaugh, Michael Connelly

Genres: Police Procedurals; Thrillers; Suspense

Synopsis

Ex-cop turned #1 New York Times bestselling writer Joseph Wambaugh forged a new kind of literature with his great early police procedurals. Here in his classic debut novel, Wambaugh presents a stunning, raw, and unforgettable depiction of life behind the thin blue line. In a class of new police recruits, Augustus Plebesly is fast and scared. Roy Fehler is full of ideals. And Serge Duran is an ex-marine running away from his Chicano childhood. In a few weeks they'll put on the blue uniform of the LAPD. In months they'll know how to interpret the mad babble of the car radio, smell danger, trap a drug dealer, hide a secret, and-most of all-live with the understanding that cops are different from everyone else. But for these men, these new centurions, time is an enemy. The year is 1960. The streets are burning with rage. And before they can grow old on this job, they'll have to fight for their lives...

Release date: April 1, 2008

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Print pages: 384

Sample

ACCLAIM FOR JOSEPH WAMBAUGH’S NOVELS

THE NEW CENTURIONS

“Do you like cops? Read THE NEW CENTURIONS. Do you hate cops? Read THE NEW CENTURIONS . . . This novel performs one of the essential and enduring functions the novel—and the novel alone—can perform. It takes us into the hearts and minds, into the nerves, and into the guts of other beings.”

—New York Times Book Review

“Wambaugh’s great and enviable accomplishment is that he has made his police come alive as human beings.”

—Los Angeles Times

“A rattling good narrative of life on a big city police force, the gutsy chronicle of how a cop is made.”

—Boston Globe

“Wambaugh puts the readers down there on the firing line with the cops—giving it to them like it really is with his stomach-twisting, fascinating novel.”

—Associated Press

“You’ll never forget it!”

—Pittsburgh Press

THE BLUE KNIGHT

“Fascinating . . . a cop’s-eye view of police brutality . . . [with] courage and compassion.”

—New York Times

“Marvelous . . . realistic, frightening, touching in its humanity.”

—Detroit Free Press

“An extraordinary piece of craftsmanship.”

—Los Angeles Times

“A bang-up job . . . Wambaugh has captured the excitement, terror, pity, and occasional tedium of police work.”

—Boston Globe

“Hard-hitting, tough-talking, utterly realistic.”

—Publishers Weekly

“Beyond the adventure, beyond the revelation of daily life, there is another kind of suspense; the gradual and surprising tale of a human being emerging from a stereotype.”

—Los Angeles Times Calendar

HOLLYWOOD STATION

“Exhilarating . . . blisteringly funny . . . colorful . . . a pleasure . . . It has all the authority, outrage, compassion, and humor of the great early novels.”

—New York Times Book Review

“Astonishing, wildly funny, poignant, and horrifying . . . hands down the best crime fiction I’ve read this year.”

—Boston Globe

“Highly entertaining . . . outrageous and hilarious . . . all of Wambaugh’s trademark jet-black humor is intact.”

—Washington Post Book World

“Cops just want to have fun! As you turn the pages of Wambaugh’s newest offering on the subject of the foibles and ferocities of the LAPD, you are going to have quite a good time yourself.”

—San Francisco Chronicle

“Sharp characterization, fine plotting, and irreverent humor that mark Joseph Wambaugh’s best work.”

—Dallas Morning News

“Hollywood Station is Mr. Wambaugh’s comeback novel, and it is more than impressive; it is memorable, a flawless ride through the streets of L.A. with a crew of cops as colorful as the bad guys they pursue . . . if this dark, funny, poignant, and realistic stunner of a novel doesn’t get an Edgar nomination, we will be witnesses to the crime of the year.”

—Otto Penzler, New York Sun

“Offers all the characteristic Wambaugh magic: unlikable and conflicted characters we grow to love; a perfect mix of good guys and bad; and small vignettes that tie together seamlessly by the end.”

—Atlantic Monthly

“Even after a ten-year break, Wambaugh can still write an enlightening and entertaining novel.”

—Philadelphia Inquirer

“A deeply felt paean to those who protect and serve that also proves that there’s one veteran of the LAPD crime scene who can still run with the best of them.”

—Los Angeles Times

“The freedom to imagine allows a writer to create truer pictures than do portraits of real people and factual events—at least when the writer is a wise and masterful storyteller like Joseph Wambaugh.”

—San Diego Union-Tribune

“Shows Wambaugh in perfect form.”

—Seattle Times

“[Wambaugh’s] is the rare police procedural less fixated on the central crime or the criminals . . . than on, well, police procedure: the day-to-day lives of cops.”

—Entertainment Weekly

“Required reading . . . It’s clear that the author of The Onion Field has lost none of his talent for keen observation.”

—New York Post

“[Wambaugh’s] voice is subtler; more ironic than it used to be. Enough art has been added to the mixture (magically, without taking away any of the savage humor) to justify the major awards that have been fired at Wambaugh’s head recently by his Mystery Writers of America peers.”

—Chicago Tribune

“Reading Wambaugh’s latest may not be the most fun you’ve ever had, but it will come close.”

—Pittsburgh Post-Gazette

“An excellent ear for dialogue and a telling eye for detail . . . Hollywood Station continues the award-winning author’s longtime exploration of the Los Angeles Police Department . . . a master at work in the milieu he knows better than almost anyone else.”

—Baltimore Sun

“A triumphant return . . . high-voltage suspense drives the tale, and as always Wambaugh’s characters, language, and war stories exude authenticity . . . Terrific.”

—Booklist (starred review)

WHOEVER FIGHTS MONSTERS

AN APPRECIATION OF JOSEPH WAMBAUGH

THERE IS A BEDROCK TRUTH that resides in the heart of this book. And that is that the best crime stories are not about how cops work on cases. They are about how cases work on cops. They are not about how the cops work the streets. They are about how the streets work the cops. Procedure is window dressing. Character is king.

This is a truth we learn when we read the work of Joseph Wambaugh. No assessment of this novel or the other work of this policeman turned writer can conclude that he is anything other than one of the great innovators of the crime novel. Wambaugh brought the truth with him when he left the police department for the publishing house.

A century after its first inception the crime novel had moved from the hands of Edgar Allan Poe to the practitioners of the private eye novel. More often than not, these tomes told the story of the loner detective who works outside of the system he distrusts and even despises, who must overcome obstacles that often happen to be the corrupted police themselves. It fell to Wambaugh, with his stark and gritty realism, to take the story inside the system to the police station and the patrol car where it truly belonged. To tell the stories of the men who did the real work and risked their lives and their sanity to do it. And to explore a different kind of corruption—the premature cynicism and tarnished nobility of the cop who has looked too often and too long into humanity’s dark abyss.

Wambaugh used the crime novel and the lives of his character cops as the lens with which he examined society. Within the ranks of his police officers he explored the great socio-economic divide of our cities, racism, alcoholism and many other facets of the rapidly changing world. He used cops to make sense of the chaos. And he did it by simply telling their stories. The episodic narrative of this book and those that followed became his signature. And along the way he gave us looks into the lives of characters like Serge Duran, Roy Fehler, and Bumper Morgan, full blooded and flawed, and placed them on the sunswept streets of Los Angeles. His first two books, The New Centurions and The Blue Knight, are perfect bookends that offer the full scope of police life and Wambaugh’s power. The former traced three officers through the police academy and their early years on the job. The latter traced a veteran officer’s last three days on the job. No one had ever read books like these before. They were the mark of a true innovator.

It is important to note that Wambaugh wrote his first books while still on the job. The detective sergeant did the real work by day while pounding out the made-up stuff at night on a portable Royal typewriter. His family had to sleep through the clatter. The results were uncontested as some of the most vivid police prose ever put on paper. Wambaugh opened up a world to the reader, a world no one outside of those who did the real work had ever seen before. Cop novelist Evan Hunter called it right on the money in the New York Times when he said, “Mr. Wambaugh is, in fact, a writer of genuine power, style, wit, and originality who has chosen to write about police in particular as a means of expressing his views on society in general.”

A hundred years ago the philosopher Friedrich Nietz-sche warned us that whoever fights monsters should take care not to become a monster himself. He reminded us that when we stare into the abyss that the abyss stares right back into us. So then these are the poles that hold up the Wambaugh tent. These are the battle lines that every cop faces and Wambaugh so intimately delineates in this book and others. He writes about how cops shield themselves, medicate themselves, and distract themselves from the view of the abyss. Think of it in terms of a physics lesson. For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. So then if you go into darkness then darkness goes into you. The question is how much darkness has gotten inside and what can be done about it. How can you pull yourself back from the edge of the abyss. In this book, and all of his books, Joseph Wambaugh tells us the answers.

—Michael Connelly

1

THE RUNNER

LYING PROSTRATE, SERGE DURAN gaped at Augustus Plebesly who was racing inexorably around the track. That’s a ridiculous name, thought Serge—Augustus Plebesly. It’s a ridiculous name for a puny runt who can run like a goddamn antelope.

Plebesly ran abreast of, and was matching strides with, the feared P.T. instructor, Officer Randolph. If Randolph took up the challenge he’d never stop. Twenty laps. Twenty-five. Until there was nothing left but forty-nine sweat suit–covered corpses and forty-nine puddles of puke. Serge had already vomited once and knew another was coming up.

“Get up, Duran!” a voice thundered from above.

Serge’s eyes focused on the massive blur standing over him.

“Get up! Get up!” roared Officer Randolph, who had halted the wretched weary group of cadets.

Serge staggered to his feet and limped after his classmates as Officer Randolph ran ahead to catch Plebesly. Porfirio Rodriguez dropped back and patted Serge on the shoulder. “Don’t give up, Sergio,” Rodriguez panted. “Stay with ’em, man.”

Serge ignored him and lurched forward in anguish. That’s just like a Texas Chicano, he thought. Afraid I’ll disgrace him in front of the gabachos. If I wasn’t a Mexican he’d let me lay until the crabgrass was growing out my ears.

If he could only remember how many laps they had run. Twenty was their record before today, and today was hot, ninety-five degrees at least. And sultry. It was only their fourth week in the police academy. They weren’t in shape yet. Randolph wouldn’t dare run them more than twenty laps today. Serge leaned forward and concentrated on placing one foot in front of the other.

After another half-lap the burning in his chest was no longer bearable. He tasted something strange and choked in panic; he was going to faint. But luckily, Roy Fehler picked that exact moment to fall on his face, causing the collapse of eight other police cadets. Serge gave silent thanks to Fehler who was bleeding from the nose. The class had lost its momentum and a minor mutiny occurred as one cadet after another dropped to his knees and retched. Only Plebesly and a few others remained standing.

“You want to be Los Angeles policemen!” shouted Randolph. “You aren’t fit to wash police cars! And I guarantee you one thing, if you aren’t on your feet in five seconds, you’ll never ride in one!”

One by one the sullen cadets got to their feet and soon all were standing except Fehler who was unsuccessfully trying to stop the nosebleed by lying on his back, his handsome face tilted up to the white sun. Fehler’s pale crew cut was streaked with dust and blood. Officer Randolph strode over to him.

“Okay, Fehler, go take a shower and report to the sergeant. We’ll get you to Central Receiving Hospital for an X ray.”

Serge glanced fearfully at Plebesly who was doing some knee bends to keep loose. Oh no, Serge thought; look tired, Plebesly! Be human! You stupid ass, you’ll antagonize Randolph!

Serge saw Officer Randolph regarding Plebesly, but the instructor only said, “Okay, you weaklings. That’s enough running for today. Get on your back and we’ll do some sit-ups.”

With relief the class began the less painful session of calisthenics and self-defense. Serge wished he wasn’t so big. He’d like to get paired up with Plebesly so he could crush the little bastard when they were practicing the police holds.

After several minutes of sit-ups, leg-ups, and push-ups, Randolph shouted, “Okay, onesies on twosies! Let’s go!”

The class formed a circle and Serge was again teamed with Andrews, the man who marched next to him in formation. Andrews was big, even bigger than Serge, and infinitely harder and stronger. Like Plebesly, Andrews seemed bent on doing his very best, and he had almost choked Serge into unconsciousness the day before when they were practicing the bar strangle. When Serge recovered, he blindly grabbed Andrews by the shirt front and whispered a violent threat that he couldn’t clearly remember when his rage subsided. To his surprise, Andrews apologized, a frightened look on the broad flat face as he realized that Serge had been hurt. He apologized three times that same day and beamed when Serge finally assured him there were no hard feelings. He’s just an overgrown Plebesly, Serge thought. These dedicated types are all alike. They’re so damn serious you can’t hate them like you should.

“Okay, switch around,” shouted Randolph. “Twosies on onesies this time.”

Each man changed with his partner. This time Andrews played the role of suspect and it was Serge’s job to control him.

“Okay, let’s try the come-along again,” shouted Randolph. “And do it right, this time. Ready? One!”

Serge took Andrews’ wide hand at the count of one but realized that the come-along hold had vanished in the intellectual darkness that fifteen or more laps temporarily brought about.

“Two!” shouted Randolph.

“Is this the come-along, Andrews?” whispered Serge, as he saw Randolph helping another cadet who was even more confused.

Andrews responded by twisting his own hand into the come-along position and wincing so that Randolph would think that Serge had him writhing in agony, hence, a “proper” come-along. When Randolph passed he nodded in satisfaction at the pain Serge was inflicting.

“I’m not hurting you, am I?” Serge whispered.

“No, I’m okay,” smiled Andrews, baring his large gapped teeth.

You just can’t hate these serious ones, Serge thought, and looked around the sweating ring of gray-clad cadets for Plebesly. You had to admire the control the squirt had over his slim little body. On their first physical qualification test Plebesly had done twenty-five perfect chins, a hundred sit-ups in eighty-five seconds, and threatened to break the academy record for running the obstacle course. It was that which Serge feared most. The obstacle course with the dreaded wall that defeated him at first glance.

It was inexplicable that he should fear that wall. He was an athlete, at least he had been, six years ago at Chino High School. He had lettered in football three years, a lineman, but quick, and well-coordinated for his size. And his size was inexplicable, six feet three, large-boned, slightly freckled, with light brown hair and eyes—so that it was a family joke that he could not possibly be a Mexican boy, at least not of the Duran family who were especially small and dark—and if his mother had not been from the old country and not disposed to off-color chistes they might have teased her with remarks about the blond gabacho giant who owned the small grocery store where for years she bought harina and maíz for the tortillas which she made by hand. His mother had never put store-bought tortillas on the family table. And suddenly he wondered why he was thinking about his mother now, and what good it did to ever think of the dead.

“All right, sit down,” shouted Randolph, who didn’t have to repeat the command.

The class of forty-eight cadets, minus Roy Fehler, slumped to the grass happy in the knowledge that there was only relaxation ahead, unless you were chosen as Randolph’s demonstration victim.

Serge was still tense. Randolph often chose the big men to demonstrate the holds on. The instructor was himself a medium-sized man, but muscular, and hard as a gun barrel. He invariably hurt you when applying the holds. It seemed to be part of the game to toss the cadet a little harder than necessary, or to make him cry out from a hand, arm, or leg hold. The class got a nervous laugh from the torture, but Serge vowed that the next time Randolph used him for a onesies on twosies demonstration, he was not going to stand for any rougher than necessary treatment. However he hadn’t decided what to do about it. He wanted this job. Being a cop would be a fairly interesting way to make four hundred and eighty-nine dollars a month. He relaxed as Randolph chose Augustus Plebesly for his victim.

“Okay, you already learned the bar strangle,” said Randolph. “It’s a good hold when you apply it right. When you apply it wrong, it’s not worth a damn. Now I’m going to show you a variation of that strangle.”

Randolph took a position behind Plebesly, reached around his throat with a massive forearm, and hooked the small neck in the crook of his arm. “I’m now applying pressure to the carotid artery,” Randolph announced. “My forearm and bicep are choking off the oxygen flow to his brain. He would pass out very quickly if I applied pressure.” As he said it, he did apply pressure, and Plebesly’s large blue eyes fluttered twice and bulged in terror. Randolph relaxed his hold, grinned, and slapped Plebesly on the back to indicate he was through with him.

“Okay, ones on twos,” shouted Randolph. “We only got a few minutes left. Let’s go! I want you to practice this one.”

As each number one man got his arm around the waiting throat of number two, Randolph shouted, “Lift the elbow. You have to get his chin up. If he keeps his chin down, he’ll beat you. Make him lift that chin and then put it on him. Easy, though. And just for a second.”

Serge knew that Andrews would be very careful about hurting him after the outburst the other day. He could see that Andrews was trying not to, the big arm around his neck flexed only a little, and yet the pain was unbelievable. Serge instinctively grabbed Andrews’ arm.

“Sorry, Duran,” said Andrews with a worried look.

“’s alright,” Serge gasped. “That’s a hell of a hold!”

When it was twos on ones, Serge lifted Andrews’ chin. He had never hurt Andrews in any of the prior P.T. sessions. He didn’t think Andrews could be hurt. He squeezed the throat in the crook, pulling his wrist toward him, and held it several seconds. Andrews’ hands did not come up as his had. He must be applying it wrong, he thought.

Serge raised the elbow and increased the pressure.

“Am I doing it right?” asked Serge trying to see Andrews’ upturned face.

“Let him go, Duran!” screamed Randolph. Serge jumped back, startled, and released Andrews who thudded to the ground red-faced, eyes half open and glazed.

“For chrissake, Duran,” said Randolph, raising the massive torso of Andrews in his arms.

“I didn’t mean to,” Serge sputtered.

“I told you guys, easy!” said Randolph, as Andrews lurched to his feet. “You can cause brain damage with that hold. You stop the oxygen flow to the brain for too long a period and you’re really going to hurt somebody, maybe kill them.”

“I’m sorry, Andrews,” said Serge, vastly relieved when the big man gave him a weak smile. “Why didn’t you tap my arm or kick me or something? I didn’t know I was hurting you.”

“I wanted you to get the hold right,” said Andrews, “and after a few seconds, I just blacked out.”

“You be damn careful with that hold,” shouted Randolph. “I don’t want nobody hurt before you even graduate from the academy. But maybe you’ll learn something from this. When you guys leave here, you’re going out where there’s guys that aren’t afraid of that badge and gun. In fact, they might try to stick that badge up your ass to say they did it, and that big oval shield would sure hurt coming out. This particular hold might save you. If you get it on right you can put anybody out, and it just might rescue your ass someday. Okay, ones on twos again!”

“Your turn to get even,” said Serge to Andrews who was massaging the side of his throat and swallowing painfully.

“I’ll be careful,” said Andrews, putting his huge arm around Serge’s neck. “Let’s just pretend I’m choking you,” said Andrews.

“That’s okay by me,” said Serge.

Officer Randolph moved from one pair of cadets to another, adjusting the choke hold, raising elbows, turning wrists, straightening torsos, until he had had enough. “Okay, sit down, you guys. We’re just wasting our time today.”

The class collapsed on the grass like a huge gray many-legged insect and each cadet waited for an outburst from Randolph who was pacing in a tight circle, formidable in his yellow polo shirt, blue shorts, and black high-topped gym shoes.

Serge was bigger than Randolph, Andrews much bigger. Yet they all seemed small beside him. It was the sweat suits, he thought, the ill-fitting baggy pants and gray sweat shirts always sweat-soaked and ugly. And it was the haircuts. The cadets wore short military style haircuts which made all the young men look smaller and younger.

“It’s hard to put everything into the self-defense session,” said Randolph, finally breaking silence, still pacing, arms folded as he watched the grass. “It’s damn hot and I run you hard. Maybe sometimes I run you too hard. Well, I got my own theory on physical training for policemen and it’s time I explained it to you.”

That’s very thoughtful, you bastard, thought Serge, rubbing his side, which still ached from the twenty laps around the track. He was just beginning to be able to take large breaths without coughing or without his lungs hurting.

“Most of you guys don’t know what it’s like to fight another guy,” said Randolph. “I’m sure you all had your scraps in high school, maybe a scuffle or two somewhere else. A couple of you are Korean vets and think you seen it all, and Wilson here has been in the Golden Gloves. But none of you really knows what it’s like to fight another man no holds barred and win. You’re going to have to be ready to do it anytime. And you have to win. I’m going to show you something. Plebesly, come here!”

Serge smiled as Plebesly sprang to his feet and trotted into the center of the circle. The round blue eyes showed no fatigue and stared patiently at the instructor apparently ready for a painful, elbow-wrenching arm hold or any other punishment Officer Randolph cared to offer.

“Come closer, Plebesly,” said Randolph, gripping the little man by the shoulder and whispering in his ear for several seconds.

Serge leaned back on his elbows, happy in the knowledge that Randolph was evidently going to use the remainder of the P.T. class for his demonstration. Serge’s stomach muscles loosened and a sunny wave of relaxation swept over him. It was getting so he was having dreams of running the track. Suddenly he saw Randolph staring at him.

“You, Duran, and you, Andrews, come up here!”

Serge fought a momentary surge of anger, but then dejectedly plodded into the circle, remembering that the last time he had failed to master a complicated hold, he was given three laps around the track. He wanted to be a policeman, but he would not run that track again for anyone. Not this day. Not now.

“I picked Duran and Andrews because they’re big,” said Randolph. “Now, I want you two to put Plebesly’s hands behind his back and handcuff him. Just simulate the cuffing, but get him in the cuffing position. He’s the suspect, you two are the policemen. Okay, go ahead.”

Serge looked at Andrews for a plan to take the retreating Plebesly, who backed in a circle, hands at his sides, away from the two big men. Just like the Corps, thought Serge. Always the games. First in boot camp, then in I.T.R. at Camp Pendleton. The Korean War had been over a year when he joined, and yet they talked about the gooks like they would be waiting to swarm over their ship the first moment they landed in Pacific waters.

Andrews made a lunge for Plebesly, who almost slithered away but was caught by the sleeve of his sweat shirt. Serge jumped on Plebesly’s back and the little man went down under Serge’s two hundred and fifteen pounds. But then he wriggled and twisted, and suddenly Serge was under Plebesly and Andrews was on Plebesly’s back forcing the combined weight of himself and Plebesly on Serge’s aching ribs.

“Pull him away, Andrews,” Serge wheezed. “Get a wristlock!”

Serge pushed himself up but Plebesly had locked his arms and legs around Serge’s body from the rear and hung there leechlike with enough weight to topple Serge over backward on the clinging Plebesly who gasped but would not let go. Andrews managed to pry the little man’s fingers loose, but the sinewy legs held on and by now Serge was beaten and sat there with the implacable monkey clinging to his torso.

“Get a choke hold on him, damn it,” Serge muttered.

“I’m trying. I’m too tired,” Andrews whispered, as Plebesly buried his face deeper into Serge’s dripping back.

“Okay, that’s enough,” Randolph commanded. Plebesly instantly released Serge, bounded to his feet and trotted to his place in the grassy circle.

Serge stood up and for a second the earth tilted. Then he dropped to the ground next to Andrews.

“The reason for all that was to prove a point,” shouted Randolph to the sprawling broken circle of cadets. “I told Plebesly to resist. That’s all. Just to resist and not let them pin his arms. You’ll notice he didn’t fight back. He just resisted. And Andrews and Duran are both twice his size. They would never have got their man handcuffed. They would have lost him eventually. The point is that they were expending twice the energy to overcome his resistance and they couldn’t do it. Now, every one of you guys is going to run into this kind of problem lots of times. Maybe your man is going to decide you aren’t going to handcuff him. Or maybe he’ll even fight back. You saw the trouble little Plebesly gave the two big guys, and he wasn’t even fighting back. What I’m trying to do is tell you that these fights out there in the streets are just endurance contests. The guy who can endure usually wins. That’s why I’m running your asses off. When you leave here you’ll have endurance. Now, if I can teach you an armlock and that choke hold, maybe that will be enough. You all saw what the choke can do. The trouble is getting the choke on the guy when he’s struggling and fighting back. I can’t teach you self-defense in thirteen weeks.

“All that Hollywood crap is just that—crap. You try throwing that haymaker at somebody’s chin and you’ll probably hit the top of his head and break your hand. Never use your fists. If someone uses his fists you use your stick and try to break a wrist or knee like we teach you. If he uses a knife you use a gun and cancel his ticket then and there. But if you find yourself without a stick and the situation doesn’t permit deadly force, well then you better be able to out-endure the son of a bitch. That’s why you see these newspaper pictures of six cops subduing one guy. Any guy or even any woman can wear out several policemen just by resisting. It’s goddamn hard to take a man who doesn’t want to be taken. But try explaining it to the jury or the neighbors who read in the papers how an arrestee was hurt by two or three cops twice his size. They’ll want to know why you resorted to beating the guy’s head in. Why didn’t you just put a fancy judo hold on him and flip him on his ass. In the movies it’s nothing.

“And while I’m on the subject, there’s something else the movies have done for us—they created a legend about winging your man, shooting from the hip and all that bullshit. Well I’m not your shooting instructor but it all ties in with self-defense. You guys have been here long enough to know how hard it is to hit a still target, let alone a moving one. Those of you who make your twenty years will miss that goddamn paper man every time you come up here for your monthly pistol qualification. And he’s only a paper man. He don’t shoot back. The light’s good and the adrenaline hasn’t turned your arm into a licorice stick like it does in combat. And yet when you blow some asshole up and were lucky to even hit him you’ll hear a member of the coroner’s jury say, ‘Why didn’t you shoot to wound him? Did you have to kill him? Why didn’t you shoot the gun out of his hand!’”

Randolph’s face was crimson and two wide sweat streams ran down either side of his neck. When he was in uniform he wore three service stripes on his sleeve indicating at least fifteen years with the Department. Yet Serge could hardly believe he was more than thirty. He hadn’t a gray hair and his physique was flawless.

“What I want you guys to take from my class is this: it’s a bitch to subdue a man with a gun or a stick or a sap, let alone with your hands. Just keep yourself in half-assed condition and you’ll out-endure him. Take the bastard any way you can. If you can use these two or three holds I teach you, then use them. If you can’t, hit him with a brick or anything else. Just subdue your man and you’ll be in one piece the day your twentieth anniversary rolls around and you sign those retirement papers. That’s why I run your asses off.”

2

STRESS

“I DON’T KNOW WHY I’m so nervous,” said Gus Plebesly. “We’ve been told about the stress interview. It’s just to shake us up.”

“Relax, Gus,” said Wilson, who leaned against the wall, smoking, careful not to drop ashes on the khaki cadet uniform.

Gus admired the luster of Wilson’s black shoes. Wilson had been a marine. He knew how to spit-shine shoes, and he could drill troops and call cadence. He was Gus’s squad leader and had many of the qualities which Gus believed men could only gain in military service. Gus wished he were a veteran and had been places, then perhaps he would have confidence. He should have. He was the number one man in his class in physical training, but at this moment he wasn’t sure he would be able to speak during the stress interview. He had waited in dread so many times in high school when he had to give an oral report. In college he had once consumed almost a half pint of gin diluted with soda pop before he could give a three-minute speech in a public speaking class. And he had gotten away with it. He wished he could do it now. But these men were police officers. Professionals. They would detect the alcohol in his eyes, speech, or gait. He couldn’t fool them with so cheap a trick.

“You sure look nervous,” said Wilson, offering Gus a cigarette from the pack he kept in his sock, GI fashion.

“Thanks a lot, Wilson,” Gus mumbled, refusing the cigarette.

“Look, these guys are just going to try to psyche you,” said Wilson. “I talked to a guy who graduated in April. They just pick on you in these stress interviews. You know, about your P.T. or your shooting, or maybe your academic standing. But hell, Plebesly, you’re okay in everything and tops in P.T. What can they say?”

“I don’t know. Nothing, I guess.”

“Take me,” said Wilson. “My shooting is so shitty I might as well throw my gun at the goddamn target. They’ll probably rip me apart. Tell me how they’re going to wash me out if I don’t come to the pistol range during the lunch hour and practice extra. That kind of bullshit. But I’m not worried. You realize how bad they need cops in this town? And in the next five, six years it’s going to get lots worse. All those guys that came on right after the war will have their twenty years. I tell you we’ll all be captains before we finish our tours with the Department.”

Gus studied Wilson, a short man, even a hair shorter than Gus. He must have stretched to meet the minimum five feet eight inches, Gus thought, but husky, big biceps and a fighter’s shoulders, with a broken nose. He had wrestled Wilson in the self-defense classes and had found Wilson surprisingly easy to take down and control. Wilson was much stronger, but Gus was more agile and could persevere.

Gus understood what Officer Randolph had told them, and he believed that if he could outlast his opponents he needn’t be afraid. He was surprised at how well it had worked so far in training. But what would a man like Wilson, an ex-fighter, do to him in a real fight? Gus had never hit a man, not with a fist, not with anything. What would happen to his splendid endurance when a man like Wilson buried a heavy fist in his stomach or crashed one to his jaw? He had been a varsity sprinter in high school, but had always avoided contact sports. He had never been an aggressive person. What in the hell had made him think he could be a policeman? Sure the pay was pretty good, what with the security and pension. He could never hope to do as well in the bank. He had hated that dreary low paying job and had almost laughed when the operations officer had assured him that in five more years he could expect to make what he, the operations officer, was making, which was less than a starting Los Angeles policeman. And so he had come this far. Eight weeks and they hadn’t found him out yet. But they might at this stress interview.

“Only one thing worries me,” said Wilson. “Know what that is?”

“What?” asked Gus, wiping his wet palms on the legs of the khaki uniform.

“Skeletons. I hear they sometimes rattle the bones in the stress interview. You know how they say the background investigation of all cadets goes on for weeks after we enter the academy.”

“Yes?”

“Well, I hear they sometimes use the stress interview to tell a guy he’s been washed out. You know, like, ‘The background investigator discovered you were once a member of the Nazi Bund of Milwaukee. You’re washed out, kid.’ That kind of bullshit.”

“I guess I don’t have to worry about my background,” Gus smiled feebly. “I’ve lived in Azusa my whole life.”

“Come on, Plebesly, don’t tell me there isn’t something you’ve done. Every guy in this class has something in his background. Some little thing that he wouldn’t want the Department to find out. I saw the faces that day when the instructor said, ‘Mosley, report to the lieutenant.’ And Mosley never came back to class. And then Ratcliffe left the same way. They found out something about them and they were washed out. Just like that, they disappeared. You ever read Nineteen Eighty-Four?”

“No, but I know about it,” said Gus.

“It’s the same principle here. They know none of us has told them everything. We all got a secret. Maybe they can stress it out of us. But just keep cool, and don’t tell them anything. You’ll be okay.”

Gus’s heart sank when the door to the captain’s office opened and Cadet Roy Fehler strode out, tall, straight, and as confident as always. Gus envied him his assurance and hardly heard Fehler say, “Next man.”

Then Wilson was shoving him toward the door and he looked at his reflection in the mirror on the cigarette machine and the milky blue eyes were his, but he hardly recognized the thin white face. The sparse sandy hair seemed familiar but the narrow white lips were not his, and he was through the door and facing the three inquisitors who looked at him from behind a conference table. He recognized Lieutenant Hartley and Sergeant Jacobs. He knew the third man must be the commander, Captain Smithson, who had addressed them the first day in the academy.

“Sit down, Plebesly,” said unsmiling Lieutenant Hartley.

The three men whispered for a moment and reviewed a sheaf of papers before them. The lieutenant, a florid bald man with plum-colored lips, suddenly grinned broadly and said, “Well, so far you’re doing fine here at the academy, Plebesly. You might work on your shooting a bit, but in the classroom you’re excellent and on the P.T. field you’re tops.”

Gus became aware that the captain and Sergeant Jacobs were also smiling, but he suspected trickery when the captain said, “What shall we talk about? Would you like to tell us about yourself?”

“Yes sir,” said Gus, trying to adjust to the unexpected friendliness.

“Well, go ahead then, Plebesly,” said Sergeant Jacobs with an amused look. “Tell us all about yourself. We’re listening.”

“Tell us about your college training,” said Captain Smithson after several silent seconds. “Your personnel folder says you attended junior college for two years. Were you an athlete?”

“No sir,” croaked Gus. “I mean I tried out for track. I didn’t have time, though.”

“I’ll bet you were a sprinter,” smiled the lieutenant.

“Yes sir, and I tried hurdles,” said Gus, trying to smile back. “I had to work and carry fifteen units, sir. I had to quit track.”

“What was your major?” asked Captain Smithson.

“Business administration,” said Gus, wishing he had added “sir,” and thinking that a veteran like Wilson would never fail to throw a sir into every sentence, but he was not accustomed to this quasi-military situation.

“What kind of work did you do before coming on the Department?” asked Captain Smithson, leafing through the folder. “Post Office, wasn’t it?”

“No sir. Bank. I worked at a bank. Four years. Ever since high school.”

“What made . . .