"I gotta straighten a guy out in Fleetwood, so let s run over there and I'll show you around," Alonzo Bell said as I got into the passenger side of his black-and-white. He pulled out of the elementary school and continued. "Our shop is Car Nine. In Haven Park we use a regular ten-code like LAPD. I've got us out of service, ten-seven, for the beginning of the tour so I can show you the turf."
"Good deal."
We drove down a commercial street called District, then skirted the edges of Haven Park, went through the neighboring city of Vista and entered Fleetwood.
"I heard shots and some sirens last night," I said as we rode past the mostly residential blocks of single-story, brightly painted stucco houses with dead lawns.
"We had a little street-cleaning action. I didn't hear about it till this morning. The night watch caught some South Side Crips doing corners over on Lincoln Boulevard. It got frisky." Doing corners was street slang for drug dealing.
Bell smiled. "We don't want those guys over here. Two C-homies got splashed, two got hooked and booked. Lotta red sauce got spilled. Big night."
"But you leave the Eighteenth Street Locos alone."
"Eighteenth Streeters are kicking back to us, so they get the hospitality mat. I thought I ran this all down for you at A Fuego," he said, frowning.
I nodded and looked at the passing houses. More dead grass, rusting Chevys. Urban blight.
We drove through Fleetwood to the city administration complex, which was located next to a rundown industrial complex.
Alonzo nosed our unit into a slot. We got out and I followed him inside the two-story city hall building. He approached a pretty, dark-eyed girl with shiny jet-black hair, who was wearing a tight sweater that showed off her jutting breasts.
"Mariana Concheta Brown," he announced. "Maravilloso Mamacita."
"Hey, Al. Where you been? How come none of you hot Haven Park guys come calling anymore?" She smiled at him and he winked at me. Obviously she was more than a friend.
"Meet my new partner, fresh from L. A. Shane Scully, this is Mariana Brown. Her husband s in Iraq."
He winked again, all of this, I guess, to tell me he was laying this war bride.
"Nice to meet you," I said.
"Mariana runs the sorry sack of incompetent dogs who work here. Armando around?" he asked.
Mariana picked up a phone and buzzed. "Sergeant Bell to see you, sir."
A few seconds later, a fat brown middle-aged toad of a guy exited the door behind Mariana. His greasy black hair was slicked back and he had one of those deeply pockmarked complexions that looked like he'd had trouble learning to eat with a fork as a kid.
"It didn't come," Armando said without preamble, growling the words at Alonzo.
"You need to talk to Cal or Gordon 'cause they were bringing it."
"Don't hide behind those mallates. You know how this shits supposed to work. It's your responsibility to make sure my end gets to me."
"Say hi to Shane," Alonzo said. "He's my new partner." Trying to use me to avoid the short ugly man's anger.
Armando glanced at me, then addressed Alonzo again. "This shit's gotta stop."
"I'll check with those guys, see what happened."
Armando turned to face me. "You'll do good down here if you don't forget how things work. Alonzo here, sometimes he's got a bad memory." Then he slapped Bell hard on the shoulder. It wasn't a very friendly gesture. "I want that package before I go home. Make it happen."
Then, without saying goodbye, he turned and went through the door behind Mariana, who was studiously at work not looking at Alonzo, pretending not to have heard the humiliating slap-down.
We walked outside and got back into our shop. "That guy's on the Fleetwood City Council, but he needs to chill. He's getting way too full of himself," Bell growled, working off some anger. "Put us ten-eight."
I picked up the mike. "This is Car Nine. We're ten-eight and clear to take calls at El Norte Park in Fleetwood."
The RTO came back. "Roger, Nine, we show you ten-eight and clear in Fleetwood."
I clicked the mike off and looked over at Alonzo. Whatever had transpired at city hall was still chewing on him and he glowered darkly as he drove. We headed back into Haven Park. On the way, we passed a large political billboard with a picture of a Mexican middleweight boxer named Rocky Chacon. He was in a classic fighter's stance with his feet squared, his red gloves up, facing the camera. Under the picture, written in both Spanish and English, it said: