LYING PROSTRATE, SERGE DURAN gaped at Augustus Plebesly who was racing inexorably around the track. That’s a ridiculous name, thought Serge—Augustus Plebesly. It’s a ridiculous name for a puny runt who can run like a goddamn antelope.
Plebesly ran abreast of, and was matching strides with, the feared P.T. instructor, Officer Randolph. If Randolph took up the challenge he’d never stop. Twenty laps. Twenty-five. Until there was nothing left but forty-nine sweat suit–covered corpses and forty-nine puddles of puke. Serge had already vomited once and knew another was coming up.
“Get up, Duran!” a voice thundered from above.
Serge’s eyes focused on the massive blur standing over him.
“Get up! Get up!” roared Officer Randolph, who had halted the wretched weary group of cadets.
Serge staggered to his feet and limped after his classmates as Officer Randolph ran ahead to catch Plebesly. Porfirio Rodriguez dropped back and patted Serge on the shoulder. “Don’t give up, Sergio,” Rodriguez panted. “Stay with ’em, man.”
Serge ignored him and lurched forward in anguish. That’s just like a Texas Chicano, he thought. Afraid I’ll disgrace him in front of the gabachos. If I wasn’t a Mexican he’d let me lay until the crabgrass was growing out my ears.
If he could only remember how many laps they had run. Twenty was their record before today, and today was hot, ninety-five degrees at least. And sultry. It was only their fourth week in the police academy. They weren’t in shape yet. Randolph wouldn’t dare run them more than twenty laps today. Serge leaned forward and concentrated on placing one foot in front of the other.
After another half-lap the burning in his chest was no longer bearable. He tasted something strange and choked in panic; he was going to faint. But luckily, Roy Fehler picked that exact moment to fall on his face, causing the collapse of eight other police cadets. Serge gave silent thanks to Fehler who was bleeding from the nose. The class had lost its momentum and a minor mutiny occurred as one cadet after another dropped to his knees and retched. Only Plebesly and a few others remained standing.
“You want to be Los Angeles policemen!” shouted Randolph. “You aren’t fit to wash police cars! And I guarantee you one thing, if you aren’t on your feet in five seconds, you’ll never ride in one!”
One by one the sullen cadets got to their feet and soon all were standing except Fehler who was unsuccessfully trying to stop the nosebleed by lying on his back, his handsome face tilted up to the white sun. Fehler’s pale crew cut was streaked with dust and blood. Officer Randolph strode over to him.
“Okay, Fehler, go take a shower and report to the sergeant. We’ll get you to Central Receiving Hospital for an X ray.”
Serge glanced fearfully at Plebesly who was doing some knee bends to keep loose. Oh no, Serge thought; look tired, Plebesly! Be human! You stupid ass, you’ll antagonize Randolph!
Serge saw Officer Randolph regarding Plebesly, but the instructor only said, “Okay, you weaklings. That’s enough running for today. Get on your back and we’ll do some sit-ups.”
With relief the class began the less painful session of calisthenics and self-defense. Serge wished he wasn’t so big. He’d like to get paired up with Plebesly so he could crush the little bastard when they were practicing the police holds.
After several minutes of sit-ups, leg-ups, and push-ups, Randolph shouted, “Okay, onesies on twosies! Let’s go!”
The class formed a circle and Serge was again teamed with Andrews, the man who marched next to him in formation. Andrews was big, even bigger than Serge, and infinitely harder and stronger. Like Plebesly, Andrews seemed bent on doing his very best, and he had almost choked Serge into unconsciousness the day before when they were practicing the bar strangle. When Serge recovered, he blindly grabbed Andrews by the shirt front and whispered a violent threat that he couldn’t clearly remember when his rage subsided. To his surprise, Andrews apologized, a frightened look on the broad flat face as he realized that Serge had been hurt. He apologized three times that same day and beamed when Serge finally assured him there were no hard feelings. He’s just an overgrown Plebesly, Serge thought. These dedicated types are all alike. They’re so damn serious you can’t hate them like you should.
“Okay, switch around,” shouted Randolph. “Twosies on onesies this time.”
Each man changed with his partner. This time Andrews played the role of suspect and it was Serge’s job to