toward the apartment near Fourth and Bronson where the bachelor sergeant resided. Though Yanov wisely declined choir practice invitations, he occasionally threw an impromptu party of his own.
“Come on, Padre,” Spencer said, dragging the little man to his feet, careful not to get any of the duck slime from Willie’scheckered bermuda shorts on his fifty-five dollar tie dyed jeans with the needlepoint patches which he had bought at a police discount from a men’s store on Beverly Boulevard. “Father Willie, listen! No-Balls Hadley’s there!”
And Father Willie’s swollen eyelids cracked apart. The little man shook his thin wheat-colored hair out of his eyes, shot a hopeful grin at his partner and took his arm as Spencer led him to the car on Parkview Street just south of Wilshire.
“You sobering up?” Spencer asked as he drove them in Father Willie’s station wagon, a five year old Dodge with a “God Is Love” bumper sticker on front and back.
“Yes,” said Father Willie who was getting drunker with each bump and rumble, catching fire with a consuming passionate gut wrenching love for No-Balls Hadley whom he never discussed while sober.
He had succeeded in driving away his sweet obsessive fantasies except for those infrequent moments when his Jehovah’s Witness wife would consent to a five minute straight lay without too much annoying foreplay. At those times it was not the plump little Witness he was mounting, but Officer Reba Hadley No-Balls Hadley of the splendid breasts, elegant legs and caustic tongue who never so much as glanced at little Father Willie Wright when he passed the desk and screwed up enough courage to say “Good afternoon” or “Good evening” or “The desk pretty busy tonight?”
She would sometimes mumble a perfunctory reply when not busy with a ringing phone or routine report which she felt beneath her to write in the first place. But once, as she leaned on the counter chatting into the telephone, dressed in the tailored blue long sleeved blouse and fitted skirt of a desk officer, instead of a man’s uniform like a female patrol officer, she asked Father Willie if he would mind getting her a soft drink from the machine because she had three crime reports going and couldn’t leave the phone.
Father Willie Wright dropped his pocket change all over the floor in his haste to get the coins in the machine and was careful not to spill a single drop as he set it before No-Balls Hadley as reverently as any real priest ever offered a chalice at the altar.
No-Balls Hadley said into the phone, “Look, Madge, we have to have the nerve to walk into the chief’s office and say what we think. Of course he hates our guts but he’s afraid of us now. We’ve got the media with us. Damn it, Madge, what’ve we got to lose? You think I want to spend a career standing at this desk writing bike reports and making inane small talk to a bunch of semiliterate slobs?”
One of the semiliterate slobs of whom she spoke stood shyly across the counter, the large gap in his front teeth bared to No-Balls Hadley who had forgotten he was there until she saw the dime still on the counter in front of her.
“Just a minute, Madge,” she said testily into the mouthpiece, then held her hand over it and said, “Officer…”
“Wright,” Father Willie said. “Willie Wright’s my name!”
“Yes, of course,” she said impatiently “You think I don’t know every man on the nightwatch? I’ve only been chained to this desk six months. I ought to know.”
“Oh sure,” said Father Willie, who was so plain, so small, so unassuming that she could never remember his name.
“Listen, Wright, did you want something?”
“Oh no,” Father Willie said to the tall girl while his mad impetuous young heart longed to say, “Oh yes! Oh yes, Reba! Oh yes!”
He had never called her “Reba,” never once in the six months she had been in Wilshire Division after being transferred from Parker Center where she
“Come on, Padre,” Spencer said, dragging the little man to his feet, careful not to get any of the duck slime from Willie’scheckered bermuda shorts on his fifty-five dollar tie dyed jeans with the needlepoint patches which he had bought at a police discount from a men’s store on Beverly Boulevard. “Father Willie, listen! No-Balls Hadley’s there!”
And Father Willie’s swollen eyelids cracked apart. The little man shook his thin wheat-colored hair out of his eyes, shot a hopeful grin at his partner and took his arm as Spencer led him to the car on Parkview Street just south of Wilshire.
“You sobering up?” Spencer asked as he drove them in Father Willie’s station wagon, a five year old Dodge with a “God Is Love” bumper sticker on front and back.
“Yes,” said Father Willie who was getting drunker with each bump and rumble, catching fire with a consuming passionate gut wrenching love for No-Balls Hadley whom he never discussed while sober.
He had succeeded in driving away his sweet obsessive fantasies except for those infrequent moments when his Jehovah’s Witness wife would consent to a five minute straight lay without too much annoying foreplay. At those times it was not the plump little Witness he was mounting, but Officer Reba Hadley No-Balls Hadley of the splendid breasts, elegant legs and caustic tongue who never so much as glanced at little Father Willie Wright when he passed the desk and screwed up enough courage to say “Good afternoon” or “Good evening” or “The desk pretty busy tonight?”
She would sometimes mumble a perfunctory reply when not busy with a ringing phone or routine report which she felt beneath her to write in the first place. But once, as she leaned on the counter chatting into the telephone, dressed in the tailored blue long sleeved blouse and fitted skirt of a desk officer, instead of a man’s uniform like a female patrol officer, she asked Father Willie if he would mind getting her a soft drink from the machine because she had three crime reports going and couldn’t leave the phone.
Father Willie Wright dropped his pocket change all over the floor in his haste to get the coins in the machine and was careful not to spill a single drop as he set it before No-Balls Hadley as reverently as any real priest ever offered a chalice at the altar.
No-Balls Hadley said into the phone, “Look, Madge, we have to have the nerve to walk into the chief’s office and say what we think. Of course he hates our guts but he’s afraid of us now. We’ve got the media with us. Damn it, Madge, what’ve we got to lose? You think I want to spend a career standing at this desk writing bike reports and making inane small talk to a bunch of semiliterate slobs?”
One of the semiliterate slobs of whom she spoke stood shyly across the counter, the large gap in his front teeth bared to No-Balls Hadley who had forgotten he was there until she saw the dime still on the counter in front of her.
“Just a minute, Madge,” she said testily into the mouthpiece, then held her hand over it and said, “Officer…”
“Wright,” Father Willie said. “Willie Wright’s my name!”
“Yes, of course,” she said impatiently “You think I don’t know every man on the nightwatch? I’ve only been chained to this desk six months. I ought to know.”
“Oh sure,” said Father Willie, who was so plain, so small, so unassuming that she could never remember his name.
“Listen, Wright, did you want something?”
“Oh no,” Father Willie said to the tall girl while his mad impetuous young heart longed to say, “Oh yes! Oh yes, Reba! Oh yes!”
He had never called her “Reba,” never once in the six months she had been in Wilshire Division after being transferred from Parker Center where she
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