Finnegan's week

CHAPTER 6

There were eight detectives working at the Southern Division substation, also called Southbay by the cops. One of those detectives subscribed to The Hollywood Reporter, and was trying to read it without much luck. That’s because another detective who worked juvenile-a buxom female named Maya Tevitch-was outraged by a newspaper story concerning a fisherman in San Diego Harbor who had bill-chopped a pelican that stole his catch. That is, he’d cut off the pelican’s bill and then nailed the wounded bird to a derelict sailboat “as a lesson to other pelicans.”

Maya said she’d like to chop off the fisherman’s nuts and nail them to the downtown fishing pier as a lesson to other bill-choppers. Maya was a tree-cuddler and animal rights vigilante, whose secondary mission in life was to liquidate all gun-toting rednecks who rode dirt bikes in “her” peaceful desert around Borrego Springs, shooting their rifles at everything larger than a computer mouse. Her primary mission was to prove that she was ballsier than any male cop in Southern Division, of which Fin Finnegan had no doubts.

Maya’s voice invariably grew high-pitched when she was this excited so Fin couldn’t concentrate on a semi-interesting story about a Screen Actors Guild wage dispute that might conceivably affect him if Orson got him that job.

At last, Maya’s moral indignation made reading absolutely impossible so he got up and was heading for the station lobby when she said, “Fin, whadda you think they oughtta do about bill-chopping? Continue to treat it like some chickenshit misdemeanor or make it a felony?”

“Beats me,” Fin said. “My thing is sea gulls. Last time out, I couldn’t decide whether to crucify a sea gull or get a tattoo on my butt. I settled on the tattoo, but the guy ran outta ink after he wrote: ‘Born to.…’ I told him to leave it like that. The tattoo described me perfectly. I’ll show it to you sometime if you got a strong stomach, Maya.”

With that he made his exit, and another detective said to Maya, “That’s what happens to guys with three divorces after they turn forty-five. He sees everything in terms of his own misery. Fin thinks most pelicans live better than he does.”

In Southern Division they worked in quasi-retirement, or so it was said around the police department. Fin called Southern Division “Sleepy Hollow,” that southwestern corner of the United States, in a neighborhood called San Ysidro. The substation that housed Southern Division had 1950’s architecture written all over it, both inside and outside. That is, there was no architecture. It was a nondescript rectangle constructed on the cheap, except that the inner walls were made of whitewashed concrete block that could probably withstand a direct hit from a mortar round. In somewhere like Los Angeles, a police station might have to do just that, some said, but not down in Sleepy Hollow.

They did get some action sometimes, being a block from the international border, the busiest port of entry in the world. But ordinarily it was quiet down there in San Ysidro. Except for one day in 1984 when James O. Huberty walked into McDonald’s hamburgers carrying assault weapons and massacred twenty-one people including himself.

Eight detectives were jammed into one tiny office littered with metal desks, metal filing cabinets and one computer to fight over. Three worked crimes against persons, three including Fin worked crimes against property. One worked juvenile, and one worked diversion, which meant diverting young people from crime, a thankless and impossible task.

The front counter area was almost as bad off as the detective squad room. What should have been an adequate lobby had been turned into an open office, with three metal desks behind a counter. Two civilians did the division’s paperwork, and a police officer manned a third desk as well as the counter itself, and had to deal with the walk-in traffic.

The parking lot had to be surrounded by a chain-link fence topped with barbed wire, or the police vehicles would’ve ended up in worse shape than the California budget. Unprotected police cars, like street hookers, were irresistible targets for violent acts. At 5:00 P.M. the front door got locked, and anyone needing a cop would have to use the telephone in front of the building.

Another of the detectives, Jimmy Estrada, worked crimes against property with Fin, and he did most of the Spanish-language translating. The others were, like Fin, middle-aged guys of European descent. Which meant that they didn’t have a prayer in a Bill Clinton America, controlled by special-interest tribes and aggrieved ethnics. Or so they complained during the presidential campaign.

There were quite a few older cops working uniformed patrol at Southern Division, and at the front counter was one of them, a dinosaur who’d worked with Fin twenty-three years earlier when Fin was a rookie. Sam Zahn was fifty years old, on light duty from a heart attack, and biding his time till retirement. He was reading the sports page when Fin passed the counter seeking refuge from Maya’s pelican lament.

Without lifting his gaze from the page he said, “Why’re you guys working overtime? It’s after six.”

“They think our esteemed and slightly autistic vice-president might show up for a photo op at the border. We gotta be available for security if he shows.”

Sam Zahn just grunted, then said, “I see where the Dodgers’re bringing Tommy Lasorda back for another year. They don’t think he’s too old to manage. Whadda you think is too old, Fin?”

Fin said, “I think it’s when you couldn’t pump up the old noodle with a cylinder of helium. That’s when you’re old.”

Talking bravely, Sam Zahn said, “No problem here. But if it ever does happen there’s always zinc. They say zinc makes it stiff.”

“Only if you paint it on,” Fin said sadly. “Mother Nature doesn’t let us off that easy, the rotten bitch.”

Just then Fin saw two guys come through the door: one a skinny Mexican, one a huge slob in a Mötley Crüe cap.

Abel Durazo said to the counter cop, “Sir, we got to make report for our truck.”

“Our van got stolen,” Shelby Pate said, “when we was havin a bite up on Palm Avenue. At Angel’s Café? Know where it is?”

Sam Zahn said to the detective, “Fin, do you work persons or property?”

“Property,” Fin said, “but as you well know, Sam, truck thefts are handled by the good folks downtown.”

Since he was in his loafing-intensive mode, Sam Zahn said, “Maybe you’d like to talk to them anyways. They might need a detective.”

“Was it hijacked?” Fin asked, which would make it a crime-against-person, not property, and he could easily kiss it off to anybody else. “Did somebody use a gun or force?”

“No,” Abel said. “We don’ see thief.”

“It was gone when we came outta Angel’s,” Shelby said. “Jist wasn’t there on the street no more.”

“I’ll do the fact sheet for you, Fin,” Sam Zahn said magnanimously. “You might wanna finish it?”

“Do the whole report, Sam,” Fin said. “Then send it downtown.”

The counter cop sighed and fetched a blank report, saying, “What’s the name of the truck’s registered owner?”

“Green Earth,” Shelby said. “Green Earth Hauling and Disposal.”

“You drivers’re always leaving your keys in your trucks,” Fin griped. “Somebody’s forever stealing one up there by Angel’s.”

“We didn’, sir,” Abel said. “The thief they pop out ignition.”

“How do you know they popped it?” Sam Zahn asked.

“He means they musta popped it or somethin,” Shelby said quickly, “cause he’s got the keys in his pocket.”

Of course Fin was pleased that Central would get this one. They had plenty of paper-shuffling detectives up there, and they didn’t have to battle for computer access. Each central investigator had his or her own cubicle instead of being jammed together like the refugees in the Southern Division gulag. Fin didn’t need another piece of paper to file.

“Might end up in Mexico,” Fin said. “They often do when they’re stolen around these parts.”

“Yeah?” Shelby said. “When you think the boss’ll get it back?”

“They ain’t in no hurry down in T.J.,” Sam Zahn said. “Weeks, maybe. Could be a lot sooner if your boss’s insurance company’s on the ball. The Mexican cops like a ‘reward’ for finding hot cars. By the way, Angel’s is four miles away. Did you boys walk clear down here or what?”

“Taxi,” Shelby said. “Caught a cab.”

“You coulda just phoned for a patrol unit,” Sam Zahn grumbled. “They woulda come to you and took the report.”

Shelby Pate said, “Oh yeah, I almost forgot. There was money in the glove box that we picked up on our last job. Five hunnerd bucks. Sure hope the thief don’t look in there, but he prob’ly will.”

“Five hundred bucks?” Fin said. “Why cash?”

“Don’t ask us,” Shelby said. “The guy at Southbay Agricultural Supply jist handed us an envelope with five big ones in it.”

“Did you count it?”

“Yeah, we counted it. Fer our own protection in case it wasn’t the right amount.”

“You went in for a taco and left five hundred bucks of company money in the glove compartment?” Sam Zahn asked doubtfully, figuring correctly that they intended to scam the boss. He’d like to have strip-searched them both. “Hope you boys got another job to go to. Leaving cash in the truck? Your boss might not believe you.”

Abel was the better actor and just smiled placidly. The ox started to twitch. He felt like turning his Mötley Crüe cap around backwards to show he wasn’t worried. Suddenly, the remaining cash, still in the leather jacket with the manifests, felt heavy. He needed some methamphetamine.

“Anything else?” Fin asked. “Like maybe you left a fellow trucker sleeping in the van when you went to eat?”

“No, but there was somethin in there that we oughtta call to your attention,” the ox said.

“What’s that?”

“Hazardous waste. Five drums altogether. Four from North Island and one from Southbay Agricultural Supply.”

“How hazardous?”

Abel shrugged, and Shelby said, “We ain’t got no idea. We jist haul that shit. We don’t know paint thinner from Agent Orange. We was supposed to bring it to our storage yard. The boss, Mister Temple, he handles it after that. He sends the real bad stuff outta state somewheres. To Texas or Arkansas, I think.”

Now Fin was really glad that it would go downtown. He didn’t want a case involving the Environmental Protection Agency or any other bureaucracy. “Will your boss know if the stuff is particularly dangerous?”

“Sure,” Shelby said. “The description’s there on the two manifests from the waste generators.”

“Where’re the manifests?” Fin asked. “In the truck, I suppose?”

“Een glove box,” Abel said sadly. “Weeth five hundred dollar.”

“The generators of the waste got their copies of the manifest,” Shelby explained. “The navy at North Island and South-bay Agricultural Supply. Now we’d like to borrow your phone to call our dispatcher and have somebody pick us up, okay?”

“The thief musta only wanted your truck,” Fin said. “He sure wasn’t after your load.”

“He get lucky,” Abel said. “Get our boss money.”

“Sure,” Sam Zahn said. “Sure he did.”

When Fin got off duty and was trudging toward the parking lot, he saw a truck with GREEN EARTH HAULING AND DISPOSAL painted on its doors pulling into the parking lot to collect the haulers. Then Fin almost panicked when he spotted something on his Vette until he realized that what appeared to be a ding in the left front fender was only a shadow made by the streetlight.

His 1985 Corvette was white with red leather, the second year of the major body-style change. His little beauty had a 240 h.p. fuel-injected engine with only 27,000 miles on it. It was the one thing of value that none of his three ex-wives had managed to confiscate.

When people asked Fin why the hell he’d got married three times, he always said, “Because they were there.” When people asked if he was going to do it again he always said, “Islam permits four wives and every Arab and Iranian in California drives a Mercedes, so maybe four’s a magic number.”

But to friends, Fin said he’d get married again when Cher had her new lips deflated. The pope would get married before Finbar Finnegan, he told them.

While he was driving back home to south Mission Beach in rush-hour traffic, Fin slipped a Natalie Cole tape into the deck and relaxed the instant he heard her father sing the first lyric of “Unforgettable.” Fin had grown up listening to Nat Cole, Sinatra, Tony Bennett.

A baby boomer of the Bill Clinton/Al Gore generation, he had three older sisters, the youngest of whom was ten years older than himself. Their mother had become pregnant with him in her forty-first year, and two years after his father was killed in a boatyard accident, his mother died of breast cancer. Fin had been raised by his sisters, who treated him more like a son than a brother. He’d listened to their music, gone to their movies, read their books. And each of them felt free to kick his ass when she felt like it.

Finbar Finnegan had spent so many years being bossed around by women that as soon as he got old enough he joined the marines, even though it was a dangerous time, at the height of the Vietnam War. Like most people who’d been in that or any war, Fin hadn’t fired a shot in anger. Near Danang there was the occasional incoming rocket, but being in a support batallion, he’d never even seen a live V.C. Only dead marines in body bags, being made ready for their trip home.

Although Fin hadn’t had a John Wayneish marine career, although he’d bitched about the war as much as anybody, he was still vaguely uneasy about today’s new breed of police officers, particularly the young sergeants and lieutenants with laptop computers and no military experience. Somehow they all looked too much like Bill Clinton. Finbar Brendan Finnegan was casting his November ballot for Ross Perot, mostly because of Perot’s running mate, Congressional Medal of Honor winner James Stockdale.

That night, after eating some leftover meat loaf, Fin stared into the mirror and wondered if Orson Ellis would actually follow through and get him the part. This time, if he got to play a character who was going to be in future TV episodes, who knows, something might happen!

Fin slapped at the flesh between his chin and Adam’s apple, wondering what a little tuck would cost, and whether he could make his medical insurance cover it. After all, he had legitimate acting credits, so why shouldn’t cosmetic surgery be covered as a job-related medical expense?

Orson Ellis had been right. The benchmark birthdays were harder on actors than on normal sane people. It was no consolation to remind himself that Clinton and Gore were considered young by every journalist in America. Forty-five was not young for a cop, and not young for a failed actor.

His middle sister, Bess, the most sympathetic of his three siblings, offered some advice on the subject after he’d mournfully confessed to her how he’d dreaded the last birthday.

Thirteen years older than Fin, and silently suffering the misery of hot flashes, Bess studied her baby brother for a moment and said, “Fin, honey, only sea anemones don’t age. How many movie roles’re out there for sea anemones? Now stop all this male menopause bullshit and have a piece of blueberry pie.”

While Fin Finnegan was contemplating the injustice of being a human being and not an ageless anemone, a Mexican thief named Pepe Palmera had already spotted the abandoned bobtail van on the street in the Rio Zone just below Colonia Libertad. Within a few minutes the van was making its third trip of the day up the hill.

The first thing that Pepe did that evening, after he got near his house, was to park next to the mesquite-dotted canyon and get rid of the useless drums in the back. Pepe could not read English, nor Spanish for that matter, but he understood what the skull and bones meant on the drums. He ransacked the glove compartment but found nothing except registration and insurance papers, which he threw away. He found a pair of new steel-toe shoes on the front seat of the van, and would later profoundly regret not having put them on his feet.

The drums were very heavy, but Pepe was a determined thief. He managed to tip each drum and roll it on its edge to the cargo door, where he put his shoulder to it and pushed. But Pepe tipped the last drum a bit too far and it overturned, slamming onto his left foot before he could jump clear.

Pepe screamed and sat down while the big drum with the death’s head placard rolled across the floor of the van and fell out onto the ground. Pepe knew at once that one toe was broken, perhaps two. He cursed and moaned, but eventually staggered to his feet and crawled out the cargo door.

The truck was parked one hundred meters from the row of shacks where he resided with his mother, and Pepe knew that there was a possibility that some other thief might steal the stolen truck, but that was the chance he had to take. His foot needed immediate attention.

His mother would know of a poultice or some other remedy that would control the swelling, and maybe tomorrow he could use the truck to earn enough money to go to a doctor. But then again, what could a doctor do with broken toes that nature couldn’t do? Better to spend the money on some good marijuana, Pepe thought. That would help the pain better than anything.

Pepe’s mother did her best to minister to her son that night, but the poultice didn’t help very much. Pepe was in great pain from the fractures and didn’t sleep well. And long before he got to sleep his van had been discovered by night prowlers.

The prowlers were not thieves like Pepe Palmera. They couldn’t have stolen the van from Pepe even if they’d wanted to. The older of the pair, Jaime Cisneros, was ten years old. His companion, Luis Zúniga, was nine. But they were precocious in many ways, like most of the children of the border barrios.

Luis decided to run home and borrow some of his brother’s mechanic tools to open the drums. Jaime said there might be motor oil inside them, and if there was, it could be sold for more money than they had ever seen. Even reclaimed motor oil had great value, Jaime said. His father always bought used motor oil for his Plymouth.

While the thief, Pepe Palmera, slept fitfully, Jaime and Luis labored beside the van, working on the bung that was screwed into the drum. They both had to pull on the wrench handle with all their combined weight before they had success, working there by moonlight.