The Choirboys Read Free

He might start sniffing around. They have ways in the crime lab to tell if documents have been tampered with!”
    “Don’t talk crime lab to me, Treadwell,” Moss replied. “Have you ever worked the Detective Bureau?”
    “No, sir.”
    “You listen to me, Treadwell. You’re an office pogue. You never been anything
but
an office pogue. You don’t have the slightest idea what goes on in a working police division. But you keep your mouth shut and do what you’re told and I’ll see to it that you’re a captain someday and you can have your own station to play with. You don’t and I’ll have you in uniform on the nightwatch in Watts. Understand me, Treadwell?”
    “Oh, yes, sir!”
    “Now drink your Pink Lady,” Commander Moss commanded. (It was Hector Moss who had persuaded the chief of police that the traditional police rank of “inspector” was no longer viable in an era of violence when policemen are called upon to employ counterinsurgency tactics. Thanks to Moss all officers formerly of the inspector rank could now call themselves “commander.” Moss had “Commander and Mrs. Hector Moss” painted on his home mailbox. Commander Moss had been a PFC in the army.)
    Lieutenant Treadwell tried desperately every night for three weeks to sneak into Personnel Division. Each morning he reported a “Sorry, sir, negative” to Commander Moss. Lieutenant Dewey Treadwell lost ten pounds in those three weeks. He slept no more than four hours a night and then only fitfully. He was impotent. On the twenty-first night of his mission he was almost caught by a janitor. Lieutenant Treadwell was defeated and admitted it to Commander Moss on a black Wednesday morning.
    The commander listened to his adjutant’s excuses for a moment and said, “Did you get a good look at the janitor’s face, Lieutenant?”
    “Yes, sir. No … I don’t know, sir. Why?”
    “Because that boogie might live in Watts. And you’ll need some friends there. BECAUSE THAT’S WHERE I’M SENDING YOU ON THE NEXT TRANSFER, YOU INCOMPETENT FUCKING PANSY! ”
    Commander Moss did not send Lieutenant Treadwell to Watts. He decided a spineless jellyfish was preferable to a smart aleck like Lieutenant Wirtz who worked for Deputy Chief Lynch. What he
did was
to go into Personnel Division in broad daylight, rip the commendation he wrote for Treadwell out of the file, draw a black
X
through it with a felt tipped pen, seal it in an envelope and leave it in Lieutenant Treadwell’s incoming basket without comment.
    Lieutenant Treadwell, after his hair started falling out in tufts, earned his way back into Commander Moss’ good graces by authoring that portion of the Los Angeles Police Department manual which reads:
    SIDEBURNS: Sideburns shall not extend below the bottom of the outer ear opening (the top of the earlobe) and shall end in a clean-shaven horizontal line. The flare (terminal portion of the sideburn) shall not exceed the width of the main portion of the sideburn by more than one-fourth of the unflared width.
    MOUSTACHES: A short and neatly trimmed moustache of natural color may be worn. Moustaches shall not extend below the vermilion border of the upper lip or the corners of the mouth and may not extend to the side more than one-quarter inch beyond the corners of the mouth.
    It took Lieutenant Treadwell thirteen weeks to compose the regulations. He was toasted and congratulated at a staff meeting. He beamed proudly. The regulations were perfect. No one could understand them.
    As Commander Moss cooled his heels on the telephone waiting for Deputy Chief Adrian Lynch, the deputy chief was watching the second hand on his watch sweep past the normal three minute interval he reserved for most callers. Chief Lynch couldn’t decide whether to give Moss a four minute wait or have his secretary say he would call back. Of course he couldn’t be obviously rude. That bastard Moss had the ear of the chief of police and every other idiot who didn’t know him