Extraits-

• From the book In the Beginning . . .They were in a service alley, tucked between two Dumpsters.Carl Reed, a beer can in his hand, kept watch. LarryClay peeled the drunk Indian girl, tossing her clothes on thefloor of the backseat, wedging himself between her legs.

  The Indian started to howl. “Christ, she sounds like afuckin’ coon- dog,” said Reed, a Kentucky boy.

  “She’s tight,” Clay grunted. Reed laughed and said,“Hurry up,” and lobbed his empty beer can toward one of theDumpsters. It clattered off the side and fell into the alley.

  Clay was in full gallop when the girl’s howl pitched up,reaching toward a scream. He put one big hand over her faceand said, “Shut up, bitch,” but he liked it. A minute later hefinished and crawled off.

  Reed slipped off his gunbelt and dumped it on top of thecar behind the light bar. Clay was in the alley, staring downat himself. “Look at the fuckin’ blood,” he said.

  “God damn,” Reed said, “you got yourself a virgin.” Heducked into the backseat and said, “Here comes Daddy. . . .”

  The squad car’s only radios were police- band, so Clay andReed carried a transistor job that Reed had bought in a PXin Vietnam. Clay took it out, turned it on and hunted forsomething decent. An all- news station was babbling aboutRobert Kennedy’s challenging Lyndon Johnson. Clay keptturning and finally found a country station playing “Odeto Billy Joe.”

  “You about done?” he asked, as the Bobbie Gentry songtrickled out into the alley.

  “Just . . . fuckin’ . . . hold on . . .” Reed said.

  The Indian girl wasn’t saying anything.

  When Reed finished, Clay was back in uniform. Theytook a few seconds to get some clothes on the girl.

  “Take her, or leave her?” Reed asked.

  The girl was sitting in the alley, dazed, surrounded bydiscarded advertising leaflets that had blown out of theDumpster.

  “Fuck it,” Clay said. “Leave her.”They were nothing but drunk Indian chicks. That’swhat everybody said. It wasn’t like you were wearing it out.It’s not like they had less than they started with. Hell, theyliked it.

  And that’s why, when a call went out, squad cars respondedfrom all over Phoenix. Drunk Indian chick. Needsa ride home. Anybody?

  Say “drunk Indian,” meaning a male, and you’d thinkevery squad in town had driven off a cliff. Not a peep. Buta drunk Indian chick? There was a traffic jam. A lot ofthem were fat, a lot of them were old. But some of themweren’t.

  Lawrence Duberville Clay was the last son of arich man. The other Clay boys went into the family business:chemicals, plastics, aluminum. Larry came out of college andjoined the Phoenix police force. His family, except for the oldman, who made all the money, was shocked. The old mansaid, “Let him go. Let’s see what he does.”

  Larry Clay started by growing his hair out, down on hisshoulders, and dragging around town in a ’56 Ford. In twomonths, he had friends all over the hippie community. Fiftylong- haired flower children went down on drugs, before theword got out about the fresh- faced narc.

  After that it was patrol, working the bars, the nightclubs,the after- hours joints; picking up the drunk Indian chicks.You could have a good time as a cop. Larry Clay did.

  Until he got hurt.

  He was beaten so badly that the first cops on the scenethought he was dead. They got him to a trauma center andthe docs bailed him out. Who did it? Dope...