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The set-up
Every cop has a place in their sector or on their beat that is the most memorable.
It should be a good place to grab a cup of coffee and zone out while writing reports.
The place for all of those reasons for me was the corner of 20th and Mission streets, smack dab in the center of my foot beat in 1985.
The bad guy
There was this little twerp named Jaime who lived, breathed, and committed at least 11 felonies a day in the center of my beat.
If it got stolen from a store, boosted from a car, taken from a previously locked apartment, or ripped from your baby stroller, chances are it was this 5’0” tall whirlwind of dishonest behavior named Jaime. He sold dope, stolen property, and anything else he could do to make money. He tried being a pimp for a while, but some of the girls beat the snot out of him one night, and so that career path apparently wasn’t going to work out.
The scene
The big “24-hour Open” Hunts Doughnuts franchise was on the southwest corner, with big windows on all sides, and a booth in the back that had a sign that said, “Police Personnel only.”
Make all the jokes about cops and doughnuts that you want, but a place that always had fresh coffee, a CLEAN bathroom, and an assortment of blank paper police reports in a file cabinet in the kitchen (to let you save a trip back to the station to do your paperwork) was a great concept all around.
I should also mention that of all the places in this part of the town, Hunts was the ONLY place that never got robbed.
Must have been some kind of coincidence…
The day’s work
Mark and I had this “rotation” figured out:
6:00 am coffee at Hunts
7:00 am Altamont Hotel Register check.
We had to get there early in the morning, before the population woke up, or the potential arrestees would be bailing out of fire exits, and second story windows.
8:00 am Booking and arrest reports
10:00 am Breakfast at Miz Browns
11:00 am Look for Jaime:
Our local “grapevine” (AKA hooker gossip) had implicated Jaime in a series of rip-and-run thefts from some black-tar heroin dealers, so we figured that either we would get to him, or the Medical Examiner would.
Jaime had no fear, and NO common sense.
12:00 am – 4 pm:
Walk beat, check in with local bars at random to see who was day-drinking, what the other Patel Hotels had in the pending warrant arrest game, and write a few dozen parking tickets.
By 5:00 pm, we’d had a good day:
We made five more warrant arrests and grabbed a sixth guy who went to jail when he felt he could cuss out Mark, and then deliberately spit on his previously impeccably Bobby-Shoe-Shined combat boots over the fact that his car was cited for double parking in a bus lane, with the engine running.
He was obviously drunk and previously injured, or so the hospital admission form said…
5:10 pm
A quick bus ride, and we were in front of Original Joes, looking forward to a few decent appetizers, and a slow stroll back to Company D.
We got lucky and snagged a table in back, so we could watch both front and back doors. Mark had the fried Calamari plate, and I had the Shrimp Royale small salad.
One of us must have been watching the cocktail waitress with the slit-side Victoria Secrets dress wiggle on by, because suddenly Jaime was standing unseen at our table’s edge.
Mark wore his gun in a “cowboy tie-down movable holster,” while I wore the equally old-fashioned LAPD break-front rig.
Jaime had been at the table’s edge for about 3 short milliseconds before he was surreptitiously covered by two very powerful and ready to spit .357 magnum revolvers pointed at his beltline. Long tablecloths are sometimes an advantage.
Jaime was death-shaded pale and was obviously in pain.
He knew me better than Mark, so he said:
“Some assholes cut me… they got my hand, and my fingers are all sliced up.”
With this, he thrust his right hand towards me, unaware of the sound that was two handguns going to a hammer-back half-cocked status.
I saw that his right hand was covered in blood, that two of fingers were almost completely severed, and that he was actively gushing deep red blood onto my un-touched shrimp salad.
I left-handed tossed him one of the fortunately red cloth napkins, while Mark got out of the booth to a more tactically advantageous position.
Just because Jaime was hurt, didn’t mean he was less dangerous. Go read any story about an injured or rabid dog for reference if you need to.
Mark had his gun lowered but held firmly alongside of his right leg. The dining room was so high toned and creatively lit, that it was no surprise that none of our fellow diners noticed this tableau.
Dialogue
Me: “Hey Mark, he says he’s hurt.”
Mark: “Dunno, he’s lied to us a lot in the past.”
Me: “He’s ruined my salad!”
Mark: “Better warn the dishwasher about that red stuff”
Jaime: “PLEASE Officers, I’m hurt!”
Mark: “He says he’s hurt.”
Me:” Why don’t I call a 408 (City ambulance), while he tells us what happened?”
Mark: “Okay, we’ll meet them in the rear parking lot then.”
Hearing this, Jaime turned to look at the rear parking lot exit.
I silently mouthed to Mark; “Are we good here?”
Mark smiled a semi-evil smile and mouthed back: “I got him.”
While Mark was totally focused on Jaime, who was now leaning on the elevated edge of our booth, I called the paramedics.
I stopped the giggle-endowed cocktail waitress, told her to have someone completely block off our table, and that we’d be back.
She looked at the two sets of large revolvers, then over to Jaime who was doing his imitation of a wilted and wounded stalk of corn and told me she’d tell the host and the owner who was drinking in the bar.
In the fresh air of the parking lot, Jaime finally collapsed, slowly bouncing off a parked Toyota sedan.
Keeping in mind my sworn oath, I put on my issued surgical gloves, checked Jaime’s pulse (“weak and fluttery”), found some used binding tape and twine at the nearby dumpster, and put a pretty decent tourniquet on his right arm.
Gun away now, Mark called the paramedics, advising them of the use of a makeshift tourniquet, and told the rig to step up their response.
Less than two minutes later, the wailing of a full code three ambulance ended less than 15 feet from where Jaime was decoratively sprawled, and happily before I was seriously considering CPR.
The medics in the Mission District get a full Armed Forces Combat battlefield experience just about every shift, so when they almost threw Jaime onto a gurney, and tore off, I knew that Jaime would be back to his old booster bag set of tricks, albeit left-handed for a while very soon.
When Mark and I went back into OJ’s, I saw two complete replacement dinners being delivered by the restaurant owner himself.
I noted that Mark now had the full Calamari entrée dinner, and I had been similarly upgraded to a huge Shrimp Louie salad.
The owner said: “Never a dull moment with you guys, eh?”
Mark said: “Penalties of the job. Thanks Bill.”
Miss She of the curvaceous cocktail outfit, came by next, and while leaning provocatively over the table, asked if we wanted the regular, or the “special” soft drink versions that the owner was now offering us.
It was regrettably going to be the non-adulterated versions, but Mark managed to smile and say “Rain-Check Sheila?”
She smiled, nodded gently, and then sashayed away slowly for Marks benefit.
My salad was delicious, Mark’s seafood was perfect, and to round out our luck, we were able to flag down the drunk wagon that had stopped to fluid-up at Hunts across the street and catch a ride back to the station.
Another day in paradise!
10-7
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