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forgotten； I hated working SID and wanted to return to a uniformed division…preferably nightwatch。 I was studying for the Sergeant's Exam； SID had served me well as a training ground for my ultimate goal…the Detective Bureau。 I started to launch a tirade on my shitty marriage and how nightwatch would keep me away from my wife； faltering when images of the lady in black hit me and I realized I was close to begging。 The Chief of Detectives finally silenced me with a long stare； and I wondered if the dope was betraying me。 Then he said； 〃Okay； Bucky；〃 and pointed to the door。 I waited in the outer office for a Benzedrine eternity； when Green walked out smiling； I almost jumped loose of my skin。 〃Newton Street nightwatch as of tomorrow；〃 he said。 〃And try to be civil with our colored brethren down there。 You've got a bad case of the yips； and I wouldn't want you passing it on to them。〃
* * *
Newton Street Division was southeast of downtown LA； 95 percent slums； 95 percent Negroes； all trouble。 There were bottle gangs and crap games on every corner； liquor stores； hair…straightening parlors and poolrooms on every block； code three calls to the station twenty…four hours a day。 Footbeat hacks carried metal…studded saps； squadroom dicks packed 。45 automatics loaded with un…regulation dum…dums。 The local winos drank 〃Green Lizard〃…cologne cut with Old Monterey white port； and the standard pop for a whore was one dollar； a buck and a quarter if you used 〃her place〃…the abandoned cars in the auto graveyard at 56th and Central。 The kids on the street were scrawny and bloated； stray dogs sported mange and perpetual snarls； merchants kept shotguns under the counter。 Newton Street Division was a war zone。
I reported for duty after twenty…two hours of sack time； booze…weaned off the Benzies。 The station mander； an ancient lieutenant named Getchell； supplied a warm wele； telling me that Thad Green said I was kosher； and he'd accept me as such until I fucked up and proved otherwise。 Personally； he hated boxers and stoolies； but he was willing to let bygones be bygones。 My fellow officers would probably take some persuading； however； they really hated glory cops； boxers and Bolsheviks； and Fritzie Vogel was warmly remembered from his Newton Street tour years before。 The cordial CO assigned me to a single…o foot beat； and I left that initial briefing determined to out…kosher God himself。
My first roll call was worse。
Introduced to the watch by the muster sergeant； I got no applause and a wide assortment of fisheyes； evil eyes and averted eyes。 After the reading of the crime sheet； seven men out of the fifty…five or so stopped to shake my hand and wish me good luck。 The sergeant gave me a silent tour of the division and dropped me off with a street map at the east edge of my beat； his farewell was； 〃Don't let the niggers give you no shit。〃 When I thanked him； he said； 〃Fritz Vogel was a good pal of mine；〃 and sped off。
I decided to kosherize myself fast。
My first week at Newton was muscle rousts and gathering information on who the real bad guys were。 I broke up Green Lizard parties with my billy club； promising not to roust the winos if they fed me names。 If they didn't kick loose； I arrested them； if they did； I arrested them anyway。 I smelled reefer smoke on the sidewalk outside the gassed hair joint on 68th and Beach； kicked the door in and drew down on three grasshoppers holding felony quantities of maryjane。 They snitched off their supplier and fingered an uping rumble between The Slausons and Choppers in return for my promise of leniency； I called in the info to the squardroom and flagged down a black…and…white to haul the hopheads to the station。 Prowling the hooker auto dump got me prostitution collars； and threatening the girls' johns with calls to their wives got me more names。 At week's end I had twenty…two arrests to my credit…nine of them felonies。 And I had names。 Names to test my courage on。 Names to make up for the main events I'd dodged。 Names to make the cops who hated me afraid of me。
I caught Downtown Willy Brown ing out of the Lucky Time Wine Bar。 I said； 〃Your mother sucks a mean dick； Sambo〃； Willy charged me。 I took three to give six； when it was over Brown was blowing teeth out his nose。 And two cops shooting the breeze across the street saw the whole thing。
Roosevelt Williams； paroled rape…o； pimp and policy runner； was tougher。 His response to 〃Hello； shitbird〃 was 〃You a whitey motherfuck〃…and he hit first。 We traded shots for close to a minute； in full view of a cadre of Choppers lounging on front stoops。 He was getting the better of me； and I almost went for my baton…not the stuff of which legends are made。 Finally I pulled a Lee Blanchard move； rolling upstairs…downstairs sets； wham…wham…wham…wham； the last blow sending Williams to dreamland and me to the station nurse for two finger splints。
Bare knuckles were now out of the question。 My last two names； Crawford Johnson and his brother Willis； operated a rigged card game out of the rec room of the Mighty Reedeemer Baptist Church on 61st and Enterprise； catty corner from the greasy spoon where Newton cops ate for half price。 When I came in the window； Willis was dealing。 He looked up and said； 〃Huh？〃 my billy club took out his hands and the card table。 Crawford went for his waistband； my second baton blow knocked a silencer…fitted 。45 from his grip。 The brothers crashed out the door howling in pain； I picked up my new off…duty piece and told the other gamblers to grab their money and go home。 When I walked outside； I had an audience： bluesuits chomping sandwiches on the sidewalk； watching the Johnson brothers hotfoot it； holding their broken paws。 〃Some people don't respond to civility！〃 I yelled。 An old sergeant rumored to hate my guts yelled back； 〃Bleichert； you're an honorary white man！〃 and I knew I was kosherized。
* * *
The Johnson Brothers roust made me a minor legend。 My fellow cops gradually warmed to me…the way you do to guys too crazy…bold for their own good； guys that you're grateful not to be yourself。 It was like being a local celebrity again。
I got straight 100's on my first month's fitness report； and Lieutenant Getchell rewarded me with a radio car beat。 It was a promotion of sorts； as was the territory that came with it。
Rumor had it that both the Slausons and the Choppers were out to do me in； and if they failed； Crawford and Willis Johnson were next in line to try。 Getchell wanted me out of harm's way until they cooled off； so he assigned me to a sector on the western border of the division。
The new beat was an invitation to boredom。 Mixed white and Negro； small factories and tidy houses； the best action you could hope for was drunk drivers and hitchhiking hookers soliciting motorists； trying to pick up a few bucks on their way down to the niggertown dope pads。 I busted DDs and thwarted assignations by flashing my cherry lights； wrote traffic tickets by the shitload and generally prowled for anything out of the ordinary。 Drive…in restaurants were popping up on Hoover and Vermont； spangly modern jobs where you could eat in your car and listen to mus