The Choirboys

THREE

CUE-BOW

Commander Hector Moss was popular at functions wherein people with causes wanted a member of the police department to beat up verbally.

Commander Moss, the perennial toastmaster, always wore handcuffs on the front of his belt. When he stood before a DAR meeting and had the ladies agog with his wavy blond hair and stories of crime and violence, the coat would be pulled open and the handcuffs would appear. Sometimes the right side of his coat slipped open to show a chrome plated Smith amp; Wesson Combat Masterpiece tugging down at the alligator belt, custom made to support the weight of the heavy gun. Commander Moss had been in various administrative jobs since being promoted to sergeant sixteen years ago. The gun had never been fired. The ammunition was so old it is doubtful it could fire. Commander Moss got the stories of crime and violence from police reports which crossed his desk each day. Commander Moss was an excellent storyteller.

The MacArthur Park killing had in truth been a godsend. Hector Moss thrived on crisis and longed to prove his rapport with the media. Besides, he desperately needed something to relieve the boredom of sitting and poring through the house organ, called The Beat Magazine, making sure that as always there was nothing in it more cerebral than who had a baby and who died and that there was at least one picture of some vacationing motor cop in Mexico grinning at a dead fish.

There had never been a controversial article in that magazine to stir up or reflect the opinion of the street cops. He often said that if someone ever organized those ignorant bastards, look out. Commander Moss was like a slaver who lived in fear of native footsteps on the decks in the night.

At this hour, on a hot August afternoon with the officers involved in the killing being sweated in the interrogation rooms of Internal Affairs Division, Commander Moss decided on a technique he believed was essential for dealing with any reporters who might belatedly get onto the story of the dead body in MacArthur Park. He didn’t wait to be phoned by the enemies who worked for what he considered a loathsome left wing rag. He phoned his favorite reporter with the other paper, after he made sure the reporter had heard something about the case from a different source.

“I wanted you to know about it as soon as I had the full story” said Commander Moss, smiling at the telephone. “It appears an off-duty officer had an accident with a gun in MacArthur Park at about two A.M. I hope you can soft-pedal it for the sake of the seven thousand fine boys and girls in this department. Yes, it was a tragedy all right. A young man is dead. Yes. One officer’s relieved from duty pending an investigation. Yes, yes, there is some evidence of drinking. I don’t know, could’ve dropped the gun and it went off. I just don’t know yet. Been a policeman almost five years. Vietnam vet. Right. Yes, there’s some evidence the officer was with friends. To level with you, Pete, there’s a strong possibility some policemen bought a sixpack of beer and stopped in the park on the way home to unwind and talk. Yes, that’s Conduct Unbecoming an Officer. We call it cue-bow Choir practice? No, don’t believe I know that term. Choir practice? No, never heard of it.”

When the reporter hung up, Commander Moss sat back and put his feet up on his desk, which was actually two square inches larger than Chief Lynch’s specially ordered desk, and said to his secretary, “I know that wasn’t the first choir practice in that park. I’d love to know about some of the other ones.”