There wasn’t much about the kid that stood out. His body was inked with the usual ghetto credos: “Get more bitches,” “Fuck all niggas,” and so on. He was just another teenage punk gangster who wanted his name to ring out, to have bitches on standby, and to spend mad stacks of cheddar. The other night, a single gunshot wound stopped the kid, a.k.a., “Deuce Deuce,” from living up his hip hop fantasy.

His name never rang out, save for some graffiti. The papers didn’t give him much ink. I Googled his given name and got one hit. Although I can’t speak to Deuce Deuce’s sexual conquests, I think it’s safe to say that he did not have any bitches on standby. And as for money, the last time I stopped him, the kid had less than ten bucks in his pocket.

The dying Deuce Deuce was unceremoniously dumped in front of a hospital. Unfortunately (or fortunately, depending on your point of view), the doctors were unable to save him.

Adios, kid. I told you this is how your life would end. You didn’t listen. But then again, why would you have listened to an old guy like me? You had bitches to fuck and money to make. If only you had more time… if only you had more time.

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The old lanky bum struts down the street, 40-oz. King Cobra in hand. He sees us driving towards him but doesn’t give a fuck. He takes a long hard swig without breaking his stride. “Oh, hell no,” I say to my partner, Manny Toris. “Let’s talk to this guy real quick.” I slow down the car.

“Whoa, not so fast, partner,” says Manny. “That’s a crazy motherfucker right there.”

“Most of these motherfuckers are crazy,” I say. The bum walks past us. He’s got the thousand-yard stare.

“No, but this motherfucker is crazy. Me and Billy stopped him last week.” Billy Ricketts is Manny’s regular partner. “After we hooked him up, he stuck his fingers up his ass. And then he licked the shit off his fingers. He kept doing that shit over and over.”

Manny’s right. That is a crazy motherfucker. I think about what Sgt. Tony Carrasquillo always says–You’ve got to pick and choose your battles out here. It’s not worth stopping some finger licking shit picker for the sake of writing a ticket. Especially when we’re end of watch in an hour.

I have a better idea: “Let’s start making our way back to the barn.” Sorry Captain, you’re not getting your numbers this time.

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Back in the day, the ten-story brick building on Sodomy Boulevard might have been a nice place to live. Now it’s full of Section 8 tenants. The live-in security guard–probably the only white resident–tells me that the building is owned by an Israeli mobster. Interesting, but that’s not the reason we’re here.

My partner is speaking with the problem–a sixty-something-year-old basehead who wandered in looking for her “boyfriend.” She doesn’t know his apartment number because she’s legally blind. And she doesn’t know his last name, even though they’ve been dating for a few months. But her stuff is in his pad, she insists, and she needs to get it back.

It sounds more like a business dispute. She was probably lured here with the promise of crack for sex. The john got his nut. But she didn’t get her rock.

Jeff, the live-in security guard, looks healthy. He eats his Wheaties. That makes him look out of place here. “How’d you get suckered into this place?” I ask.

“I get a free apartment for being a zookeeper.”

“Doesn’t seem like such a great deal.”

“I tried to get on the force. I guess they don’t need another white man.” Jeff tells me about his military credentials, his above-average intelligence, and his physical prowess. I listen and nod.

We take a break from our conversation and listen to more of the blind basehead’s bullshit. My partner’s losing his patience.

“I told my background investigator that I tried cocaine and ecstasy when I got out of the Navy,” Jeff tells me.

“Hard drugs will get you disqualified pretty quick,” I say. Regardless of race or gender. I keep that part to myself.

“I know,” Jeff replies. “But I was just trying to be honest.” He goes on to tell me that it’s been hard to find work after getting out of the military. He does security work, off and on, for some Israeli gangsters. Our ghetto drama turns into international intrigue.

I stay focused on the 900 block of Sodomy Boulevard: “What would you like for us to do today?” I ask.

“I just want her out of here,” Jeff replies.

No problem, buddy. We tell the old crackhead whore to take a hike or else we’ll book her on her little chicken shit warrant. She shuts the fuck up and twitch-walks over to the bus stop.

Keep your head up, Jeff. You’ll probably never wear the badge. Not because you’re white, but because you couldn’t keep your mouth shut about those narcotics you sampled. But being a cop isn’t what it’s cracked up to be. We’re zookeepers, too. Only our zoo is bigger than yours.

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The fucker smells ripe. Like a dead dog melting in the summer heat. But he’s alive, shaking, on a hospital bed underneath two blankets. The Oaxacan wino needs a beer. Maybe two. But booze isn’t on the menu at the county lockup.

I’d tell you his name but I can’t pronounce it. The shitbag was rounded up with a bunch of other drunk bums and got booked on an ICE warrant. He’s already been deported twice. This’ll be his third time.

It was a Gomorrah City copper from Area 22 that collared my prisoner. In the off chance that the little fucker punches a ticket to the big adios, the deputies want GCPD to clean up the mess. That’s why I’m babysitting this asshole today.

I make the most of it. I’ve got Sudhir Venkatesh’s Gang Leader for a Day in my patrol bag, Angry Birds on my iPhone, and I have plenty of snacks. I try not to think too much about my illegal alien while I’m here. I’ll just get mad. But a sheriff’s deputy openly shares with me his disdain for the little Oaxacan: “Shit, I can’t even get in to see my doctor ’till August and this asshole is getting a CAT scan today. Makes me want to choke the motherfucker.”

Sure enough, I’ve gotta put down my book to help a nurse cart the little Oaxacan up to the sixth floor for a CAT scan. It’s a fancy setup. Looks expensive. And the illegal alien is getting all this for free. On our dime. Now I want to choke the motherfucker, too. But instead, I chill. It is what it is.

I go back to my book. Clear a few levels of Angry Birds. The Oaxacan’s body funk killed my appetite hours ago, so I leave my snacks alone.

An hour later, the nurse tells me that the little Oaxacan is not going to die. He just needs to dry out. This means the sheriff’s department will take the prisoner off of my hands and I can now continue patrol.

Adios, mutt. I guess I’ll see you again in a few weeks.

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The bum smells like shit marinated in piss on a hot summer day. Someone calls the police because his fly is open, his dick hanging out. Guess who gets the call?

My new partner, Rick Quintero, and I take the scenic route. Maybe Officer Time will resolve the situation. That is, hopefully if enough time passes, the bum will get up an leave on his own. Unfortunately for us, Officer Time is not on duty.

Upon arrival we are met by a scowling male Filipino, beer in hand, penis exposed. We unass, glove up, and go to work. “What’s going on today, buddy?” I ask.

“Fuck you, man!” The bum is Andy Kaufman as Latka Gravas. Kaufman wasn’t funny. But this bum is. “I not doing nothing!”

Wrong answer. “Turn around and put your hands on your head,” Rick demands.

Latka balls his hands into fists. “Fuck you too, man!”

A firm grip and a wrist lock later, I ask, “Fuck who?”

Latka gets his mind right and taps out: “Okay! I calm down now.” I guess he isn’t all that crazy after all. We hook him up and run him for warrants.

No hit. So we dump out Latka’s beer, write him a ticket for drinking in public, and kick him loose.

“Don’t forget to zip up your fly,” I tell Latka. He growls, but complies. My partner and I toss our gloves and watch him shuffle down the street.

One more number for the captain. One radio call completed. Seven hours to go.

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