There was a murmur of approval, and a few cops even clapped. The lieutenant wanted to give them a time-out, wanted to restore order, and was trying to figure out how to do it, when the Oracle took over again.

The Oracle looked at all those faces, wondering how it was possible that they could be so young. And he said to them, “The shield you’re wearing is the most beautiful and most famous badge in the world. Many police departments have copied it and everyone envies it, but you wear the original. And all these critics and politicians and media assholes come and go, but your badge remains unchanged. You can get as mad and outraged as you want over what’s going to go down, but don’t get cynical. Being cynical will make you old. Doing good police work is the greatest fun there is. The greatest fun you’ll ever have in your lives. So go on out tonight and have some fun. And Fausto, try to get by with only two burritos. Speedo weather’s coming up.”

After they had handled two calls and written one traffic ticket, Budgie Polk turned to Fausto Gamboa and said, “I’m okay, Fausto. Honest.”

Fausto, who was riding shotgun, said, “Whaddaya mean?”

“I mean you gotta quit asking me if I want you to roll up the window or where do I wanna have code seven or do I need my jacket. Last night is over. I’m okay.”

“I don’t mean to be a -”

“Nanny. So you can stop now.”

Fausto got quiet then, a bit embarrassed, and she added, “The Li’l Rascals didn’t want Darla in their clubhouse either. But we’re in. So you can all just live with it, especially you, you cranky old sexist.”

Budgie glanced sideways at him and he quickly looked out at the boulevard, but she saw a little bit of a smile that he couldn’t hide.

Things got back to normal when Budgie went after a silver Saab that pulled out of Paramount Studios heading west a good three seconds late at the first traffic signal. The driver had a cell to his ear.

“Jesus,” she said, “what’s he doing, talking to his agent?”

When they had the Saab pulled over, the driver tried charming Budgie, whose turn it was to write one. He said with an attempt at a flirtatious grin, “I couldn’t have busted the light, Officer. It didn’t even turn yellow until I was in the intersection.”

“You were very late on the red signal, sir,” Budgie said, looking at his license, then at the guy, whose grin came off as smarmy and annoying.

“I would never argue with a police officer as attractive as you,” he said, “but couldn’t you be a little mistaken on the light? I’m a very careful driver.”

Budgie started walking back to her car, putting her citation book on the hood to write while Fausto kept his eyes on the driver, who quickly got out and came back to her. Budgie nodded at Fausto that she could handle this schmuck, and Fausto stayed put.

“Before you start writing,” he said, all the charm gone now, “I’d like to ask for a break here. One more ticket and I’ll lose my insurance. I’m in the film business, and I need a driver’s license.”

Without looking up, Budgie said, “Oh, you’ve had other citations, have you? I thought you said you were a careful driver.”

When she began writing he stormed back to his car, got behind the wheel, and made a call on his cell.

Budgie finished the citation and took it to him, but Fausto stayed glued to the right side of the guy’s car, watching his hands like the guy was a gangbanger. She knew that Fausto was still playing guardian angel, but what the hell-it was kind of comforting in a way.

After finishing, she presented the ticket and said, “This is not an admission of guilt, only a promise to appear.”

The driver snatched the ticket book from her hand, scrawled his signature, and gave it back to her, saying in a low voice that Fausto couldn’t hear, “I’ll just bet you get off on fucking over men, don’t you? I’ll bet you don’t even know what a cock looks like that doesn’t have batteries included. I’ll see you in court.”

Budgie removed his copy, handed it to him, and said, “I know what a cassette player looks like with batteries included. This.” And she patted the rover on her belt that was the size of a cassette player. “Let’s have a jury trial. I’d love for them to hear what you think of women police officers.”

Without a word he drove away, and Budgie said to the disappearing car, “Bye-bye, cockroach.”

When Fausto got in the car he said, “That is an unhappy citizen.”

“But he won’t take me to court.”

“How do you know?”

She patted the rover. “He said naughty things and I recorded them on my little tape machine.”

Fausto said, “Did he fall for that dumb gag?”

“Right on his ass,” she said.

“Sometimes you’re not quite as boring as other young coppers,” Fausto said to her, then added, “How you feeling?”

“Don’t start that again.”

“No, I mean the mommy stuff.”

“I may have to stop at the milking station later.”

“I’m gonna keep your gun in the car with me next time,” Fausto said.

Farley Ramsdale was in an awful mood that afternoon. The so-called ice he bought from some thieving lowlife greaser asshole at Pablo’s Tacos, where tweakers did business 24/7, had turned out to be shitty. The worst part was having to sit there for an hour waiting for the guy and listening to hip-hop blasting from the car of a pair of basehead smokes who were also waiting for the greaseball. What were they doing in Hollywood?

It turned out to be the worst crystal he’d ever scored. Even Olive complained that they’d been screwed. But it got them tweaked, the proof being that they were both awake all night, pulse rates zooming, trying to fix a VCR that had stopped rewinding. They had parts all over the floor, and they both fell asleep for an hour or so just before noon.

When Farley woke up, he was so disgusted he just kicked the VCR parts under the couch among all the dust balls and yelled, “Olive! Wake up and get your skinny ass in motion. We got to go to work, for chrissake.”

She was off the couch before he stopped grumbling, and said, “Okay, Farley. Whatcha want for breakfast?”

Farley pulled himself painfully to his feet. He just had to stop passing out on the couch. He wasn’t a kid anymore and his back was killing him. Farley looked at Olive, who was staring at him with that eager, gap-toothed grille, and he stepped closer and looked into her mouth.

“Goddamnit, Olive,” he said. “Have you lost another tooth lately?”

“I don’t think so, Farley,” she said.

He couldn’t remember right now either. He had a headache that felt like Nelly or some other nigger was rapping inside his skull. “You lose another tooth and that’s it. I’m kicking your ass outta here,” he said.

“I can get false teeth, Farley!” Olive whined.

“You look enough like George Washington already,” he said. “Just get the goddamn oatmeal going.”

“Can I first run over to see Mabel for a couple minutes? She’s very old, and I’m worried about her.”

“Oh, by all means, take care of the local witch,” he said. “Maybe next time she makes a stew outta rats and frogs, she’ll save a bowl for us.”

Olive ran out of the house, across the street and down three houses to the only home on the block that had weeds taller than those in Farley’s yard. Mabel’s house was a wood-frame cottage built decades after Farley’s stucco bungalow, during the 1950s era of cheap construction. The paint was blistered, chipped, and peeling in many places, and the screen door was so rusted a strong touch would make chunks crumble away.

The inside door was open, so Olive peered through the screen and yelled, “Mabel, you there?”

“Yes, Olive, come in!” a surprisingly strong voice called back to her.

Olive entered and found Mabel sitting at the kitchen table drinking a cup of tea with lemon slices. She had a few vanilla cookies on a saucer next to a ball of yarn and knitting needles.