Authors: Len Norman
Victor and Ivan Find Trouble
1982
A
few months later Victor happened to be assigned with Ivan. Captain Eberhart was concerned about a one-square-block area in the South End of Riverside. There were a few bars in that one-block area and they were very popular. Those bars were fashionable with the younger drinkers who frequented Riverside and very unpopular with the residents.
When the bars closed the fun began. All manner of trouble ensued. Vandalism, public urination, catcalls and general profanity, fighting and name calling, and worse-a complete disrespect of the people that wanted to sleep so they could get up in the morning and go to work. On Friday and Saturday nights the bar brawls often spilled into the streets and it nearly seemed as though Riverside had taken a step back in time. Dodge City. There was chaos everywhere and the captain had his money on Ivan and Victor. This weekend would be different and it certainly was.
Ivan was driving his usual unmarked green Chevrolet Impala and he had his comic books and flask at the ready. Victor was in his usual frisky mood, telling jokes, and Ivan nearly peed himself laughing so hard. Victor was telling Ivan how the newbies were assigned to work vice and pick up a prostitute or two. Victor had been tasked with booking the prisoners. Business was brisk as several hookers were lined up in the hallway waiting their turn to answer his booking questions. Victor was a tad slow at typing but he made up for lost time with his picture taking and finger printing. Another thing, the prostitutes all loved him. He made them laugh and more importantly, he treated them as if they were royalty. Victor suspected even prostitutes deserved dignity.
Sadie Flanders was going through the booking process and she was clearly in a nasty mood. This was unusual for her, because she’d always been cooperative in the past. Victor kidded with her and Sadie never even smiled.
Sadie grumbled, “Shit, that muhfuh ain’t no police, he jack his dick.”
Because she was mumbling and her speech was slurred, Victor couldn’t catch her meaning. He continued, “C’mon Sadie, let’s get the show on the road, we got other ladies waiting. Tread and Retread are both in the hallway.”
“That muhfuh ain’t no police, he jack his dick.”
He caught a little more that time and his interest was piqued. He said, “His dick? What are you saying?”
She began motioning her hand and arm. Her meaning was clear, the universal masturbation pictogram.
“I said, that muhfuh ain’t no police. HE JACK HIS DICK!!!”
Sadie was referring to a rookie assigned to the latest sting operation and Victor thought the rookie looked like a pervert; his face had rodent-like features and he wore thick glasses. He spent an inordinate amount of time looking at girls, and the younger they were the better he liked them. Matter of fact, he was even thought of as a pervert and a creep to boot by the other cops. It was widely agreed he wouldn’t last long.
Victor wanted to be sure what Sadie was saying. “Hold on there, little varmint. You’re telling me the arresting officer was jacking his dick? He was waving his wand? He was pudding off?”
“That’s right!! The muhfuh was JACKING HIS DICK!”
Victor found the entire idea offensive. Why would an undercover cop actually sit in a car masturbating while a prostitute approached him? It seemed wrong to Victor on so many levels. Even if the rookie wanted to trick Sadie into thinking he wasn’t undercover... because really? Would a cop ever pull such a stunt? Hell no, Victor reasoned. Sadie was either lying or the rookie was a totally dinked-up guy. Victor stared at Sadie for a long time. Her eyes told the story. Victor knew in his heart of hearts, the rookie was a runaway emotional train wreck, the ultimate public masturbator, and surely pecker-led. Victor was not pleased.
“Sadie, I think you should plead not guilty and tell the judge what you just told me. He probably won’t believe you but I do. Make the little peckerhead lie to the judge. He’s brand new and there’ll be more of the same of what you just told me, I suspect.”
Sadie said, “Shit. I got no time for such foolishness, it’s easier to pay my fine and move on. Judges don’t care about hookers. You cops go into court and lie each other up and the judges believe you but…That muhfuh ain’t no police. I say, HE JACK HIS DICK.”
Victor felt bad for Sadie, and at that particular moment he knew she was right. Nobody in the world would outwardly agree with her. The ultimate “he said, she said.” He later approached the rookie and told him what he knew about his undercover arrest. The rookie denied everything.
“Stay away from me you lying asshole. I’ll be keeping an eye on you,” Victor said. “I ought to kick your ass. Sadie Flanders is a good person, hooking aside. You should be ashamed of yourself.”
The rookie could only look down. He was afraid to meet Victor’s hateful stare.
“Wow, Victor. You think he was really cuffing his carrot?” Ivan asked.
“I do. Sad to say, I believed Sadie, every godforsaken word.”
“Sounds to me like we got a case of the creeping crud. Right here in the Riverside PD.”
“You got that right, Ivan. He gives me the heebie-jeebies. I don’t like him, not even a little.”
Ivan lit a Phillies Cheroot and picked up the latest Godzilla comic book. He loved this issue, there were plenty of great pictures and Godzilla was kicking the shit out of everybody. Victor figured the discussion was over. He leaned over and rested his head on the front passenger window. Ivan had the air conditioning on high. It was nearly midnight.
The dispatcher was unusually excited. He’d just received several calls of an erratic driver that was possibly drunk in the bargain. The driver had managed to leave Franklin and was headed down River Road right toward Riverside’s South End part of town. The driver would soon encounter Victor and Ivan. All of the cops on duty perked up. Everyone knew Ivan was driving the staff car, his personally assigned unmarked green Chevy Impala. Ivan was certainly not to be trifled with when it came to driving or playing chicken for that matter.
The erratic driver’s name was Jake Kimbrue, and he was legally drunk as well as legally blind. He was with his buddy Wayne Jenkins. Wayne had perfect vision but was twice as drunk as Jake. They lived in a rural part of Franklin County and when they got around to visiting the city, either one or both of them always ended up drunk. Jake was driving Wayne’s 1968 AMC Javelin. The muscle car went from zero to sixty in eight seconds and did the quarter mile in fifteen seconds, topping out at 93 miles an hour. The paint job was a pristine cherry red. They rolled into Riverside County doing a hundred miles an hour.
Wayne had a plan. He figured his good buddy wasn’t quite legally drunk and he’d simply tell him when to give his Javelin some gas and when to let off on the pedal, same thing with the steering. It gave Wayne more time to concentrate on his beer drinking. He felt like an air traffic controller. It was the most fun Wayne had had since his older sister got knocked up and thrown out of the house. He immediately inherited larger portions at the supper table.
From Jake’s perspective he flat-out could have cared less. Being blind was simply not fun and if that wasn’t bad enough, he had no prospects whatsoever. No girlfriends, no money to speak of, no job, and no future. He did love his beer, there was that. He saw the world through Wayne’s eyes and that view was grotesque at best. For all of their faults it simply seemed unfair that Ivan was on duty.
The Javelin was less than a mile from the intersection where Ivan was parked. “Better let up on the gas and brake a little. Steer a little to the left while you’re at it.”
“How fast we going?”
“Around sixty, we’re in Riverside I think,” Wayne replied. “Steer a little more left and brake slowly.” He opened another beer. The sound of the popped tab was music to Jake’s ears.
“Give me another beer, huh? I’m on empty.”
“Here’s the little crab catcher,” Wayne said as he placed the beer in Jake’s hand. “You better brake some more and steer right.”
They were doing about forty but there was plenty of traffic. Jake nearly sideswiped a parked car. “Steer left goddammit! Brake some more, there might be cops around,” Wayne said.
Victor and Ivan both saw the Javelin headed their way as it weaved from side to side. If they only knew.
Wayne saw a cat in the middle of the street and he couldn’t resist.“Give it some gas and steer to the left,” he said.
Jake continued to drink his beer and did as instructed. The sound of the cat under the Javelin’s left front tire was music to Wayne’s ear. Jake remained clueless.
“Fucking white cat! Extra points for that, you old finger diddler,” Wayne laughed out loud. “Holy shit! Cops up ahead. Let’s play chicken.”
Jake was mildly concerned. “Should I slow down? Can we stop and try to outrun them on foot?”
“Hell no. Give it some gas and hold the wheel steady. Do exactly what I tell you, I got my eyes on the prize.”
Victor was wishing he’d taken the night off, and Ivan was all smiles. He was strategically stopped in the middle of the street in front of a bar. He was facing east, which meant Victor was sitting in the death seat. If there was a collision it’d be a T-bone and Victor would catch the worst of it.
“Fuck those guys, Ivan. Get out of the road. I don’t wanna die this night.”
“Those cocksuckers will stop any second. We got a thousand pounds on them, counting me!”
Wayne was truly frightened. The cops were digging in. It was time to cut and run. He yelled, “Hit the brakes hard and hold the steering wheel steady!” He was holding onto the dashboard for dear life.
“WAYNE!!! WHAT SHOULD I DO?” Jake was into damage control. He steered hard right, which was where Wayne was sitting. The Javelin sideswiped two parked cars and caromed off. The muscle car was a silver sphere on Ivan’s pinball machine and Jake was almost ready to tilt. He sensed the only thing left to do was steer hard left and give it some gas. The Javelin immediately rolled over and stopped on its hood, less than three feet from Victor’s terrified eyes.
“Well, what the fuck do you make of those two guys?” Ivan asked.
Victor bailed out and drew his gun. Ivan got out as well.
Victor was screaming, “Hands where I can see them assholes.”
Ivan spied a crowd gathering and said, “You’re all witnesses and will spend a lot of time testifying in court this summer. Stay where you are and we’ll get your names for the subpoenas in a minute.”
The crowd scattered as he knew they would. He walked to the driver’s side and said to Jake, “You’re drunk!”
“I’m drunk AND blind.”
They pulled Jake and Wayne out of the completely totaled Javelin. Five parked cars were badly damaged and the cat had died instantly. Jake walked away without a scratch while Wayne had a broken nose. They both spent the night in jail, and true to form they tested well over the legal limit. Wayne was three times the intoxicated amount and Jake was nearly twice the legal threshold.
They both pled guilty and were sentenced to six months in the county lockup; the judge was lenient on Jake given the fact that he really was blind. They were placed in the same jail cell and Wayne continued as Jake’s eyes and decision maker. Jake didn’t mind a bit.
The Games Are Afoot
1983
V
ictor was a trickster of epic proportion. When a high-ranking command officer began to mess with the troops Victor stepped up to the challenge.
It was a few hours before shift change and Reg was in the locker room preparing to go back on the road. He walked down the hallway and saw a cop on his hands and knees. Reg was intrigued and he backed around the corner and watched, thrilled at what he saw. Victor had several packets of sugar and had opened every one of them. He was holding a drinking straw in his mouth and forcing air through the straw. The sugar scattered about like small mice looking for a place to hide on the other side of the door. After several minutes, Victor got up and peered through the glass on the locked door. He got back down on his hands and knees and readjusted the drinking straw and forced more air under the door. Once again he examined his work, smiling as he walked away.
Reg walked over and peered through the window. He was unable to see any indication of sugar on the floor. Within a week or so a pest exterminator was on site at the Police Department. The exterminator was specifically looking for ants and spent most of his time where Victor had been observed by Reg. At some point many of the Regulators determined certain things they’d been blamed for were actually the work of Victor.
Reg was impressed with Victor because he shared that same animosity for the command officer. In fact, weeks earlier when Lieutenant Chapman drove his convertible to work and left the top down, Reg seized the opportunity. He had a bag of popcorn and emptied it all around the convertible. Within minutes the seagulls were feasting. Within the hour they were crapping all over the lieutenant’s car. Reg had the wherewithal to take a Polaroid picture of the seagulls and another one of the birdshit on and in the convertible.
He and Victor were at the police lodge drinking beer and Reg got the picture out, waiting for Victor to ask about it, which he eventually did. Reg showed it to him and said, “This is even better than some sugar in his office, right? I bet Lieutenant Chapman was a lot more pissed about his car than his ant-infested office.”
“What the hell are you blathering about?”
“You know damn well what I’m talking about,” Reg said. “I saw you with the sugar packets and drinking straw. It was one of my happiest moments on the job. A confirmed sighting, I caught your hand in the cookie jar. How long you been at it?”
“Not nearly long enough. The times are changing; keep your ear to the ground, Reg. Our enemies are all around us.”
Victor was an enigma. He projected a spit-and-shine military presence in uniform. A family man to be sure as he and his wife Cassandra spent free time going to rock concerts. He was famous for slicking his hair back and wearing tight jeans rolled up on the bottom and t-shirts with a package of cigarettes rolled up on one sleeve. It was rumored after one such concert Victor and Cassandra were in the backseat of a coupe while his buddy and his wife were in the front seat. They drove by others leaving the concert and Victor mooned the entire gathering. He was reported to have yelled out, “If you don’t like it, eat it!” as the car passed the exiting concert crowd.
Victor was favored by many of the brass and it was widely thought he’d promote and do so quickly. Lieutenant Chapman didn’t share the same high opinion others had of Victor. The Lieutenant had a list of police officers that he hated and Victor was high on his list. Hell, he was in the top ten.
Victor despised Chapman as well and thought he’d have some fun with him. He ran a classified advertisement in the Riverside Times newspaper. He paid for it with a money order and the business was conducted by way of a post office box. Victor thought the ad was one hot ticket:
For Sale: Dale Carnegie Books. The entire collection. Excellent compendium as they’ve never been read. The collection includes a signed first edition from Dale Carnegie himself:
How to Win Friends and Influence People.
Asking $125. Please call the Riverside Police Department at 131-3589 and ask for Lieutenant Chapman. Only serious offers will be considered.
Victor’s ad had classical sonorous overtones. Books like,
How to Stop Worrying and Start Living,
as well as,
How to Enjoy Your Life and Your Job
, were things Lieutenant Chapman would have certainly benefited from had he read them. When the calls came in, and there were several, it was as if Chapman had a target on his back, which he did. Victor was the sniper and his shots were true. He even had a friend call the number and ask if Carnegie’s
Lifetime Plan for Success
was included.
When Victor asked John McCaskill to place the call John asked him why he wanted him to do such a thing to another police officer.
“Because he’s a hound fucker and you’re the only one I can trust to keep our secret, that’s why…you stuttering dink. Besides, you still owe me plenty of favors. Remember? Back when the kids in high school picked on you because of your stuttering ways?”
It was all true. John McCaskill really was picked on until Victor befriended him and before long John hardly stuttered. Victor mentored him through high school and even helped him get a job delivering pizzas. Victor had no earthly idea why he liked John. He just did. He rarely picked on him and tried to give him moral support whenever possible. It didn’t seem like it was a big thing he was asking of John. Leastwise to Victor it didn’t.
He said, “Just don’t mess up! Make the call simple (
like you
, Victor thought) and ask the guy if
Lifetime Plan for Success
is included in the sale, okay?”
“I’ll do it and I’ll make you proud.”
When John made the call it was after the first two dozen or so calls had come into Lieutenant Chapman. The lieutenant’s direct office number had been placed in the advertisement and he always answered. Chapman’s mother called him frequently and he didn’t want to miss her call. If only Victor would’ve had the knowledge Chapman was a mommy’s boy.
“Riverside Police Department, this is Lieutenant Chapman speaking.”
“I’m calling about the buh-buh-buh-buh, the fucking books. Is
Lifetime Plan for Success
included in the sale?” John asked.
“GODDAMMIT STOP CALLING! THIS IS AN OFFICIAL POLICE DEPARTMENT PHONE NUMBER,” Lieutenant Chapman shouted.
John hung up immediately and wondered if all police calls were taped like in the movies and television shows. Probably not, he decided. Victor would never allow him to get in trouble over what may have been a prank phone call. He would’ve liked to have read
Lifetime Plan for Success
if Victor would help him with the hard parts…just like in high school.
Lieutenant Chapman hung up as well; he walked into the chief’s office and asked for a little time off. He didn’t look well and he felt even worse. Riverside’s Chief of Police was well-liked by nearly everyone on the department, which would one day change, after his rubber-stamped replacement turned out to be Chapman. The street cops and detectives would never forgive the Chief for allowing the department to go in the direction Chapman would one day take it.
“You look like shit, Walt. Have you been to a doctor lately?”
“The troops are messing with me again is all, probably one of the usual suspects.”
“If the men trust you all of this will stop. If you really want to be the next chief, you’ll have to change your ways. Try and remember the magic number is five. You only need five commissioners to vote for you. Hell, Walt, when I made my move the entire city hall chambers was filled with officers showing their support for me. Quit screwing around and cut them some slack. You need to start backing the officers; it really is what they want the most.”
Lieutenant Chapman’s right eye was twitching and he hadn’t been sleeping all that well for the last few weeks. “Just a few days are all I need, Chief. I guess this last caper got under my skin and I couldn’t let it go. I think Frank Lamkin might be the culprit. Then again, there are so many possibilities.”
“Suck it up, Walt. When you’re chief you can dink back with all of them if you want. Until then keep your nose to the grindstone.”
“You think the Commissioners will consider Captain Eberhart? Over me, I mean?”
The chief replied, “That cocksucker? No, I don’t! A couple of Commissioners told me that they heard he was a Nazi war criminal. I’ve got that bald-headed prick right where I want him and he’ll die on nights. You’re the future of my police department, only you.”
Chapman went home and rested. He’d continue kissing the Chief’s ass. Whatever it took and when the department was his to run, he’d make sure none of the troublemakers would ever get promoted. He kept the list and read it often; the list of the ones he despised the most.
Victor slept like a baby nearly every night. He dreamt often and they were usually doozies. The day John McCaskill called Lieutenant Chapman about the books was a happy day for Victor. Later that night he fell asleep and dreamed:
A fat guy appears in a red shirt. His hair is bright red and he even has a red mustache. He’s red on the head like a dick on a dog and speaks with a lisp. He’s in Victor’s head and even worse, he’s in his bedroom, although the bedroom soon resembles a hospital room. Victor tells him he shouldn’t be there.
The man is trying to sell something. Sell anything? Who knows? Who could possibly know? Certainly not Victor. Naturally he tells him to leave again and the man doesn’t leave fast enough. He gives Victor some shit. What kind of shit? Perhaps he sneezes or coughs. Victor is beyond the point of looking for reasons, and because he’s on edge he jumps on the guy and pummels the living shit out of him.
A nurse comes in and wants to know what the ruckus is all about. Victor demands that she gets the enema and prep kit. He’s a surgeon and the red-headed fat fuck is a patient. The nurse wonders what the surgical procedure will be, and Victor yells, “DO WHAT THE FUCK YOU’RE TOLD IF YOU WANT TO KEEP YOUR JOB. I’M GONNA RIP THIS ASSHOLE’S HEAD OFF AND SHIT DOWN HIS NECK. YOU NEED TO LEAD, FOLLOW, OR GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY WAY. STAT!!!
The dream fades and he’s in an amusement park. John McCaskill is the carny shill and he’s just been allowed to win a game of chance or maybe even skill. The red-headed fat fuck watches as John is shooting a rifle at targets. John says, “I buh-buh-buh-buh blasted every fuh-fuh-fuh-fuh fucking duck! Give me my prize.” The red-headed fat fuck figures he can do the same and he lays his money down; hundreds of one-dollar bills. Stacks of them. He tells the game concession owner to hand over ALL of the rifles, because he wants to win ALL of the prizes.
The more the red-headed dink shoots the guns, the more he changes. His clothes change first and pretty soon he’s wearing a police uniform, lieutenant bars and all. Before long the Ginger resembles Lieutenant Chapman. The game concession owner is a mirror image of Victor, his own sweet self!
The bullets are gone and Chapman is livid, because he hasn’t hit one target. The Lieutenant has red hair and he speaks with a lisp. “I thwear I hit the targets and I wanth my pwizes. All of thwem.”
Victor hands Lieutenant Chapman ALL of the prizes; the entire collection of Dale Carnegie books, including a signed edition of
How to Win Friends and Influence People.
As soon as he sees ALL the prizes he won his red hair catches on fire. The fire spreads and he’s on fire from head-to-toe and his skin is melting. The fire is blinding.
When Victor woke up the sun was shining in his window and was very bright.
Just like the fire
, Victor thought, and then he remembered the dream or at least nearly all of it. The dream was a harbinger to be sure.
He had a high degree of intellect and was able to determine the dream was about Lieutenant Chapman. Victor concluded an epic struggle would occur and he’d prevail. Classic good-versus-evil stuff, to be sure. Would Victor triumph? Fucking-A!
In his mind the gauntlet had already been laid down and the lieutenant would one day suffer. He’d suffer a whole lot worse than the red-headed lisp-speaking fat fuck in his recent dream. Victor later opened a bottle of Pabst Blue Ribbon at lunch. He smiled to nobody in particular. Hell, why would he? He was all alone.
Soon…very soon
, he thought. The Lieutenant would mess up and he’d be there to catch him.