Streets as Clean as These - Page 3

Frank was assigned to Car 2, which meant he’d be holding the perimeter while the men from Car 1 made arrests. But to his surprise, several hours passed without anyone spotting a homeless person. It wasn’t for lack of trying—both cars methodically stalked the dark streets of Frank’s neighborhood, leaving no shadow unexplored. A few times there were close calls: piles of empty cans, an abandoned sleeping bag.

But no people. No bums. No guilty parties to arrest.

Frank thought about Paula and Ben, at home asleep. Would any of this make a difference for them? Or was it yet another futile exercise, a performative ritual to enhance the illusion of control for a group of weak men who had lost it long ago?

Finally, around 3 AM, radio chatter exploded from Car 1. A spotter had seen two people take off down an alley as their unit rounded a corner. Chaos ensued—engines roared and shifted rapidly through gears. Tires screeched on asphalt.

Frank could feel blood pumping in his temples. His breathing was quick. Men pressed their faces against the car windows, trying to see their fleeing targets.

After only a few seconds Car 1 screeched to a halt, and its men poured out into the night. Their boots thudded on the sidewalk as they chased the two fugitives into a cul-de-sac, where they tackled them onto a residential lawn.

Car 2 rolled to a stop several yards away. Frank jumped out and stood awkwardly, unsure of what to do. His instructions were simply to hold the line, to ward off onlookers.

But there were none. So he simply watched the arrest unfold, an onlooker himself.

The man who had sat beside him in Car 2 was now pacing between the vehicle and the sidewalk, chewing gum with his mouth open. He looked anxious, electric with nerves.

There was a dark energy in the air, and Frank felt it too. It was as though the long, slow night had pressurized the stress inside them, and now the seal was broken.

The men from Car 1 were kneeling on the backs of their prisoners, pulling black zip-ties tight around their wrists. Frank could see their faces now—a young man and woman, maybe twenty. Their grubby, torn clothes made it obvious: they were homeless. A legitimate catch.

The unit leader approached, hooking his fingers into his pockets, taking the pair in.

“Nice night,” he finally said. “I guess you figured you’d spend it outside? Hard to beat this California weather, ain’t it?”

The male prisoner started to speak, but one of the men from Car 1 kicked him in the ribs. He let out a sharp cry. The leader smiled. 

“There’s so many places to sleep outdoors in this city. I wonder what led you here? Maybe you imagined this was the kind of neighborhood where people don’t mind bums. Is that it? ”

The couple knew better than to answer now. They laid there, waiting. 

“Well. Let’s do a little test,” the leader continued. “We’ll see what kind of a neighborhood this is. Each of my men here is gonna tell you whether or not they mind your presence. Then you’ll know for sure what the locals think.”

Frank watched as the men from Car 1 circled the captives. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest. This wasn’t just an arrest—these people were being humiliated.

The prisoners were dragged to their knees, positioned to face the street. Car 1’s high beams lit their faces. They squinted away in discomfort. And one by one, the men from Car 1 came up and abused them. They were slapped, punched, kicked, spit on. The sound of boots scraping on cement and blows landing on flesh went on for several minutes.

When the beating was over, the leader spoke again. 

“Doesn’t seem like these folks want you in their neighborhood, does it? Well, don’t fret—that’s only half the vote. Car 2, come make your views known to our visitors.”

The second group stood in silence, unsure of themselves. Finally, one man stepped forward, and the rest followed. It was the one who had been pacing earlier. He was the first to strike, hitting the male captive in the ribs with his nightstick. The resulting scream was so sharp it made Frank jump.

The other men from Car 2 followed up with violence of their own. It was always at least a slap. Usually more. And when it was Frank’s turn, he surprised himself with his own barbarity. He punched the man so hard he fell back to the grass, unconscious. He raised his hand to the woman, stopped himself, and instead shoved her down next to her partner with the toe of his boot.

“Okay,” said the leader when it was all over. “Let’s take them in for Collections.”