an investigator's license.'
The cop with the bandana said, 'Not for long.'
A couple of bluesuits came in and said, 'Everything cool?'
The cop with the bandana said, 'We'll see.'
The short cop fumbled with the keys, then opened the trunk and made one of the world's widest grins. You'd think he'd won Lotto. 'Bingo. Just where they said.' He reached into the trunk and pulled out a baggie of crack cocaine worth about eight thousand dollars and tossed it to the cop with the bandana. What Bone Dee and the guy with the carbine had been doing behind me.
I looked at Joe Pike and Pike's mouth twitched.
I said, 'It isn't mine.' I pointed at Bone Dee. 'It's his.'
The cop with the bandana said, 'Sure. That's what they all say.' Then he took out a little white card, told us we were under arrest, and read us our rights.
After that he brought us to jail.
The cop with the bandana was named Micelli. He put Pike into a gray sedan and me into a black-and-white, and then they drove us to the Seventy-seventh. Micelli rode in the sedan.
The Seventy-seventh Division is a one-story red brick building just off Broadway with diagonal curbside parking out front and a ten-foot chain-link fence around the sides and back. The officers who work the Double-seven park their personal cars inside the fence and hope for the best. Concertina wire runs along the top of the fence to keep out the bad guys, but you leave personal items in your car at your own risk. Your car sort of sits there at your own risk, too. The bad guys have been known to steal the patrol cars.
We turned through a wide chain-link gate and rolled around the back side of the building past the maintenance garage and about two dozen parked black-and-whites and up to an entry they have for uniformed officers and prospective felons. Micelli got out first and spoke with a couple of uniformed cops, then disappeared into the building. The uniforms brought us inside past the evidence lockers and went through our pockets and took our wallets and our watches and our personal belongings. They did me first, calling off the items to an overweight property sergeant who noted every item on a large manila envelope, and then they did Pike. When they did Pike, they pulled off the hip holster for his .357, the ankle holster for his .380, an eight-inch Buck hunting knife, four speed-loaders for the .357, and two extra .380 magazines. The overweight sergeant said, 'Jesus Christ, you expecting a goddamned war?'
The uniform who did Pike grinned. 'Look who it is.'
The sergeant opened Pike's wallet, then blinked at Pike. 'Jesus Christ. You're him.'
The uniformed cop took off Pike's sunglasses and handed them to the sergeant. Pike squinted at the suddenly bright light, and I saw for the first time in months how Pike's eyes were a deep liquid blue. My friend Ellen Lang says that there is a lot of hurt in the blue, but I have never been able to see it. Maybe he just hides it better with me. Maybe she sees his eyes more often than I.
Micelli came back as they were finishing and I said, 'Play this one smart, Micelli. There's a detective sergeant in North Hollywood named Poitras who'll vouch for us, and an assistant DA named Morris who'll back Poitras up. Give'm a call and let's get this straight.'
Micelli signed the property forms. 'You got connections, that what you telling me?'
'I'm telling you these guys know us, and they'll know we've been set up.'
Micelli grinned at the property sergeant. 'You ever hear that before, Sarge? You ever hear a guy we're bringing in say he was set up?'
The sergeant shook his head. 'No way. I've never heard that before.'
I said, 'For Christ's sake, Micelli, check me out. It's a goddamned phone call.'
Micelli finished signing the forms and glanced over at me. 'Listen up, pogue. I don't care if you've been hamboning the goddamned mayor. You're mine until I say otherwise.' He gave the clipboard to the property sergeant, and then he told the uniforms to bring us to interrogation. He walked away.
Pike said, 'Cops.'
The uniforms brought us through a heavy metal door and into a long sterile hall that held all the charm of a urinal in a men's room. There were little rooms on either side of the hall, and they put Pike into the first room and me into the second. The rooms sported the latest in interrogation-room technology with pus-yellow walls and water-stained acoustical ceilings and heavy-duty soundproofing so passing liberals couldn't hear the rubber hoses being worked. There was a small hardwood table in the center of the floor with a single straight-backed metal chair on either side of it. Someone had used a broken pencil to cut a message into the wall.
They kept me waiting for maybe an hour, then Micelli and a cop in a gray suit came in. The new cop was in his late forties and looked to be a detective lieutenant, probably working out of homicide. Micelli took the chair across the table from me and the guy in the suit leaned against the wall. Micelli said, 'This conversation is being recorded. My name is Detective Micelli, and this is Lieutenant Stilwell.' You see? 'I'm going to ask you questions, and your answers will be used in court. You don't have to answer these questions, and if you want a lawyer, but can't afford one, we can arrange for a public defender. You want someone?'
'No.'
Micelli nodded. 'Okay.'
'Did you call Poitras?'
Micelli leaned forward. 'No one's calling anyone until we get through this.'
Stilwell said, 'How do you know Lou Poitras?'
