1. Jordan / The Pulse of the Street

TIM LOVED TO drive the squad car slowly down Haight Street. He enjoyed making eye contact with familiar faces, most of them people he’d arrested or carded at one time or another. Sometimes he believed he could will someone to look at him. Cruising slowly, brakes protesting mildly, he could make a civilian’s walk stiffen and, often, head turn to meet his steady gaze. Not that he could will everyone to look at him. Some guys, hearing that unmistakable soft squeal of patrol car brakes, casually looked the opposite direction and forced themselves not to meet Tim’s eyes. Either way, he was satisfied that they were well aware of his presence. To know that the mere sight of him was enough to put people on edge sent pleasure up his spine.

Today was his turn to drive. He and Cosgrove were working the sector that included the busiest six blocks of Haight Street. Tim headed there with anticipation. Cosgrove slumped against the door, cap off, gazing out the rolled down window. As was customary in their nine months of partnership, neither spoke during the first few minutes of the tour of duty. They gave each other time to wind down from home life and wind up into the street, the neighborhood; into police life.

They cruised through the McDonald’s parking lot. Two teenage black girls sauntered across the driveway, slowing deliberately upon seeing the black-and-white. Cosgrove grinned sarcastically at them. 

Up Haight now, past Shrader. A group of five black men stood outside a bar. Two dogs sat peering into the building. One of the men had been arrested twice by Cosgrove and Jordan. He was a perpetual drunk, sloppily dressed, about forty years old. Today he looked almost sober and, seeing them, lifted his hand in a wave, as though they were old friends. Cosgrove nodded. “How are ya, Billy.” The other four men pointedly ignored Cosgrove and Jordan.

And slowly onward. Cosgrove pointed out a kid they suspected of regular purse-snatching. They passed a guy who’d been selling junk for two years and using it for one; the narcs had been unable to pin anything on him yet, or hadn’t wanted to. Two faggots holding hands were looking into the windows of an antique store. Jordan turned left onto Masonic Avenue and called Cosgrove’s attention to a big-titted blonde waiting for the bus. She saw them looking at her and, making an expression of distaste, turned her back.

It was a cold and windy Wednesday and not many people were out. Their tour was from 3 until 11p.m., the liveliest shift; action would pick up by 8 o’clock. At about 10 they would park the car and walk the street, peering into bars, stopping at one of the three liquor stores where they were assured of a free pint with each visit.

For the first part of the shift they cruised, answering only one call. At 6:00 they went to the Copper Penny for hamburgers and coffee, then continued driving. They were on Hayes Street when Cosgrove spotted the girl. “Hey, isn’t that the broad from the rent strike, what’s her name – Ellen something?”

“Yeah, it’s her. Elsa Callahan.” Jordan’s pulse quickened. “I’d recognize her ass anywhere.” And the way she walked, and her wavy auburn hair.

He had reacted to her the first time he’d seen her. It was almost a month ago. Most of the guys at Park Station had heard about the rent strike on Grove Street; apparently everyone in a building had stopped paying rent and they were going around getting publicity for it. Jordan had figured them as a typical bunch of bums, not willing to pull their own weight and calling it political. Anyway, one night he and Cosgrove got a radio call for loud music reported by the Police Department’s most frequent informant, Mr. Anonymous. It turned out to be at the rent strike building. From outside they didn’t hear any music, but rang doorbells anyway. Someone buzzed them in. It was a three-story building with one main door leading into the foyer. Each apartment had a separate door.

Tim and Cosgrove faced a young but weathered Indian chick. Startled at the sight of them, she called into the door she’d just come from, “It’s the police,” then shut it behind her. “What do you want?”

Jordan explained, “We got a complaint about loud music being played somewhere in this building.”

At that point the redhead came down the stairs. She must’ve heard Tim, for she said: “Well, there isn’t any loud music, Officer, and there hasn’t been any all night.” She spoke authoritatively but calmly.

Tim studied her. She had thick, long hair and a slim body, athletic and firm. She was supple and moved with contained energy. Her face had lush features – dark pouty lips, thick lashes, heavy lidded eyes – but fair, delicate skin. She exuded a somewhat masculine self-control and confidence that Tim found irritating in women, and he resented the attraction for her that rose in his body.

After several more questions, Tim and Eddie, with the unspoken way of communicating that cops quickly develop when working together, exchanged glances and decided to let the matter drop. It might have been a crank call, or maybe there had actually been loud music but it probably wouldn’t recur. At any rate, neither of them wanted to get into some kind of hassle or have to fill out a shitload of reports. 

Tim glanced at her once more as they left. Not as much tits and ass as he liked on a chick, but not bad.

The next time he went to the place was when another anonymous tipster reported a burglary in progress at the building. Three patrol cars answer the call, lights flashing and tires squealing from several directions up to the front of the building. This time they didn’t get buzzed into the foyer. A couple of people came outside the building and a discussion took place on the sidewalk. She was there again, and did most of the talking. There was one other guy who said a couple things. Several others came outside too but whenever one of them started to say something, the girl would quiet them with a slight shake of her head, a frown, or a lift of her hand. 

The shift sergeant handled the investigation. Tim just stood to the side, hands on belt, alert, keeping his eyes divided between her and the silhouettes in the unlit foyer of the building. In an upstairs window a face watched the street.

It was obvious they weren’t about to willingly allow the police into the building. The girl argued persuasively. “Sergeant, there’s no one breaking into the building; we’re very aware of what goes on here. Why won’t you take my word for that?”

“When we get a call, we have to check it out,” Sergeant O’Brien replied. 

“We wouldn’t allow someone to break into our building,” the girl assured him. Tim smiled wryly, catching Cosgrove’s eye. Sergeant O’Brien patiently continued: “If we get a call about something a serious as a burglary, we have to check it out. That’s our job.”

“I understand that,” the girl said. “But everyone in this building can assure you that no one is breaking in, or broke in. We’ve checked it out ourselves. It must have occurred to you that someone opposed to the rent strike set this situation up?”

“Now, you know I can’t make an assumption like that,” Sergeant O’Brien answered. “We operate on facts.”

“And the fact is, this is the third time in twelve days the police have been sent here on a false alarm,” she returned. “It’s creating a completely unnecessary problem for everyone.” She waved her hand expansively to include the building and the cops standing around on the sidewalk. “I know you’re a reasonable man, and–”

“All right, miss, why don’t you give me your name and I’ll make out an incident report.” O’Brien pulled his book out. The tension began to dissipate slightly at this resolution, but Tim kept his hands near his belt and his eyes flickering up to the window. 

When he and Eddie were back in the patrol car they joked about her. “That broad didn’t have on a bra,” Eddie commented. “Did you notice her titties sticking out?”

Tim nodded. She had been wearing a tee shirt. “She had on pretty tight pants, too. Arrogant little thing, isn’t she?”

“O’Brien shouldn’t have let her talk so much,” Eddie agreed. “Now she thinks she can run her mouth to cops.”

“Let her try it with me and see how far she gets.” Tim was driving that night and his hands gripped the steering wheel tightly. He could feel the blood pulsating against his temples. “I can’t stand that kind of woman.”

Eddie laughed. “I’ll tell you what I’d do to her.”

Tim didn’t ask him to elaborate. He nodded, yet was disturbed at being excited over a girl like her. It wasn’t the first time he’d wanted to fuck some broad he should’ve wanted to lock up. Yet he did despise that girl. He liked women who were soft, sweet, compliant. Somehow, though, the hate in his mind fed the ache in his loins for those other women. The women he saw on the beat. He could only think of what pleasure he would take in putting that girl on her back, having her at his mercy, and–

And now, here she was walking down the street. He had slowed down. She turned. Seeing the police car, she continued walking, but with a pace too carefully measured.

“Let’s see if she’s got any warrants,” Cosgrove suggested. 

Tim accelerated and pulled into a driveway in her path. A look of weary annoyance crossed her face but she quickly replaced it with as much blandness as she could muster. “I wonder if she’s so fucking cool without ten people backing her,” Cosgrove muttered, and jumped out of the car. “You got any ID, miss?” he asked.

She reached into her pocket and produced a driver’s license, saying nothing. 

“I’ll check it,” Tim volunteered, getting out of the car and approaching the girl. He took the card from her but she wouldn’t meet his eyes. He began reading information into the radio.

Cosgrove leaned against the car, watching her. She shifted the sack of groceries. Tim could tell by her looks that she wasn’t the criminal type, but neither was she a college kid. He perceived the amount of control she exerted just to stand there calmly. She didn’t like cops. He sensed that she was afraid of them. Of him. He felt that something was about to happen, or should happen; the air was strained and vibrant.

“What’s this about?” she asked Cosgrove quietly.

“We’re just checking,” he answered. “You aren’t worried, are you?”

She made no reply.

“How’s the rent strike going?” Cosgrove prodded, exaggeratedly caustic. Again she said nothing. “She isn’t very friendly,” he called to Tim.

She didn’t have any warrants. Tim approached her to return her ID, staring hard into her face. “You’re clean.”

“Thanks for your cooperation,” Cosgrove grinned. But she refused to take the bait. They turned to go and she said quietly, but with that confidence he couldn’t stand, “May I have your badge numbers?”

“You sure can.” Cosgrove continued to use that overly polite tone. “Don’t you want to know our names, too?”

“Just your badge numbers,” she said in the same quiet, firm way. Cosgrove recited them to her. Tim waited in the driver’s seat. They watched her walk away, then drove off.

“That’s one uppity broad.” Cosgrove shook his head.

Jordan turned the car toward Haight Street. “I’d sure as hell like to knock some respect into her,” he said hoarsely. “She wouldn’t be so damned uppity after I gave her a little taste of reality.”