Street Rules

exterior, there was still a tenuous respect for the past if nothing else. It was that faint memory, of a time before gangs, that cops like Frank and Noah had hoped would jettison Placa out of the life.

Claudia had chipped during Placa's earliest years. When she wasn't in the spoon she took good care of her kids, and with their overwhelming backlog, Child Protective Services never got around to taking them. There were occasional men around, the longest lasting being Gloria's father. He was a ratty punk and Claudia had his name tattooed over her left breast. Frank had broken up more than one bottle-flying, fist-smashing catfight over him and it wasn't unusual to get a Saturday night domestic violence call from Claudia's house. What money he didn't make hustling and fencing cars, Claudia made by selling junk, and doing minor B and E's. She'd been busted dozens of times, from misdemeanors to grand theft auto, and Frank had taken her in at least seven or eight of those times. But there were so many more 'serious' offenders on the LA County court dockets. When she shyly appealed to the judge that she had three babies at home that needed taking care of she got off on probation or her cases got tossed or pleaded. At worst, she'd end up at Sybil Brand for a couple months and Julio's wife would take the kids in.

Frank had a softness for Claudia. They ran into each other frequently, and while Claudia was uncommunicative, she was never as openly hostile to Frank as she was to the other jura. The last time Frank had taken her in had been years ago, when she was a Sergeant, and Claudia'd been on the nod. Her hair was dirty and there was no make-up to cover her yellowing skin. Where she'd fallen onto the sidewalk her cheek was gouged and her upper lip was split. Frank had propped her in the back of the squad car and flies tried to cluster around a bloody scrape on her knee. Frank had waved them away, closing the door carefully. Behind the wheel she'd flipped the rearview mirror so Claudia could see herself.

'What happened to that pretty girl I met my first day on patrol?' Frank wondered aloud. Claudia had stared cloudily at her reflection, as if trying to find the answer. Maybe the question had done some good. When she went into Brand that time, she'd been forced into quitting the smack. She was also carrying her second son, and when she came out she'd stayed clean.

It was a couple years later that Frank presented Placa with the metal badge. She'd pinned it on the chubby girl's thin T-shirt and she'd beamed. She couldn't stop staring at her chest. Every time Frank saw Placa after that she had that damn badge drooping off her chest. Until one day Frank saw her playing on the sidewalk, in a bare shirt. When Frank asked her where the badge was, Placa's face darkened and she said some boys had ripped it off and jumped on it till it was flat and crumpled. So Frank had paid the cop with the machine shop to make her half a dozen and the cycle continued until one day Placa didn't want the badges anymore.

'How come?' Frank had asked.

'My tio and brother says they're stupid, only the police wear badges and I'm not a police.'

'You could be a police,' Frank said, 'when you're a little bigger.'

Placa considered that carefully.

'Then I could wear a badge all the time?'

'Everyday. And no one could ever take it away from you.'

'No one ever takes your badge?'

'Nunca.'

'But how big do I have to be?'

'You have to be as old as your brother Chuey.'

Then very seriously, Carmen said, 'Entonces, I'll wait to be a police. Then I can have my own badge and no one can take it from it me.'

She and Frank had exchanged a low-five. Thing was, Carmen never got to be as old as her brother Chuey.

The receptionist told Frank she could go in. Clay rose to meet her and they shook hands. After she settled uneasily into one of his chairs he asked how her week had been.

'Okay,' she answered noncommittally, knowing she was buying time. Clay stared over the glasses at the tip of his nose. Frank knew what was expected and Clay always gave her the option to waste the hour or be productive.

'Had a girl get shot up this week. Knew her for a long time. She was a banger, but she was a good kid, good grades. She was a mean OG so nobody gave her trouble. She could get away with being smart. Could have gotten a scholarship to art schools.'

Holding her thumb and forefinger together, Frank continued, 'She always got this close to convictions. Managed to wiggle out of them like her mother. Would have been fun to see her come up.'

When Frank didn't continue, Clay said, 'How does her death make you feel?'

Frank tossed a shoulder, shying from the answers. They swirled on the edge of her consciousness, waltzing like women in gauzy ball gowns. It took her a moment to pick out individual feelings and give them names. She walked over to the window. The pane was cool and solid against her fingers, a comforting contrast to the turbulence within. Knowing what Clay wanted to hear, she quickly catalogued and labeled her feelings.

'Mad. Sad. Frustrated.'

Then Mag's parting words rang in her ears.

'When are you going to grow up?'

Did Frank really want to drag her ass in here once a week to try and pull one over on Clay or did she want to get on with her life? She conceded the former was more appealing but the latter more necessary. She didn't ever again want to come close to the abyss she'd stepped into after the Delamore case.

She'd conveniently blamed her crash on the burden of that case, knowing full well that if Delamore hadn't tipped her over the edge, something or someone else inevitably would have. Kennedy had her flaws but Frank would always be grateful she'd been around that night. Next time, if there was a next time, there might not be someone there. She turned and faced Clay.

'She was only seventeen. She was actually going to graduate from high school in a few months. I don't think anyone else in her family had ever done that. She was born the year I joined the force. Fact, I met her mother first day on the job. She was hanging with some cholos, drunk off her ass. She was pregnant, just huge, about to deliver any day and she was swigging out of a bottle of Boone's Farm. It's funny. I smell that stuff and it's pow — total flashback to that day.'

Frank paused. The memory was as clear as the window she looked through.

'My FTO and I were driving around, and he saw her in this alley. He pulls up. He's already pissed that he's being forced to work with a woman — and that would have been the nicest thing he ever called me — so by the time we get to these homes, he's on a royal tear. He swaggers down the alley, slapping his stick in his hand, and I'm still trying to get out of the car. I'm jamming my hat on, trying to get my stick in my belt, juggling my field book. I've got no idea what's going on, got no clue what's being said on the radio. I thought, maybe he heard something, but then I was wondering, why didn't he respond? So whatever, I'm following him like a lost dog, and he says something stupid to these kids, which doesn't surprise me after having driven with him for an hour.

'They're all just staring at the ground, kicking at it. You can tell they're not happy. And no one answers him, so he swings his stick at the kid closest to him and says 'Hey! I asked you a question.' I heard his stick connect and thought, man, that must have hurt. Well this kid says they're not doing anything and that Roper, that was his name, he didn't have to do that. Of course this just pisses Roper off even more. Then the girl says something really stupid in Spanish, about a fat pig or something. She is totally pasted, and I'm thinking, 'Oh Christ, the shit is going to fly' But Roper's cool. He just goes and stands over her. He puts his shoe on her shoulder and she tips over. I want to help her but I'm thinking I better just stay out of this. But the guy who's already mouthed off, he tries helping her and Roper swats at him with his stick, like he's playing with him. He says, 'You want to fight me over this, Juan? Huh? You want to fight me over this cunt? just totally baiting the guy. And this kid knows he's fucked.

'Roper tells them all to leave, but this guy, he wants a piece of Roper so bad he can taste it. He stands there, staring at Roper and I'm thinking, 'Just go home, buddy. For Christ's sake.' But he reaches down to help Claudia up, she's out of it, all sticky with wine, and Roper goes whap! with his stick. Right on the guy's wrist, just shattered it. If he'd been playing baseball he'd have had a homerun. The kids got to be in pain but he just makes this little yelp and jerks his hand away. It starts swelling up like a fucking basketball, but the kid doesn't say a thing, just holds his arm and gives Roper the evil eye.