The Choirboys

EPILOGUE

It was somehow eerie to be standing there in MacArthur Park on a cold and damp and shadowy winter night in February. Sergeant Nick Yanov was looking at a place he had never cared to visit, satisfying the curiosity of his new boss, Lieutenant Willard Woodcock, a recently promoted thirty-one year old whiz kid who they said was going places in the department. They said he had lots of top spin.

“So this is where it happened?” Lieutenant Woodcock observed, his brand new hat with the gold lieutenant’s badge a bit too large. It slid down to his ears over the fresh haircut.

“Yes, right here from what they tell me,” Sergeant Nick Yanov said, his hands in the pockets of his blue jacket, a cigarette dangling from his lips, white against his glowering jaw. Since he had only shaved once today his lower jaws were dark and fierce.

“Been about six months now, hasn’t it?”

“Just about.”

“They’ll be back to work very soon then. I think we should make plans.”

“Plans.”

“We can’t let them bunch up again.”

“Aren’t many in the bunch anymore,” Nick Yanov said, pushing his hands deeper into the pockets and pulling up the collar of the old wool jacket with the frayed sergeant’s chevrons ripping from one sleeve.

“There’re enough to cause trouble.”

“Slate’s dead. Niles is mutilating himself from time to time in the state hospital. Bloomguard resigned…”

“Where’s the big one now? The one who became a witness for the department?”

“Whalen, he’s retired. Took his pension last month. I hear they’re sending his checks to some remote little town in Utah. Wright’s fired. Van Moot’s fired. That only leaves four, Lieutenant: Rules, Dean Pratt, Tanaguchi and Potts. After six months without pay I’ll just bet they’re pretty well pacified.”

“I still think it was a bad idea to leave them in Wilshire Division. They should’ve been scattered to hell and gone after their six months’ suspension.”

“But this way the department can show that discipline works on troublemakers. They’ll be tame ex-troublemakers, isn’t that it?”

“Yes, I suppose that’s the theory,” said Lieutenant Woodcock.

“Except that they weren’t troublemakers.”

“What do you mean by that?” the lieutenant said, trying to examine the face of the sergeant who had his cigarette half smoked, not touching it with his hands.

Nick Yanov stared at the sleeping ducks in the peaceful pond and said, “They were just policemen. Rather ordinary young guys, I thought. Maybe a little lonelier than some. Maybe they banded together when they were especially lonely. Or scared.”

“Ordinary! How can you say that, Yanov? I’ve heard they were animals. They brought sluts here for orgies. One of them was possibly a pillhead and a pervert. The one that killed himself. What was his name?”

“Baxter Slate. I liked him.”

“Christ, Yanov, there’s a lesson to be learned here for policemen everywhere!”

“What lesson have you learned, Lieutenant?”

Lieutenant Woodcock glared at the big chested sergeant who never took his eyes off the shimmering water. The lieutenant made a mental note to keep tabs on this field sergeant and mention the incident to Captain Drobeck and perhaps cancel the special day off which Nick Yanov had requested. Finally the lieutenant said, “Suicidal degenerates. Drunken killers. Whoremongers. Probably dopeheads. Sergeant, these guys would try to seduce an eighty year old nun. Or break her arm.”

“Maybe,” Nick Yanov said, blowing a cloud of smoke through his nose, the cigarette glowing in the darkness. “But they wouldn’t steal her purse.”

“Is that the test of a policeman, Yanov? Is that all there is to making a good policeman?”

“I don’t know, Lieutenant. I truly don’t know what makes a good policeman. Or a good anything.”

“Let’s go back to the station,” said the disgusted watch commander. “It’s cold out here.”

But for a moment Sergeant Nick Yanov stood there alone on the wet grass, his weight pressing footprints in the black spongy earth. The grass smelled washed and fresh and the rows of trees crouched like huge quail. The duck pond was silver and black sapphire. The treetops shivered and rustled in the cold wind and loosened the white blossoms of a flowering pear.

Nick Yanov looked up at the brooding darkness, at the tarnished misty moon. There were no stars. Not even the great star could pierce that black sky. Nick Yanov stood where they had put their blankets down, close enough to the water to pretend they were with nature, here in the bowels of the violent city. He felt some light mocking rain, yet longed to stay in the solitude, while dead leaves scraped at his feet like perishing brown parchment.

Then he flipped the cigarette into the pond and heard the hiss and watched it float. He was immediately sorry he did it. Yet there was other debris on the still water and in the bushes if one used the moonlight to look closely.

He didn’t want to look closely. He preferred to think it was lovely and clean and pastoral here by the silent lagoon and the slumbering ducks in the icy water. Where the choirboys frolicked in the duck shit.