Spent the afternoon holding a green bottle of beer and a conversation with a third generation Russian-American, Bill Chelcun, a fifty-one-year-old ex-LA cop, now retired in Thailand. Bill looks like Lloyd Bridges, and otherwise reminded one of Robert Mitchum….

Now I know that you know what I mean, so simple have references to cinematic idols made literary characterization. 

"Yeah, well, I guess I was busier than most. Usually worked alone. Seventeen-and-a-half years on the beat. Didn't really retire. More like I was retired; psycho-discharged. I was a damn good cop though, and they knew it. Got a fine pension, 26,000 dollars a year, tax-free. That, plus another 30,000 a year from investments. Hell, fifty-one years old—got it made here and I know it."

"I like Koh Samui. What's not to like? You know that song, I Got the World on a String? That's my theme song, pal."

"How? The usual way. I fuckin' shot 'em—that's how. You know ninety-eight percent of all cops never fire their gun in the line of duty. Never."

"Hey, call me lucky. Like I said, I was busier than most of 'em."

He didn't seem eager to elaborate. Of course, why should he? We'd just met. You can't expect most guys who kill people, even if it's in the line of duty, to hang out at a bar waiting to tell strangers about it. After all, the guy may eventually tire of telling the same story over and over and go kill somebody else just to increase his repertoire.

You might be the poor sap who says, "Hey Bill, come on we've all heard that one before. Tell us a new one."

And two days later he's telling a new one—and guess who's not around to hear it?

Nevertheless, I decided to take a chance. "Tell me about 'em; about the five," I said.

He flinched, real subtle, and I knew I'd trespassed. It was an impertinent request. So I've got a macabre curiosity.

I thought about saying, oh, forget it. But I wanted to listen to him talk about it. Then I did say, “Oh forget it"—in a way meant for him to know I didn't mean it.

"One? Okay. One time I was out driving around. Got a call 'bout some nigger with a knife bein' an asshole at this bar in North Hollywood. North Hollywood was my main beat—the bar was right nearby. I was there in less than two minutes. Walked into the place—kind of a seedy joint—mostly blacks, you know, fuckin' jungle music playin' on the jukebox. Lots of smoke—cigarettes, cigars, pot—you name it. The place was stinkin' of booze and sweat; a real perfume factory."

He hoisted his LAPD liter mug, full of vodka and coke, and had a drink. I set fire to a cigarette.

"Spotted the asshole soon as I walked into the joint. He was just your typical dumb-ass nigger—maybe popped up on some drug as well as bein' a real fucking menace. I pulled my gun straight away and said to this son of a bitch, 'Hey, you fuck, get over here and give me that fucking blade.' Everybody in the bar was happy as hell I was there. They were scared to death of this crazy motherfucker. He had the knife right up against the throat of some black girl sittin' at the bar."

(One minute please. Unless you’re Australian, you may be surprised and perhaps even offended by the profusion of the f-word so far. I can only explain that officer Chelcun was rather engrossed in the telling of this drama, and—like all well-told stories—it was imbued with a certain idiomatic panache. In this case, it was appropriately crude and earthy. On the other hand, if you are from "down under,” this may sound like an old nursery tale.)

"'My blade’s my dick—like steel, you fuckin' pig!' he yells at me. Probably been listening to too many of those fuckin' rap songs. Anyway, again I said, 'Get your fucking ass over here and give me that knife, now!'”

There were just the two of us at the bar, but Bill had made that remark loud and firm—like a cop in charge.

"So, over he comes. Right away and in a hurry. Not to me . . . at me. Dumber than dirt. He tried to stab me right between the eyes. I jerked my head out of the way and he slashes my ear the same time I pull the trigger— .38 caliber. Blew his heart right out his armpit. Fucking nigger was in hell before his ass hit spit on the floor.

"Soon as it was done, everybody in the place starts applauding. Some came up to shake my hand . . . which was shakin' pretty much on its own by then. Girl at the bar put her arms around me saying, 'Thank you, thank you, that nigger was a crazy motherfucker. He would've killed me.’"

It was near mid-afternoon, hot and sticky. Every so often a motorbike would whiz by, raising squalls of roadside grit. Washed it down with a swig of beer and breathed in on one of those gentle Asian zephyrs of curry, sun- dried squid, and fried bananas.

"Laziest most irresponsible creature on earth is the black American male," Bill said, almost as an aside.

"Black women? They're the backbone of their society. It'd be utter chaos without them. I'd see these guys bumming around North Hollywood looking like shit even flies wouldn't go near. Soon as their old ladies got home from working all day, these niggers would take their money and get all fucked up again. Black pride? That's a goddamn joke. It's a fucking oxymoron. What have those bastards got to be proud about? Take some scumbag like Rodney King . . ."

Somehow I knew this gentleman's name would eventually surface….

"He's like a hero in their community. The cops should have shot that son of a bitch right on the spot. They had every right to draw their guns. The guy had been driving like a madman endangering people's lives. He was resisting arrest and acting belligerent. Not all guns are in perfect working condition, you know. Sometimes they discharge accidentally. Oh, well…. Let 'em kill each other off. Just as long as they stay the fuck out of Thailand, I don't care any more."

Okay, the man was not fond of our black, African-American brother. In enlightened society my drinking buddy would be tagged as a racist.

"I mean if you don't know how to discriminate, then what's the difference between you and some dumb animal? I got a mind. I see things. I make judgments. Discrimination, as far as I can figure, is the essence of thought. But in America you discriminate . . . you're a racist or a bigot. Me? I see a bunch of people that go around robbing, raping, and killing each other. That's crap and I hate it.

"Eleven percent of the general population and nearly sixty percent of the prison population. Crimes committed by blacks against blacks. All convicted on the evidence supplied by other blacks against them. And a bunch of dumb-ass white people who thrive on guilt, pity, and ignorance say it's all my fault. It's society's fault. Bullshit!"

A motorbike came to a hook-slide stop against the leg of a bamboo chair in front of the bar.

No “hey,” “howdy” or “hi” . . . just, "Kim." A threadbare salutation between friends. 

Kim unstraddled himself and nodded without comment. He leaned on the bar across the corner from where I sat and paused a moment to collect himself. This little ritual lasted four, maybe five seconds. I caught his glance, held out my paw, and introduced myself.

"Kim," he said, and shook my hand—or rather, allowed me to shake his.

He'd been living in Thailand for seven-and-a-half years. Told him I live in Thailand now myself. Only said it a couple of times so far. Only been here two months. Hope I'm still happy saying it in five years.

"Lot worse places and not many better than here," Kim said. "I got no plans to leave."

          A pair of fawn-colored, long-stem ass cheeks went striding by the bar.

"Check her out, Bill."

"Ah, yeah, Pen. Used to work here. Sweet ass, nice girl. She's freelancing now. I'm living with a friend of hers. Lek, a real darling—almost seventeen and cute as a button."

"Seventeen years old?" I asked.

"Hell no. Never been married. A confirmed, life-long bachelor. I don't want a wife. I think of women as holding companies. When I'm happy I hold them, when I'm sad they hold me. My girl now, Lek, she's a fine one. Young and pretty. Good heart, good personality. She's got a great smile, loves to make me laugh, and seems to enjoy sex. Now you tell me, why would a man who had all that in a woman want to shoot himself in the foot by marrying her. Have to be plain stupid. I may have been psycho-discharged, but I'm not that crazy."

"Note that he said she 'seems to enjoy sex,’" Kim pointed out.

"Hey as long as a girl seems to be having a good time making love that's good enough for me. Why should I give a damn if she's being a little theatrical now and then. I don't understand these guys that get all upset if they think a girl’s faking orgasms. So what. Hell, she's only doing it to please the poor slob. Give her credit. And besides, as long as my orgasm’s real, I ain't complaining."

"Hear, hear," said Kim, raising a whiskey and soda. "A toast to the male orgasm. May it forever prosper. Sorry to say I can't remember the last time I poked a girl."

"Bullshit! There are three times in a man's sex life we all remember. The first time we had it, the first time we could have had it but the power failed, and the last time we had it."

"All right, all right. So tell us about your latest power failure."

"Can't remember the last one, you asshole. I was too drunk. Remember the first one though. The girl was gorgeous. Met one night while I was vacationing in Puerto Vallarta. Never got a second chance. Still pisses me off."

"How long ago was that?"

"Must have been twenty years or so."

"Well, look at it this way. She’s probably married, lots of children, and gotten fat and ugly."

"You saying if she walked . . ."

"Waddled," said Kim.

" . . . in here right now I still wouldn't be able to get it up?"

"Yeah. And, this time you'd have a good excuse."

"She's fat and ugly."

"Right. Have another Mekong and soda. Your brain’s working well today."

"Thanks. You buyin'?"

"Fuck no! My brain’s working, too."

Bill stepped away to mix the whiskey and soda and construct another liter of Absolut and coke for himself.

"Actually," Kim leaned towards me whispering, "the son of a bitch pays for most of my drinks. I don't make much money doing what I do, and he seems to like my company. Damn lucky I . . ."

"What you saying, barfly?" Bill put the drink in front of Kim.

"Saying that I was damn lucky not to cross your path in LA."

"Damn lucky indeed. The guy's a fuckin' liberal," Bill said to me. "Looks like a weasel, walks and talks like a faggot. And he's from San Francisco. Nothing but faggots and homeless whackos in that city. Don't even have much of a football team any more."

Kim sat quietly sipping his whiskey and smirking. He'd heard this before. He was amused. Then he said, nodding at Bill, "Most opinionated son of a bitch on the beach. And the staunchest racist I've ever met.

"Yeah, yeah, I know, you just hate niggers. What's the difference?"

Oh, no. Not again. Women and children please leave the room. Are you ready? And a one . . . and a two . . . and a . . .

"Nigger's a lazy bum who swindles his society, creates violence, thinks he's entitled to something for nothing, and takes no responsibility for his actions. Don't have to be black to be a nigger. Just seems most of 'em are….

“Anyway, I'm no racist. Love black women. Dated one for two years. Long time for me. Great ass, great tits . . . firm too. Beautiful nipples, wonderful skin, and a glorious smile. A real doll baby."

"Another case of the white man screwin' blacks," Kim said.

"Hey, whatever. She was a fine, fine woman. Good to be with—lots of fun."

"I didn't. A nigger did. Dropped her with a .38 slug. Back of the head. Raped her first. She sort of knew the kid. Eighteen-year-old scumbag. Some kind of gang initiation bullshit. Rape and kill your neighbor; be a hero."

"One of the five. He's a hotshot hero in hell as we speak."

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