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dispute. Now there were just the husbands of the aggrieved women. The black man had a trickle of blood running from the corner of his mouth where the Mexican had accidentally bumped him when they were pushing and shoving, preparatory to doing battle.
    The black man, a squatty hod carrier with enormous shoulders and a wild full, natural hairdo, looked relieved by the presence of the bluesuits and shouted angrily, "You made me bleed, motherfucker! You gonna pay. I'm gonna kick ass for this!"
    "Anytime, man, anytime," said the Mexican, a slightly shorter man, a member of the same hod carrier's local, who had been on many jobs with the black man and was almost a friend.
    The Mexican, like the black man, was dressed in dirty work pants and was shirtless to unnerve his opponent. He did not have such an intimidating physique in terms of musculature, but his chest, back and rib cage were crisscrossed with many scars: some like coiled rope, some like purple zippers, from old gang wars in East Los Angeles where he had fought his way through the elaborate gang hierarchy to emerge as a seasoned veterano covered with battle wounds and glory. But then the Mexican had gotten married, fathered seven children, lost his taste for street war and in truth had not faced a foe for many years.
    "What started the beef?" Roscoe Rules asked, deciding to talk to the Mexican.
    The Mexican shrugged, touched his hand nervously to the drooping Zapata mustache, lowered his eyes and turned his scarred back to the two policemen.
    The black hod carrier's wife spoke first. "The problem is, Officer, that this broad and her daughter always has to hang clothes on the same day that I'm hangin mine. And that ain't no big thang, cept they got no respect and just throws other folks' clothes on the ground like pigs. And I has to put another quarter in the machine and wash my clothes all over agin'."
    "That's a lie," said the husky Mexican woman, throwing her long sweaty brown hair back over her shoulder. "Her and her daughter are the ones that don't have no respect. Animals, that's what they are."
    "Go back to Mexico, bitch," the black woman said.
    "I was born here, nigger. Go back to Africa," the Mexican woman said, and Whaddayamean Dean stepped between them as the black woman lunged forward, bumping Whaddayamean Dean into Roscoe, who fell against the black man, who accidentally stepped on Roscoe's plain toed, ripple soled police shoes, which he had spit shined every day for the eight months he owned them.
    "Goddamn it!" Roscoe yelled, holding his arms out between the two women, eyeballs white with disgust. "I heard enough!" he thundered, arms still extended, knees slightly bent, face twisted in agony like Samson straining at the pillars.
    Then Roscoe dropped his hands to his hips and walked in slow circles. Finally he paused, looked at the people like a sad but patient uncle, nodded and said, "I heard enough!"
    "Looky here, Officer," said the black man, "I don't mean no disrespect but I heard enough a you sayin you heard enough. You're makin me nervous."
    Roscoe walked over to Whaddayamean Dean, pulled him aside and whispered, "This spade's the troublemaker far as I can see. I think he's got a leaky seabag. Dingaling. Psycho. You can't even talk to him. Look what the motherfucker did to my shoe!"
    "I think we can quiet them down," Whaddayamean Dean said as Roscoe stood on one foot like a blue flamingo, rubbing his toe hopelessly on the calf of his left leg.
    "Can I talk to you?" Whaddayamean Dean asked the Mexican, walking him to the other end of the hall while Roscoe Rules hustled the silent black thirty feet down the stairway.
    "I don't want no more trouble outta you," Roscoe whispered when he got the hod carrier to a private place.
    "I ain't gonna give you no trouble, Officer," the black man said, looking up at the mirthless blue eyes of Roscoe Rules which were difficult to see because like most hotdogs he wore his cap tipped forward until the brim almost touched